Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters/places/plotlines/ideas associated with the Harry Potter Series by JK Rowling
HARRY POTTER AND THE AMAZING BEFUDDLEMENT OF ALL CONCERNED
By Foul Ole Ron
Chapter One:
Blueberry Muffins
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, sat ponderously in his office, dreaming of a future without Voldemort in it. He didn't get very far. It was kind of impossible to imagine himself doing anything without thinking a) will this result in Harry Potter's death? b) will this in any way aid the rise of Voldemort? And c) God damn it I don't care any more.
No, Dumbledore had long ceased making any decisions without looking at least fifteen years into the future. If Voldemort was eventually eradicated, which was looking more and more unlikely, then Dumbledore would probably go mad with un-worry. He wouldn't be able to cope with not having evil plots to counter or young boys to prevent from doing stupid things. Dumbledore sighed. It didn't look as if he was going to have to worry about all that anyway…
"Professor Dumbledore!" someone shouted at the top of their lungs. Dumbledore clenched his teeth,
"Yes?"
"It's Dobby!" said a high-pitched, migraine-inducing voice from somewhere near his feet,
"You jest, surely," said Dumbledore, trying to keep his voice its usual benign self and failing miserably.
"No, Mr Dumbledore, sir, it's Dobby. Mr Harry Potter sent me! He said you would be wanting a nice cup of tea and blueberry muffin, he did, sir, and Dobby thought he'd bring it up to you, sir!" Dobby the house elf beamed up at the Headmaster, practically radiating innocence. Dumbledore, who had never in his life felt like strangling anything, was at that moment sorely tempted. But he kept his emotions down. That was what Dumbledore did best. He tried to think of calm blue oceans, but instead thought of Harry Potter, whose petty revenge it was that caused Dobby the house elf to make frequent journeys up to the Headmaster's office to offer light refreshment. He hated blueberry muffins. Hated them. He didn't know how Harry Potter could possibly have known this, but he did know that it had to stop. Was it his fault that Harry had so deliberately stepped outside his well-laid plans the previous year, thereby causing the death of his beloved Godfather? All right, so he, Dumbledore, had had to take some of the responsibility, but he'd done his best. Dumbledore always did his best. What had he done to deserve to be disturbed every few hours by a chatty house-elf with nothing better to do? Harry Potter was depressed, granted. And full of boiling rage, undoubtedly. But it did not give him right to regularly infuriate the one man in the world that had any hope of sorting out his problems.
"Thankyou very much, Dobby," said Dumbledore, in a strained voice.
"Oh, it's Dobby's pleasure, sir, Dobby's pleasure, always pleased to-"
"You can go now, then,"
"Do you know, sir, Dobby was thinking-"
"Really? How extraordinary. Now if you don't mind-"
"Miss Hermione, sir, she's got some ideas, sir,-"
"I said go," said Dumbledore in a low, bordering on menacing, voice.
"Right sir. I'll be seeing you soon, sir." And Dobby was gone. Dumbledore breathed a sigh of relief and unclenched his fists, knees and jaw. He placed his blueberry muffin carefully on the ever-growing pile waiting to be vanished. Then he reached into his draw for the bottle of whisky he knew would be there.
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It was a day off for Nymphadora Tonks and Remus Lupin. Like many members of the Order of the Phoenix, they spent most of their free time frequenting the wizarding world's many distinguished and unhygienic pubs. Today they were in the Dancing Donkey. Lupin had just got back from a top secret mission for Dumbledore, and was feeling a little morose. The Order of the Phoenix was taking its toll on him, despite Mrs Weasley's cooking. He was thinner, greyer and older than he had been a few weeks ago. His clothes were shabbier, too. They hadn't taken well to five days crawling through a festering swamp on his belly to avoid detection. He groaned and stared despondently into his tankard of whatever-it-was. Tonks patted him gently on the shoulder.
"There, there, Lupin, it'll be all right," she said.
"I'm a were-wolf," he said, banging his head on the table.
"Yes," said Tonks, "You are." Well, what was she supposed to say? 'No, you're not'? It seemed that she was, because Lupin began to bang his head even harder.
"You'll give yourself brain damage, doing that," said Tonks, helpfully. Lupin glared at her and proceeded to tip the contents of his tankard over his head, making him look bedraggled as well as thin, grey, old and shabby.
