Hogwarts, School of Rock

One week later, the sixth year DADA class was a vastly different place than it had been before. Aberforth entered the room with a flourish and found his students buzzing with excitement. Upon catching sight of him, every last one of them sat up, ramrod straight, grinning madly.

"We-he-he-hell, good morning, my musical prodigies!" Aberforth greeted them, rubbing his hands together. "Are you ready to rock?"

Eager nods.

He glared at them. "I saaaaid...are you ready to rock?"

The kids looked at one another uncertainly, and then...

"Yeah!" cried the Irish Gryffindor boy, punching his fist in the air (what was his name again? bugger). Excited, the rest of the students followed suit.

"Fabulous!" Aberforth shouted over the cheers. Once they died down, he continued. "Now, I am in the process of writing our signature number, but it's your band, too. What sort of music do you want to play?"

"Er, rock?" suggested Red- no, Ron.

"Yes, but what sort of rock?" Aberforth said patiently.

"There's different sorts?" Ron replied, looking puzzled.

Aberforth blinked. "Dear Elvis. I knew the wizarding world was culturally deprived, but I had no idea it had gotten this bad. Someone who's Muggle-born, help us out here?"

The blonde singer - he really had to learn their names - raised her hand. "There's hard rock, and there's alternative rock."

"Yes, and?" he encouraged her.

She shrugged. "Dunno, I don't really listen to it."

He gasped. "What else would you listen to?"

"Spice Girls!" she said excitedly.

"Celestina Warbeck!" chimed in the twins.

"Snoop Dog!" shouted the Gryffindor boys in the back.

"Hanson!" piped up JFF.

"Stop! No more!" Aberforth cried, throwing his hands in the air and falling to his knees. "Mine ears can no longer stand the pain of hearing such discordant rubbish as these charlatans avowed our musical greats! Please - please - tell me one of you knows the name Robert Plant."

Silence.

He stared in astonishment. "None of you know Led Zepp?"

"You mean Led Zeppelin?" ventured a Ravenclaw - Terry, that was it.

Aberforth leapt to his feet. "Yes, yes, you know them!"

Terry shrugged. "Not really, but I think my dad listens to them."

"Nooooo!" Aberforth stormed back and forth across the front of the room, pulling at his hair and addressing the ceiling. "Is there no justice in this world? Is nothing sacred? Shall our children and children's children's children lose the one worthwhile legacy their forebears left them?"

The students were frozen in their seats.

In mid-cross, Aberforth whirled to face them, planting his feet. "Well, I for one will not stand for it! Nor will I sit for it! Class, we have a new objective!"

"No band?" asked Ron, looking crestfallen.

"No! I mean, yes, yes, we will have our band. However! We will also - Hermione, write this down - spend the first half of each class with a history lesson." The students groaned. "Oh, pish, not the drivel that ghost drones at you. I mean real history. Important history. The history...of rock and roll."

A collective sigh of relief.

"In the second half, we will have band rehearsal. Since I was not prepared for such widespread ignorance, we will skip the history today and go straight to rehearsal." He conjured up the instruments. "Roadies, soundproof! Musicians, warm up! The rest of you, get to work - so much time, so little to do. Wait. Scratch that, reverse it. Well, what are you waiting for?"

He conjured up the instruments, and the students sprang into action. When no one was looking, he sneaked a spell at his guitarists again, just in case, but he noticed that they held their instruments more confidently this time. Ron caught him watching. "Hermione made us go to the library and figure out how to play for real this weekend," he explained with a shrug. "Bit hard to practice without these things, but we did pretty well with our broomsticks."

"Reeeeally," mused Aberforth, rubbing his nose thoughtfully. "Keep up the good work, boys, I'll be with you shortly." He searched for Hermione, who had pulled out a clipboard and was walking between the various groups. "Miss Granger!" he called, beckoning her to the front.

"Yes, Professor?" she asked eagerly.

"I hear you've a knack for research," he remarked, ignoring the snort from the boys next to them. "I have a special assignment for you. Call it an extra-credit project."

"Of course, Professor. What is it?"

"The band is clearly ignorant of music's full range of magical properties. What I'd like you to do is prepare a presentation, say, for next week, detailing these items so that we may incorporate them into the show as much as possible." Her forehead creased; he sensed the oncoming question and warded it off. "I, of course, am well aware of what it can do, but everyone else needs to be, too, and I haven't the time to prepare an appropriate lesson. The creative process, you know. Your help would be most appreciated."

"I - well, of course, Professor, I'd be glad to. The only thing is, I don't recall seeing too many books about such things when Harry, Ron and I were looking last weekend. Maybe in the Restricted Section, but I'd need a note to get in there..." she said, looking at him hopefully.

"Er, yes, of course. I was getting to that. Why don't you, uh, write the note, and I'll just sign it for you, eh?" He could manage a signature, albeit a messy one. She nodded and hurried off.

Aberforth turned back to the band. "All right, boys! Let's start with the drums..."

*

Professor McGonagall cornered Aberforth in the hallway at lunchtime. "There you are!" she exclaimed. "I need to speak with you immediately, Professor Dumbledore." The Deputy Headmistress led him into an empty classroom and placed a silencing spell around them. The sounds of hallway chatter ceased abruptly, though he could still see the river of students flowing past the open door.

Oh, boy, now he was in for it. Which of the little rats had snitched him out, he wondered? Malfoy? Or perhaps JFF? Had to watch out for those hyphenated ones...

