A/N- So here it is, the last chapter. There's really no reason why this took so darn long to write, I've just not been inspired. Thanks to everyone who reviewed.

Hermione was nervous as she, Harry and Ron entered the potions lab. Professor Snape had not been at breakfast that morning, nor had anyone seen him that past weekend. Taking into consideration that Ron had hidden in his dorm all weekend, she and Harry had assumed that their professor was doing the same in his rooms. Unfortunately for Snape Dumbledore had forbidden him from canceling or skipping all of his classes. Snape had grudgingly agreed that no one else in the school could teach them what was needed for their exams, but he'd sneered the whole while. Hermione had a feeling that this wasn't good news for the students either.

The customary whispering of several dozen students waiting for their class to start died down as the door slammed open as usual- then silenced completely as the potions master entered. They were all rather fond of their continued survival, so no one commented as he strode to the front of the room, his usual swooping motions curtailed by the lack of flowing robes. He went straight to the board and scrawled the recipe for them, then turned and glared at the class.

"Well?" he barked. The students burst into silent motion. Snape smirked inwardly, enjoying the mental image of a classroom full of small insects bumbling about under a magnifying glass, knowing full well that his glare was approximately the same temperature,

Hermione copied down the instructions quickly and quietly, nearly holding her breath. She noticed the other students doing the same after Snape took five points from a Slytherin- a Slytherin!- for breathing too loudly. She had a bad feeling that this was going to be a very long class.

Severus Snape was, once again, not a happy man. He sat behind his desk just glaring at the silent, terror filled class, mentally wishing that one of them would make a comment. Briefly he entertained the thought of asking for an opinion on his current attire, knowing that no matter the answer he could then take points. Either the student would have to lie and say they liked it, or dare to tell the truth and tell him about the visual atrocity, and then he could take points for insulting a teacher. He didn't know which would be more satisfactory.

He decided against it. No one deserved to have to speak about it, not even teenage catastrophes. He scratched absently at his collar, where the synthetic fabric was irritating his sensitive skin. This was beyond an insult, it was just plain uncomfortable now. There were very good reasons he always wore the same black robes, not the least of which being that he was allergic to most dies and Muggle fabrics. The black dye he had created himself, after long hours of work and severe mental strain. Of course, the facts that he had been working on a new shoe polish and the strain came from realizing how badly off he'd been didn't count. The results were more than satisfactory, especially when combined with a fireproofing potion and one to neutralize most common potion accidents. He'd had to revise that last one several times in the last several years; working with Longbottom led to new and creative tragedies. Speaking of which…

"Longbottom!" he snarled, rising quickly and approaching the quivering Gryffindor. "What is this? I specifically mentioned Arran root, not leaves! Is it truly your mission in this life to destroy my entire laboratory?"

Neville just cowered and shook his head, frantically looking through his notes for the recipe. Snape sighed in despair, took five points almost as an afterthought, and decided it was probably best that he patrol the room to prevent any other major catastrophes. No one else needed to live through a situation like he was currently.

Well, maybe Voldemort.

Maybe.

Albus Dumbledore paced slowly around the incredibly cluttered space that was his living area. He repeatedly had to redirect his eyes away from a certain corner, where a certain box of certain unspeakable items resided. The Prophet would have a field day with that, 'Headmaster defeated by box of old clothes.'

He sighed and sat, angling himself away from that particular area for the sake of his sanity. Then his thoughts traveled down an interesting path regarding sanity, knee socks, a purple tuba, and French vanilla ice cream. While this was rather entertaining, it was not helping him with his intended thinking, so he rerouted that train to King's Cross and started another.

Severus Snape and Ron Weasley were both rather miserable; Albus knew that. Unfortunately, their cure was not a pleasant one, as they had found out the night before. Of course, to add to the problem, his belongings were, uh, less than satisfactory. He remembered…

"I'm terribly sorry, Severus, but we cannot risk the unstudied interactions between charms and this potion. Perhaps when this is all over-"

Snape seemed to suddenly grasp what was being said. "That's unspelled?!" he spluttered. "They actually make dye that color?" He tried to calm himself, telling his mental voice that he had not just squeaked, thank you very much. Fortunately, the Gryffindors were in no state to notice, one being temporarily unconscious, the other two frozen in horror at the glaring suits.

Albus half smiled. "Surely you would be able to create these colors, my dear Potions master."

Snape snorted. "I would not allow myself to. They might never go away, and even being a deatheater would not bring me to inflict that much pain."

Several long minutes later, after waking Ron and blindfolding the others in sympathy, the group had traipsed dismally from the Headmaster's office, hoping that none of them would come across a reflective surface in the near future.

Dumbledore laughed quietly at their remembered expressions. Severus had even dared claim that the headmaster was doing this for his own entertainment! Not that he would; he just took his entertainment where it popped up.

Speaking of entertainment…

He stilled as a brilliant idea struck him. Rubbing the sore spot it left, he began to grin widely, sending the portraits into quivering fits and Fawkes out the window. No good could ever come of this:

Albus Dumbledore had a Good Idea.