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Professor Snape was at that moment looking very ugly, even for him. His face was a mask of pure and unadulterated disgust, and his hair was greasier than it is possible to imagine hair to be. On seeing it earlier this morning, Professor SeeSaw the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher had offered to lend him some of the Gertrude Gerbil's Grease Removal Fluid she used to clean the underside of her kitchen stove with. And she'd offered it in a completely non-malicious and genuinely concerned way. Snape would have cursed her there and then if both Dumbledore and McGonagall had not been watching. As it was, he had just had to make to with shooting his best glare of total animosity at her and sweeping away. He couldn't fathom what Dumbledore had been thinking, hiring that Barbie doll to teach at his school. Then again, most of Dumbledore's actions were unfathomable. Especially since Dobby the house-elf had taken to bringing him blueberry muffins about ten times a day.
Snape's first lesson of the day did little for his temper, which accounted for his horrendously ugly expression. At this point his hate was not wholly directed at Harry Potter, rather it was split between Professor SeeSaw and Draco Malfoy. Snape was not accustomed to hating Draco Malfoy. Not only was the boy mean, nasty, arrogant, selfish, bullying, malicious, conniving and completely amoral, he was also in deep loathing with Harry Potter. What wasn't to like? But recently Snape had been forced to begin hating Malfoy, and this was mainly to do with the fact that Malfoy's father, Lucius Malfoy, had taken to performing the cruciatus curse on Snape every time he saw him, so as to test his loyalty to Lord Voldemort. Snape had a thing about people's fathers. His philosophy, albeit a little more twisted, was similar to Marjorie Dursley's: 'If there's something wrong with the bitch, there'll be something wrong with pup', or, in Snape's case, 'If the father's a worthless bastard, the son's ten times as bad'. Snape knew this to be true, as his own father had been the epitome of worthless bastardry.
Snape shook with suppressed rage as he watched Malfoy dole liberal amounts of Brain-Of-Frog into his concoction. Admittedly, Malfoy was slightly less in the thick of things than he had been in previous years, and Snape supposed he had that to be grateful for. But thinking this only brought him around to the reason why Malfoy wasn't in the thick of things. The fact being that Lucius Malfoy had not only been convicted of Deatheatership, but he had broken out of Azkaban and was now at large, leaving him free to do the Dark Lord's bidding and torture Snape. Snape could hear his teeth grinding together. Shaking his head angrily, he looked around at the rest of the class. Fortunately this year he had been able to cull out the greater part of the sixth year who were blithering idiots by announcing that no one who hadn't got an 'O' in their potions OWL was allowed to continue with it. The only exception to this rule was, of course, Harry Potter, who, according to McGonagall had 'had a trying time last year' and whose potions marks were 'bound to improve'. Snape had seen this contemptible theory as yet another way to inject pain and suffering into his life, and was therefore at odds with McGonagall and Dumbledore, who agreed with her. Cynical to the last, Snape knew this did not bother them unduly. It meant they saw less of his greasy head.
Potter was at this moment cutting up his toad's liver and having what looked like a very depressing conversation with Hermione Granger, who was seated beside him. Snape had debated creating a seating plan that placed Malfoy and Potter next to each other, for his own sick and twisted pleasure, but had decided against it; the resulting carnage would not be worth the bother. Snape wondered if it were possible for him to grind his teeth so hard that they were reduced to dust, and glanced back at Malfoy. His sleek blond head, so reminiscent of his father's, was bent dutifully over his work. Snape resisted the urge to walk over and plunge it violently into the cauldron in front of it. Snape did think Dumbledore might have found some excuse to expel Malfoy. He was only going to end up swelling the hoards of the Dark Lord later on, anyway. Why make sure he was an educated cretin? All right, so the ideal scenario would be for Potter to be out the door too. Unfortunately, he was necessary. A monumental pain, but necessary. Malfoy, on the other hand, was not required. He did not have an airy-fairy destiny waiting to be fulfilled. All he had was a sadistic father and a nice, dank prison cell heading his way. Apparently, Dumbledore didn't see it this way. Apparently, Malfoy was the wretched victim of a misguided family, who was much safer at Hogwarts where he could be kept an eye on. After Dumbledore had said all this, he had nodded conspiratorially at Snape, with a twinkle in his eye. Damn Dumbledore and his 'bigger picture'.
Snape growled at the student nearest to him (who happened to be Ernie Macmillan), causing him to drop his beaker of horse blood.
"Clean that up!" he snapped, striding back to his desk, sitting down, and glaring at his students. At least, he reflected, Neville Longbottom was not in the class.
