Hogwarts, School of Rock

Aberforth had never before understood the truth in the phrase "silent as a tomb." Standing in front of fifteen wordless teenagers, he felt like a dead man.

The students continued to stare at him, their eyes flicking uncertainly towards one another.

"Um," he tried again, "I suppose you'd all like a bit of explanation." He jumped at the sight of fifteen nodding heads. If the students were this responsive, perhaps the job wouldn't be so hard after all. He tried a bright smile. "You see, I'm Aberforth Dumbledore. Your headmaster's brother."

Fifteen falling faces were enough to wipe the smile away. What did he do wrong? He scratched the tip of his nose and conjured a fluffy armchair; taking a seat on the goat's hair covering, he surveyed the class, most of whom he vaguely recognized. Someone sneezed. "Gesundheit," he replied.

A girl with bushy brown hair sitting in the front row raised her hand. "When will Professor Shacklebolt be back?"

"Er...well, I'm not entirely sure..."

"Why, where is he?" called a dark boy from the back.

"I'm not-"

"Did something happen to him?" gasped a blonde girl, her hands flying to her cheeks.

"Is he hurt?"

"Is he dead?"

The flurry of shrieks and questions that followed grew frantic, and the students began rising from their chairs. Aberforth panicked and did the only thing he could think of; he raised his wand in the air and shouted, "Tympanum fortissimo!"

Boom! The students froze.

"Look, all I can tell you is what Albus- Professor- Headmaster Dumbledore said. Shacklebolt can't be here, so for some unfathomable reason they got me to replace him, and we'll just have to put up with one another until my brother comes to his senses and gets someone else to do it." He sank back into the furry chair. The students followed suit in their own seats.

At least they respected his authority. Perhaps he could get through with just a disciplinary spell every now and then to remind them, and leave them to their own devices for the rest of the time. Yes, that sounded like a satisfactory arrangement.

The bushy-haired girl's hand was back in the air. Bother.

"What? Who are you?"

"Hermione Granger, Professor. So what will you be teaching us in the meantime?"

"You expect me to teach you?" he replied in amazement.

Her eyebrows furrowed. "Well, you are the teacher, aren't you? It is your job, isn't it?"

He burst out laughing. "You honestly think I know anything that you don't? I've heard about this class, you know. You're advanced beyond your years. So let's just relax, all right? Consider it a well-deserved break from boring schoolwork. As for me, I'm going to take a nap." He leaned back and closed his eyes.

"You're not going to do anything?"

"I believe that's what I said," he replied, eyes still shut.

"But you must have something worth teaching us! Professor Shacklebolt was going to start on Ministry structure and-"

"My dear girl, if you want to learn about something as dull as the Ministry, you are more than welcome to visit the library. There is such a thing as knowing when to 'chill out,' as the Muggles say."

He heard her intake of breath and inwardly groaned, but before she could speak again, a voice called out from the back, "Do us a favor and shut up, Granger. If the man wants us to slack off, then I say, let's get slacking."

There was a rustle as the students turned to face the boy. Aberforth raised his head and peered back. "I don't recognize you. Who are you?"

"Draco Malfoy."

"Well then, Mr. Malfoy, five points to your house." From the muffled groans and whispers, Aberforth gleaned that Draco Malfoy was the sole representative of his house in the class. Not hard to guess which one, given his name. "I suggest the rest of you follow his advice. Try to keep it to a dull roar, however. I have a headache." And with that, he leaned back once more.

Through slit eyelids, he watched as the students first turned to their neighbors, and eventually to Harry Potter, who had hardly moved a muscle since Aberforth had entered the room, not even to change expression at Dumbledore's pronouncement. When it seemed everyone, even the Malfoy boy (though he tried to hide it) was facing him, Harry shrugged and put his head down on the desk. That was the cue for everyone else to start chatting casually with one another. The only petulant face was Her-whatever Granger's, but even she resigned herself to the situation and pulled out a book, after throwing a glare in Harry's direction.

Aberforth didn't particularly care about any of that at the moment. All he could think was that in two hours, he would be "teaching" a class of third years who were most certainly not competent to teach themselves...and the only lesson plans he had were utterly useless.

For Kingsley Shacklebolt was accustomed to Ministry paperwork, and thus, all of his writing was done in longhand prose.

And Aberforth Dumbledore couldn't read a word of it.