Harry Potter and the Year of Living Stupidly

Chapter Five

In Which Dark and Dirty Deeds Are Performed

Harry's palms were sweating so badly he had trouble keeping hold of his wand. Every so often he had to stop and wipe his hands on his pajama pants lest he drop it. His whole body was shaking slightly, he was farting more often than usual, and he really wished he had a chamberpot handy. Fortunately, he discovered a potted plant at the end of one corridor served just as well. As he tiptoed down drafty hallways with only the firefly light at the tip of his wand for illumination, Harry wondered why he was so nervous. After all, he'd crept through these halls after curfew almost as many times as he'd had sausage for breakfast. Well, maybe not quite that often, but still, skulking around at night was virtually routine for him by now.

Then suddenly the answer hit him: he wasn't nervous, he was excited! Excited almost to the point of exultation to be sneaking to the headmaster's office, there to do. . . what? Harry thought about it and a little high-pitched goat giggle escaped him. He hushed at once, fearing he'd attracted Peeves, but the pesky poltergeist seemed to be making mischief elsewhere tonight.

After a moment's pause to make sure he was still alone, Harry continued on, wishing his godfather Sirius hadn't taken back the Marauder's Map. Stupid godfather. Harry would have put him on his hit list if he hadn't already been dead. Harry's hit list had grown rather long by now. It included the name of every witch or wizard who had ever managed to offend Harry, which was a surprising amount of people. If the list had ever been made public, Harry would have been hard-pressed to explain why he felt it necessary to include Professor Vector, Luna Lovegood, poor Neville Longbottom, and the little muggle Mark Evans. Perhaps Mark had been included for daring to have the same last name as Harry's mum.

In any case, Harry meant to dash at least one name off the list tonight. Dumbledore's office was just around the corner. Harry slyly peeped his head around the edge, eyes sliding left, then right. Still no sign of life -- or, in the case of a ghost, active death. Keeping to the shadows, Harry oozed his way over to the gargoyle that guarded the entrance to the office. He had no idea of the password, but was confident that he'd stumble across it by accident in a minute or two, as he always had before.

"Licorice wands," he began, just as a warm-up. He was surprised and highly annoyed when the gargoyle immediately lifted away, revealing the staircase to the office. What, that was it? he fumed. Didn't anyone care about building suspense anymore? Furthermore, Harry hated licorice. Oh, well, he decided, calming himself, this incident just gave him greater motivation for what he was about to do.

He crept cautiously up the stairs and into the room, alert for any sign of danger. Fawkes the phoenix had his head tucked under one wing. The pictures of headmasters on the wall seemed to be slumbering peacefully, but Harry watched them out of the corner of his eyes to make certain they weren't faking. He took an especially careful look at the portrait of Phineas Nigellus, Sirius's ancestor, who would only be too happy to get Harry in trouble. Luck was with Harry once again -- Phineas's frame was empty. Apparently he was taking a vacation at Grimmauld Place again. Harry intended to be long gone by the time he returned.

A long, wheezy, whistling sound came trilling from the backroom, rising over the other gusty snores, and Harry's predatory instincts sharpened. Intuition told him that it was Dumbledore who had made this particular noise. Ever so silently, Harry crept towards the back, moving with great caution past the slumbering phoenix. Fawkes ruffled his feathers slightly, but did not wake. Harry exhaled softly with relief as he tiptoed up the stairs towards the office proper.

He was halfway up the stairs when it hit him: why on earth would Dumbledore be sleeping in his office? Surely the old ninny had a proper bedroom like everyone else? For a moment Harry stood stock-still, marveling at his own stupidity and wondering if he should turn back. Then that wheezy snore came again, and Harry persuaded himself to take a look. Tiptoeing up the last few steps, he beheld Dumbledore's office, just as he remembered it from the countless times he'd been summoned before the headmaster. There was no sign of the sleeper, and Harry's heart sank.

The sound came again. Harry frowned and glanced at the floor. It seemed to be coming from beneath him. Retracing his steps and listening more intently than before, he discovered what he had overlooked; there was a small chamber beneath the staircase. Rather strange he had never noticed it before, but then Dumbledore did have the place piled high with books, undergarments, and magical paraphernalia. Skinny though he was, Harry found it something of a squeeze to get into the chamber under the stairs.

