Harry Potter and the Year of Living Stupidly

Chapter One

In Which the Stage is Set

". . . so those are the means whereby you can distinguish a kitsune, or fox-woman, from a human woman," Professor R. J. Lupin concluded. "Any questions?" He looked expectantly out into the rows of seats.

The class stared back at him with a uniform expression of deep stupidity.

Lupin bit back a sigh and wondered - not for the first time - why on earth he had agreed to return to Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts for Harry Potter's sixth year. Surely begging for cheap red wine in one of the seedier Underground stops in London was preferable to this.

Reminded, he picked up the goblet that was sitting on his desk and took a deep drink. If anyone asked, he'd say it was Wolfsbane Potion.

"All right, can anyone tell me the characteristics of a kitsune?" he asked, wiping his lips and putting the goblet back down.

Despite the fact that he'd spent the last half hour enumerating those very characteristics, the class continued to look deeply stupid. He was pretty sure he heard Neville Longbottom whisper "What's a kintsoony?" to Dean Thomas. Only the black-and-white cat sitting on a desk in the very front row looked back at him alertly. It waved a paw in the air with pathetic eagerness before setting it down again, realizing that even if Lupin did call upon it, the only answer it would be able to make was mew.

Poor Hermione, Lupin reflected, taking another drink. She'd have simply adored spending the last twenty minutes of class rattling off all she knew about kitsune, tengu, gaki, youkai, and any other Dark creature remotely connected with Japan - which would also have afforded him the opportunity to get some serious drinking done. But near the beginning of the school year, Harry and Ron had messed around with some old curses they'd got from a book Harry had sneaked out of the restricted section in the library one night under the Invisibility Cloak. In Lupin's opinion, handing that cloak over to Harry had been akin to giving a psychopath a chainsaw, a machete, and a copy of Mutilation for Fun and Profit, but that was old Dumbledore for you. Anyway, something had (unsurprisingly) gone wrong while Harry and Ron were playing with these illegal, terrifically dangerous curses, and Hermione got caught in the crossfire. Whatever spell had struck her had both rekindled and intensified the effects of the Polyjuice Potion she'd taken incorrectly in her second year. In short, it seemed as if she was now a cat for life, particularly since the highly incompetent staff of Hogwart's either couldn't figure out what to do for her condition or couldn't be bothered.

Dumbledore had awarded Harry and Ron twenty points each. Lupin was still scratching his head over that one. And Hermione's relationship with Crookshanks had taken on a new significance. One had to look at the positive side. Still, it meant that his most attentive student occasionally hacked up hairballs or started licking her nether regions in class. The other students always had a giggle when she did that.

"Right. . . " Lupin looked at his watch and stifled a groan. Still almost fifteen minutes before he could reasonably dismiss them. "Does anyone remember what we covered last week?"

More looks of unadulterated idiocy before Seamus tentatively raised a hand. "Umm. . . wasn't that the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man?" he asked hopefully.

"No, we'll be doing him next week," Lupin replied, and was depressed to see that they believed him. He massaged his temples. "Doesn't anyone recall? Harry?"

Harry gave a jump and hastily stuffed whatever he was messing with under a fold of his robe. "Yes, Professor?" he asked in his high, shrill, annoying, little-boy voice.

God, I hope his testicles drop soon, mused Lupin, putting his patented half-dead-but-lovable expression on as he smiled at Harry. "Last week's lesson? What do you remember about it?"

"Nothing," replied Harry, going deeply hostile and sullen. Lupin hoped he wasn't about to fly into another of his 'I'm so unappreciated and no one understands me' modes and start speaking all in capitals.

"Well, what do you remember from any of our other lessons, then?" Lupin asked, deciding to try an easier one.

Harry screwed up his face and concentrated for very many more minutes than should have been necessary. "I remember something about pigs," he said at last. Harry adored pigs, especially dead ones on his dinner plate.

"No, I believe that was Professor McGonagall's class, where you were Transfiguring white rabbits into piggy banks," Lupin corrected. A truly inane spell if ever there was one, but nothing McGonagall taught was of the slightest bit of use unless you got caught out in the desert and had a sudden hankering for a tea set and the only thing around were horned toads.

"Oh." Harry shrugged. "Well, then I guess I don't remember anything, sorry."

Ron, in an attempt to be helpful, piped up with: "Guess you're just not a very good teacher."

Ron hoped, through sheer statistical inevitability, to one day come out with a remark that was not either incredibly stupid or horribly offensive. Luck had not been with him thus far, and the class froze.

"Yes - " began Lupin, massaging his temples again.

"BA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!!!!!" Harry cackled.

"Yes. Now, could you all please open your books to page one hundred and eleven?" he requested, suspecting the task would be beyond most of them. Sure enough, only half of them had brought their books to class, and of those, only a third remembered where they had put them. These select few began turning pages with furrowed brows and airs of great concentration. Harry, who had quite naturally not brought his book, craned his neck to stare over Draco Malfoy's shoulder and to breathe great draughts of hot, stinky pork-breath into his face.

