This shouldn't be too long a story so long as I don't get carried away, expect 2-3 chapters. It's just a crack!fic to get rid of the Finals Jitters. No pairings, no worries, no timeline.
Disclaimer: I neither own nor profit off of Harry Potter and associated merchandise; all rights still reside with J. K. Rowling and co. where they belong.
The Day Dumbledore Snapped
Well, no one really noticed.
Until the laxatives kicked in.
Streams of students fled their tables, starting off with a few who ate too quickly, until the trickle became a flood, with children shouting and elbowing and crying to escape the Great Hall in favor of a toilet stall not haunted by Myrtle. (Some were willing to take that risk, however, as the flight grew more desperate).
Above it all at the Head Table, a strange sound had begun, at a pitch just audible above the sheer chaos at the exits of the Great Hall, in the bubble of emptiness that encompassed the abandoned House tables, laden with uneaten food.
It was a laugh.
While the professors surveyed the mass exodus with horror, Albus Dumbledore had quietly begun to chuckle to himself. Then chortle. Then full belly laughs that eventually transitioned to something more hysterical.
"Now, really, Albus," Sprout scolded disbelievingly, agape at this inappropriate display of his usually jovial manner, "This is no time to be laughing."
"The twins have really outdone themselves," McGonagall muttered with a faraway expression, as if unwilling to quite accept this reality, even if she were being forced to live in it.
"Filch will have a field day," Flitwick ran a hand over his beard nervously, and the professors groaned as one at the reminder of the upcoming ranting session they could expect once the squib caretaker realized exactly what the Great Hall was currently stained with.
"That's it; they're expelled," McGonagall decided, still vaguely detached in tone, "I may as well bring Gryffindor down to the negatives and wave away the House Cup for the next ten years."
"Now, Minerva, there's no need for that," Albus chortled, coming down from the extremes of laughter he'd been visiting and wiping his eyes with a sigh.
"That's just blatant favoritism at this point, Headmaster-" Flitwick was saying, even while Snape was muttering some not-as-kindly-put agreements to this way of thinking, and McGonagall had whispered, "But they are Devil spawn."
"No, no, Mr. and Mr. Weasley are not the perpetrators of this particular incident," Albus waved off, and before the professors could blink, admitted, "No, that fault lies with me."
"What." The word was said flatly and bluntly, packing a hundred questions behind the single, stated word.
Albus looked over his half-moon glasses and his eyes crinkled in a smile, "You always were one to adapt hastily to new situations, my dear Severus."
"WHAT," McGonagall shouted, standing from the table and ignoring the chair that fell behind her with a loud clatter in favor of staring the Headmaster down for a better explanation.
"And there's Minerva, in second place, well done, my dear."
"Albus, you must be joking," Sprout put in.
"I don't… feel well," Flitwick mumbled, and Elective Studies Professor One patted his hand sympathetically. While the other professors lambasted a cheerily humming Albus Dumbledore, who appeared to be occasionally glancing at his pocket watch, Flitwick found himself more than a little disconcerted. The room felt a little… hot. And… spinny? Was that a word? Could he call it that? He could… He could call it whatever he liked when he felt this… this…..
Flitwick quietly planted his face in his potatoes as he sank into both their mushy depths and further unconsciousness.
"Are you alri… Are you…" Elective Studies Professors One through Four followed suit with Flitwick's exemplary behavior to the growing consternation of the only one paying attention: Hagrid.
Slowly the remaining three House Heads' arguments grew sluggish and less logical, and Snape pointed at Albus accusingly.
"You… You drugged us, you pointy-bearded kaleidoscope."
Albus's face grew to encompass Snape's field of vision, the twinkling twinkly twinkles in his eyes escaping their bounds and dancing about the edges before he succumbed to the darkness with Albus' accompanying, "Shhhhh."
"Perfesser Dumbledore, why…?" Hagrid wrung his big, meaty man-paws, looking up at the Headmaster with the liquid brown eyes of a puppy dog.
"Shhh," Albus repeated soothingly, placing his entire grandfatherly hand over Hagrid's face, "Stupefy." His wand hand was free to point his wand at Hagrid's chest and shoot red beams of sleepy time magic all it liked, because Hagrid was still standing.
"Dumbledore," Hagrid said, "Ye know I'm half-giant."
"Stupefy," Albus explained again, and Hagrid blinked sleepily under the Headmaster's palm.
"Dumbledore, why would you…" He yawned, "Why would you…"
"Stupefy," Albus concluded firmly, satisfied when his groundskeeper slumped bonelessly to the floor. Surveying the empty Great Hall, he nodded curtly to himself and stepped over the unconscious bodies of his fellow staff-members. Past time to begin work, I believe.
Before he began, however, he paused and announced to the jewel-filled hourglasses holding the House scores, "Five points from Slytherin."
He looked nothing like a kaleidoscope.