Hogwarts on it's Head
Summary: A series of poems suddenly knock the Hogwarts student body on it's rump. They're everywhere! And no one knows who wrote them…

So this is the product of the culmination of myself and bugaboo1 and the first chapter is finally ready. This will be different from anything else that I've posted here, and so I hope that you all enjoy it!

Hard Day's Knight

PS – Yes, I changed my name. Again…

Act One, Scene One
The very first day of the whole fiasco dawned cold and grey. Which was not an unusual occurrence in Britain, especially in the winter. (It was practically continual then.) The day was Friday, which meant that each teacher (Well, most of them…) had a special twinkle in their eyes and that each student's smile (If there was one…) was especially bright. Friday meant the weekend. And the weekend meant two days of (hopefully minimal) homework due on Monday, lounging in over stuffed leather chairs, and lots of hot chocolate to be drunk.

The almost normalness of the day would have been almost suffocating. It would have been, if not for…

He lives in the dungeon, the greasy haired git
"My students are awful." He says in a snit
"They blow up the cauldron, they drive me insane
They have a big mouth and a very small brain."

There's the Longbottom boy, the blundering fool
Who would be enough to make me quit this school.

I'm not purposely mean, but the boy is a twit.
Completely and utterly lacking in wit.

He mangles the simplest potion you see
He can't tell a shrivelfig from a winged pea
Whatever you teach him, it doesn't get through
If you had to teach him, you'd loathe the boy too.

Talking of hate – there's the Potter boy, Harry:
Obstinate, full of himself, and contrary
"Harry, our hero." They whimper and boast.
The kid's as appealing as toe jam on toast.

Dumbledore thinks that I don't understand him
That isn't the problem. I'd just like to send him
Per Portkey to the Canadian Prairie
You'd want to too if you had to teach Harry.

Part of the group is Hermione Granger
The one who keeps Longbottom's nose out of danger
She has the brains that her male friends are lacking
If I could keep her, I'd send all the rest packing.

It's not that she's pretty, or witty, or tall
She's a show-off and insuff'rable know-it-all
But in case of a marriage law or forced adoption
She is by far the most preferable option.

As far as the Weasley boy, he is a zero
Sidekick to Potter's deplorable hero
Red hair and Quidditch, intelligence: small
If you've seen one Weasley, you've seen them all.

You can take every gangly, hormonal teenager
-exempting the brilliant Hermione Granger-
And send them to Cleveland or Northern Peru
If you were their teacher, you'd send them there too.

The poem had been printed in a handwriting full of embellishments, but with a surprisingly cynical taste to it. Every "Hermione Granger" had been underlined with a scathing flourish. It had been printed, (surely by magic) on each and every page in an emerald green ink, which was not only expensive, but reminiscent of all of Dumbledore's little notes.

Each door had one. Each window had one. Each bathroom mirror and bed hanging was adorned with one. They were everywhere someone was bound to find them. The whole castle seemed like it was papered with them. It looked like the work of a madman.

Act One, Scene Two
"Professor Snape!" bellowed Professor McGonagall as she barged into Snape's personal apartments. She stopped short at the sight of Professor Snape sitting calmly at his research table, about to pour a cup of tea. She stumbled forward when Flitwick ran straight into her legs.

"Yes McGonagall?" Snape asked, his face twisting a bit unpleasantly. He set the pot down on a stack of papers.

The headmistress' face grew cloudy. "How could you write such a thing?" she asked tightly, clutching one of the inked green papers in her fist.

"Write what Minerva?" Severus asked, not at all pleased to be accused right off the bat for Merlin knows what. "I have not written anything to the Ministry for two weeks."

"The poem!" Flitwick squawked, jumping a bit when Trelawny burst into the room, the Professors Vector, Sprout, and Hooch hot on her heels.

Minerva studied his perplexed expression for a moment, then folded her arms over her chest. "You're sure that you know nothing about it? Your rooms look suspiciously empty of the poems." One eyebrow rose on all the other professors' faces when they noticed this fact.

Severus scowled and picked up the teapot again. "Ladies, and gentleman," he said with a nod to Flitwick, for he was passably polite to his colleagues, if nothing else. "I know nothing about whatever it is that you are all going on like baboons about. If you all will please leave, I'd like to have at least one peaceful cup of tea today."

He tipped the teapot, obviously intending to pour, but nothing came out. He tried again, but with the same results. 'There doesn't seem to be anything wrong with it.' He thought, shaking the thing urgently. It was the proper weight, and steam was curling out of the spout. Cautiously, Snape opened the lid and stuck two fingers in.

But as soon as he did, it seemed that a whole gallon of steam and gas came pouring out. Coughing became the common dialogue (along with the occasional curse) as the stuff began to fill the room. Fortunately, someone (It had to be Sprout since she was very into minimizing air pollution.) drew their wand and banished the smoke away easily. Severus was then left holding a rolled up sheaf of parchment. Green ink was just barely visible on the inside of it.

"What is this?" he demanded, brandishing the parchment like a sword.

Minerva answered before Trelawny could get any words out of her already opened mouth. "It is the poem that we were questioning you about when that abhorred steam entered the room." She paused and then raised an imperious hand. "Go on. Read it."

