A/N. Glad people are enjoying this. I'm still not actually telling what the music is, but you can probably figure it out. I'll give a hint: one of my lovely reviewers got it. There's probably only one more chapter to go.
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Albus Dumbledore, recipient of the Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorcerer, Chief Warlock, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, most powerful wizard currently living, was fighting a losing battle – with a closet.
"Where did all this stuff come from?" he wondered.
"Well, if you'd clean up once in a while, maybe actually get rid of some of that old stuff, hmm, and while you're at it you could get a haircut…"
"When did you start channeling my mother?" Albus inquired pleasantly, stepping over a pile of shoes. The portrait seemed irked at his lack of reaction, and went back to sleep, muttering about spoilsports and never having any fun. Dumbledore smiled for a moment more, until a large collection of hatboxes fell on his head.
Rubbing the sore spot, he sighed and conjured a large box to hold his discards. He began wandering through his clothes, magical and Muggle both. 'Good Merlin, did I really own neon yellow and pumpkin plaid robes?' he thought in mild horror. 'Although I suppose it's better than the polkadot suit with the pastel tie. Why in the world did I ever think that was a good idea?' Wondering if perhaps he'd been affected by a Bad Taste charm at some point in his life, he began pulling some of the more frightening items from their hangers, tossing them into the box. Maybe later he'd transform them into something less painful. Like, say, broken glass.
For a very brief moment he considered letting Dobby dig through the discards, but quickly regained his senses. He had the retinas of the entire school to protect, after all.
Albus was distinctly relieved that he'd set aside the entire afternoon for this effort. Occasionally over the course of the day he found himself hoping that Voldemort never got hold of any of these items. Never mind the Unforgivables, true horror involved lime green snakeskin bellbottoms with blue zigzags.
Five hours later the closet was no longer quite the assault on the senses that it had been. Figuring that he may as well organize the remainder, he spent another half hour separating his robes from the Muggle clothing he'd collected, and arranged them almost as an afterthought by time period.
Finished, Albus smiled happily, popped a lemon drop into his mouth, and began browsing through the items he'd decided to keep, remembering the situations surrounding each of them. He paused and grinned at a specific pair of Muggle jeans, remembering a rather interesting experience in America during the sixties.
Acting on a strange impulse, he picked up the jeans and their accompanying top and pulled them on. He nearly giggled, realizing he was essentially playing dress-up like a small child, but decided he was certainly allowed to do as he pleased in his spare time. Several of the portraits were also snickering, but he certainly had enough blackmail material to keep them quiet.
It was quite a surprise, therefore, when Severus Snape stepped through the fireplace and stopped dead.
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Snape had pulled himself together pretty quickly, thanking any spirit listening that no one had seen his breakdown. He finally rose and gathered his notes, shook out his robes, and Flooed to the Headmaster's office. He'd done it often enough without notice that he felt secure doing it again. He was, therefore, quite shocked to step from the fireplace and find the headmaster braiding flowers into his hair.
Severus blinked in surprise. He knew that Dumbledore was ridiculously lighthearted compared to himself, but even that hadn't prepared him for 'Hippie Headmaster'. Albus was dressed in Muggle jeans that had been painted and sewn with colorful flowers, and a gauzy purple top heavy with embroidery.
Albus looked up and smiled. "Ah, Severus, what can I do for you?" he asked, as though everything was perfectly normal. Of course, around Albus Dumbledore, 'perfectly normal' was a very vague term.
Snape caught himself gaping and mentally chastised himself. Then groaned in frustration as his lack of distraction brought the potion-inflicted affliction back in full strength. Trying to keep himself from shouting in a futile attempt to drown out the chaos in his head, he said, "I seem to have a rather persistent problem." Trying to keep his face neutral, he explained about the failed potion, his symptoms, and his research, then delivered the punchline.