There lay Dumbledore, crammed onto a small and wriggley cot, a moth-eaten teddy bear clasped to his chest. His beard fluttered with every exhalation. Harry tried very hard not to notice the little yellow duckies on the headmaster's pajamas as he stood marveling that Dumbledore chose to sleep in such a stuffy place. No wonder Dumbledore always had a soft spot for me, Harry realized. We both slept under the stairs. Of course I was forced to, while he apparently enjoys it. Harry's lips tightened with remembered humiliation. The Dursleys. They were the ones who made him to sleep under the stairs with the spiders. They'd never given him any birthday presents, and they fed all the lovely bacon fat to Dudley instead of to him. Uncle Vernon despised Harry's laugh, and Aunt Petunia had been screaming at him to wear something other than a red-and-white striped polo shirt for eight years now. Every bad moment he'd ever had with the Dursleys came rushing back to him, including the time he'd been punished for eating Dudley's pink squeaky pig toy when he was six.

And it was Dumbledore, this great ass slumbering before him, who had sent Harry off to live with the Dursleys fifteen years ago. Sent him off, even though he was the Boy Who Lived and any wizarding family would have been happy to take him in and spoil him after he lost his parents. Harry stood and thought about it, his temper rising by the second. He could have grown up a celebrity, adored, coddled, and catered to every moment of his life. Instead he'd been taken to a family of stinky muggles who didn't give a rat's ass for the marvelousness that was Harry James Potter.

Harry glared down at Dumbledore. "It's all your fault!" he whispered before raising his wand.

He performed the tarantallegra curse on Dumbledore's beard. Overjoyed to have an excuse to finally take on a life of its own, the headmaster's vast amount of facial hair began twisting wildly about. Some of it curled around Dumbledore's neck, where it quickly became entangled, while a great lot of it immediately jumped down his throat.

Harry did not stay to watch. Almost before the curse could take effect, he was sliding out the door. He paused just the briefest moment before shutting it to savor the muffled sounds of choking. Fawkes was rousing, his wings beating in alarm, but while a phoenix's tears could heal wounds and cure poisons, there was nothing they could do for suffocation. He shut the door on the phoenix's cry.

Outside, the corridors were dark and silent. Sound didn't carry well through the thick stone walls, so no one had noticed Dumbledore's predicament. With any luck, by the time Fawkes or the portraits could awaken living help, it would be too late. Satisfied, Harry snuck off through the halls, heading back towards the Gryffindor dormitory, intending to be safely back in his bed before anyone noticed he was missing.

A sudden commotion up ahead made his heart pound wildly with alarm, and he pressed himself against a wall. Had Fawkes managed to rouse help so soon? Harry cursed mightily before he realized that the noise didn't sound panicked or urgent at all -- not like you'd expect a rescue squad come to aid a choking headmaster would. In fact, whoever-it-was sounded. . .

Inebriated?

Harry listened again. Yes, definitely sloshed. Pickled. Three or more sheets to the wind. Pissed out of their skulls.

Harry relaxed and began to smile. That could only be Remus Lupin and his godfather up there. Perhaps Tonks as well. Harry chuckled softly. Hitting the old firewhiskey again, were they? Well, that was all right. With all the noise they were making, it could be hours before anyone took note of what was happening in Dumbledore's office. All he had to do was sneak past them without attracting attention. . .

"Sirius?"

"Hmm-yeah?"

"I think yer standin' on my toe."

"No, that would be Remus."

"No, Remus has his hand on my ass. That is you, isn't it, Remus?"

"I think so, yeah." Lupin frowned at the appendage in question. "Looks like mine. Except there seem to be too many fingers."

"Really?" Sirius added his interested gaze. His head swam back and forth as he tried to get the fingers in focus. "One, three, four, five, eight, seven. Nah, that's right. It's your hand."

"Oh, okay." Suddenly Lupin realized something. "Hey, Tonks, am I standing on your foot?"

"No, that's Siri -- Siri -- Siri -- m' cousin."

"No that's not me, that's Remus," Sirius corrected. "I'm the one whose elbow's in your ear."

