12. Why are prejudicial spells so highly scrutinized by authorities?
Because they are prejudiced.
Well, she wasn't wrong.
8. What is the quickest way to combat the physical effects of a hex?
Hex the other guy first.
Sure. Why not?
11. What benefits do blood pacts have over Unbreakable Vows?
None. Never get yourself caught in an inescapable obligation.
Quite possibly the best response ever written. But in this context, completely wrong.
20. What are the prerequisites for achieving full systemic reanimation in necromantic rituals?
Make sure the entire body is present. Also, make sure the body is dead first.
Why would the "body" not be dead? Why would you even bother performing necromancy if the body wasn't bloody dead first?
4. Identify the non-physical properties of a cursed object.
It can make you think bad things. One time my mother bought this necklace and when she put it on it made her think that we (my brother and me) were the reason she drank so much but then when she took it off she still said we were the reason she drank so much but I think the necklace was cursed.
What the hell?
9. Name a historical example of illegal transfiguration and the results of its use.
Jesus.
He sighed.
Grading exams was much worse than grading anything else. And you only had a small window of time in which to do it. And there was nothing more annoying than seeing ten or twelve wrong answers to the same question and briefly panicking about the quality of your teaching, only to later realize that no, it wasn't you, the students were just exceptionally thick.
The practical exams had been... Well, no one died, at least.
It was his own fault, really. Teaching the Dark Arts left one with few choices for practical demonstration that did not lead to a large amount of newly cursed objects floating around the school, areas of his classroom being utterly destroyed, or pieces of furniture suddenly realizing they were alive and attempting to escape to freedom.
"You missed the bear, Moran."
"Do I get points off for that, sir?"
"Well, considering the fact that I just had to chase down a sentient and horribly traumatized desk and then subsequently murder it, yes, I would say you do."
Sometimes, the students were a bit overzealous.
"Anderson, I instructed you to perform a spell that would indicate to you whether the object is cursed."
"Yes, sir."
"Is that what you did?"
"N- no, sir."
"No. Instead of inspecting the object, you eviscerated the object. And now there is cursed bear all over my classroom."
"Yes, sir."
And then there were those who really thought they knew what they were doing.
"I am so, so sorry, Professor."
"Why would you even attempt something so destructive inside a building?" he demanded while holding the door shut with a sealing charm as the sounds of his classroom going up in flames vibrated through the wood.
"I practiced it, like, a hundred times!"
"It's Fiendfyre, Smith! It doesn't matter how adept you are at it. It's still not an acceptable response to 'demonstrate an offensive spell that is silent in execution!'"
"Does- does this mean I get a zero, sir?"
"I'm not answering that."
On a positive note, the exams were surprisingly helpful in terms of recruitment.
Ever since the November Slug Club meeting, in which three Slytherins walked out in protest after a second Hufflepuff was added and they got to experience the unfortunate and fiery return of Hex Boy, who was somewhat upset about not being invited to the Halloween Party and wanted to let them know about it, Tom had decided to pursue recruitment another way.
Having every single student stand in front of him and perform Dark magic was a ready-made tryout, of sorts. And now, for the first time, he had a proper list. He just needed to figure out what to do with it. Maybe it was time to put his associates to work again.
But that meant sending a letter.
Letters were... problematic.
The problem was owls. He'd put it off for a while now because he worried that if he went to the owlery and saw them gathered in one place like pompous, feathery fish in a barrel, he'd fly into a rage and kill them all. But his plan required sending letters, and there was no other way to do it. Finally, on the Monday before term ended, he made his way there and hoped for the best.
He climbed the deathtrap of narrow, snow-covered steps that led up to the owlery and stopped when he reached the top. The inside of the building was carpeted with what looked like centuries of droppings - a clear message from the building's occupants that said, "yes, walk through our feces to get to us, you pathetic peasants."
And he did.
"Alright, you arrogant bastards," he shouted, "who is going to help me?"
