A Sackful of Holiday Horsefeathers

we bring you

the fifteenth installment of

A Sackful of Holiday Horsefeathers

~~~~~~~

Harry glanced up at the clock for about the hundredth time that day. His arms were elbow-deep in soapy water, and his fingertips had long ago shriveled into prunes.

Every now and then Dobby would visit and help him with the dishes. Housework came naturally to house-elves, so Dobby could get a sinkful washed and dried in a fraction of the time it took Harry.

"Dobby is so happy to serve Harry Potter," sang the house-elf.

Harry gave him a half-hearted grin, for that was all he could muster at this point.

"You can't imagine how delighted Dobby is to see you sir," continued Dobby. He picked up a large kettle and swirled a towel all over its dripping surfaces so quickly that his hands became one big blur to Harry's eyes.

"The pleasure's all mine, Dobby. Believe me," said Harry as he began scrubbing yet another rectangular cake pan.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lunchtime finally arrived, and Harry's detention was at an end. He joined the rest of the staff and students for the midday meal.

At the adults' end of the table, Dumbledore tried to lighten the air with some friendly banter, but Madame Pomfrey interrupted him with a question to Trelawney.

"Oh Sibyll," she said, "I almost forgot to ask you, and the day's almost half over. What do you think the weather will be like today?"

"Just the same as yesterday, I expect," said Trelawney.

"I suppose so," said Pomfrey dolefully.

Snape whispered to her, "It doesn't work if you ask her directly."

Dumbledore cleared his throat once more, this time determined to get a word in.

Remus Lupin asked, "Poppy, could you please pass the chicken?"

Pomfrey beamed at him. "Sure!"

Dumbledore finally gave up and did not say whatever it was that he was so keen on saying.

Remus helped himself to a succulent chicken breast and wolfed it down in a manner reminiscent of a ravening beast. If he had known, he would have objected to the sentence in Chapter 12 which refers to his stubble as "soft fuzz." As I now recall, stubble is short and prickly, and terribly attractive. But it is nothing at all like soft fuzz. I find that I am appalled at myself for comparing Remus' chin to the outer covering of a peach.

On the other end of the dining room table, the students were enjoying lunch as well. Draco and Hermione were sitting next to each other, and for once, Ron and Harry were silent about the fact.

While Elizabeth and Ginny were designing color schemes for the demonstration, Ron was catching Harry up on everything he missed.

"We're going to stage a hippie protest," said Ron.

"What?" Harry exclaimed.

"A hippie protest. I don't know exactly what that is, but we're gonna make banners and march around and boycott our classes. It sounds like great fun, doesn't it? I mean, better than sitting around doing nothing. It's been getting kind of boring lately, hasn't it?" said Ron.

"Well, I dunno. The tae kwon do classes are fun," said Harry.

"But that's only in the morning," Ron said. "The rest of the day is so boring. So anyway, we're going up to the Hufflepuff common room after lunch to paint the banners. Then we're going to find Dumbledore and yell things."

"Yell things? Like what?" asked Harry.

"You know!" Ron said crossly, because he couldn't remember any of the things they were planning to yell. "Cheers. Yeah, cheers and stuff."

Ginny had overheard their conversation and added, "Harry, I made up one of them myself. It goes like this, 'Remus Lupin, he's our man! If he can't do it, no one can!'"

Not knowing what to think about that line, Harry just shook his head slowly.

"Well? What do you think?" inquired Ginny.

"Um.... That's already been done. Lots and lots of times," said Harry.

"Well, you think you're so smart, why don't you come up with something," said Ginny, crossing her arms.

"I will," said Harry defiantly.

The chatter paused for a moment as an owl swooped in over the table and dropped a letter in front of Draco Malfoy.

Draco looked rather annoyed with the letter. He could tell by the stationery that it was from his mother. She always used the flowery paper. His dad would use the black paper with the silver border on it.

"Hi Stu," Draco greeted his owl. He gave Stu a piece of chicken and sent him away. Then he slid the letter under his plate and continued eating.

"You're not going to read it?" questioned Hermione.

Draco sighed. "After dessert," he said.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chocolate pudding is a dish best served at room temperature. It was particularly good that day, and Draco had three bowls of it. Then he finally read the note from his mother, taking care to shield it from Hermione's field of view.