They made a brief effort to untangle themselves and ended up falling in a heap on the corridor floor. "Owie, Jesus, that hurt."

"What hurts, Sirius?"

"My. . . my thingy."

"Your thingy?" Both Lupin and Tonks burst into gusts of slightly obscene laughter.

"Not that thingy! The thingy on my arm!"

"You have a thingy on your arm, Padfoot?"

Sirius swatted at Lupin, missed by several inches. "The thingy that makes it bend. The pointy bony thingy. The. . . pancreas? No, that's not right." He watched a spider crawl down the wall as he concentrated. "I think it has something to do with noodles," he said presently.

"Your arm does?" Lupin settled his head into Sirius's lap.

"No. Yes." Sirius yawned. "I can't remember."

"Mm." Tonks stretched herself out across their legs. "Perhaps we should sing."

"Sure," said Lupin with the agreeableness of the magnificently smashed. "What should we sing?"

This was a complicated subject for their soused minds, and a long interval of silence ensued. Harry, who had been just about to sneak around them, froze in his tracks and waited.

"Something by Nine Inch Nails?" suggested Sirius at last.

"Sirius, I don't know anything by Nine Inch Nails. In fact, I don't understand Nine Inch Nails, and I certainly don't like them, and I'm not even sure they exist, in which case we can't sing anything by them anyway."

"How about 'Mama Mia'?" suggested Tonks.

"Isn't that ABBA?"

"Yeah."

"Cool."

A moment later all three were wailing:

"I've been cheated by you since I don't know when,

So I made up my mind it must come to an end -- "

This was the chance Harry had been waiting for. No one could possibly hear him over this racket. He tiptoed forward.

"Look at me now, will I ever learn?

I don't know how, but I suddenly lose control.

There's a fire within my soul -- "

Lupin broke off suddenly and sniffed deeply, his brow furrowing. Tonks stopped singing and looked at him, but Sirius went on caterwauling:

"Just one look and I can hear a bell ring!

One more look and I forget everything!

Whoa-oa! Mamma mia! Here -- "

"I smell pig," Lupin announced. Harry froze again, mentally cursing werewolf noses.

" -- I go again! My, my, how can I resist you -- "

Tonks poked him. "Remus smells pig."

"I heard," said Sirius, nettled. "I just don't see what it has to do with me. I don't even like pork. Give me fried chicken any day."

"Well, that's just it," declared Lupin, still sniffing. "You don't smell like pig, I don't smell like pig, and Tonks doesn't smell like pig. So why am I smelling concentrated essence of pig somewhere nearby?"

"You're drunk."

"Drunk enough to hallucinate essence of pig?"

"Moony, old friend, I remember the last time you hallucinated an entire mariarchi band. You said one of them looked like Antonio Banderas."

"Antonio Banderas, ooh, yes." A gleam came to Lupin's eye. "I'd shag him."

"Ooh, there's a surprise. Here's a harder question, Moony: who wouldn't you shag?"

"Peter," came the reply without a hesitation, "I wouldn't shag Peter."

"Ugh, Peter. I'd actually forgotten about him." Sirius pushed Lupin and Tonks off of him and stood, grimacing. "Thanks, Remus, you just ruined a very nice bout of inebriation."

"You asked."

"Yeah, and I guess it's nice to know Peter's not on you 'to do' list."

"The very thought." Lupin shuddered and sighed mournfully. "Now I'm sober too. And I didn't even get to hallucinate Antonio Banderas this time. Or Juliette Binoche. Or Pierce Brosnin. Or Salma Heyak. Or -- "

"You swing like a trapeze artist, don't you, Moony?"

"This is not news, Padfoot. I still smell pig."

Harry was frantically searching his mind for anti-pig-aroma spells, but he kept coming up blank.

"Look, Remus, with all the students that go traipsing through here every day, they're bound to leave some of their funk behind."

"Granted. They do. But I smell one specific, very powerful source of piggyness fairly close by."

It was only a matter of time before they reached the only possible conclusion. What was Harry to do? He stood frozen with indecision. Perhaps if he --

Too late. "Harry?" called Sirius, "what are you doing out of bed this time?"