"Now," Lupin began, only to be interrupted yet again, this time by the arrival of Sirius Black, who appeared quite literally out of nowhere wearing tight black leather pants, an 'I'm With Stupid' tee-shirt with an arrow pointing downwards, a bomber jacket, and a put-out expression.

"Remus, do you know where my boxers are?" he asked without a preamble, let alone a trace of shame. "You know, the black ones with the silver stars." The class tittered. Lupin rolled his eyes.

"Sirius, I'm teaching right now."

"Yeah, this won't take a moment. My starry boxers. I wasn't wearing them last night, was I? Because I've been thinking I might have been wearing them that night we snuck into Honeyduke's. Remember that? When you - "

"This is not the time for this conversation, Sirius," said Lupin testily.

"Well, let's just say you got a little out of control and now I'm afraid my boxers might end up baked into fudge or something." Sirius ran his hands through his long black hair and sighed. "My favorite boxers. Do you remember if I was wearing them when we left Honeyduke's?"

"No, I do not. I have no idea where they are. Ask the house elves." Lupin shook his head as he looked at Sirius. Death wasn't supposed to be like this. You were either supposed to be a misty, insubstantial ghost or just plain gone. Trust Sirius to break the rules, however. About a month after falling through the Veil, Sirius had come wandering back, complaining loudly about how boring the afterlife was - they didn't have a cocktail hour, for one. Aside from having developed a talent for walking through walls and popping out of nowhere, Sirius seemed little worse the wear for his mortal experience. His taste in tacky underwear certainly hadn't changed.

"Of course you wouldn't mind if my boxers were backed into fudge, would you, you dirty wolf?" Sirius nattered on. "If it were chocolate fudge, that is - "

"Sirius?" Lupin took a deep breath. "Shut up."

Sirius raised an eyebrow and tilted Lupin's goblet forward to stare into its contents. "Been drinking again, Remus?"

Lupin snatched the goblet back and took a sip. "It's my special Wolfsbane Potion," he replied with dignity.

"Yeah, your special twelve-year-old malt Wolfsbane Potion," Sirius chortled.

"Sirius!" Lupin hissed, "Are you trying to lose my job for me again?"

"What, them?" Sirius flapped a hand towards the rows of students. "They're too busy picking their noses to notice what you're drinking."

Lupin gazed out at his class. Sadly, Sirius seemed to be exactly correct.

"Miserable little sods," muttered the werewolf, draining his goblet. Ah, well. At least teaching them brought in enough money to keep him in chocolate and whiskey. There wasn't enough left over to buy respectable clothes, however, so Lupin continued to look shabby. This was more a reflection on Lupin's chocolate budget than the size of Hogwarts' salaries.

It was about time to end class anyway, Lupin decided, checking his watch. He raised his voice, catching the class's flagging attention. "That will be all for today. Homework: look over your notes and summarize everything we've covered up until today's lesson."

Harry's hand instantly shot into the air. "Professor, do I have to do the homework too?"

"Yes, Harry."

"Bah." Harry squatted on his chair and plotted revenge. It wasn't fair. He had such a hard life - why should he have to do homework on top of it all?

"Class dismissed," said Lupin cheerfully, already thinking of his next bar of chocolate. The dark with the hazelnuts, perhaps, or the one with the crispy bits of toffee? There was also the nougat bar to consider. . .

Sirius leaned against his shoulder and watched the students file out. He waved to Harry, but the boy was casting hostile fishy glances over one shoulder and did not respond. Sirius sighed as he dropped his hand. "I don't know how you put up with it, Remus, I don't know why."

"Hmm? Well, 'how' -- with lots and lots of chocolate. As for 'why'. . . well, let's just say my good friend Sirius Black died and left his entire vast fortune to Harry Potter and not so much as a bent Knut to me."

Sirius had the grace to look embarrassed. "Well. . . "

"Harry -- who already inherited great whoopsy loads of cash from James and Lily and does not need to work a single day in his life if he doesn't want to - Potter."

"Alright, alright!" Sirius flung up his arms. "It was an old will. I was going to modify it. My lawyer committed suicide. A fire destroyed his office. The building collapsed and the entire block was condemned. It's not my fault. Anyway, Harry was my godson," Sirius added as an afterthought.

Lupin, unappeased, snorted. "Still is, I guess. I don't know how the rules work when you're dead but still hanging around - as it's not generally held to be good manners. Confuses us living folk, you see."

"Don't be such a bitch, Moony. I'll buy you some chocolate as soon as I figure out how to get my money out of Harry's hands." Sirius looped his arm through Lupin's. "So, anyway, wanna go to Honeyduke's and look for my boxers? I can think of a couple interesting places to check."

Harry Potter sat brooding in Transfiguration class, paying no attention to the lesson on how to turn adorable, fluffy little puppies into cheese graters. He didn't miss the deeply sadistic gleam in Professor McGonagall's eye as she demonstrated the spell on a young Pomeranian, but they were all used to that by now. He had more important matters on his mind.