'Dearest Draco,

We hope that you're enjoying your vacation. I'm sending you a package of anise-flavored biscuits. I just baked them this afternoon. Hope you liked the chocolate creams. I was going to give them to Aunt Marge, but she's on a diet right now.

I'm forming a female branch of the Death Eaters called S.A.S.S. It's short for the Secret Association of Secular Sisters. Could you tell the Slytherin girls about it for me? Get them organized and teach them the basics. I'll take over soon. Thank you, darling.

Keep up with the Quidditch, your father is free for the next match, and we're looking forward to seeing you play. We love you so much, Draco. If you want to come home, drop us an owl. We'll pick you right up. Hugs and kisses to my favorite Slytherin. We miss you so, darling. ~ Love, Mother.'

Hermione peered over the top of the note. "Who is it from?" she asked in a perky voice.

"My mother," he said. "And no, you may not read it."

"May I have a biscuit?"

"Sure."

Hermione helped herself to a biscuit, and Draco put the note back in its envelope.

"So what did she say?" Hermione asked.

"Who?" asked Draco.

"Your mum," said Hermione.

"Oh, you know," Draco said with a shrug. "Just the family business."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"My mother wants me to come home," said Draco. "She says they could pick me up any time."

He and Hermione were leaving the dining hall, and they had parted from the others. They were now walking down a corridor on the first floor, one of the cheery ones with paintings on the walls.

Hermione felt her pace slowing down. "So, I guess this means you're going home."

Draco turned his head slightly, looking at her in amazement. "Hermione, I've never known you to jump to conclusions before."

It was Hermione's turn to look at him, and her shock was equally great.

"I'm not going home," said Draco. "I'm not going anywhere."

They slowed down their walk considerably, and within a few more steps, their feet were no longer moving.

It seemed to Draco that his hand was magnetically drawn to Hermione's wrist. From there, he ran his fingers down to her hand and closed them over her palm. Hermione let him clasp her hand. It felt so invigorating, like dominos rapidly tumbling over one after the other with no way of stopping them.

Draco said matter-of-factly, "You're the best. And I deserve the best."

Hermione burst out laughing.

"What? What did I say?" demanded Draco.

"Are you always going to be this arrogant?" laughed Hermione.

"You call this arrogant? I'm being a tame little puppy dog right now. Are you sure you're not confusing me with the wonderful Gilderoy Lockhart?" said Draco.

"Oh, no. He's much taller than you," said Hermione.

Draco smiled in spite of himself, noticing her implication. Hermione giggled.

Now, Draco hated to break this cheery atmosphere, but he really had to get something settled. There had been a matter weighing on his mind for some time now, and he couldn't stand the indecision any longer.

"Hermione," he said, "What are we going to do in front of the others?"

"What do you mean?" she asked sharply.

"You know--how are we going to hide this?" asked Draco.

"I didn't think we were going to hide anything," said Hermione.

Draco sighed. "I have a father who hates Muggle-borns, in case you haven't noticed. And Crabbe and Goyle, if they ever find out about us, they're so stupid they'll probably end up spilling everything, and then their parents will find out, which brings us back to my father--"

"We'll be careful," said Hermione quickly. That pathway between her lungs and nose had been mysteriously blocked up again, and she struggled to breathe.

Draco said, "I know, Hermione. You're careful. But, well, there's...my standing to think about. I mean, I have a reputation to uphold."

"Draco, you're the only one in this school who hates me. And that's only because I'm Muggle born," said Hermione.

"And you have to beat me in every subject," Draco pointed out.

"You're so old-fashioned," complained Hermione.

"How do you figure?" Draco wanted to know.

"The way you take on after the rest of the old families. The Pureblood versus Mudblood argument was old way back in Godric Gryffindor's day. You're so behind the times if you insist on hating Muggle-borns," explained Hermione.

"I don't hate you on account of that anymore," said Draco. "And on a side note, intense dislike of Muggles isn't old-fashioned so much as tradition--"

Hermione interrupted, "Another thing that makes you old-fashioned is your resentfulness of women beating you in every subject."

"But you--"

"Women were guaranteed the right to vote a long time ago, Draco. They even have female rulers in some countries," she informed him.

"Before this turns into a history lesson--" Draco broke in, only to be drowned out by Hermione's lecturing.

