(5/7/2018) I am beyond tickled that when I write out Supernatural fictional names the spellchecker thinks I'm nuts, but when I write out Harry Potter fictional names it goes, "Yeah. That's legit."

Thank you eivomlive, Muffing, Lovingh3art, Mystery Guest Number One, missmeow1968, ngregory763, Samuel William Winchester, DreamFeathers, Sailor Dragonball 87, and Mystery Guest Number Two for the reviews! And everyone favoriting and following get TROLL IN THE DUNGEON! …Thought you ought to know.

The castle that was coming into view was nothing less than spectacular.

It rose into the sky like some sort of gothic fantasy, innumerable pointed towers piercing the clouds, with the warm orange glow of naturally derived light (as opposed to the harsh whiteness of fluorescents) filtering out every open window. An expansive stone bridge reached out to welcome them into its doors, wide enough that Dean was sure two Impalas could have easily driven through side by side. Down below shined the waters of a lake where the last of the first-years' boats were disappearing into some hidden entrance.

They were let out into a large courtyard. Excited students piled from their carriages with talk about their upcoming classes and their summer vacation. Only a handful of them (including Harry Potter and his plant-owning friend from the train), paid attention to what the Winchesters had continued to call "Hell-ponies." The creatures themselves lazily stood about, occasionally pawing the ground and shaking their manes, waiting for their handlers just like any normal horse.

"Guess they're tame," Sam said.

Dean quickly grabbed a passing older boy wearing yellow and asked, "Hey, what're those?"

"What are what, sir?"

"Those!" Dean exclaimed as he pointed straight at a Hell-pony head. "The things pulling the carriages?"

The Hufflepuff looked at him like he'd gone mad. "Sir, they pull themselves."

"What? No they don't!" Dean pulled the startled student forward until the kid's face was practically inside the horse's mouth. "See?"

"See what, sir?"

"That'll do, Mr. Finch-Fletchley," came a man's disdainful drawl.

"Yes, Professor Snape."

As soon as Dean opened his hand the boy scurried to the double doors. The hunter pointed at the creatures again. "Tell me you can see the damn things."

Professor Snape, a dark-haired, black-robed, middle-aged man with a hooked nose and a sallow countenance, lifted one disdainful eyebrow and asked, "You can?"

Dean looked over at his brother. "I'm going insane."

"No, I see them, too," Sam said warily.

The professor walked over and unerringly reached out to place his hand on the Hell-pony's nose. "These are thestrals," Snape said quietly, his eyes reflecting what might have been regret. "They are only visible by those who have seen death."

"Oh," Dean simply stated. If that was the case, then it was no wonder that he and his brother could see the things. The fact that some of the students could also see them made him grimace sympathetically.

The professor gave the thestral a rub and turned to the Winchesters. "I am the Potions Master, Severus Snape. Professor Dumbledore has asked me to direct you to the Great Hall."

"Where is he?" Sam wondered.

"Yeah," Dean added irritably. "It's like trying to get to the freaking Great and Powerful Oz."

"He'll be there," Snape said smoothly. "He assumed that you might want to partake of the welcoming feast. It would be most beneficial for the students to know what their new Defense Against the Dark Arts Professors look like prior to their first series of classes."

Dean bristled at the man's contemptuous tone. "Yeah, well, at least we're better looking than—oof!"

"Sorry," Sam said to Snape as he withdrew his elbow. "My brother has problems keeping his thoughts to himself."

The Potions Master pressed his lips together and turned. His black cloak and robes billowed as he moved. "Think he practices that?" Dean whispered.

"Can you not antagonize our coworkers before we've even started working?"

"He's a dick."

"We just met the man and you tried to insult him."

"If he didn't wanna be insulted then he shouldn't be a dick."

They followed Professor Snape not to the main entrance to the Hall (where the older students were going) but to a side room with a fireplace and a great many paintings hanging upon the wall. A door on the other side of the room was invitingly open and Snape disappeared through it without checking to see if his charges had followed.

Sam followed resolutely but Dean paused. He could have sworn that the picture of a wizard stroking a cat on his lap had been picking his nose. However, the man's hand was now sitting peacefully on his pet. The hunter glanced suspiciously back and forth at the other paintings and looked for discrepancies. He decided that there must be some trick to it. There was no way that every single one of those men and women had their eyes pointed straight at him.