Harry stayed quiet. They were drunk. If he kept quiet, perhaps they'd forget about him.

No such luck. Now Lupin was joining in. "Harry? Harry, I can smell you." He sniffed again and grimaced. "Yes, there's that manky old polo shirt aroma. It's definitely you, Harry -- anyone else would catch a disease from that thing."

An indignant 'bah!' nearly escaped Harry's lips, but he sealed them in time. But Sirius and Lupin were coming closer and Tonks was holding up a brightly-glowing wand, illuminating the corridor. They'd be on him in a moment. They'd yank his Invisibility Cloak away and then. . . Harry began sweating like. . well, like a pig.

"The smell's growing even stronger," said Lupin. "He must be right -- "

"What's goin' on 'ere?"

The three drunkards turned their faces to behold the most terrifying sight they could ever have imagined; a vision that would wake them screaming from a deep sleep for the next few nights running.

Peter Pettigrew. Standing there naked except for a thin and dingy pair of grayish jockey shorts and smelly black socks, one of which was crumpled around his ankle.

Sirius gagged. Lupin began wheezing asthmatically. Tonks covered her eyes with her hands, nearly stabbing out an eye in the process, and started to giggle in a high-pitched, hysterical sort of way. Biting back a 'bah' of triumph, Harry made a break for it. Nobody noticed his departure.

Peter scratched a plump buttock innocently. "I 'eard a noise, like," he explained. "An' I wondered wha' it could be. I said to meself, I said: Peter, that sounds like someone's makin' a ruckus in the 'all, it does. An' then meself replied: At two-bleedin'-o'clock in the mornin'? 'Ooever it is don't 'ave no manners, they don't. To which I answered: Ah, Peter, 'ave a 'eart. Likely someone's only 'aving a bit o' a lark is all. But I wasn't all convinced, see. I said then, I said -- "

"Peter, don't talk like there are two of you!" Sirius howled. "One's more than enough, thank you!"

Peter put on his wounded look again. "That's not very kindly like, Sirius. Especially considerin' it's you not me 'oo's disturbin' the peace."

Lupin finally managed to draw a proper breath -- none too soon, either; his face had gone as pale as ashes. "Harry Potter was out of bed," he gasped. "We were trying to catch him."

Peter itched his bum again. Lupin had the horrible suspicion that he was actually sneaking his finger down the back of his underwear. "'Arry Potter? Oo's 'e?"

"Oh, you cannot be this stupid, Peter," Sirius moaned. "Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. The one who saved your life when Remus and I tried to kill you three years ago."

Still itching away, Peter stared at the ceiling and frowned. "I can't recollect that 'appening, Padfoot."

"Harry Potter -- James and Lily's son! For God's sake. . . " Lupin trailed off and had to sit down, shaking.

At last enlightenment dawned. "That little baby that I said looked like a squishy pink fruit drop?"

"Yes, that little baby which you said -- rather incorrectly -- looked like a squishy pink fruit drop," replied Sirius testily.

"Cor, blimey, is 'e at school already?" Peter beamed fondly. "James would've been so proud. Pity 'e's dead."

"Yes," snarled Sirius from between clenched teeth, "isn't it? And who do we have to blame for that?"

Peter held up his hands. "Now 'ang on, Sirius. We agreed to not 'old on to a grudge over that one."

"No we didn't, Peter. You decided, but we didn't agree. I for one am not prepared to forgive you."

"Nor am I," said Lupin from the floor. "Especially after you decided to wander the halls without putting on your bathrobe first."

"Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh," giggled Tonks in a monotone.

"Look what you've done to my cousin, Peter. She's too young to see you in the nip. Come to think of it, no one's old enough for that horror."

"Nice, isn't it?" said Peter, beaming down at himself.

Lupin shuddered and averted his eyes. Raising his head, he sniffed the air. "Well, Harry's long gone by now," he said mournfully.

"Of course he is. Thanks, Peter. Now I guess we'll never find out what he was up to."

"You're welcome, Padfoot," said Peter, smiling disingenuously.

"Sarcasm doesn't exist in your galaxy, does it, Wormtail?"

"Whot's that?"

