Chapter two: Portrait Perfect
It had been an extremely odd day for the professor, as days tended to be at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft & Wizardry. Despite the fact that the school year was only a week old, "interesting & exceptional" events were still quite the norm at the renowned school—or so Albus Dumbledore had just put it.
"Bloody hell this is 'interesting and exceptional'," his fellow professor, a certain other ex-Auror by the name of Draco Malfoy, complained bitterly to Harry as they tried to extract a very frightened second year from the confines of a stairwell portrait.
"Oh, Malfoy, shut up. You're scaring the life out of the little wimp," Harry whispered out of the corner of his mouth. Draco smirked and aimed his wand.
"Extracto," Draco drawled calmly, but his expression changed drastically, to say the least, as, in a flash, he was sucked inside the portrait as well. Looking disoriented for a moment, Draco turned to see the frightened second year being smothered in another hug from Olive the Overbearing (though many students—and professors—just called her Olive the Over-Endowed.) Draco let out another groan and a second "bloody hell" for good measure.
"Malfoy, I'm content to sit here and watch your torture. It's kind of like an Unforgivable..." Harry said as Olive spotted her newest pet, "...but a whole hell of a lot more entertaining."
Dumbledore, passing by, gave a stern look to the two professors, one who was seething as the other laughed, and clearly said "oh, do let them out, Olive," as he walked by. Suddenly, and with no more than a squeal of disappointment from the overly buxom Olive, Draco and the quivering second year fell from the portrait. The student ran off hurriedly, and Draco stood to dust himself off in silence.
"Oh, do shove it, Potter," he said after a minute or two of quiet. The laughter that was once again welling up inside of Harry broke free, and he gasped for breath dramatically as Draco scowled. "Honestly, Potter, I've lessons to plan. And you, of course, have nothing to do, because you're a classless wonder—every pun intended."
"Thanks, Malfoy. Nice to know the professors support one another," Harry said with a smirking grin as they parted ways, and he headed back to his room.
It had been an odd experience to teach at Hogwarts, but not an entirely unwelcome one, Harry mused as his footsteps echoed down the corridor. Finally stopping in front of Hermione Granger-Weasley's portrait—it guarded the passage to the House Elf quarters—he tapped once or twice on the canvas. No Hermione appeared, and he sighed.
"Hermione? You've only two portraits, where are you?" He waited, and tapped his foot a few times, and thought about saying hi to her later, but remembered that he did have real business with the woman. Finally, in a huff, she showed up.
"What's the problem today, Harry? You know, you could just as easily owl me at home, or even floo to work. It's not that big of an ordeal..." she said in the stern, wifely tone that Harry recognized from as far back as first year.
"What did you get Ginny? I've got no idea what to get her, but I know she'll want something good. Always does, the darn imp," Harry complained with a smile. Hermione pulled out her day planner and thumbed through the pages.
"Let's see...I do believe I got her...oh, that's right, I got her the Floo Protectant Powder." Hermione's present was announced with a self- satisfied smile, and Harry only balked.
"The girl's 27th birthday and you get her Floo...whatsit?"
"Floo Protectant Powder," Hermione repeated, as if it were the most obvious gift in the world. "It's a type of Floo powder that creates a dust ward over you when you floo. That way, you don't end up looking like you slept in a giant dustpan every time. Oh, someone's giving a tour at the Ministry. I'd best be in my other portrait for that. Bye, Harry!" With that, she walked off, and Harry started back to his rooms, contemplating (grudgingly, of course) the benefits that could surely be had from protectant floo powder.
The staff quarters were accessed through a giant tapestry, one which wove and unraveled itself over and over again. As Harry tugged on the bottom, right-most red silk thread, the tapestry once again unraveled and rewove as it created braids to walk through. Letting them swing behind him, he heard the familiar messssh as the threads rewound around each other. The main room was warm, no doubt with help from the crackling fire than burned in the larger-than-life fireplace. Noticing that no one else was there—somehow he doubted they were all planning lessons, like Draco—Harry turned to the second stair case to the right (or the ninth one from the left, if you started on the opposite side and made your way around the circular Great Room) and his heels clicked quickly as he made his way up the stone steps. At the top of the stairs he paused, his hand clasping his wand, and stood with his back against the wall. Once an Auror, always an Auror, even if I do take a year off for Dumbledore, he thought, bracing himself and casting a quiet Lumos to light his room's corners and shadows.