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Hermione Granger was in the Gryffindor Common room doing her Potions homework. Her two friends, Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, were not doing their Potions and Herbology homework respectively. She couldn't really blame them, she had a distinct advantage over the pair of them. She actually enjoyed doing homework. She actually found the fourteen uses of manticore hide mildly interesting. And she got a kick out of being able to write five feet of parchment in an hour. She did not, however, get a kick out of going to the Potions class in which she had obtained the homework. She thought that Professor Snape, her teacher, was a worthless bastard, even if she wouldn't ever put it in those words. But Hermione was a smart girl; she, unlike Harry and Ron, whose minds were clouded by petty things like revenge, depression and unreasonable dislike, could see that Snape was a necessary worthless bastard. Based on what could be gathered from listening in on Order of the Phoenix meetings using Fred and George Weasley's famous extendable ears, it was clear that he was the only one prepared to risk life, limb and sanity by becoming the Order's only insider within Voldemort's ring of deatheaters. Yes, Hermione was a very smart girl. Unfortunately, the sheer force of her intellect hadn't been able to prevent Harry from getting his beloved Godfather killed the previous year, and consequently Sirius Black was very dead and Harry Potter was very angry.
"I don't think I should have done potions," he said in the low, intense voice he had adopted ever since the beginning of their sixth year.
"Of course you should," said Hermione, trying to sound soothing, but not actually thinking about what he was saying, "You want to become an auror, don't you?"
"Well I think I should have dropped out after fifth year!" proclaimed Ron miserably. Hermione looked up at him sternly,
"Ron Weasley, do not say that!" she said. Hermione was a little anxious about Ron. He was a little off balance. Not keeping up with homework properly. Not keeping up with anything, really.
"Oh, I'm going to bed!" said Harry forcefully, and snatching up his books he stalked up to his dormitory. Ron and Hermione looked at each other. Hermione noticed that Ron looked as if he were going to cry. She blinked. He blinked.
"I'm going to bed too," he muttered, and traipsed up the stairs after Harry. Hermione stared after him, and shook her head worriedly. Most people went on about how emotional girls were.
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Lupin and Tonks were still in the Dancing Donkey. Lupin had reached the stage of drunkenness that only a true drunk will know. After his first five tankards or so, he'd stopped complaining about his lycanthropy, and had gone on to why exactly Dumbledore always gave him the dirty work for the order. Was it because he was the most valuable member? He didn't think so! No, it was because he was the most expendable! The most easily disposed of!
He had talked loudly like this for nearly an hour, and Tonks had sat patiently by him and spoke soothingly when occasion arose. Because were-wolves have a great capacity for holding alcohol, it was not until Lupin's tenth tankard that he became a full-blown roaring drunk. It was almost as bad as his were-wolf transformation, and it did not suit him. He threw chairs around the room, he lost fist fights, he demanded more drinks in a loutish way and he sang the national anthem whilst standing on the table with his robes hitched up inside his underpants. The other drinkers were a little shocked; he had looked like such a quiet sort. They smiled among themselves appreciatively when Lupin finally fell, semi-conscious from the table; he was truly one of them now.
Tonks, who was of course a master of disguise, was dressed as a drunk herself. She'd even borrowed some of Lupin's clothes to complete the old, grey, shabby look. It was done with the best of intentions, to make him feel more at home, but it had actually only succeeded in causing him to down a few more drinks. When Lupin's brain finally stopped being able to spout rubbish, Tonks sat in a corner with him, her arm around his shoulder as he quietly mumbled incoherently and attempted to fit his fist into his shot glass.
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Percy Weasley was feeling extremely guilty. In fact, guilt did not even begin to describe what he was feeling. At least, he felt, he was not drowning his sorrows in one of the wizarding world's distinguished and unhygienic pubs. He had not yet hit rock bottom. But he was still on the downward plummet, and there didn't seem to be anything he could do about it. He glared angrily at the back of his boss's head. His boss, who Percy had come to revere almost as a God, was nothing but a fat, pompous, arrogant, narrow-minded little man in tweed. And Percy was no better. Percy wanted nothing more than to crumple wretchedly to the floor and scream a long, drawn out 'no', like they do in the movies. Not that Percy had ever seen any movies. The previous year, Percy had severed all ties with his family, under the impression that his father was severely misguided, that Dumbledore was an old fool and that Harry Potter was a depraved maniac. It had been proven since that the Minister for Magic was severely misguided, that Percy was a young fool and that even if Harry Potter was a depraved maniac, he had been right about one thing: Lord Voldemort was back. And Percy had refused to see it, even though his parents, his parents, who had loved and cared for from the cradle, had told him otherwise. Percy could have cried. He was a failure, a failure of a son! Worse than Fred and George!