"Padfoot, let's call it a night," said Lupin when Sirius seemed inclined to pursue the argument. He pushed himself off the floor and put an arm around Tonks's shoulders, giving her a gentle shake.

"Heh-heh-heh-heh," she said dully, her eyes wide and staring.

"Shush." He patted her head. "We might have to carry her, Sirius," Lupin said. And waited. Sirius sighed impatiently.

"That means: 'Please carry her, Sirius, because I'm too sickly and weak', doesn't it, Remus?"

"That's right."

"Why don't you just come out and -- never mind. Right." Sirius bent and hoisted Tonks to his shoulder. "She doesn't really weigh that much."

"Good." Lupin stuck his hands in his pockets and smiled maddeningly. "You'll have no trouble, then."

They'd only taken a few steps back towards Lupin's room when they became aware of a complication: Peter was following them. Sirius turned around so quickly he nearly bashed Tonks's head into the wall. "What do you think you're doing?" he demanded.

"Makin' sure you get back safely, like," replied Peter.

"We don't need your help," said Lupin.

"You're probably trying to scope out our living quarters," spat Sirius. "Well, forget it! I'm not going to wake up to find you curled up by my feet."

Peter looked wounded. They were beginning to wonder if the expression came naturally or if he practiced it daily in a mirror. "I was only wantin' to 'elp my friends," he whined.

"We. Are. Not. Your. Friends. Got it? Now go away."

"But -- "

"NOW!" roared Sirius.

"But -- "

Lupin shot him a Significant Look and Peter got the message. He turned and sadly tottered off, giving them a full view of his bum. His underwear was caught in his crack -- a little extra unnecessary spite on a night already full of it. Lupin groaned and ran his hands through his hair. He had a splitting headache.

Sirius glared down the corridor, eyes focused on nothing. His teeth gnawed savagely at his lower lip as he came to some internal decision.

"Remus?"

"What?"

"It's full moon soon, isn't it?"

"Three more days. What of it?"

"Don't take any more Wolfsbane Potion."

"Why not?"

"I'm afraid there's no other choice. You're going to have to eat Peter."

Harry snuggled in his warm bed, his heart beating fast. He'd made it back to the dorm without being spotted by anyone else, and no one in the sleeping chamber seemed to have noticed his absence either. But he couldn't erase the fact that he'd been discovered by Lupin, Sirius, and Tonks. That was bad. That was very bad. When Dumbledore was discovered strangled in his bed the next morning, one of those three were bound to connect Harry's presence in the hall with the headmaster's demise.

And yet. . . Harry turned over, trying to get comfortable. What evidence did they have? Lupin had smelled pig in the corridor. Well, Lupin was drunk at the time. Plus, he was a werewolf, so no sane jury would listen to him in the first place. Harry began to smile. That was no evidence at all. A werewolf, a dead ex-convict, and a clumsy young Auror against the famous Harry Potter. They'd be fools to bring an open accusation against him.

But his relief died almost at once. Maybe Lupin and Sirius wouldn't accuse him in the courts, but all the same, they'd know. And they'd keep a watch on him very carefully from now on. And if Harry screwed up, he knew those two were more than willing to dispatch their own brand of vigilante justice.

So you learn from your mistakes. Harry shrugged in the darkness. He'd won this round, at least. Rita would be so happy for the story -- perhaps he should call her in the morning so she could be the first reporter there, Harry mused sleepily as he pulled the covers over his head. He soon fell into sweet slumber, blessed by dreams of plump pigs who happily cut their own throats and served themselves up for dinner.

It was morning, and Snape was flipping idly through his latest edition of Tattoo Monthly when a knock sounded on his door. "Just a minute," he replied curtly, snapping the magazine shut and locking it in the box he kept under his bed. For some reason, the sound of the knock had sent chills down his spine. Instinctively feeling something bad must have happened, he took less time in answering the door than he generally would have.

Lucius Malfoy swung in with the doorknob, which he was clinging to as if he might fall over otherwise. His janitor's robes in disarray and his gray eyes were round and staring. "Dumbledore's dead," he gasped before Snape could so much as open his mouth to ask what the hell was the matter. "The house elves found him dead in bed when they went to take his pre-breakfast snack tray to him."