They did not ignore him so much as produce a wave of hoots that could only be understood as laughter.
"Fine. I will kill all of you but one." He stunned a few of the tiny arseholes right off their perches to show his resolve. "Whoever's left standing-"
"Who are you talking to?"
Cornelia had appeared out of nowhere and was staring at him like he'd gone mad.
"No one."
An owl hit the ground behind him with a thud.
"I see. Don't mind me. I'm just going to steal one of those real quick before you... kill them all." She made a simple gesture with her hand and several small, fluffy wankers immediately flew down to offer her their services.
He hadn't seen Cornelia since Halloween. She had made herself quite elusive. This was a unique opportunity.
"So, did you get what you wanted out of the Halloween party?" he asked.
"No. Of course not. Leave it to Slughorn to have a party with hundreds of completely useless and unimportant guests."
"How inconvenient for you. What were you looking for?"
She studied him for a moment. Then she changed the subject. "You know, I've been to a lot of schools, and I have to admit, I've never met a teaching staff that was so..."
"Incompetent? Disorganized? Unrefined?"
She raised an eyebrow. "I was going to say 'British.'"
"Well, I hate to have to tell you this, but you are, in fact, living in Britain."
She rolled her eyes. "No, honestly, it's painful. You're all painfully British. We had a student's arm melt off during a lesson and Slughorn's method of calming down a traumatized classroom full of kids that had just witnessed something gruesome was to make them tea and pretend it never happened. And it worked."
"Why are students melting their arms off in Potions class?"
She shrugged. "Things happen. Anyway, that's not the point." She finished tying her letter to the owl's leg and threw it roughly out a window.
"I'm not exactly sure what your point is, to be honest."
"You should make that your motto." She turned to leave, but before she made it to the steps she added, "by the way, I heard you lost another classroom. Well done. You'll burn through the entire third floor before Easter at this rate."
Tom spent his first night of post-exam freedom in the library.
He was determined to return to the strategy he had mapped out at the beginning of the year – the one that had been disrupted so many times he had nearly forgotten about it. He assumed, with confidence, that it would be disrupted again at any moment, but at least an attempt would have been made.
Maybe it was a hasty assumption, but he did not expect anyone to care about what he was doing in the library after midnight on a weeknight, or what he was researching or why. He was a professor, after all. And the rest of the staff had their own problems to deal with. A considerable amount of them, in fact.
Of course, he also did not expect Albus Dumbledore to go walking by at two in the morning, glance at him sitting there with all his very secret notes displayed out in front of him, nod, and continue on without a word.
He cast a charm to hide everything he'd written and shoved it all into one of the books. Then, as he was closing the other eight books he had open, Dumbledore walked by again, going the opposite way and looking completely indifferent to his presence.
In fact, it was the same sort of look he'd had when Tom had found him in the hallway after the Halloween Party (which, until now, he'd thought had been a hallucination).
If someone that wasn't him had managed to curse, Confund, or otherwise incapacitate Albus Dumbledore, he wanted to know who and how.
After a brief search Tom found him near the Restricted Section, carrying a stack of books in his arms and muttering to himself.
"Sir, what are you doing?"
Dumbledore stopped, surveyed him for a moment, then said, "you know, I have always found that question to be inherently troublesome. 'What are you doing?' When asked, it suggests that the one asking does not understand the current action being performed, while, at the same time, assuming that whatever action is being performed is somehow his business." Then, in a strange voice, he asked, "what are you doing?"
"Nothing," Tom responded before he could stop himself.
"Indeed." Dumbledore gave him an unfamiliar smile. "I am also doing nothing. My nothing involves books. What does yours involve?"
Tom observed him carefully. His curiosity was getting the better of him and, though he thought he might choke on the words, he asked, "are you alright, sir?"
"Unclear," Dumbledore said, placing his stack of books on a nearby table. "I've been assessing the situation and have not yet been able to make any definitive conclusions."
"Situation?"