Halloween had come and gone with nothing but the usual, gluttonous sweet-feast followed by a couple hours spent throwing up afterwards to show for it. Now they were two weeks into November and still nothing had happened. His scar wasn't hurting, students weren't turning up mysteriously paralyzed, nor was there a giant, man-eating beast stationed on the third floor. Even the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher wasn't anyone new and vaguely sinister as it properly should have been, but boring old Lupin again - and everyone already knew he was a werewolf. Harry briefly toyed with the idea of revealing that Lupin was shagging Sirius Black, but abandoned it as being obvious even to the most gormlesss of students.

To put it simply, there was nothing going on: no magic stones, no trolls, no Death Eaters, no muggle-baiting. No chance for Harry to play the misunderstood hero and win rounds of sympathy and admiration as he angsted his way around Hogwarts. For the first time in his life, he was experiencing a perfectly normal, safe school year.

He hated it.

"Bah," he muttered as Professor McGonagall walked past. He quickly jabbed the dachshund he was supposed to be practicing on a couple times with his wand until it yelped. He had no idea how to do the spell, but knew that as long as the animal was suffering Professor McGonagall wouldn't scold him. Sure enough, she swept past with a smile of satisfaction twitching the stern line of her mouth. Harry sank back into his brood.

So where the hell was Lord Voldemort? After the events of last year, it had sure looked as if Harry's sixth and seventh years were poised to be the most exciting of them all. After all, Voldemort was back and, according to the prophecy, they were going to have to fight one another to the death. Now what could be more adorably tragic and heart-wrenching than that? Harry was only too eager to get on with it, but the Dark Lord didn't seem to be playing his part correctly. If something didn't happen soon, Harry's career as the most special and misunderstood child at Hogwarts would soon come to an end. And then - horror of horrors - someone else might grab all the attention. Maybe even a Hufflepuff, although Harry emitted his little goat-like laugh at the thought, which made Professor McGonagall stiffen and look about in anticipation of something more solid to torment. Harry quickly turned his attention back to his dachshund, stomach churning with the indignity of it all.

By the time class had ended, Harry had made up his mind. If Lord Voldemort didn't intend to show up and be useful, so be it. He was tired of waiting for the Dark Lord to make the first move. It was far past time that something happened, and if Voldemort wasn't willing to oblige, Harry was ready to take matters into his own hands. . .

Several miles to the southwest of Hogwarts* lay a charming little two hundred and fifty-seven room mansion on a moor. This was the home of the Malfoys - Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco. On the ground floor of this mansion was a fine kitchen, equipped with all the modern appliances, including a well-stocked white refrigerator. And out of the opened doorway of this large, white, well-stocked refrigerator poked the ass of the most almighty Dark Lord himself, Voldemort.

"Is anyone going to eat the leftover shepherd's pie?" he called over his shoulder in his high-pitched voice.

Lucius Malfoy, who was seated at the breakfast table, peered over the top of his Daily Prophet and sighed in exasperation. "No," he replied - Voldemort, as usual, had already stuck his fingers in it anyway.

"Oh, good." The Dark Lord closed the refrigerator - quite temporarily, Lucius was certain - and carried the entire dish to the table. Pulling out a chair, he proceeded to down the lot. Lucius did his best to ignore the rude slurping, grunting, and smacking noises, but a protracted belch did cause him to ruffle the pages of the paper in annoyance.

"Ah, that was good." Voldemort leaned back and picked his teeth for a minute or two. Lucius, through sheer strength of will, kept his eyes on the paper, although he couldn't for the life of him have said what was printed on the page. He had a dreadful feeling the peaceful silence would not keep long. Sure enough, a moment later, Voldemort pushed back his chair and padded across the kitchen. The refrigerator door swung open as Voldemort once again presented his ass to the kitchen at large.

"Is anyone going to eat this smoked salmon?" he asked after a minute's scrutiny of the refrigerator's interior.

"Yes!" replied Lucius sharply, looking up. That smoked salmon - one of his favorites - had been procured specially for his afternoon tea.

"Oh," said Voldemort, disappointed. "Sure looks good," he added wistfully. Lucius glanced up just in time to see the Dark Lord run a finger across the salmon and lick it.

"Oh, just go ahead and eat it!" shouted Lucius, balling the paper up in his fist.

"Oh, good," said Voldemort, not losing a second. He was so intent on shoving it down that he didn't notice Lucius storming out of the kitchen.

In the hallway, Lucius all but collided with his wife. He instantly recoiled, as if he'd almost tread on a highly venomous snake. Narcissa looked sleek and elegant in a green silk dressing gown with her blonde hair done up in a twist and tied with a string of black pearls. "Do look where you're going, darling," she told him with a note of asperity in her well-cultured voice.

"What are you doing down here?" he demanded before he could recall the ill-chosen words. He saw her left eyelid flicker - a sure sign of danger - but her tone remained pleasant and light.

"I wanted a cup of coffee, darling, but the house elves refused to bring it. They're terrified to come into the kitchen - seems the Dark Lord ate one of them the last time they ventured in."

"Did he now?" Lucius ground his teeth.

Narcissa nodded, utterly composed. "Well, I suppose you weren't there to tell him not to. Not that it would have made a shade of difference," she added in a voice that seemed to be hinting at some degree of incompetence on his part.