"Lots of women have had prominent roles in government. Have you ever heard of Golda Meir--one of the first Prime Ministers of Israel? And Indira Gandhi, the Prime Minister of India? At least, until she was assassinated... Anyway, there's Margaret Thatcher (from Great Britain of course,) and Kim Campbell, from Canada."

"Where are all the Muggle men?" cried Draco, envisioning his father in a frilly apron.

Hermione shrugged. "They're out there somewhere."

"Well, thank you for the Muggle Studies lesson. I take it you have a job lined up at Hogwarts right after graduation," remarked Draco with a smirk.

Hermione thought about it for a moment. "Actually, that's not a bad idea. I could teach generations of children about the suppression of women, and the discrimination against minorities in the labor market..."

Draco looked down, shaking his head. Why, oh why, did he plant these ideas in Hermione's head time and time again? "I wouldn't mind if you just let me have one subject--just one that I could excel at," said Draco.

"You mean beat me at, don't you?" said Hermione.

"Yes," said Draco.

He looked so cute and playful that Hermione was truly tempted to give in to his wishes. Poor Draco. "But at least you have Quidditch," said Hermione, and Draco knew that she would never give in.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dumbledore looked up from his crossword puzzle. His antique Muggle cuckoo clock was chiming the hour, and its two miniature doors had opened to reveal a little Dutch boy chasing a little Dutch girl in and out of the cuckoo clock.

Dumbledore shook his head and returned his gaze to the crossword puzzle. His most recent job applicant was already late. How annoying. It wouldn't do to have a tardy Defense Against the Dark Arts Teacher.

The current Defense Against the Dark Arts Teacher was proving to be unsatisfactory. Dumbledore suspected him of employee theft. 'Why can't I find an HONEST employee for once? Oh, with the exception of Remus Lupin, of course. He was straightforward with me. But for the love of Bob, why can't I find an HONEST son of a b--'

An unexpected noise made the Headmaster jump out of his seat.

"Ahem."

Dumbledore looked about, terribly flustered, for he could see neither hide nor hair of the being the voice belonged to.

Fawkes the Phoenix was pointing with his beak toward a spot in mid-air, where a furry, black creature was beating its wings.

"A bat?" murmured the Headmaster in dismay. "I thought Hagrid took care of that pest problem months ago!"

If the bat took offense at this, he did not show it. Instead, he metamorphosed into his much larger, wingless form and bowed before the Headmaster.

"Greetings, Headmaster Dumbledore," said the tall, slender man in front of the desk. "I have been waiting for a while now, but I suspect you have many important things dwelling upon your mind."

"Ah, yes," Dumbledore said.

The strange man leaned far over the Headmaster's desk and introduced himself, "I am Viscount Norman de Viona. I replied to your ad, remember?"

Dumbledore was overwhelmed by the viscount's mere presence, but he managed to squeak out a question, "You are an Animagus?"

Viscount Norman grinned. "Au contraire. I am a vampire. But have no fear for your dear little ones; I only drink the blood of French virgins. Preferably Veelas."

Dumbledore swallowed. "Could you perhaps refrain from leaning over my desk? There is a chair, behind you. Yes, very good boy."

Now that the viscount was seated, Dumbledore was able to breathe again. The scent of cologne, however, was not as amenable as its wearer; it lingered in the air for days afterward.

"Now then," said Dumbledore, pulling out a sheet of writing paper and a quill, "Who was your last employer?"

The viscount put on his thinking expression. "I have had only one employer in my whole life. It was a summer job, on St. Maarten. During the day, I would serve drinks at a counter."

"You were a bartender?"

"Yes! Yes, that's the word," said the vampire viscount.

"Did you work on the French side or the Dutch side?" inquired Dumbledore.

"What does it matter?" said the viscount carelessly.

Dumbledore jotted down, 'Dutch side.' "May I contact your former employer?"

"Of course," said the viscount. "Her name was Sophie. Just send an owl to the Hungry Ear Café, and she'll tell you all about me."

"Do you have any experience with children?"

The vampire suggested, "I think you might want to rephrase that."

Dumbledore's eyes widened. "Um...eh...do you have any experience teaching children?"