"Your newspaper, sir," he said glumly, handing a thick tabloid out to the man whose head he had been glaring at for the past five minutes. Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic, the man supposedly in charge of the wizarding world, swung around his chair, looking every bit as woeful as his young assistant,
"Thankyou, Weasley," he grimaced, looking at the front cover, which sported yet another article uncovering the general ineptness of the Ministry of Magic.
"I should never have been made Minister, you know Weasley. Dumbledore should have. Everyone wanted him." Percy didn't want to hear this. It seemed to Percy that Fudge was asking for sympathy. Quite frankly, Percy did not have an ounce of sympathy to spare him. He was already using it all up on himself.
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Professor Minerva McGonagall sat in the staff room, quietly marking homework. It was rumoured, she knew, that even if the world were about to end, and the school had plunged into chaos, that Professor McGonagall would still be marking homework. Perhaps sitting amid the wreckage of her desk allocating stern ticks to first year topic tests where deserved. Professor McGonagall didn't think much of these kind of rumours. If she had said she would mark homework, then she would mark homework. It was as simple as that. Professor McGonagall put great stock in doing her job well, and she did do it well. Of that she was sure. Even Dolores Umbridge couldn't claim she didn't. The other teachers sitting around her were not marking homework. A lot of them appeared to be talking to the new teacher, Professor SeeSaw, or at least listening to Professor SeeSaw, who had a very animated way of speaking. Professor SeeSaw was young, and quite pretty. In a highly superficial way, Professor McGonagall thought sniffily, crossing out a spelling mistake. SeeSaw had longish blond hair, and large brown eyes that gave off the impression of extreme innocence.
"Did you know," she was saying to Professor Flitwick, "That the grindylow will stay with its parents for up to forty years after birth?" Professor McGonagall had noticed, after several conversations with SeeSaw throughout the year that she was a seemingly endless source of small, annoying facts that Professor McGonagall didn't particularly care about. Flitwick, however, seemed entranced, and Professor McGonagall snorted to herself. She had never thought much of Dumbledore's choices when it came to Defence Against the Dark Arts teachers. She often wondered how such a brilliant mind as his could have seen fit to appoint such persons as whathisname Quirrel, Gilderoy Lockhart, Alastor Moody or Sarah-Charlotte SeeSaw to positions of importance.
"And were-wolves, you know, they have an amazing talent for drinking would you believe it…" Professor McGonagall tried no to listen to her, but unfortunately, no one else was saying anything.
One of the few teachers not in on the grindylow discussion was, of course, Professor Snape. He was sitting by himself in a corner, positively burning holes in the back of SeeSaw's head. Professor McGonagall sighed. She thought that she might well be able to like Severus Snape, if only he dropped his unhappy habit of constantly brooding and his unwavering belief that the whole world was against him. In Professor McGonagall's opinion, it was rather childish. Still, he did have reason to despise Professor SeeSaw. Her blatant reference to the state of his hair this morning had been frightful. Although…McGonagall would never say it aloud, but Snape's hair was very greasy…
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Voldemort hissed wearily. Standing in front of him were Lucius Malfoy and Bellatrix Black, both of whom were at least partially insane. Voldemort usually found it an added bonus to have most of his deatheaters completely off their rockers. It suited his purpose. The slighter their grip on reality was, the less guilt they would feel, the more murders they would perform, and the less likely they were to protest to some of his more irrational plans. However, Voldemort would have to say, that in the case of Lucius Malfoy and Bellatrix Black, he would much rather they still had possession of their minds.
"My Lord," said Malfoy reverently, "We have done as you asked." He removed his mask and began to grin evilly. Voldemort rolled his slit-like red eyes and nodded impatiently, whilst stroking his snake, Nagini, who was his only true friend.
"The Order of the Phoenix has been annihilated, then?" asked Voldemort coldly, not a trace of sarcasm in his voice,
"Well, not exactly, my Lord-"
"Then you have not done as I asked." Voldemort smiled inwardly. He was in the mood to play games.