Lucius colored and was about to suggest that she try her hand at disciplining Voldemort. He forbore only because he knew there was every likelihood she'd succeed where he'd failed and he wasn't certain his ego could stand the blow. "I'd just like to know why he has to park his ass here and eat us out of house and home," he said instead. "I mean, he has a mansion of his own - "

"Too gloomy, he said," Narcissa reminded him. "And that Wormtail creature eats as much as he ever manages to cook, so Voldemort doesn't get as many cuts off the joint as he evidently enjoys."

"But why us?" whined Lucius.

"Stop whinging, dear. It's probably because you owe him for breaking you out of Azkaban prison after your latest Harry Potter fiasco."

"Oh, yes, that was a delight,"said Lucius savagely. "Want to know how he managed it? He came to the prison and sang 'The Rainbow Connection' until all the dementors committed suicide. Mind you, quite a few of the prisoners committed suicide as well."

Narcissa's brow wrinkled. "I didn't know dementors could commit suicide," she murmured.

"Neither did I. Live and learn. Mind you, after that, I didn't blame them."

"Is anyone going to eat this chocolate cake?" called a high vice from the kitchen.

Lucius rolled his eyes. "We simply have to get rid of him. Shouldn't he be off doing something evil? Why don't we send him to Hogwarts after Harry Potter?"

"Our son is at Hogwarts."

"Oh, bollocks to little Kreckor. He can handle the Dark Lord for a bit."

"Draco," Narcissa corrected.

Lucius's brow furrowed. "Is his name not Kreckor then?"

"No, dear, never was."

"No wonder the owls keep giving me such strange looks when I try to send them off to Hogwarts."

"I wanted to name him Murphy," said Narcissa wistfully. "Murphy Malfoy. But Mother insisted on Draco."

Lucius shuddered at the mere thought of his mother-in-law. "Yes, well, the point is, it's high time Voldemort gets on with his takeover bid. I mean, why go through all this trouble to resurrect yourself if you're just going to spend the rest of your life poking your ass out of a refrigerator and stuffing yourself silly?"

"Well, what are you going to do about it? As I pointed out earlier, he doesn't exactly listen to you, does he?"

She had a point. Lucius stood and tapped his foot against the rug (emerald green with a pattern of little snakes) while he thought. Narcissa found a mirror, took the pearls out of her hair, and spent a while improvising new arrangements.

Some time passed.

"Any ideas yet?" inquired Narcissa, who had grown a trifle bored.

"Didn't we name one of his brothers Kreckor?"

"He never had any brothers. I meant about Lord Voldemort," she said crossly.

"Well, I was thinking that if we moved the refrigerator out of the mansion Lord V. would probably follow it. We could place it in Hogwarts' kitchen and - "

"And he'd stand around Hogwarts and eat," Narcissa finished. "How does that help his takeover bid?"

"It doesn't. But it gets him out of the house."

Narcissa stared at him. Her eyes became an utterly clear, cold shade of blue and her lips thinned into a fine hard line. Lucius trembled. "Now listen here, Lucius Aloysius Malfoy. I did not spend years and years putting up with your little Death Eater hobby - the troll dung in the basement, the dementors in the attic, and your smelly cousin Augustus in the guest room - just so Lord Voldemort could peacefully gorge himself into oblivion. You are going to get him out of the house. You are going to get him motivated. You are going to. . . get a job!"

"Get a job?" repeated Lucius, horrified.

Narcissa smiled, revealing even, white teeth that curiously reminded Lucius of a shark's grin. "Yes, dear, a job. One that will allow you to take care of Harry Potter yourself."

And she held up the classified section of the Dailey Prophet, her long, red-nailed forefinger tapping at a particular add that read: Custodian wanted, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. No previous experience necessary.

Lucius stared at the article a moment longer before a rebellious howl escaped his lips. "Me, a janitor? Nooooooo!!!!!!!!"

"Where are we going again, Harry?" asked Ron, treading on his own and Harry's feet as they trudged their way through the halls of Hogwarts under Harry's Invisibility Cloak.

Harry sighed, rolled his eyes, clicked his tongue, gazed heavenward, and summoned up all his patience. "We're going to Hagrid's hut," he whispered, checking to make sure Hermione was still securely shoved inside his backpack. Her presence wasn't strictly necessary, but Harry had brought her along for old times' sake.

"Oh." Ron's brow furrowed. "But why are we doing it under the Invisibility Cloak?"

"So we don't get caught, stupid."

"But it's still day."

Harry's mouth dropped open as he noticed what really should have been evident earlier - that there were students walking the corridors, talking loudly to one another, trading gossip and spell tips. "Yes, well," said Harry hastily, "there's going to be an assembly soon, and all the students are supposed to go to it, so we'll get in trouble if we're not there." That should cover it, he thought smugly.

But Ron wasn't appeased. "Is it important?" he asked.

"Oh, yes."

"Then maybe we should go."

"Oh, no. It's not that important."

"But if it's important, maybe Hagrid will be there."

"He will not. He's too stupid."