So his instincts had been wrong after all. "When's the celebration?" asked Snape, almost cheerfully. Lucius shot him a look. "What? You don't honestly believe his demise is a tragedy, do you? Now hopefully we can install someone competent as headmaster."

Lucius shook his head. "Do you think it might have been. . . You-Know-Who?"

Snape's eyes narrowed. "Do you mean Voldemort or Harry Potter?"

Lucius scoffed. "I know it wasn't Voldemort."

"I don't see why it has to be one or the other," Snape replied. "It's not like Dumbledore was a young man." His eyes narrowed. "Unless. . . is there evidence that he was murdered?"

"I don't know." Lucius finally let go of the doorknob. "But from what I saw, it looks like he choked to death on his own beard."

Snape frowned. "That doesn't mean anything -- God knows he was overindulgent with his facial hair. Probably just trying to cover up the fact that he didn't have a chin."

"Didn't he?" asked Lucius with interest.

"No. His neck just sort of sprouted out of his upper jaw."

"How do you know that?"

"He got tiddly at a Christmas party one year and charmed it off. Most revolting sight I've ever seen -- Professor Sprout was so startled she nearly choked to death on her mince pie while Vector threw his up. Needless to say, we begged him to charm it back on."

"Amazing I never noticed it before -- " Lucius shook himself. "What am I talking about here? Snape, is it possible that Potter murdered the headmaster?"

"Possible. . . I suppose." Snape frowned. "But Dumbledore always encouraged Potter's pranks. Let him get away with -- "

"Murder?" suggested Lucius.

"I was going to say 'virtually murder,' but I suppose you have a point. Except why would he kill the very man who let him get away with everything? Hell, Dumbledore loved Harry, as much as the old dodderer was capable of loving anyone. Saw a great deal of his younger self in the boy."

"So Dumbledore was an asshole as a child too?"

"Apparently." Snape stared thoughtfully at the opposite wall. He'd already moved on from the question of Dumbledore's demise to wonder who was up for the position of headmaster now that it was vacant. Probably McGonagall, he decided with a trace of a sigh. Pity -- he'd adore the job himself. It would be an opportunity to get Hogwarts steering on the right course as he saw it, and a chance to clean house as well. Plus the headmaster didn't have to teach a bunch of nasty, stinky children. He could just skulk in his office all day long, emerging only to mete out punishment or hand down judgments of deep significance. Ah, the power! Ah, the respect! Ah, the trailing clouds of sycophants! Snape craved sycophants almost as much as he coveted the Order of Merlin. He'd felt for some time that his arse deserved a good kissing.

"The professors are gathering for a meeting," Lucius informed him, snapping him out of his pleasant daydream, with featured him reclining lazily in the headmaster's office with a goblet of iced vinegar in his hand and the heads of Lupin, Black, and Potter hung up on the wall.

"Of course," said Snape, coming back to reality sourly. "Typical Hogwarts reaction -- something out-of-the-ordinary occurs and you instantly huddle together like a flock of confused sheep. Right; where are they all?"

"In the staff room. The students haven't been told the news yet."

"McGonagall's orders?"

"No, Flitwick's. Last I saw, McGonagall was still amusing herself stepping on Dumbledore's chest and making squeaky sounds come out."

Snape shuddered, although he really shouldn't have been surprised. "Very well, then. I'll to the meeting. I'll let you know what happens afterwards."

"Thank you, Severus," replied Lucius as the Potions Master strode past. In his haste, Snape forgot to lock the door of his room behind him. Lucius couldn't resist the opportunity. After a quick glance up and down the corridor to make certain the Potions Master had indeed left, he snuck inside Snape's room and stood rubbing his hands gleefully together at the sight of so much dust and disarray. So many messes that were crying out to be cleaned up. Lucius knew -- knew the way Harry knew the best pork chop on the plate -- that he was the right man for the job. He pulled the can of furniture polish from his back pocket, took a rapturous sniff of its contents, and set to work.