Severus scowled at her for ordering him about, but did as he was told, viciously opening the parchment. He began to read, lips moving silently and sensibly over each word. As he read, his face grew darker and darker, till it was perfectly clear that a tempest was approaching. "Bloody hell! What is the meaning of this bollocks?" Snape roared, his normally pale face skin turning pink.

"It's all over the castle." Said Hooch, "Even the pitch!"

"Every window." Offered Professor Flitwick.

"Every door." Volunteered Professor Vector.

"Every mirror has one." Professor Trelawny entered whimsically, finally able to get a word in.

"My greenhouse has been gifted wrapped in parchment!" squealed Sprout.

"Enough!" cried Professor McGonagall, holding out a hand to stop everyone. "If you did NOT write it, then it must have been a student, but who?"

Sybil stepped forward. "It shall be a one time event," she whispered dramatically. "My inner eye tells me so. There is no need for us to expend such energy." She adjusted her plate sized glasses, and stepped back.

This time it was Professor Vector who stepped forward, her nimble fingers rapidly adjusting her tiny glasses. She held up a long paper filled with numbers. "My calculations say the same thing. These…words," she pronounced the word in a rather disgusted manner "will not hold such an appeal a second time through. This…author, I believe, is obviously smart enough to realize that." Flitwick, Sprout, and Hooch were all nodding in agreement, now that they finally had a reasonable theory to back.

Act One, Scene Three
"Did you write this?" Parvati asked Hermione rudely, shoving the paper under the victim's nose, though her "victim" had one in her hands already. Lavender stood by expectantly.

Hermione pushed Parvati's hand away and stuffed her own copy into a pocket before folding her arms across her chest in the exact way Professor McGonagall had only half an hour or so ago. "No Parvati, I did not write that distasteful poem. Seventeen people have already asked me the same thing. How many students do I have to tell before the whole school knows it?" she asked crossly.

Lavender looked put out at her answer and advanced. "Are you sure it's not yours?"

Hermione looked annoyed. "Yes Lavender. I'm sure that I did not write it. Wouldn't you know if you had written something? Now if you'll excuse me, I'd like to go eat."

Act One, Scene Four
"Drakie, did you see that simply delightful poem that everyone's talking about?" Pansy tried to purr later that day, batting false eyelashes and wriggling her pug nose.

Draco Malfoy pushed Pansy Parkinson off his lap in a disgusted manner. "Bloody hell Pansy! Do you really think I'd write that piece of flobberworm! Who told you such a thing?"

Pansy looked up at him, abashed at being scolded by her supposed boyfriend. "I was just asking Drakie." She whispered heavily.

The blonde Slytherin scowled at her. "Well go bother someone where I can't see you." He shook his head as he watched her saunter away. When she was halfway across the room Blaise appeared before him. The handsome Italian looked as suave and as cool as ever.

"Did you write this?" he asked right away, holding up on the poems.

Draco snorted. "No. Are you the one who's making everyone think it was me?"

Blaise didn't even blink. He just folded the parchment calmly and stuck it into his robe. "I have not said one word about these theories. People aren't as stupid as you paint them to be Draco."

"Bollocks! Why do people think that I am the one writing this? I don't even like poetry!" he narrowed his eye. "Why do you think I did it?"

"It's green ink. Emerald green ink. That's a Slytherin color. It's also very expensive green ink. A galleon for three ounces. And which Slytherin flaunts his wealth to everyone? You." Blaise accused, poking Draco's chest with a stiff finger.

Draco poked him back. "How come people don't think that you wrote them? You're the one who likes poetry. And it's not like you're a beggar." Draco launched another poke. "How do you know that the ink is three ounces for a galleon?"

Blaise raised up his hands defensively. "I use it for Christmas cards. And they do think that I wrote it. They also think that it could also be Granger, Potter, Weasley, or Professor Snape."

"Hmph. Weasley writing a poem. That'll happen when Merlin comes back from the dead and Hermione Granger is dating Professor Snape." Draco sneered, levitating his book bag so that he wouldn't have to carry it down to the Great Hall.

Act One, Scene Five
Late that night, two pale white hands held a copy of the now infamous poem. The original copy. In the bland light of a single candle, the paper was filled with ink blots, words that had been crossed out and recopied, and flourishes with crooked lines that had been practiced over and over and over again. The candle also illuminated a person, who had hair and eyes just unlike the population of Hogwarts. Bright hair. Bright eyes.

As the person reached across their desk, a bottle of emerald green ink tipped over and spilled. It flowed across the desk, staining both hands and innumerous papers.

They pulled back, startled. 'Bloody hell! That will stain my new robes!' The person wiped off as much as possible with a nearby towel, but their hands were still an incriminating green.

Banishing the spilled ink to far away and pulling out a new bottle, they reached for a quill and pulled out a new sheet of parchment. After much thought, words finally began to flow across the page.

Enough about students, now what about me?
There's more to this greasy haired git than you see…

To be continued….

AUTHOR'S NOTE: As I've said before, I couldn't have done this without bugaboo1, who graciously gave me permission to use her delightful poems. Thanks!

Now, please read and review. You know you want too. You know you want to press the little bluish purplish button. You know you want too. Please?

Hard Day's Knight, formerly Late March