"But if he's so stupid, why do you want to talk to him?"

"RON!" Harry felt it was time to take command of the situation again. "I NEED TO TALK TO HAGRID ON A VERY SPECIAL, SECRET, IMPORTANT MISSION! I DON'T WANT ANY OF THE TEACHERS OR OTHER STUDENTS TO KNOW, SO WE'RE GOING UNDER THE INVISIBILITY CLOAK WHILE EVERYONE ELSE ATTENDS A VITAL, COMPLETELY IMPORTANT ASSEMBLY WHICH IS NOT WORTH MY BOTHER! YOU ARE PRIVILEGED TO COME WITH ME, SO KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT AND DO AS I SAY! BAH!"

Ron, cowed by Harry's use of capitals, shut his mouth. By this time the students who were passing by had heard Harry's little tirade under the cloak and were smothering giggles behind their hands. Why Harry thought his Invisibility Cloak was still a big secret was one of Hogwarts' mysteries.

They made their way out the door and across the lawn without being spotted by anyone who was interested in reporting them. The grounds had changed appearance somewhat since the last year. Over the summer, an anonymous admirer had gifted Hagrid with a lawnmower to help him in his grounds-keeping duties. Hagrid was enchanted with the present - he was certain the machine was a new and vicious sort of beastie that it was his duty to love and train. Consequently, he mowed the grass every single day and most of the night too for fear the lawnmower might starve to death if it didn't get enough grass to eat. By this time, there wasn't a lot of grass left on Hogwarts' grounds. Or shrubs, flowers, or small trees. Hagrid had discovered the lawnmower (a particularly powerful brand) wasn't particular. Even the Whomping Willow lived in terror of Hagrid and his machine these days.

Harry and Ron followed the sound of the vigorous chug chug chug to locate Hagrid, who was involved in mowing down the last patch of valuable glitterseed moonviolets while talking to himself.

"Oh, me!" Hagrid lamented, "God bless him, he were a good stoat he was, so soft and cuddly and breakable. I didn't mean to break him, oh, Lord, no I didn't, for he were a good stoat, may he rest in peace and angels take his soul. . . "

Harry was convinced that Hagrid heard voices in his head, so the big oaf's monologue didn't bother him. Halting at a safe distance from the roar of rotating blades, he whipped off the Invisibility Cloak and waved an arm, waiting for the groundskeeper to notice him. Which took a while.

"Oh, Lord, an' now I'll never see his twitchin' little nose around no more, God bless him. An' he were so good, he were. These hands o' mine don't know their strength, Lord. They - Hey, you! Yer on me lawn! Get off!"

"It's me, Hagrid!" Harry yelled over the churning growl of the motor. "Switch it off! I need to talk to you."

"Nigh?" Hagrid stopped and slowly lifted a hand to itch his scalp with a sound like iron nails rubbing against sandpaper. He was the very picture of bewildered stupidity. Meanwhile, the lawnmower continued to run, chewing its current patch of ground down to bare rock and seeming bent on getting to the liquid core before sundown.

"I have to talk to you," Harry bellowed patiently. He flapped the red-and-white stripes of his ubiquitous polo shirt** at Hagrid in the hopes that it would convey the message 'friend' to Hagrid's primitive brain.

The light was slowly dawning, but Hagrid wasn't the sort to give up on imbecility without a fight. "Away with ye, young Harry," he said gruffly, "I have to mow me lawn." And he started to turn back to the mechanical monstrosity.

Fortunately, despite years of slacking off, Harry had managed to pick up a couple spells. "Stupefy!" he shouted, pointing his wand at the lawnmower. For the first time in months, its din fell silent. Ears pricked up all around Hogwarts; silent hallelujahs were said. Hagrid fell to his knees.

"Oh, why'd ya do it, Harry, Lord, Lord? He were just a little lawnmower, God bless him, an' he was ever so soft an' hungry - "

"It'll recover," said Harry, who was truly beginning to wonder if this was worth his effort. "Now, Hagrid - "

"Lord, Lord," sobbed the groundskeeper.

Harry stole a look at Ron, but Ron was busy staring at the lawnmower in wide-eyed awe, probably thinking of the sort of things his father would do to it. Arthur Weasly's obsession with Muggle artifacts was legendary - and to those who knew him, more than slightly perverted. "Look, Hagrid," Harry repeated, summoning up every drop of patience he possessed, "I only stopped it with a spell. It'll be back, er, eating in no time. Will you listen to me?"

"Oh? Ah. . . Er. . . I suppose." Hagrid rose heavily to his feet, mopping his eyes with a dirty sleeve.

"Good. Now as you'll no doubt have noticed, Lord You-Know-Who hasn't come round this year - "

"Who?" asked Hagrid, brow wrinkling.

"Lord You-Know-Who."

Hagrid shook his head. "No, I don't."

Harry took a deep breath. Even Ron was impressed by the depths of Hagrid's stupidity. "You know, the one that starts with a 'v'," said Ron helpfully.

But Harry knew that was no good. Thanks to an educational system that neglected basic skills in favor of turning hummingbirds into chamberpots, Hagrid couldn't spell. "The evil wizard who tried to take over the world sixteen years ago. The one who gave me my scar."