Rounding the corner, Harry put his wand away with some slight chagrin, noticing that the sound was just that of a hooting owl—Molly Weasley's newest—that was sharing the windowsill with Hedwig. First things first, I s'pose, Harry mused, and he fed them both. Then, taking Mrs. Weasley's letter, he read:
Dear Harry,
Don't forget about lunch. I know you won't. Also, just a reminder that
it's Ginny's party today. See you soon,
Molly
Of course he wouldn't forget Sunday lunch at the Weasley's, nor had he forgotten that it was Ginny's birthday. He had, however, not had any time to get her a gift, something that annoyed him only slightly when he thought about the time spent un-jinxing students, teaching time turning, chasing rebellious house elves and removing students—and Draco—from ridiculously stupid predicaments.
"Who knew that 'Specialized Magic' was going to be so...huh...oh," Harry trailed off, and grabbed the return letter that Hedwig held up impatiently. It was a reply from Ron, no doubt, and he quickly unfurled it, squinting at the chicken scratch writing.
Harry,
What're you getting Gin? I've no idea what to get her, and Mione won't
let me get her a Cannons poster and Every Flavor Beans—don't
know why. She's getting her some stupid Floo Putrid Protester,
or some such nonsense. Don't forget to get her something,
though, because you remember what happened to me last year when
I did. --Ron
Harry laughed and put the letter down on the red, four-poster bed that was remarkably similar to the ones in the Gryffindor dormitories. The clocks on the wall were a confusing mass of information—London: rainy, Quidditch match: none, Hedwig: Harry's quarters, Ron: fighting with Hermione, Weasleys: Chaos, Next Lesson: Legilimens, Hermione: fighting with Ron, Dumbledore: who knows...
"Time, time..." Harry said aloud, noticing that the only clock that served its true purpose—the literal clock—was, once again, stuck on 1:27 a.m. He rummaged around in the wardrobe to no avail, flinging aside the many robes that were hanging up, until he got somewhat worried that he would get lost in them. Finally, the pocket watch was found in the top drawer of his bureau, in last Friday's pair of blue jeans, which he subsequently looked at, shrugged, and tugged on after taking off his black slacks.
Harry ran his fingers through his dark hair, pulling the tangles out of the still long, still unmalleable mess, and flipped through the wardrobe again, finding an only-somewhat wrinkled button down shirt. The last time he wore a t-shirt to a Sunday lunch, he received eight equally...unique sweaters from Mrs. Weasley in less than a week. Shuddering at the memory, Harry glanced at the time...9:30...and lifted his wand to Apparate into Diagon Alley.
6.21.04 / Regular Disclaimers Apply / Queen Anne
It had been an extremely odd day for the professor, as days tended to be at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft & Wizardry. Despite the fact that the school year was only a week old, "interesting & exceptional" events were still quite the norm at the renowned school—or so Albus Dumbledore had just put it.
"Bloody hell this is 'interesting and exceptional'," his fellow professor, a certain other ex-Auror by the name of Draco Malfoy, complained bitterly to Harry as they tried to extract a very frightened second year from the confines of a stairwell portrait.
"Oh, Malfoy, shut up. You're scaring the life out of the little wimp," Harry whispered out of the corner of his mouth. Draco smirked and aimed his wand.
"Extracto," Draco drawled calmly, but his expression changed drastically, to say the least, as, in a flash, he was sucked inside the portrait as well. Looking disoriented for a moment, Draco turned to see the frightened second year being smothered in another hug from Olive the Overbearing (though many students—and professors—just called her Olive the Over-Endowed.) Draco let out another groan and a second "bloody hell" for good measure.
"Malfoy, I'm content to sit here and watch your torture. It's kind of like an Unforgivable..." Harry said as Olive spotted her newest pet, "...but a whole hell of a lot more entertaining."
Dumbledore, passing by, gave a stern look to the two professors, one who was seething as the other laughed, and clearly said "oh, do let them out, Olive," as he walked by. Suddenly, and with no more than a squeal of disappointment from the overly buxom Olive, Draco and the quivering second year fell from the portrait. The student ran off hurriedly, and Draco stood to dust himself off in silence.
"Oh, do shove it, Potter," he said after a minute or two of quiet. The laughter that was once again welling up inside of Harry broke free, and he gasped for breath dramatically as Draco scowled. "Honestly, Potter, I've lessons to plan. And you, of course, have nothing to do, because you're a classless wonder—every pun intended."
"Thanks, Malfoy. Nice to know the professors support one another," Harry said with a smirking grin as they parted ways, and he headed back to his room.
It had been an odd experience to teach at Hogwarts, but not an entirely unwelcome one, Harry mused as his footsteps echoed down the corridor. Finally stopping in front of Hermione Granger-Weasley's portrait—it guarded the passage to the House Elf quarters—he tapped once or twice on the canvas. No Hermione appeared, and he sighed.
