Chapter Two
**
Muggle or not, Steve Irwin had clearly impressed Dumbledore with his job qualifications. Despite Snape's voiced misgivings and the quieter brand of resistance offered by the rest of the staff – despite incredulous speculation in the Daily Prophet and the coldly-worded note of objection that arrived the next afternoon from Malfoy Manor via eagle owl – despite multiple visits from an even-more-flustered-than-usual Cornelius Fudge, reluctant to bend the rules of Hogwarts' invisibility for even one Muggle but even more unable to deny Albus this seemingly modest wish – the contract of employment was duly prepared and sent out, and came back by owl in a matter of hours.
At least he's punctual, Minerva thought, sipping pumpkin juice and watching Albus – having pushed his dinner plate absently toward the post owl – page through the contract checking for signatures. That's more than Hagrid ever was.
If the truth be told, it was mostly due to Hagrid's own … idiosyncracies … that Irwin was being hired at all; Dumbledore's strongest argument in his favor usually included the point that Hagrid had been performing his Care of Magical Creatures duties for years now without benefit of magic. For anyone who knew anything, this didn't exactly wash – every single faculty member at Hogwarts, and most of the students, knew about the pink umbrella by the back door of the gamekeeper's hut – but Fudge, at least, had swallowed it.
True, true, he'd said, his florid face shiny with anxious perspiration. But y'know, Albus, magic or no magic, Hagrid's just rather – powerful, isn't he? Half-giant and all. Sort of gives him an 'in' with the beasties, if you know what I mean …
At this, Albus had gone quite cold – a terrifying eventuality made even more terrifying because it almost never happened.
Perhaps I misunderstand you, he'd said icily, his long white beard practically standing on end with suppressed indignation. Certainly you wouldn't mean to imply that giants aren't …human, would you, Cornelius?
Fudge went a bit redder and shinier.
No, no. 'Course not. I'm just saying, in terms of sheer size …Mr. Irwin will do splendidly, I am sure, Albus had said, with a quelling look in his blue eyes that made it clear the argument was over. And Fudge, being Fudge, had gulped and muttered something and shuffled back into the Floofire as quickly as his chubby little legs could take him.
Idiot.
Minerva, so far, had managed to keep her opinions to herself, merely by convincing herself that it was none of her business who taught the Creatures class. Now, however, Albus seemed determined to test her resolve.
"The new Professor," he said, scanning a handwritten note that had been folded into the contract, "will be arriving in London early tomorrow afternoon. Could I trouble you, Minerva, to meet him at King's Cross? He'll need assistance in getting through the gate."
Fork halfway to her mouth, Minerva hesitated, then nodded – but with a slitty-eyed, catlike stare intimating that he was going to Owe Her Big Time.
"Certainly," she said – then, unable to resist poking at him a bit: "After all, I hadn't a single other thing planned for my Saturday, Albus. My every spare moment is dedicated to your whim."
His lips twitched at her ironic tone, but he had the grace to flush. "My apologies. I hadn't expected him until next week; he's quite eager to start. Normally, as you know, we have new teachers Floo in, or Apparate – Remus took the train, but then again, that's Remus for you. Whoever meets him should be someone who can pass, at least temporarily, for a Muggle. And you, of course, are our resident Transfiguration expert …"
Minerva rolled her eyes. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Albus," she said crisply.
He appeared not to hear her. "I could, of course, send Severus—"
Here we go. He's pulling out the heavy artillery now. "You know very well," she pointed out, hating herself for rising to his bait, "that Severus would never consent to go. Not that you'd want him to, mind. Five minutes in his company, and the poor man would throw himself out a window merely to escape."
"You wound me, Minerva."
As if on cue, Snape – who had clearly been eavesdropping – leaned over to commandeer the pepper mill. "I, of course," he went on, managing to look at once sanctimonious and full of malice, "would be pleased and proud to offer my services in any way that's required of me."
Merlin's goolies in a vise, Minerva thought testily, and rolled her eyes. I'm going to injure them both. "I'll go," she said, curling her lip at Snape. "I said I would, didn't I? But while we're on the topic, Albus, tell me this – does the man know anything about magical creatures?"
"I owled him the textbook along with the contract," Dumbledore said, forking up creamed potatoes. A blob clung to his upper lip, making his moustache look as if it had grown a tumour. Minerva looked away.