Comprehension was slowly dawning. "Now don't you go messin' with him, young Harry," Hagrid lectured, shaking a finger the size of a sausage in front of Harry's nose. "That be dangerous stuff, that be."

"He's not here, Hagrid," said Harry through clenched teeth.

"O' course he isn't, God bless him."

Ron nudged Harry in the ribs. "Perhaps we should have him put down."

"Later," replied Harry before putting his attention back on Hagrid. "Yes, he's not here - not at Hogwarts, I mean - but he's out there somewhere, plotting nefarious schemes. Getting ready to do mean things," he translated, when Hagrid looked confused. "But because he isn't here, everyone thinks he's gone and they're getting complacent. Ooops, too big a word. I mean they're, uh, not going to be ready when Voldemort does attack. Understand?"

It was clear Hagrid didn't, but he nodded his big, shaggy head anyway. "An' that's bad, is it?"

"Yes, very bad. So very, very bad we must do something about it." Hermione gave a wriggle and a muffled mew, but Harry smacked the backpack and she desisted.

"Well, I mus' mow the lawn," said Hagrid, his curranty little eyes going to the mower, which was beginning to hum. Harry stunned it again.

"This is more important that mowing the lawn," Harry told him. "I mean, yes, mow the lawn of course. But fight Lord Voldemort at the same time."

Hagrid all but jumped out of his shoes. "Don't say that name, Harry!" he gasped, teeth chattering, glancing about as if he expected to see the Dark Lord relieving himself in one of the bushes.

"Voldemort," repeated Harry sadistically, "Voldemort, Voldermort, Vol-dee-mort!" Ron moaned and Hagrid covered his ears with his hands. Harry bah-ed with laughter until he remembered he had a job to do.

"So are you going to help me, Hagrid?" he asked. But the huge man still had his hands clapped over his ears and couldn't hear a word. Harry kicked him in the shins.

"Och! Voldemort's here!" choked Hagrid, jumping up and down on one leg. "He's caught me with a nasty painful spell! Oh, I didn't know the Crucio curse would hurt this much!"

Ron rolled his eyes and looked at Harry as if to ask: 'Are you sure Hagrid's support is worth all this effort?'

Harry decided to give it one last go. "Hagrid!" he hollered, "Voldemort is not here! Are you going to help me or not?"

Hagrid cautiously cracked one eye open and discovered he was not dying. He carefully felt his leg and was relieved to find it intact. "Och, well, I maybes could," he decided. "After I mows the lawn, God bless it."

"The lawn can wait, Hagrid," said Harry, his patience running dangerously low.

"Oh, but I don't want the mower to starve to death, Lord, Lord. He be just a wee little mower, after all." The 'wee little mower' began to emit a dangerous hum again. "Oh, Lord bless him, he's calling for his mommy!" Hagrid cried in delight.

Harry had had enough. He enchanted the lawnmower to run over Hagrid. After all, he reflected as he snuck away from Hagrid's mangled remains and back towards the castle in his Invisibility Cloak, the big thickie would serve Harry's purpose just as well as a martyr.

Grawp tried to enter the story to avenge his big brother, but before he could leave the Forbidden Forest he was shot by centaurs for being highly annoying.

That same night. . .

Sirius Black dumped the bag of Bertie Bott's Every Flavored Beans out onto the quilted blue bedspread and eyed them quizzically. Was that speckled pink one strawberry jam or soused tripe? And the funny orange and green one - what could that be? Before he could speculate much further, a hand swooped down from seemingly out of nowhere and appropriated three brownish beans. Sirius looked up in annoyance.

"I suppose those were the only chocolate-flavored beans in the pack?" he asked.

Remus Lupin, already back in his shabby, comfortable chair and munching vigorously, looked up from his book. "Hmm?"

"Never mind." Sirius poked through the rest of the pile. "You know, I haven't tasted a chocolate bean since the day I met you, Moony. Or a Chocolate Frog for that matter."

Lupin swallowed. "Remember how James always used to get the cheese flavored beans?" he asked reminiscently.

"Yeah - cheddar, swiss, stilton. . . I think he was getting to enjoy the taste of them by fifth year. Remus, why do you think we go on eating these things even though half of them are utter rot?"

Lupin pondered a moment. "Because most wizards are deeply masochistic. Or sadistic. Or both. You are talking about a group of people whose favorite sport includes the possibility of being bashed to death by bludgers."

"I was afraid that was the reason." Sirius held up a reddish bean. "What do you think? Cherry perhaps?"

"Or liver pate." Lupin shrugged, returning to his book. "Try it and see."

"No thanks." Sirius set the candy down, shuddering. "That liver pate suggestion just ruined my appetite."

As if cued by the phrase 'ruined my appetite,' there was a knock on the door. "Come in," called Lupin politely.

The door creaked open to reveal Severus Snape, carrying a goblet and wearing an expression of immense sourness. "You forgot your Wolfsbane Potion again, Lupin," he said around a curled lip.