"Hermione? You've only two portraits, where are you?" He waited, and tapped his foot a few times, and thought about saying hi to her later, but remembered that he did have real business with the woman. Finally, in a huff, she showed up.
"What's the problem today, Harry? You know, you could just as easily owl me at home, or even floo to work. It's not that big of an ordeal..." she said in the stern, wifely tone that Harry recognized from as far back as first year.
"What did you get Ginny? I've got no idea what to get her, but I know she'll want something good. Always does, the darn imp," Harry complained with a smile. Hermione pulled out her day planner and thumbed through the pages.
"Let's see...I do believe I got her...oh, that's right, I got her the Floo Protectant Powder." Hermione's present was announced with a self- satisfied smile, and Harry only balked.
"The girl's 27th birthday and you get her Floo...whatsit?"
"Floo Protectant Powder," Hermione repeated, as if it were the most obvious gift in the world. "It's a type of Floo powder that creates a dust ward over you when you floo. That way, you don't end up looking like you slept in a giant dustpan every time. Oh, someone's giving a tour at the Ministry. I'd best be in my other portrait for that. Bye, Harry!" With that, she walked off, and Harry started back to his rooms, contemplating (grudgingly, of course) the benefits that could surely be had from protectant floo powder.
The staff quarters were accessed through a giant tapestry, one which wove and unraveled itself over and over again. As Harry tugged on the bottom, right-most red silk thread, the tapestry once again unraveled and rewove as it created braids to walk through. Letting them swing behind him, he heard the familiar messssh as the threads rewound around each other. The main room was warm, no doubt with help from the crackling fire than burned in the larger-than-life fireplace. Noticing that no one else was there—somehow he doubted they were all planning lessons, like Draco—Harry turned to the second stair case to the right (or the ninth one from the left, if you started on the opposite side and made your way around the circular Great Room) and his heels clicked quickly as he made his way up the stone steps. At the top of the stairs he paused, his hand clasping his wand, and stood with his back against the wall. Once an Auror, always an Auror, even if I do take a year off for Dumbledore, he thought, bracing himself and casting a quiet Lumos to light his room's corners and shadows.
Rounding the corner, Harry put his wand away with some slight chagrin, noticing that the sound was just that of a hooting owl—Molly Weasley's newest—that was sharing the windowsill with Hedwig. First things first, I s'pose, Harry mused, and he fed them both. Then, taking Mrs. Weasley's letter, he read:
Dear Harry,
Don't forget about lunch. I know you won't. Also, just a reminder that
it's Ginny's party today. See you soon,
Molly
Of course he wouldn't forget Sunday lunch at the Weasley's, nor had he forgotten that it was Ginny's birthday. He had, however, not had any time to get her a gift, something that annoyed him only slightly when he thought about the time spent un-jinxing students, teaching time turning, chasing rebellious house elves and removing students—and Draco—from ridiculously stupid predicaments.
"Who knew that 'Specialized Magic' was going to be so...huh...oh," Harry trailed off, and grabbed the return letter that Hedwig held up impatiently. It was a reply from Ron, no doubt, and he quickly unfurled it, squinting at the chicken scratch writing.
Harry,
What're you getting Gin? I've no idea what to get her, and Mione won't
let me get her a Cannons poster and Every Flavor Beans—don't
know why. She's getting her some stupid Floo Putrid Protester,
or some such nonsense. Don't forget to get her something,
though, because you remember what happened to me last year when
I did. --Ron
Harry laughed and put the letter down on the red, four-poster bed that was remarkably similar to the ones in the Gryffindor dormitories. The clocks on the wall were a confusing mass of information—London: rainy, Quidditch match: none, Hedwig: Harry's quarters, Ron: fighting with Hermione, Weasleys: Chaos, Next Lesson: Legilimens, Hermione: fighting with Ron, Dumbledore: who knows...
"Time, time..." Harry said aloud, noticing that the only clock that served its true purpose—the literal clock—was, once again, stuck on 1:27 a.m. He rummaged around in the wardrobe to no avail, flinging aside the many robes that were hanging up, until he got somewhat worried that he would get lost in them. Finally, the pocket watch was found in the top drawer of his bureau, in last Friday's pair of blue jeans, which he subsequently looked at, shrugged, and tugged on after taking off his black slacks.
Harry ran his fingers through his dark hair, pulling the tangles out of the still long, still unmalleable mess, and flipped through the wardrobe again, finding an only-somewhat wrinkled button down shirt. The last time he wore a t-shirt to a Sunday lunch, he received eight equally...unique sweaters from Mrs. Weasley in less than a week. Shuddering at the memory, Harry glanced at the time...9:30...and lifted his wand to Apparate into Diagon Alley.
6.21.04 / Regular Disclaimers Apply / Queen Anne