"I just received a message from the Headmaster," McGonagall began, interrupting his train of thought.

"Oh? What's the old boy got up his bonnet now?" he inquired.

She gave him a look over her square spectacles that, despite him being twice her age, made him feel like a first year caught passing notes in class. "Professor, this is hardly an appropriate time for levity. We have a serious situation on our hands."

"'We' being...?"

"The Order, Professor," she explained. "Business is going to keep the Headmaster away from the school a while longer, I'm afraid. Mundungus Fletcher has got wind of a possible imminent attack on Hogsmeade. The Headmaster wants to investigate the news personally. He asked me to inform the other members, but not to take any other action until he knows for certain. We don't want to alarm the students." She sighed, a hand rising to rub her temple.

"Old Dung, eh? Probably a false alarm," said Aberforth, too relieved at not having been called on his - unique - teaching practices to be terribly concerned.

"I certainly hope so, Professor Dumbledore," McGonagall sighed again. Aberforth could see the nervous tic forming in her cheek and knew just what to do to kill two Snitches with one Gobstone. Or something like that.

"Call me Aberforth," he said, clapping her on the back and ignoring the tightly wound teacher's jolt of surprise. "If any wizard can suss the blighters out, it's Albus. You just concentrate on the young minds within these four- six- twelve- within these walls," he finished, idly wondering exactly how many outer walls Hogwarts had.

"Indeed," replied a still disoriented McGonagall faintly. "Well then - Aberforth - shall we adjourn to the Hall for luncheon?"

"Lead the way, Minerva," he said with a sweeping bow. With another raised eyebrow, she cancelled her spell and preceded him out the door.

The Great Hall was its usual bustle of chewing and chatter. The two professors made their way to the Head Table, taking their seats by Professors Sprout, Flitwick, Vector and Sinistra. Flitwick greeted them, saying, "Aberforth, we were just talking about you!"

"Reeeeally," Aberforth replied, forking a tomato, "dare I ask why?"

"I overheard several of my students in class today," Professor Sprout put in.

"Did you, now?" Aberforth squeaked out, trying to maintain the smile masking his fear.

"Oh, yes," she said, cheeks rounded and rosy with her grin. "They're quite the fans of yours."

"And I just finished telling everyone how bright and cheerful the sixth years are when they come to my classroom after their time with you," Flitwick added.

"It seems you've cast quite the magical spell on the students, as it were," commented Vector with raised eyebrows. "May we inquire as to the incantation?"

"Yes, Dumbledore, what's your secret?" asked Flitwick, waving his fork at Aberforth.

"Ah, well, you know," Aberforth stalled, "I suppose it comes with experience."

The professors, all of whom had at least twenty years of teaching experience apiece, looked at one another in puzzlement.

"You see," he continued, leaning forward and motioning them in to do the same, "I've rather a knack with...kids." He gave an exaggerated wink.

There was a pause, and then all of them burst out laughing. The nearest students looked over, bewildered at their teachers' sudden bout of hysterics.

For his part, Aberforth sat back and dug into his meal. Once his companions had recovered, the conversation moved on, and all he had to do was occasionally throw in a droll remark or witticism. That is, until he felt a younger presence appear before him. He looked up at Neville Longbottom, who was chewing his lip and looking up and down the table.

"Hey hey, my man, what's up?" Aberforth asked.

"P-professor, could I t-talk to you for a minute?" Neville said.

"No problemo! Anything for my number one mu- man," he replied, standing up and drawing his student off to the unoccupied corner near Professor Snape's usual seat. The Potions Master rarely joined them for lunch, preferring his dungeon's solitude. "So why the long face, Long-bee?"

"Professor...I can't be in the band!" Neville whispered.

"What? Don't be ridiculous, of course you can! You're rockin'!" Aberforth exclaimed.

"No, you don't understand," the boy continued. "I've seen rock bands, and I can't be in one."

"Whyever not?" Aberforth could not afford to lose half of the half of his band that actually knew how to play his instrument. He ran through the possible reasons they boy could be saying this. Stage fright? Family troubles? Pianist's elbow?

"I'm not cool enough!"

Oh. Oh. "Neville." Aberforth took the boy by the shoulders. "Ne-ville. What do you mean, not cool enough? You're totally cool, little dude! You're in a rock and roll band - that's like, automatic entrance into the Hall of Cool Fame!" Neville's wide eyes were unconvinced. "Let me tell you something, just between you and me - don't go telling the other guys this." Neville nodded, listening intently.

"The guy tickling the ivories. Gets. All. The chicks." The eyes got wider, if that was at all possible. "No, dude, I'm serious! Sure, the front men are out there jumping around, banging their heads and shaking their hips - we have to work on that, by the way - but who's always there, backing them up? You know who. Not that You-Know-Who!" he added at the boy's sudden gasp. "I'm talking about the sweet man making magic in the background. I'm talking about the dude all the chicks want to take home and be serenaded by. I'm talking about you, man. You're perfect for it."

"R-really?" Neville stammered, eyes returning to a normal size.

"Totally, dude. Hey. Would I lie?" he asked.

"Er. No?"

"Right on, man." Aberforth met his keyboardist's eyes. "So, are you with us?"

Neville nodded, a smile creeping over his face. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm in - man."

"Excellent!"

And as Neville hurried back to the Gryffindor table, Aberforth felt an odd tingling sensation in his chest that sneaked its way up to his face, pushing the corners of his mouth upwards in a smile. Perhaps Albus had been right about teaching, after all.