"But my Lord-"
"No buts, Bella, I distinctly remember saying to you, 'Go forth and destroy the Order of the Phoenix!'" This was very true. Voldemort had been delivering a King Arthur-like speech (with more emphasise on adjectives like 'kill', 'maim', 'demolish', 'disembowel' and 'gouge', obviously) to his teeming masses when he had said these emotionally charged words. Of course, he had not meant them literally, but Malfoy and Black did not know that.
"My Lord, we couldn't possibly have destroyed the whole order, it's only been two days!" Bella's voice had picked up a distinctly whiny, high-pitched, terrified note. Voldemort grinned, only it came out as a kind of snarling twist of the lips. Malfoy put his mask back on.
"Do you know what happens to those who fail me?" asked Voldemort conversationally. Malfoy and Bella gulped in unison.
"Um…"
"Yes, that's right. Time for a little exercise, I think. To see if all your nerve endings are in working order!" For the next ten minutes or so, Voldemort enjoyed a quiet vent of his frustrations on his two minions. First he put a silencing charm on them, and then proceeded to perform the cruciatus curse, alternating between the two, though careful not to destroy their minds completely.
"That," he said, as Malfoy writhed in inexpressible agony, "Is for being mean to Snape. What has he ever done to you?"
"And that," he said, as Bellatrix's face contorted unflatteringly, "Is for that shemozzle last year…"
When Voldemort had finished, he felt in a much calmer state of mind, while Malfoy and Bellatrix's heads felt as though they were about to explode.
"Now," hissed Voldemort delightedly, "We must implement the next stage of my plan. Malfoy, you have a son at Hogwarts, do you not?"
"Ye-yes," stuttered Malfoy, who was lying on the ground and twitching involuntarily,
"Excellent. It is a pity your cousin had to die last year, Bella, we could have used him again. But no matter. Now, listen carefully…from what I have heard, Dumbledore has taken to consuming great amounts of blueberry muffins…"
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Luna Lovegood was in the library reading the Quibbler, sitting at the same table as Ginny Weasley and Neville Longbottom. She wasn't listening to much of what was being said, but she did catch snatches of conversation as she read the front page article…
…and it can be proved without a doubt that the existence of the…
"…Harry's really not himself lately…" Ginny's voice was its usual boisterous self.
… 'I always knew it was real…you just have to have a bit of faith,' says well-known explorer, Lindsay Jeremy Lovegood…
"…my Mimbulus mimbletonia…I think it's dying…" Neville sounded sad and confused. He always did.
… 'No one would believe him, you know,' says Luna, Lovegood's fifteen-year-old daughter, who accompanied him on the expedition…
"…probably the workload…NEWTS can do that to you…"
…as can be seen from the photo to the far left, the Crumple-horned Snorkak is a formidable beast…
"…saw Professor Snape earlier today…Merlin, I'm glad I'm not doing potions…"
…with large pointed ears and cloven hooves…
"…got my OWLS coming up this year…"
…the distinguishing feature of the crumple-horned snorkak is, of course, its crumpled horn…
"…gillyweed…"
…capable of tearing through three inches of solid iron…
"…Dean Thomas…he's in you're dormitory, isn't he…"
…already Rubeus Hagrid, renown for his interest in such…
"…Ginny, are you even listening to me?"
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Dumbledore sighed. It was night. The teachers were probably marking homework in the staffroom. He looked around at the paintings on the wall. Their occupants were all pretending to be asleep again. They did that a lot these days, he thought hazily. He suspected that they were embarrassed to see him drunk, as he undoubtedly was now. He wasn't roaring drunk, just a little dull. He didn't have his edge, so to speak. Actually, he probably couldn't have transfigured a matchstick. This thought made him chuckle. The great Albus Dumbledore was temporarily incapacitated…for the third time this week. He winced. He had to stop doing this. The fate of wizardkind, perhaps even mankind, was in his shaking hands.
"That's it," he mumbled to himself, "That…wissy…whisky…boddle is go-goen out the window…" he hunched forward in his seat and put his head in his hands,
"What am I going to do?" he asked himself. There was a long silence.
"Have a muffin?" suggested a timid voice from the doorway. Dumbledore felt like vomiting. Not Dobby. Wobbling slightly, he stood up, trying to focus his bleary eyes on the ugly house-elf.
"I do not want," he said, as clearly as he could, "a muffin." And with that he staggered awkwardly out of the room and up to his bedroom,
"And I'll not be wanting one tomorrow, either," he called back over his shoulder.
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