"There are a few possible scenarios. Right now, I am partial to the idea that this is all an illusion, and that we are in some sort of lunatic asylum, unconscious, merely dreaming of being wizards. Though, this theory is difficult to test."
"What are you talking about?"
Dumbledore sighed. "You ask a considerable number of questions, friend." And with that, he walked away.
Tom stood there for a moment, thinking perhaps that he was dreaming. Wouldn't have been the first time he'd fallen asleep in the library. But no, he was definitely awake, which meant that something was very wrong with Albus Dumbledore.
He decided the best course of action was to follow, but by the time he made it out into the corridor, Dumbledore was gone. He walked quickly away from the library and toward the Great Hall, finding nothing but a few ancient ghosts drifting lazily through their permanent existential comas.
He had made it almost the whole way to the other side of the first floor before he heard something that made him stop.
Music was playing from somewhere close by. Muggle music. He considered investigating, but it really wasn't a priority considering there was an addled Dumbledore roaming-
That song was vaguely familiar.
The door to a small classroom near the entrance to the dungeons was propped open, and a light was on. Inside he found Beery, who was dancing by himself and humming along to the music that was coming out of a shiny new record player. He made to leave, thinking this was probably not something Beery wanted anyone to see.
But he was wrong.
Beery caught sight of Tom and his eyes lit up. "Ah, Professor! Up late? I can't sleep either." He continued to dance as he spoke, and it was extremely annoying. "I find a bit of music before bed to be very therapeutic."
"Fantastic. I'll just be going, now."
Beery shuffled his way across the room, moving slowly toward the door like a well-choreographed nightmare. "Do you dance?"
"No." This was why he had very few qualms about murdering people. Things like this.
"You should try it. The music drew you here, did it not?"
"No." Good lord.
"'Moonlight Serenade.' A classic. One of my favorite records."
That was it. "Moonlight Serenade." It had been the only song to ever come over the wireless that he'd actually liked when he was younger. And now it was being violently ruined for him by the image of a short old man humming to it while twirling like a ballerina inside an empty classroom at two in the morning.
He retreated toward the door before the dancing potato could get any closer.
"You know," Beery mused, "you're awfully uptight for someone so young. I know you're here for some secret purpose or other, but you could at least enjoy yourself while you're at it."
Tom turned around and stared at him. "I'm sorry?"
"You need to enjoy-"
"No, what do you mean, 'secret purpose?'"
Beery stopped dancing and shrugged. "Well, I find it hard to believe that someone as young and talented as you would be content with spending your entire career here. So, there must be a reason."
"What about Minerva? Or Peggy?"
"Ha. For some people, teaching really is a passion. I'll never understand it. And anyway, would you be roaming around the castle this late at night if you didn't have some secret agenda? I know I have one." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.
Tom thought for a second that he was going to have to incapacitate the man and dig through his brain to figure out what the hell he was talking about. But apparently, Beery was just unusually perceptive. "I do not have a secret agenda."
"Maybe not, but your misery does not go unnoticed. Now, shall we dance?"
Tom left without another word.
"I'm here every Thursday until term starts!" Beery called out into the corridor. "Come back when you've lightened up a bit!"
He should never have left the library. Now he was going to have nightmares about old men dancing and singing at him every time he thought of that song and that was not the sort of psychological torture he needed at the moment.
Resuming the search for Dumbledore was useless at that point. He decided to go back to his quarters and review what little information he'd managed to gather in his first night of research.
He made it as far as the Great Hall before he ran into Slughorn, who looked unusually happy and was holding three tiny, empty vials in his hand.
"Tom, my boy! How are you?"
"Fine, sir."
"Up late? Can't sleep? Troubled mind?"
"Sure."
"Nothing like a late-night walk to clear your head, yes?" He was talking unusually quickly, like he wanted to get everything out in one breath.
"Sure."
"Yes, that's probably it. Clearing your head. That's what I'm doing. I think that's what I'm doing. You know, it's really quite dark in these corridors." He held one of the vials up to the light of a nearby torch to examine it. "You would think that was a safety issue."