(A/N I wanted to stop here, but the next chapter would be too short. Lucky you.)

"There's going to be a what?" Ron choked, trying not to spit out pieces of his chocolate frog. Hermione frowned at him, wiping a piece of flipper off her shirt. Harry repeated his statement.

"I saw a notice in the hall. The Headmaster decided it would be fun to hold 'theme nights,' and that's the first theme."

Ron's eyes bulged. "You mean I have to actually hear this stuff on top of it being in my head?"

Hermione rolled her eyes at him. "Ron, honestly, you're missing the entire point. I'm sure the Headmaster is doing this to help you and Professor Snape. He could have made the theme chickens if he wanted to."

"Don't encourage the man, Hermione!" Harry hissed. "He just might make that the next one!" Calming down and glancing around as if to make sure that no loony professors were eavesdropping on bad ideas, he added to Ron, "Think of it this way: now everyone else gets to be tortured too. I bet Dumbledore even makes the rest of us dress up."

Ron's face brightened, then quickly dimmed as the combined glow from his hair, face, and hideously orange suit made the other Gryffindors squint and look away. He smiled sheepishly as they blinked their way back to vision. "Sorry."

The Headmaster's announcement was met with spattered applause, as the students tried to figure out how to catch some kind of 24-hour bug that night. Preferably one that was considered highly contagious and reacted badly with polyester.

The Great Hall was usually a thing of beauty and wonder. But now…

Now there was a brightly lit dance floor made up of some kind of colored squares. A large, faceted silver ball twirled obligingly overhead, sending warped snowflake patterns against the walls. Somehow a Muggle stereo system was set up in one corner, ready to inflict horrors untold upon those students not as capable of lying as others.

Dumbledore smiled inwardly as he watched the students enter the room hesitantly. Madame Pomfrey had told him of a suspicious rash of Bloober Flu that seemed to have attacked the school. He had simply arranged for a 'cure' to be brought to the hospital wing. 'Amazing how quickly illness goes away when the alternative involves drinking frog spittle,' he thought as he added several points to the various houses for the advanced charms they had worked to make the illness more believable. After all, it's not that easy to sprout a tail and grow fur, especially on such short notice.

The children all took seats at the small tables Filch had arranged to replace the four House tables. He supposed that offering five points to each student who attended was a rather desperate measure, but if it kept Severus from making any more death threats or practically Petrifying his students with his glare (and current outfit), it would be more than worth it.

Those professors not fortunate enough to have other, unavoidable plans (although Albus had doubts about Minerva's claim that she had to watch the paint dry or something terrible would happen; he let it go because she knew too many embarrassing secrets), were also present, looking terribly uncomfortable in their 'costumes'. Making a mental note to update his protective wards to keep out any unpleasant surprises from irked colleagues, he rose to address the group.

"Welcome, everyone! It's wonderful to see so many people here for our first theme night. Now, I know many of you are wondering why I chose this, and to tell the truth, so am I. Therefore, let us simply begin!" With that, he cast a small charm on himself and started the music.

The party had died out shortly before curfew. The Gryffindor trio was relieved, both that Ron seemed to be back to normal, and that Hermione had found a charm to block their hearing during the event. Although, if they admitted it, they had actually not had a bad time. A Hogwarts party always involved good food, of course, and the chance to just relax.

"Who knew Neville could dance like that?" Hermione said, dazed. "I mean, it's certainly not the next hobby I'll be taking up, but he was rather impressive, I think." The boys nodded in agreement.

"What I don't get," Ron said, "is how he can be that talented out there, and such a klutz everywhere else."

"I didn't get put through eight years of lessons in 'everywhere else'." Neville's voice took them by surprise, and all three jumped. The shy Gryffindor boy laughed a little at their obvious startlement, then asked shyly, "You really thought it was good?"

The trio assured him that they meant every word. The rest of the trip to the tower went quickly, and culminated around the fire in the common room, where Ron ceremonially burned the torture device he had worn the past five days.

Dumbledore knocked at the portrait that guarded the Potions Master's private rooms. A muffled voice called, "Enter." He did so, but stopped almost immediately inside the doorway. It looked like a purple cotton candy machine had exploded. Bits of cloth were floating midair, feeding themselves one by one into various cauldrons. Some came out writhing as though in pain, others simply dissolved as if being eaten by acid. A very few were simply leaping into the open flames. Albus raised an eyebrow in question, wondering if Severus had completely lost it, or whether this was simply a healthy outlet for all his stress. The headmaster did notice that Snape had already donned his usual robes once again.

"Rough day, Severus?" he asked. Snape glared at him.

"I never want to see another leisure suit in my life. If I never touch polyester again I shall die a happy man. And I'm going to bloody well kill those Brothers Gibb."

Albus smiled. Things were back to normal.

End. Finally.

For the record, I actually do like some disco. The BeeGees are not part of that 'some'.