The Dark Arts
They all trooped down to the dungeons, their new home. When they reached the darkest stretch of corridor, a seventh-year prefect addressed the blank wall. The new students leaned in eagerly to catch the password: "Ars longa, vita brevis."
The wall slid open to reveal the most amazing room. Strange shapes flicked past the viewing window that looked directly into the depths of the lake. Beautiful shifting green light played over the walls and the statues of snake goddesses that supported the vaulted ceiling.
Theo Nott sighed in satisfaction. He knew he would get the best House. This place had heaps of atmosphere. He was already getting painting ideas.
The upper-year students scattered into groups around the common room, some pulling out journals and sketchbooks, others guitars. The first-years huddled by the door, not sure what to do next. Matilda Procter, the imperious prefect, approached and handed out parchments, their weekly schedules, and syllabi.
Pansy was the first to notice. "Wait a minute," she cried, "where's dance class?"
"There is no dance class," said the prefect, grimly.
"But I'm a dancer! How else will I express myself?"
"No dance class," said the prefect.
"And… art?" said Theo. He was getting a bad feeling about this.
"No art," said the prefect.
"But all those magical portraits and paintings, what if we want to learn how…"
The prefect cut him off sharply. "No art."
"Wot about music though?" said Crabbe. "Cause Goyle and Bulstrode and me got a thrash band and it rules."
"No music," said the prefect, sounding a bit bored now.
"Suppose drama's out of the question too," said Zabini.
"Not if we make our own, sweetheart," said an upperclassman from across the room.
"Look," said Theo desperately, "if they want us to concentrate on the basics for the first year and then we get art classes later…"
"No. No art ever."
Theo could actually feel his hope crumpling into something black and withered, deep inside.
Tracey Davis was scribbling furiously in her journal. "I'll transfer, that's all."
A nearby fifth-year looked up from her fretwork. "You can't, love. We're the only magical school in Great Britain. It's stay here, or surrender your wand to the Ministry."
"Yeah, it's rubbish," said a fourth-year.
Seven years with no art, thought Theo, they'd all go mad.
"Muggles get art classes," he muttered to himself.
Draco had been going redder and redder in the face. More of a puce, actually. Theo thought it made an interesting color contrast with his hair.
"Musical theater?" he blurted.
"No. Musical. Theater."
"My father shall hear of this!"
"Your father knows, Malfoy." The silky voice came from across the room where their Head-of-House was working on a very long scroll of poetry. "Why do you think he took the Mark?"
Goyle gave a frustrated cry and smashed his bass on the floor.
"We got to bring it all down! Kill the Headmaster! Overthrow the ministry if we have to!"
"Welcome to Slytherin," said the prefect.
A/N:
Just a bit of fun, not meant to connect to my other stories. I'm posting this as a reward to myself for finally getting ¾ through my next story, the Cover Up. I'm still hard at work on that, and I'm hoping to be able to start posting early this summer.