"All right, all right -- can we come to some kind of order?" Flitwick glanced hopefully about the staff room, but no one seemed to have heard his squeaky voice or spotted his diminutive figure. They were all wrapped up in their own business. Professor McGonagall was holding a scowling competition with Professor Snape. Occasionally they broke it off to give each other pointers. Ghostly Professor Binns, predictably, dozed a few inches above a chair. Professors Vector and Sinestra were sitting close together and arguing over how to develop a personality at such a late date. Professor Lupin slumped in a chair with dark circles under his eyes, looking as if the full moon was just past rather than a couple nights away. Professor Sprout, who could not deny her stomach for any reason, was consuming a stack of enormous bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches, oblivious to the world around her. Professor Grubbly-Plank was trying to ignore Professor Trelawney, who kept insisting she'd foreseen Dumbledore's death in her oatmeal last week. 'Professor' Firenze cultivated an air of aloof superiority as he swished his tail as if chasing away flies. The corner he stood in smelled like a stable.

"Excuse me? May I have your attention?" Flitwick tried again. His words were drowned out by a belch from Sprout that seemed to have every ounce of her three hundred and twenty pounds behind it. Everyone turned to stare at her. She looked slightly embarrassed.

"Excuse me," she apologized, picking up another sandwich. McGonagall humphed and checked her watch.

"When's this meeting going to come to order?" she demanded.

"Well, actually, I was -- " Flitwick tried to explain, but McGonagall stood up and blocked him from everyone's view, apparently without even realizing he was there.

"So, you've all heard by now that Headmaster Albus Dumbledore is dead," she said, glaring from one face to another as if accusing those gathered of his demise.

Mumbles and nods of agreement.

"Apparently he choked to death on his own beard in his sleep. Stupid, inane way to go if you ask me." McGonagall plucked her glasses off her face, breathed noisily on them and began rubbing them clean on her shawl. Annoying squeaky noises ensued. "Wherever he is now, I hope he's ashamed." Squeak, squeak, squeak. "But there you have it, and I suppose we shouldn't be surprised. Someone's going to have to tell the students, of course."

"And I suppose classes will be cancelled for the day," said Grubbly-Plank.

"Whatever for?" asked McGonagall, looking up sharply. "It isn't like Dumbledore taught any classes -- or did anything useful, for that matter."

"Some of the students might be rather upset, however," offered Flitwick's muffled voice from behind McGonagall. She jumped and then blinked as if the idea had never occurred to her and was having rather a lot of difficulty penetrating.

"I suppose it's possible," she allowed. "Perhaps. . . don't see why, though. In any case, the best thing to do for grief is work right through it. No; I don't see why classes should be canceled." She returned to her glasses with an air of finality.

Snape, sitting quietly to one side, chuckled softly to himself. He knew why McGonagall didn't want to cancel classes -- it would give her no excuse to torture small furry things.

Lupin finally spoke up, although it seemed to cost him an effort. "We're going to have to cancel classes, Minerva," he said in his gentle, reasonable way. "Out of respect for Dumbledore. It really wouldn't be fitting not to. Parents would send us letters asking why we didn't, and that would mean a couple hundred extra owls flying through Hogwarts at breakfast tomorrow."

All the professors shuddered. There was no grimmer way to start a morning than having a post owl crap in your porridge.

"I can't believe anyone respected Dumbledore that much," McGonagall grumbled, seeing her day's entertainment slip from her grasp. "I certainly didn't." She squeaked her glasses with a vengeance.

"Well, you knew him," Snape reminded her. "We weren't so lucky." Several professors shot him indignant looks, but he ignored them, drumming his fingers against his legs impatiently. "Right, so Dumbledore's dead. Established. Who's going to tell the little berks?"

"Perhaps the next headmaster should do that?" suggested Sinestra.

"Who is next in line to be headmaster?" asked Vector. "Isn't that for the Ministry to decide?"

"No, sod them," snorted McGonagall, making a rude gesture.

"Perhaps you should accept the position, Professor McGonagall." said Grubbly-Plank.

"I have no desire to be headmaster," she replied stiffly. "I like teaching."

Everyone knew what it was she really liked, but no one felt like arguing with her. "Professor Flitwick, then?" suggested Lupin. Everyone gazed around the room, trying to locate the little man. Fortunately, he'd propped himself up with a stack of books, making him easier to find. He coughed nervously as their gazes settled on him.