"Dean?" Sam called.

"Yeah, coming."

The first thing Dean saw in the Great Hall was a long table on a platform filled with other teachers (including Professor Dick). Hundreds of candles were suspended from the ceiling, bobbing a bit up and down like they weren't in danger of falling on the heads of the Hall's occupants. Four long tables that were nearly full of students lined the floor beneath banners that declared their houses. Up above was some kind of projection of the foggy weather from outside which, taking in the fact that there were large, narrow windows behind the teacher's table, seemed a little redundant.

Most of the professors were just like the brothers had expected after meeting McGonagall: older men and women wearing a combination of robes, dresses, or cloaks in austere colors (except for woman in head to toe pink). A few had pointed hats. One man, however, completely eschewed the norm, his outfit bright and purple and spangled, and was currently making his way towards the pair of them. A smile was under his long, silver beard and he had a hand outstretched in welcome. "Ah, Sam and Dean Winchester! A pleasure. I am Albus Dumbledore."

"Of course you are," Dean muttered as he shook the Headmaster's hand.

Sam resisted elbowing his brother again and repeated the gesture. "Thank you for letting us come."

"No, I thank you for being good enough to take the position. We will talk in length after the welcoming feast, so please enjoy."

They sat where he indicated. As soon as Dumbledore was out of earshot, Dean leaned over to his brother and whispered, "Dude, that's Ian McKellen."

"Why would Ian McKellen be at a kid's school for magic?"

"I dunno. Maybe the whole Gandalf thing wasn't an act."

"Dean, don't be an idiot."

"You're the idiot."

Sam rolled his eyes and resisted the urge to continue their parley; the double doors had opened and the older students were quieting. He didn't want to miss whatever it was that was about to occur.

A stern McGonagall lead the youngest children down the middle aisle while carrying a stool and a ratty pointed hat. She placed it down carefully in front of the professors' table and stepped back. A rip abruptly opened towards the brim of the hat…

…And the thing began to sing.

The Winchesters listened, nonplussed, as the hat spun the story of the four Hogwarts founders, their initial friendship and cooperation, and the degradation of their partnership. Their quarrel bled into the student populace and the ensuing chaos had nearly ended the school. The conflict only began to subside when Salazar Slytherin departed.

The hat then bemoaned its duty to separate the students into their houses before concluding with an ominous lyric:

Oh, know the perils, read the signs,
The warning history shows,
For our Hogwarts is in danger
From external, deadly foes
And we must unite inside her
Or we'll crumble from within.
I have told you, I have warned you…
Let the Sorting now begin.

The students applauded, though a good number of them were whispering and muttering at the same time. McGonagall, who had remained standing next to the musical headgear, regally cast about a scorching glare and the noise died. Sam and Dean, still flabbergasted over both the hat's talents and its song's dark tone, jumped when she abruptly called, "Abercrombie, Euan."

The brothers watched as a terrified little boy walked up, lifted the hat, sat on the stool, and carefully nestled the thing on top of its head. After a long, tense moment the rip in the brim opened once again and announced, loudly, "GRYFFINDOR!"

"Oh," Sam said quietly amidst the red table's eager applause. "That's what it meant."

Dean nudged him with his elbow. "Wonder what it'd say about you."

"Bellerforth, Georgina" was taking her turn. "C'mon," Sam scoffed. "I'm not a student."

The hat cried, "RAVENCLAW!" as Dean said, "Tell me you ain't curious."

Sam shrugged as another student took his turn. He was curious, but he was also deeply apprehensive. What did the hat take into consideration when choosing? Was it personality? If so, then more likely than not Sam felt himself leaning towards either Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff. The bookish tendencies of the former were right up his alley, but the overall demeanor of the latter was greatly appealing. Or was it history? If that were the case he might be a Gryffindor or Slytherin. Certainly Sam felt that, as a hunter, he had shown no lack of bravery, but he'd never backed away from ambitious endeavors. Why else would he have risked losing his family for Stanford? For that matter, why else would he have fallen into Ruby's manipulative clutches?

