Dumbledore: The Sting

May 1894

Albus Dumbledore sat at a desk next to his friend Reginald Kipper. He was writing the words that were blasting out between the lips of his transfiguration professor across a piece of parchment. He liked his writing, even though his professors greatly disapproved of the loopy swirls and extravagant capital letters that were at least four lines high. Why should he alter it anyway? It was neat and legible and Albus could not see a problem with it.

The professor of this class, one Professor Yorik Hawkeye, was tremendously strict; though Albus could not help liking the fellow. He had decided that Hawkeye was not all he made out to be. In one Transfiguration class not three weeks ago, Albus had been the last to leave the classroom. When he had turned to his teacher to say cheerio, Albus saw him sitting at the top desk with his legs crossed over, revealing a pair of yellow socks with red and green stripes under his black robes. Albus had thought of the purple and green socks on his own feet and from that moment felt akin to the multifaceted professor. Of course, it helped that Albus was also an excellent transfiguration student.

Albus realised he had stopped writing and indeed listening to his professor. He shook himself out of his reverie and looked back down at his parchment. He was mildly surprised to see that the inky letters of loopy writing on his pages were beginning to float off the piece of parchment before him. The danced and swirled around the classroom; some even flew out of the window. Albus leapt out of his chair to try and catch them because he wanted to keep his notes for Transfiguration. He followed the letters out of the window, and began flying through the air. Then he suddenly remembered that he could not fly workout a broomstick and plummet to the school grounds dozens of feet below.

"Dumbledore!"

Albus jumped. He had managed to catch the attention of Hawkeye by falling asleep on his desk and knocking Intermediate Transfiguration on to the floor. He had awoken with a start when the book hit the flagstones with a loud bang, and vaguely heard himself say, "I am not a bird."

Albus looked at his friend who was looking back at him horrified, and Albus did not blame him. Professor Hawkeye was bearing down on them, his huge form made bigger from his black robes swelling as he moved.

Professor Hawkeye was actually not a very large man, but to the small third years he seemed a giant. His mousey-brown hair was always very neat on his head and his shocking green eyes were, at this moment, pointing with severe intensity towards Albus. Albus sat up quickly at his desk, as straight-backed as he could.

"Yes, Professor?" he said, with what he hoped was an innocent expression.

"This class is very aware that you are not a bird, Mr Dumbledore," said Hawkeye firmly, putting both hands on Albus' desk and leaning in so closely that their noses were mere inches apart. "You were asleep." Hawkeye's voice was dangerously low and fearsome as he stared severely at Albus.

The wheels in Albus' head began to turn quickly, but he could not think of a reasonable response to his professor's declaration because those terrifying, green, piercing eyes were forcing all reason from his mind. He remained silent. Hawkeye straightened up slowly, his fierce eyes never leaving Albus'. Out of the corner of his eye, Albus could see the students behind their professor trying to stifle their giggles by stuffing their hands into their mouths or holding tightly to their noses.

"Five points from Gryffindor, Dumbledore," Hawkeye said sharply. "And," he continued threateningly, "come and see me at the end of the lesson."

Suddenly the silent giggling turned to shocked faces. Everyone in the class knew what Hawkeye meant by that. Reggie looked quickly at his friend as Hawkeye made his way back to the front of the class. Albus swallowed, terrified at the thought of what was to come.

At the end of the lesson, Albus noticed people giving him either very sympathetic looks, or smirking cruelly at him. He waited for everyone to leave before getting out of his seat and making his way to the front desk where Professor Hawkeye sat stiffly.

Albus had had much experience of the sting, but none of it had ever been first hand before. Reggie had already had it five times in the three years they had been at Hogwarts – he was no more disobedient than the rest of his classmates, he had just developed a great skill at getting caught by the teachers. He had come back to the common room after the first time he had ever received the sting looking stunned and in great pain. From all that Reggie had been through, Albus knew what he was in for as he stepped up to front of the classroom.

He swallowed. He had reached Hawkeye's desk.

Professor Hawkeye looked up as Albus came to a standstill before him. Albus saw his right eyebrow shoot up unnaturally high, almost disappearing into his hairline as his unsmiling face looked severely up at him. Albus lowered his head.

"Does Transfiguration not interest you, Dumbledore?" Hawkeye asked Albus, sternly.

"Yes, sir," Albus responded in earnest, his head darting back up to face his professor.

"Then why, may I ask, did you feel the need to take a nap in my class?"

Hawkeye's eyes bore unbearably into Albus' and, for the second time that day, all reasonable thought left him under the terrifying gaze of his teacher, and he could not respond.