"I suppose?"
"Honestly, it's almost completely black out here at night," he said, switching to another vial. "Can't see a thing. If someone wanted to kill me, they could walk right up to me and I wouldn't even know they were there until it was too late."
Well, something was clearly off. "Horace-"
"That's what you get for living in a castle, I suppose. That, and cold drafts that never seem to let up, even in the summer. It's funny how a thousand-year-old building can hold all sorts of powerful, ancient magic, but can't seem to get the temperature right."
"Horace-"
"Thomas."
After a few seconds his eyes went wide. "Wait! Is 'Tom' short for 'Thomas?' I've never asked."
"No. Are you alright?"
He examined the last vial. Tom wasn't sure what he was looking for – they were all clearly empty. "Oh yes," he said, still talking fast, "quite alright. Or something close to it, anyway." He started patting down his jacket, looking for something in the pockets. "You seem somewhat troubled, though." He glanced at Tom and raised an eyebrow. "I mean, you usually appear to be troubled, but tonight you seem especially sullen."
It was nice to know that everyone thought he consistently looked miserable. "I am not sullen-"
"Well, let's be honest, you never were a particularly cheerful person," he said, more to himself than to Tom.
"That doesn't really-"
"I was worried for a while there, you know, when you were younger. All the brooding and such. Well, most teenage boys go through a broody phase, but yours seemed particularly acute. Anyway, being antisocial does you no favors."
"I did not go around brooding-"
"AH!" Slughorn exclaimed suddenly, his voice echoing through the empty corridor. He pulled a fourth vial out of a pocket, opened it, and drank the contents. "Now, where were we?"
"What is that?" Tom asked, pointing to the vial that was obviously the source of this weirdness.
"You know, I really don't think I should tell you that. Wouldn't make me look very good if I did."
"What?"
"Must be going! Lots to do."
Tom watched him walk away and wondered if he should reassess the theory that he was dreaming.
He headed back toward the staircases but didn't make it very far before he was yanked roughly into a room and the door shut behind him.
Why not? It certainly fit the theme of the rest of the evening.
"I need your help," said Ilania.
"At two o'clock in the morning?"
"Yes."
They were in a small room with a large window that took up most of the wall. She had several telescopes pointed toward the sky and an array of glowing metal instruments that were vibrating and making loud "ping" noises.
"What do you need help with?" he asked, wondering how this interaction was going to devolve into insanity.
"I know you're a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, but have you ever... you know... dabbled?"
"Dabbled?"
"Dabbled. Tried things. Attempted something that might not strictly be considered lawful. Experimented."
"No. Never."
She groaned. "Why is everyone here so useless?"
"Cheers. What are you trying to do, exactly?"
"Nothing," she said quickly, her instruments buzzing guiltily behind her.
"What are you trying to do, exactly?" he repeated with a sigh.
She hesitated for a moment. "Do you know what an amplifier is?"
"In astronomy?"
"Eh, sort of. I'm trying to build something that can hear into space, but the optimal window for launching my project is closing and I need to make some modifications before it's too late."
"Alright, I have two questions." Because this was getting ridiculous and also making him extremely curious at the same time. "One, why would you want to 'hear' into space?"
"To assist in the search for civilized life."
"I see. And two, why does that require Dark magic?"
"Because the charms we use to create such instruments are too weak to extend past Jupiter, and the magic I require to accomplish my goal doesn't technically… exist yet. Not without some legally questionable enhancements."
The experimental magic was intriguing. But the other thing... "Follow-up question. What will you do if you actually find 'civilized' life in space?"
"Contact them, obviously!" she exclaimed as if there could be no other answer. She sounded quite frustrated.
"Why?"
"What do you mean, 'why?'"