"And you think that's ample preparation?" She sent a sweeping look out over the four long tables full of chattering students. "Miss Granger's had that book memorised for three years, Albus. Probably Mr. Malfoy, too"—this with a hard look over her shoulder at Snape. "Between the two of them, they'll have the poor man on toast points for a snack. I'll be surprised if he lasts the week."
"Professor Irwin," Albus said serenely, "is more than capable of dealing with fifth-year students, no matter how precocious. I do believe he'll surprise you, Minerva, if you allow him to do so."
Gently spoken, but no less final than his parting words to Fudge. Minerva sighed, plucked her napkin out of her lap, and let it settle over the remains of her dinner like a starched white shroud. Snape, she noticed, wasn't eating either.
Sometimes, this job could quite take away even the healthiest of appetites.
**
I do believe he'll surprise you, Minerva.
Like many of Dumbledore's pronouncements, this seemingly innocuous sentence took on frightening new dimensions when applied to its intended situation. Minerva shut her eyes, swallowed hard, then opened them again and groaned out loud.
Neptune's knickers. Please, please, please let that not be him.
The object of her supplications was a stocky man of medium height with messy blond hair, a pleasant open face, and beady eyes which gave him a rather hamsterish look. Minerva had expected him to be wearing Muggle clothing, and indeed he was – a safari jacket, a pair of indecently short khaki pants showcasing a matching set of hairy knees, and a pair of battered leather ankle boots that looked as though Fang had chewed them.
Wizarding robes would have been warmer, Minerva thought acerbically, and not nearly so conspicuous. But that wasn't the worst of it.
He was holding a snake – or rather, the snake was holding him, she couldn't tell which. It had to be at least twelve feet long, mottled grey and brown with an evil-looking flattish head and yellow eyes that looked almost feline, and its body was nearly as thick as her forearm. As she watched, aghast, he bent his head and planted a casually affectionate smack of a kiss on the creature's sinuous body, then unwrapped it from his waist as unconcernedly as if he was uncoiling garden hose.
Six dozen London commuters gasped in wide-eyed unison. Minerva felt a tension headache coming on.
"Come on then, mate," he was murmuring in a broad North Queensland accent that should have been surprising but wasn't; it seemed to fit him. "Know you don't like the bag, but that's all right then, ent it? Only for a little while, and they won't want you on the train like this. That's it, don't muck about, in you go—what was that platform number again?"
The commuters weren't budging – clearly, they wanted to know which train he was getting on, too. Minerva dug viciously at her temples with both thumbs, then sidled behind a stone column and stealthily drew her wand.
"Obfuscus," she murmured, relaxing a little as the crowd blinked on cue, then began to wander away toward their respective platforms. Smoothing down the unfamiliar contours of her bottle-green Muggle business suit, she pursed her lips and shouldered her way through the crowd.
"Professor Irwin?"
Still in the act of stuffing the python into a soft-sided carrying case, the man looked up at her, startled.
"That's me," he said, zippering the case closed, and stuck out a hand so scarred and weathered that it looked like dragonhide. "Pleased to meet you."
"Likewise," Minerva lied, shaking the proffered hand gingerly; she'd still been hoping against hope that this wasn't Steve Irwin, that the real Steve Irwin had taken one look at this madman with the snake and departed for parts unknown. Ah, well – the minute she got him to Hogwarts, he would cease to be her problem. "I'm Minerva McGonagall." She cast a quick suspicious glance around them – apparently, the Obfuscus was still holding. "Head of Gryffindor House at Hogwarts and Professor of Transfiguration. Albus Dumbledore asked me to see you onto the train."
"Brilliant." Irwin grinned at her, such a guileless Hufflepuffian smile that she couldn't help but return it, even if she did manage to twist hers into a vaguely disapproving grimace before sending it on its way. "Beautiful name, Minerva. Always liked it. Call me Steve."
Oh, this wasn't going well. Minerva grimaced again, noncommittally.
"There isn't much time before the train leaves," she said, looking at his battered trunk enquiringly. "Are these all your things?"
"Everything for now." He hoisted the python carrier onto one shoulder and reached for the handle of the trunk, his eyebrows shooting up as she got to it before he did. "Here, now, let me …"
"Reducio," Minerva muttered, after another clandestine look around her, and stooped to pick up the trunk, now the size of a chocolate bar. Irwin, she noted smugly, was staring at her with his mouth open. "Shall we go?"
"Crikey," he said admiringly, and followed her through the brick wall toward the train.
**