"You have an unusual amount of talent in this subject, boy," said Hawkeye, without losing any of his harshness. "I do not want to see it go to waste because you have not been paying attention."

Albus wanted to argue with this. He had been paying attention all year; he knew much more than a child his age was expected to know; he just happened to fall asleep in this one class for two minutes and Hawkeye seemed to think this proof that Albus was not interested in the entire subject.

"Yes, sir," Albus said again.

"Very well. Now then," Hawkeye continued, rising from his chair and pulling his wand out from his pocket. Albus swallowed and felt his throat had gone dry. "You will learn from your mistake by knowing what punishment would befall you if it ever happens again."

Hawkeye stepped out from behind his desk and moved towards Albus.

"Bend over, young man," he said coldly. Albus bent the top half of his body ever so slightly and saw Hawkeye move to stand at his side. As he walked round, Albus could not help noticing that he had crimson socks on today, with dashes of sapphire.

He continued to watch his professor out of the corner of his eye and saw a thick, shimmering silver thread at least three feet long emerge from the end of Hawkeye's wand. Albus turned his head to face the floor then closed his eyes tightly.

He heard the sting whip through the air before he felt it on his backside. Albus bit his lip to keep himself from shouting out. Six more times it came, each followed by six more bites on his lip, until finally he heard Hawkeye say, "That will do."

Albus now realised what the fuss Reggie was making was all about. The magical flogging doesn't actually break the skin but leaves the victim feeling as though it had.

When he joined Reggie in the transfiguration corridor five minutes after the lesson had ended, he was walking uncomfortably, his face was pale and sweaty and he had a nasty red mark on his bottom lip.

"Honestly, Albus," Reggie began, sounding as shaky as Albus felt. "Hawkeye is the most ghastly person I have ever met, including my Aunt Henry." Albus frowned at his friend but thought it best not to inquire as Reggie continued. "Hawks gave me nine thrashes with the sting the other week, remember? That's the second time this year already. And now he's moved onto you."

"He knows what he's doing though, Reggie," Albus told him. "I'll never fall asleep in a lesson again, you mark my words."

February 1898

"Dumbledore!"

Albus' eyes shot open only to have his vision filled by the black robes of Professor Hawkeye.

"Am I boring you?"

x x x

Mr and Mrs. Weasley were in fits of laughter, probably more so than usual because of the now completely empty wine glasses before them. However, the two professors listening to the tale remained controlled. Professor McGonagall was still seated next to the blazing fire, now with a smile playing against her lips and a single eyebrow raised in the Headmaster's direction. Professor Snape had come out of the shadows and moved closer to the group around the table. He wore a small smile that barely showed on his thin lips, and when the hilarity that had taken hold of the Weasley's had subsided, he spoke.

"You were at school when the sting was authorized?" he said calmly, but his smile was more visible now as laughter filled the room once more. "Argus Filch must never have heard of it," Snape continued, "otherwise I am sure he would be petitioning for it to be legalised."

Dumbledore looked at Snape and his eyes twinkled.

"I admit," Dumbledore said, with an expression of amusement, "that I have been extra careful to not mention it when he is around. Though Hogwarts: A History remarks upon it quite plainly."

"I can't believe you were flogged, Dumbledore," said Mrs. Weasley, still chortling gleefully. "You must have been at school eons ago."

The rest of the group, including Professor McGonagall, clenched their teeth tightly to try and hold in their laughter at Mrs. Weasley's unintentional offence. Mr. Weasley snorted into his goblet.

"Compare my life to that of the world's and I am a mere seedling, Molly," Dumbledore said, equally as amused at Mrs. Weasley's remark as the others.

"Okay, who's next, Minerva?" Mr. Weasley said, pointedly.

All eyes moved to focus on Professor McGonagall and the room fell into an eager silence as they awaited her story.

Professor McGonagall eyed Mr Weasley sternly, and then exhaled loudly through her nostrils and relaxed into her chair.

"Very well," she said, reconciled to the worst.

She summoned three goblets to her side from one of the dim cupboards on the dull wall, and two more dusty bottles of wine from the cellar. As if by an invisible hand, one of the bottles emptied its deep crimson contents into the five goblets that were standing on the table top.

"But this does not leave this room," she added sharply, and every being in the room knew that if they opened their mouths to utter a word of what would soon escape Professor McGonagall's lips, then they would have to witness the extent of her wrath – a thought which no one found pleasant.

Professor McGonagall's eyes shot to Dumbledore. A knowing look passed between them which did not go unnoticed by the others in the room. Out of all of them, Dumbledore was the only one who had known Professor McGonagall when she was a student. He knew what was to come.