"Why, hell-oo-oo-oo Snape!" crooned Lupin in a hideous, nasal, whiny tone of voice that would have made any of his students blink and do a double-take. They were all firmly convinced that Lupin treated the hated Potions Master with perfect courtesy at all times. They were wrong. Lupin was only polite to Snape when there were witnesses present.

Snape's look, if possible, grew even tarter. His small dark eyes flicked to Sirius, sitting on the bed with what could only be called a predatory air, and then back to the smirking werewolf. "You should drink this potion directly."

"You're so thoughtful, Snape!" cried Lupin, still using the horrible voice. "Isn't Snape thoughtful, Sirius?"

"Yes!" shrilled Sirius in the same tone. "Oh, yes, yes, yes! He's thoughtful!"

"And clever!"

"And smelly!"

"Oh, Sirius, that wasn't a nice thing to say!"

"But he is smelly! He is! He is! He is!"

"Well. . . maybe a little bit. . . "

Snape's gaze was shifting between the two men as if he were watching an extremely fast game of wizard chess.

"More than a little bit!"

"It's only because he doesn't understand soap, Sirius," said Lupin in a stage whisper. "Once he stops being afraid of it, a world of possibilities will open."

"You think so?"

"I'm sure of it." And to Snape's horror and disgust, Lupin began to sing:

"Snape in the shower!

Rosy soap and scrub-a-dub!

Snape in the shower!

Maybe some day he can use the tub!

Snape in the shower!

Washing himself everywhere!

Snape in the shower!

Will he possibly clean his hair?"

Sirius was laying on his back, kicking his legs in the air and clutching his stomach from laughing too hard. He got enough breath to shout: "I doubt it!" in reply to the last line before collapsing with mirth. Snape's eyes narrowed.

"I can see you're dreadfully busy, Lupin, so I'll take my leave of you," he said coldly.

"Bye, Snape!" called Lupin forlornly, waving his hand limp-wristedly. Sirius sat up and dashed tears from his eyes.

"Leaving so soon, Snivelly? Awww, boo-hoo!"

Snape was more than ready to leave, but at Sirius's voice, he stiffened and turned back for a moment. "You do realize that your precious godson is up to something again, I trust?"

Sirius shrugged and picked up a bean. "He's probably just raiding the restricted section or sneaking off to Hogsmeade as usual," he said dismissively.

"It's more than that. I'm missing potions ingredients again."

"Aww, did someone take something slimy from your shelves, Snapie?" asked Lupin, dripping with sympathy.

"It was my favorite jar of mucus! Boo-hoo!" added Sirius in the 'Snape voice'.

Snape's eyes narrowed until it was a miracle he could see out of them at all. "I see. So you don't plan on doing a thing to restrain him?"

"Not for your sake, Snivelly." Sirius shrugged and stuffed candy into his mouth.

"Very well," said Snape in his best soft, dangerous voice. "Then I will take matters into my own hands." He glided out the door and shut it decisively behind him.

"Be my guest," said Sirius to the shut door.

"Phew! I didn't think he'd ever take the hint." Lupin pulled a chocolate bar out of his pocket and dropped it into the smoking goblet. Sirius furrowed his brow.

"I thought you weren't supposed to add sugar to that stuff?"

"This isn't sugar. It's chocolate. There's a difference."

Sirius shrugged. "Whatever you say, love-wolf." He decided not to argue, as Lupin without chocolate was unquestionably more dangerous than Lupin without Wolfsbane. He watched as the werewolf gulped the potion and grimaced.

"Still tastes pretty foul." Lupin set down the empty goblet and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "So what are we going to do about Harry? Snape's right, you know. Harry has been sulking through class for three weeks now. I'm ready to kick him."

"Why don't you? Give the students a nice, juicy piece of gossip."

"Because Harry would love it," Lupin explained patiently. "It would give him something to be all tragic and noble and misunderstood about."

"Oh, right. Little sod." Sirius scowled at the bedspread. "I'm out of ideas," he said after approximately three seconds had passed.

"Some help you are." Lupin shook his head and picked up his book.

"Hey, I'm here to look gorgeous and to cause trouble." Sirius leaned back and tucked his hands behind his head, attempting to exude his best, sexy, devil-may-care allure -- forgetting once again that twelve years in Azkaban had weathered some of his charms. Lupin ignored him and turned a page. Sirius pouted.

"All right, fine. If you're going to be like that, I'm going to go visit James." He stood.

"Good," replied Lupin, not lifting his eyes from the page. "You can ask his opinion on what to do about Harry."

Sirius laughed. "Are you kidding? Harry's the reason James never comes by for a visit!"

"Oh, that's a relief. I was worried that he thought there might have been something between me and Lily and that's why he never came by."

Sirius looked puzzled. "Why would James think that?"

"No reason," replied Lupin, as innocently as if butter could never melt in his mouth. "No reason at all."