"Well, I'm honored by the nomination, of course," he said. "Unfortunately, Swiftswish made me such a generous offer. . . I was going to tender my resignation to Dumbledore today, actually. Perhaps Professor Sprout?"

Professor Sprout looked up. She had bacon sticking between her teeth and a blot of mayonnaise on her cheek. "Eh?"

"Would you like to be the next headmaster -- mistress -- Professor Sprout?"

"No thanks," she replied. "Me, sitting in a cramped, stuffy office all day? No thank you. I want to be outside with the growing things. Besides, I have no head for organization." She returned to her sandwiches.

"Well. . . " Flitwick surveyed those who were left. He skipped over Sinestra and Vector, as they barely possessed enough character to be paper dolls, let alone headmasters. Binns was right out, and he wouldn't trust Trelawney to escort geese across a peaceful country lane. Firenze continued to look aloof, but he had dropped several horse muffins in the corner, and such behavior was really not up to headmaster standards. That left --

"Professors Grubbly-Plank, Lupin, and Snape. Do any of you three feel up to the task?"

Grubbly-Plank rubbed her prominent chin. "Mm. I will if neither of these two gentlemen feel up to it. I'd rather not, however. Like Professor Sprout, I prefer the great outdoors to life in an office."

"I would be honored," said Snape, suppressing his excitement and clenching his hands inside his sleeves so they wouldn't shake.

Lupin pushed his hair out of his eyes as he thought. "You are all aware of my. . . indisposition, of course," he said slowly.

"Of course," said Flitwick warmly, "but that's only one night a month. I don't see why it should disbar you from accepting."

"That's very kind of you, but some parents might not be as accepting of a werewolf as headmaster of Hogwarts," said Lupin wryly.

"Dumbledore hired you as a teacher," said Sprout, wiping her mouth. "I think it would only be proper to honor his memory by extending our trust in his judgment."

Snape couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Nevertheless, we must bear in mind that Professor Lupin become a vicious, uncontrollable beast once a month."

"As opposed to you, who is beastly year-round," McGonagall snapped.

Someone sniggered, but Snape didn't spin his head around in time to see who it was. He settled for a universal glower around the room. But the professors sensed which way the wind was blowing and smirked in return.

"I think Professor Lupin is a fine choice," said Grubbly-Plank reasonably. "He's patient and the students like him. So what if he's a werewolf? Most of the wizarding community doesn't know a single honest fact about them."

Snape tried again. "But the controversy -- the Daily Prophet will have a field day."

"Yes!" said Flitwick, brightening as if Snape had just made a brilliant point. "That'll take their readers' minds off Dumbledore's death. Give them something else to talk about. We don't want them to mourn too long and get all dispirited."

"So are we agreed on Professor Lupin?" asked McGonagall, who was bored with the meeting. If she wasn't going to be able to teach, she at least wanted to get back to the experiments she was performing on the Angora rabbit she had stashed away in her room.

There wasn't even a pause. Any reservations about teaching under a werewolf couldn't equal their reservations about teaching under Snape. "Aye," said Flitwick.

"Sure," said Sprout.

"Yes," nodded Grubbly-Plank.

"No objection," chorused Vector and Sinestra.

"I foresaw it all along," breathed Trelawney, looking mistily at Lupin, whom she harbored a not-so-secret crush on.

"I do not concern myself with the affairs of humans," intoned Firenze distantly, dropping another patty on the floor.

Professor Binns wheezed. They took it for acceptance.

"Professor Snape?" asked Flitwick.

"I refuse to accept this." Snape folded his arms.

Flitwick shrugged. "We have one opposing vote."

"Tough," said McGonagall. "Democracy rules. Lupin is elected."

Lupin smiled faintly, wishing he were in better health to relish the expression on Snape's face. "Thank you all. I'll do my best to fulfil your trust in me."

"Whatever," said McGonagall. "Are we done now?"

"Yes." Lupin stood. "I shall go inform the students what has happened."

Snape stood as well. "I quit. You'll have my resignation on your desk by this evening, Lupin."

"Headmaster Lupin," corrected Flitwick genially.

"Headmaster Werewolf," snarled Snape, and slammed the door.

"What a sore loser," commented McGonagall.