Albus blinked. He actually liked some of that music, truth be told, but figured Severus didn't need to know that right now. Besides, from the description he was giving, this wasn't any of the better pieces available. Having always been rather entranced by Muggle music trends, he was pretty sure that Snape- and probably Mr. Weasley as well- were suffering through some of the more vicious moments of the period in question. He glanced at the notes Severus had handed him, taking in the doodled death threats surrounding the proposed cure, and almost smiled. He held it in, knowing that it would not be appreciated.
A knock on the door prevented anything that might have been said at that moment. Snape seemed busy trying to ignore whatever he was hearing, so Albus called his new guests in. He wasn't particularly surprised to see the Gryffindor trio enter, supporting their red-headed friend between the other two. They didn't seem to notice their headmaster's odd appearance, nor Snape's presence, until they had deposited Ron into a nearby chair. Then they noticed, and Snape roused himself from his misery to smirk at their openmouthed surprise, freely ignoring the fact that he'd done just the same not too long ago. Albus seemed mildly amused as well, his eyes twinkling brighter than ever. Severus wondered if his mother had been a string of Christmas tree lights.
Having gotten over their shock, or at least hid until later, the two coherent Gryffindors managed to close their gaping jaws. Harry looked nervously at their glaring professor and motioned for Hermione to explain. A silent battle ensued, culminating in the tried and true method for finding the person best suited for a task: rock paper scissor.
Hermione sighed. "Well, there was a minor catastrophe in potions today…"
The Headmaster interrupted her. "I suppose that Mr. Weasley is experiencing strange lights and rather unpleasant music, am I correct?" She nodded.
Harry cringed away from Snape's glare, glad that Ron was too far out of it to notice, but raised some of his Gryffindor courage and asked, "Sir? Why aren't you affected as badly as Ron?"
Snape raised an eyebrow in contempt, ignoring the sudden volume increase from his invisible serenadors. "I should think that in your research you should have found that answer, but perhaps I had once again overestimated your abilities. Since I prefer not to sit here all night waiting for you to put together the clues you already have, I will simply explain. The Fiesta potion was developed, as I'm sure Miss Granger here could tell you, to provide the precise ambience its creator wishes. Therefore, it is highly dependent upon that person, and affects them far more efficiently than anyone else. After all, why let someone else enjoy all the effects you just put hard work into creating?" 'Why indeed,' said his expression. He didn't mention that he was better at hiding his reactions that the teenager, nor did he mention that he would likely be quivering on the floor if the onslaught he was experiencing had been any worse. Those tiny details were quite irrelevant, he thought.
Dumbledore's smile quirked as if he had heard Severus' inward 'details'. The coherent ones in the group looked at him, waiting for some sort of solution – preferably not the one they had found.
Ron twitched again as yet another chorus sang out. He couldn't begin to imagine just how tight the man's pants must have been to get that note out, and was pretty sure that it had to be painful. Hearing it certainly was. He had been considering blunt object trauma as a viable alternative for some time now, and began trying to gather his wits enough to ask Harry to brain him with a Beater bat. The Headmaster's voice distracted him.
"Based on the research you all did, and since you all came to the same conclusion, I'm afraid we'll have to go with it. It may be a trifle unpleasant," and he ignored Snape's implication that 'unpleasant' wasn't quite the word, "but we certainly can't allow this to go on. Mr. Weasley might shake the furniture apart if he keeps twitching like that. And you may be in luck! I was just cleaning out my closet, and I believe I may have what you need right here." He rose and went to the discard box, wincing at the garish pile of cloth. Grimacing slightly he dug through until he found the two items he'd been looking for. He brought them over to his desk, smiling apologetically. Snape took one look, went pale, and collapsed into a chair. Ron passed out. Harry and Hermione just wished they could. Or at least wished they could turn off their eyes.
Snape was the first to recover. "And it has to be an entire week?" he moaned, oblivious to the students beside him. They didn't notice anyway, being half Petrified from the horrific sight before their eyes.
Albus nodded.
Snape's voice was hopeful when he asked, "But I can have my robes over it, right?" He dropped his head to the tabletop loudly when the Headmaster shook his head.
"Come now, Severus, it won't be that bad. Now, which would you like- purple or orange?"