The vampire leaned back and resumed his thinking stance. "You know what? I just might have experience... Yes, I do! There was this one time in St. Maarten when I was teaching a group of children how to make blood flavored lollipops! What would that fall under? Cuisine? Culinary skills?"

Dumbledore tilted his head, apparently trying to accept this incident as a viable teaching experience. "Well, Fred and George Weasley are in that kind of business. I suppose it's not bad. Really, it's sort of amusing, what with the candy, and the entertainment factor that goes along with it. I used to be fond of Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans, and the blood flavored ones were not so bad, not really."

"I love Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans," the viscount professed. "But you have to watch out for the vomit flavored ones. They look just like toffee."

Dumbledore smiled feebly. He wrote down on his paper, 'Mutual dislike of vomit-flavored jelly beans.'

He said to the viscount, "Tell me some of your hobbies."

"Well, I like riding. I breed horses, you know."

"How interesting. What else do you do with your free time?"

"I also practice the Dark Arts with my vampire coven. Tuesday nights at eight," said the viscount.

"Did you say you have a coven?" Dumbledore asked, hoping he had heard wrong.

"Oh, yes. It's a lark. But don't get the wrong impression about us; we are all very dedicated to the craft, and we take everything seriously. If you'd like to join us, I could put in a good word for you with our leader," offered the viscount.

"No, thank you. That won't be necessary," sighed Dumbledore. He looked the job applicant in the eye. The applicant looked back. There was a trace of red in his brown eyes that Dumbledore had not noticed before. Strange. Haunting, really.

Dumbledore had a few more questions to ask before totally giving up hope. "Why do you want to work here, Viscount Norman?"

"Oh, I don't know. Always like to try new things. I've heard a lot of famous people have been Defense Against the Dark Arts Professors here at Hogwarts: Gilderoy Lockhart, Bartemius Crouch Jr., that funny little man with the stutter who was possessed by Lord Voldemort... And I thought, 'Well, I want to be famous, too. Why don't I give it a shot?'"

Dumbledore shrugged and gave him a half-hearted smile.

Viscount Norman inquired, "Do we get overtime and paid vacations?"

"Do you understand that this is probably the most demanding task you have ever faced in your life?" asked Dumbledore.

"What? Teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts to a bunch of wizards? Piece of cake," said the viscount.

"These are not just wizards, Viscount Norman. These are adolescents. The most difficult kind. Full of unpredictable mood swings, and--and epileptic seizures," Dumbledore warned him.

"Well, it's a good thing I know the cure for epileptic seizures!" said the viscount with a look of triumph.

"I'm sure you do," said Dumbledore. "But there is more. Some of them have gone insane from the attacks on Hogwarts. They walk around in circles and mumble to themselves at the mere mention of Lord Voldemort. Some have even gone catatonic."

"That's horrible!" exclaimed the viscount.

Dumbledore sadly shook his head, giving his acting chops good exercise at the same time. "There's nothing any of us can do about catatonia," he said. "I'm afraid this is the beginning of the end. Hogwarts will eventually shut down. No parents will want to send their children here. They would rather send them to Durmstrang and Beauxbatons, where less exciting things happen and nobody is ever in mortal peril."

The viscount did not look discouraged by this news. He said to Dumbledore, "But we must help the students who remain here. Mortal peril is all the more reason for us to work harder!"

"You don't understand! We're closing down next year. There will be no more Hogwarts, no more Defense Against the Dark Arts, and no more snogging in the Astronomy Tower!" cried Dumbledore.

"Oh," said the vampire viscount. "Well, perhaps I could apply at Durmstrang?"

"That might be a good idea," said Dumbledore.

"Is Igor Karkaroff still in charge of Durmstrang?"

"No," said Dumbledore sharply. "He disappeared half a year ago."

"Oh, right. Of course," said the viscount. "Who's running it now?"

"I believe their new Headmaster is Mr. R--. He used to be their Potions Teacher."

"Ah." The viscount nodded. He stood up and reached out his hand, which Dumbledore shook after an awkward hesitation. "Thank you very much. It's been a pleasure."

"Mm-hm," Dumbledore murmured, forcing a smile.

The viscount turned back into a bat and flew out the window.

'So that's how he got in here,' thought Dumbledore, stroking his bearded chin. 'It must be easier getting around that way. I should have become an Animagus. But then, I probably would've gotten some stupid animal like a porcupine.'

.....................to be continued