Personally, he felt he understood the world quite well. Had a handle on it. There was no reason, in his mind, to add some new mysterious element that he would have to figure out and then possibly destroy. "I just don't see the point of-"
"'The point?'" she repeated, her voice getting louder. "The point is that there could be other beings out there, right now, with advanced technology and the ability to travel through space. SPACE!" She looked frantic. "If they were out there, wouldn't you want to know?"
"Not really."
"Are you JOKING?" she yelled before grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. "How can you not understand? Just imagine the possibilities!" There went the sanity. She appeared to be sliding down the scale rapidly from slightly obsessed academic to mad scientist.
He blinked stupidly at her. "Well, good luck, I guess."
"Good luck?"
He turned to leave.
"Where are you going?"
"Somewhere that's not here."
"Fine! Go!" she yelled after him. "Clearly you cannot handle the challenge and sacrifice of scientific discovery!"
He was perfectly fine with that.
Civilized life? He repeated the words in his head as he walked out the door. It was already difficult enough finding that here. Why look for it elsewhere?
As he made his way toward the marble staircase and the safety of his quarters, he noticed that the light was on in the staff room.
Now, any reasonable person that had just experienced entirely too much of their coworkers' personal affairs in the span of an hour and was likely close to being psychologically scarred would probably run home and remove those memories. They would not stop to investigate yet another sign of late-night activity as if nothing horribly disturbing was going to happen.
He wondered what being reasonable was like.
Before he had a chance to open the door, he heard a quiet voice from inside - Minerva's voice.
"I don't know what you're talking about! You should do it. You know you should. Do what? Please. As if you don't know."
Was she talking to herself? No, there was a second voice in the room, but it sounded exactly like hers. Perhaps a bit harsher.
"You have all the talent you'll ever need. All you require now is the motivation."
"I told you! I don't want to-"
"Yes, you do. You just haven't realized it yet."
There was silence. He wondered if she needed help. It sounded like she was being accosted by a moderately unpleasant and ambitious version of herself. He could not see what was happening but didn't dare open the door, as it was visible from every corner of the room.
Then the other voice spoke again. "Just consider, for one moment, that there might be more important things in the world than teaching and being a surrogate parent for hormonal monsters for ten months out of the year."
"This is what I do. I love my job."
"Yes, you love your job because you think it's the only thing you can do. But let's be honest, there is not a single person here that can compete with you. Well, except maybe the old man. And the pretty boy. They'll be problems."
"Who are you talking about?" Minerva asked, her voice weak.
"Your most recent distractions," said the other woman. "The younger one will be easy to deal with."
"Deal with?"
"Yes. We both saw what he can do, but I'm not concerned. They all want the same thing. You can manipulate them any way you want, really. It's the old man I'm worried about."
Tom was very, very confused.
"I am not 'dealing with...' I will not- you can't actually think-"
"Do shut up, please. I've moved on. Now-"
"No! I am not having this conversation with you!"
"Yes, you are. You don't have the-"
There was the sound of something being slammed shut, followed by footsteps. Tom hid around the corner like a pathetic stalker and watched the door carefully. He could see her leaving, but it was only her. No one else came out of the staff room.
He inspected the room carefully after she was gone, but it was empty.
Once again, he wondered if he was dreaming. But if that were the case, why would he have a dream about two Minervas?
There was... no need to answer that question.
And anyway, he was awake. Most assuredly awake.
So, as it turned out, almost everyone he worked with was insane. He'd had suspicions, of course, but it was nice to be given confirmation.
And yet, it was still better than working at Borgin and Burke's.
After a slow and contemplative walk to the third floor, he finally reached the door to his office and then stopped. Thought for a moment. Made a decision.
Yes. It had been a horrible night. He deserved something nice.
He was going to go back and steal that ridiculous record from Beery. He wasn't sure why he wanted it, but he wanted it. Twirling old man nightmares be damned.
a/n: Thank you so much for all of the amazing reviews! If FFN was in any way user-friendly, I would reply to every single one of them. As it is, I can only gush about you wonderful people down here. Thanks again!