Outside in the corridors, Severus Snape was silently fuming as he stalked along. Learning that Lupin had been hired yet again by the ever-incompetent Dumbledore had marked a decided low point in the Potions Master's life. Especially after he found out that the werewolf came attached to a not-quite-exactly-dead Sirius Black. Snape's scowl deepened and he wondered if it would be possible to convince Dumbledore, for the sake of the students, that it would be safest to hire a professional exorcist and to chain Lupin to a wall for the two weeks preceding full moon. And maybe for a couple weeks after, just in case.

Snape was imagining the conversation, picturing the polite yet vague and somewhat befuddled expression that would be on the Headmaster's face, when he almost bumped into a man dressed in janitor's robes who was lurking in the shadows - as if he didn't want to be seen. Snape glowered at him out of habit and was about to walk on past without an apology when something about the janitor struck him.

His mind refused to accept what he'd seen and he kept on walking.

His eyes insisted they weren't lying.

Snape stopped. He debated. At last, unable to bear the curiosity, he snuck a peek over his shoulder. The janitor was beating a hasty retreat, but really, there was no mistake.

His mind still refused to accept it. He blinked a few times, but his eyes stubbornly continued to show the same person. His mind tried to deny it again, but his eyes sharply told his brain to stop fecking around.

"Lucius Malfoy?" During the struggle between his eyes and his brain, he'd lost control of his mouth and the words just slipped out. The janitor stiffened, stopping dead in his tracks before turning around with an assumed air of indifference.

"Oh, Severus," he drawled, "I didn't realize that was you."

"Lucius Malfoy?" Snape repeated, dumfounded. "What in the name of Morgana's tits are you doing in that uniform?"

Lucius self-consciously brushed a hand over his custodian's robe, which, in the spirit of honoring every house in the school, had a green left sleeve and a red right sleeve while the skirt flowed yellow and blue. The most accomplished circus clown in the world couldn't have made the outfit appealing. "Well, I, uh, got a job here," Lucius explained. "To look after little Kreckor."

"Kreckor?" repeated Snape helplessly.

"Yes, my son." Lucius eyed the Potions Master severely. "I believe you teach him. Give him quite good marks, in fact."

"I was under the impression that his name was Draco."

"Oh, right - Draco. Kreckor must've been one of the other ones," said Lucius thoughtfully.

"I didn't know you had other children," said Snape, surreptitiously pinching himself to make certain he wasn't hallucinating. Perhaps Sirius had slipped him something at dinner - Sirius had always known where to get the best drugs.

"Oh, yes," Lucius said with a nod. "Twelve or thirteen others, in fact. But we ate them. Didn't need so many little rug-rats running all over the place now, do we?"

Snape bit his lip - hard - before he could repeat 'ate them' and set off a new round of insanity. "So why are you so concerned with Kreckor - Draco's welfare after all this time?"

Lucius thought fast. "Well, actually, I'm under orders from the Dark Lord. He wants me to keep an eye on Harry Potter and to look for secret passageways into Hogwarts and the like." It was quite a good lie and Lucius was proud of it. It would have worked better if Snape hadn't known for a fact that Voldemort spent most of his existence with his ass in the air scanning the contents of Lucius's refrigerator.

But he really, really didn't feel like arguing the point right now. "Well, that's wonderful, Lucius. Isn't it great that Dumbledore's such a dotty old bean that he hires Death Eaters to work at his school?" Snape backed away slowly as he talked.

"Oh, yes," Lucius nodded, "I had quite a nice interview. He didn't ask me any questions about my past - just wanted to know my opinion on mops and floor polish. I told him I liked the kind that smelled like lemons and that seemed to please him - "

"Excellent," Snape quickly interrupted. "Well, love to stay and chat longer, but I have papers to grade." And abandoning all pretense of subtlety, he turned and sprinted for the safety of the dungeons, not stopping until he had the door of his office double-locked behind him. Then he slumped against the wall and heaved a sigh of relief.

Life at Hogwarts was even worse than usual this year. Why didn't he give it up, try another school? Surely someone else would hire him as the DADA instructor and he could finally get away from smelly cauldrons. Of course seeking a job elsewhere would mean he'd have to wash his hair before the interview - Snape shuddered. Pity Dumbledore was the only Headmaster willing to overlook Snape's peculiar sense of fashion.

At least he was safe for now. Putting the worries out of his mind for the moment, he sat down to the essays that he did indeed have to grade, making rapid process through them by the simple process of marking them based on whose name was on the top. He ate Harry's paper so he'd have an excuse to give the little twit another zero. He was finished in less than twenty minutes, but he still did not feel relaxed, even with all the 'P's and 'T's he had handed out.

Well, it had been a difficult evening, Snape decided. The usual means of unwinding just weren't going to work. Checking for peepholes, he crept to the door and once again made sure that it was securely locked. Confident that he was alone, he removed the ukulele from its secret drawer with eager fingers. Had anyone strolled through the dungeons a few minutes later, they might have heard the walls reverberating to an inspired version of 'Lady of Spain.'

* Bear with me here. I have no idea where the Malfoys live or what their house looks like. It's probably big, however.

** Ubiquitous if you're a Yank, of course. Harry's always pictured on the book covers wearing a red-and-white polo shirt. Must be a magic shirt, since it appears to be growing along with him. Hopefully it's self-cleaning as well.