By the time he'd finished ruminating, "Zellar, Rose" was making her way to the Hufflepuff table and McGonagall was carting the hat and its perch to the fireplace room. Dumbledore rose from his seat and announced, "To our newcomers, welcome! To our old hands, welcome back! There is a time for speech making, but this is not it. Tuck in!"

Abruptly food appeared in front of them, the tables groaning slightly under the sudden weight. "Holy shit," Dean said appreciatively as he reached in front of his brother for a small pie.

"Hey!" Sam exclaimed as Dean stuck his fork in.

"Oh my God," moaned his brother. "It's a freaking pie with meat."

"Steak and kidney, to be precise!" explained the portly witch at Dean's other side. She stuck her hand out at Sam (as Dean was too busy stuffing his face). "Professor Pomona Sprout. Herbology."

"Sam Winchester. The pig here is Dean."

"Dumbledore told us he was hiring a few Americans for the job. I'm not surprised that he had to go so far to find a willing candidate."

"Why's that?"

"Well, we've have a bad run of it for, oh, over twenty years now. For some reason the professors just either don't want to stay or…"

"Or?" Dean managed to insert through a mouthful of crust.

"Well, I'm certain the two of you are quite capable individuals. No need to worry."

Which, of course, caused both brothers to do just that. Unaware of their sudden apprehension, Professor Sprout turned to her other neighbor who was asking for a bit of gossip. Sam pushed away his plate, his appetite gone, while Dean stared morosely at the remains of his pie. "Ah, hell with it," he finally said and resumed eating.

"Maybe we should have looked harder into the Men of Letters archives," Sam muttered, "or at least see if there was another branch out here. They couldn't have been just in the U.S."

Dean was busy with his last forkful. "Wha' f'r?"

"Doesn't what she said kind of worry you? At all?"

"No. Maybe a little." The dull orange liquid ended up being pumpkin juice. Dean pushed his glass at Sam. "All yours. Look," he continued when the younger brother didn't react, "if there's shit going down then that's even more of a reason for us to stick it out." He nudged a bowl of roast potatoes and carrots at Sam. "Rabbit food. Your favorite."

Sam sighed. He recognized the methodology behind the persistent offerings of food. It was the same technique Dean had used when they were children whenever Sam had insisted, despite all logic to the contrary, that he wasn't hungry; until he started eating, big brother wasn't going to leave him alone. With another sigh, Sam scooped up some of the vegetables, picked a pork chop from another dish, and dug in.

In between the bickering between Ron and Hermione, Harry kept an eye on the three additions to the staff table. Umbridge seemed to be just as vile as she had been back at the Ministry Headquarters; the professors on either side of her mouthed polite responses to her attempts to converse but otherwise refused to engage her further. Being snubbed didn't seem to curb Umbridge in the slightest; even over the noise of the Hall Harry could hear the vestiges of her squealing tone.

There wasn't much to the American professors at first. They were wearing Muggle clothing, but other than that they could have been just two new Defense Against the Arts teachers that the students could look forward to bidding farewell at the end of the year. Sure, they'd seen the thestrals, but since they were adults that no longer seemed as significant.

Then they started eating.

At first it was just the shorter-haired one who dug into a pie almost right after it had appeared. Eventually he coaxed the other to join in. The pair ate with a single-minded intensity that Harry recognized all too well. It was the voraciousness of someone who wasn't used to having a substantial meal, of someone who wasn't sure when the next one would come. Only a person who was used to starvation, to want, would eat like they did.

Ron noticed what Harry had been staring at and chortled. "They can really put it away."

Harry feigned a chuckle and made an agreeable noise. While Ron resumed his own devastation of the food in front of them, Hermione looked back and forth between the new professors and Harry sympathetically. "I suppose it's what they're used to," she said quietly.

Grateful for her understanding, Harry gave her a slight smile and picked up a treacle tart. The more he saw of these men the more he felt a sort of kinship with them. With Dumbledore continuing to pretend that Harry didn't exist, perhaps the new professors could provide the answers to defeating Voldemort that he so desperately wanted to find.

The dining was done, the carnage disappearing in the same, unassuming manner that it had appeared, and, as Dumbledore stood, the noise in the Hall died down. He began his speech with what sounded like the standard warnings against wandering into the forest and what objects were forbidden in the corridors (the full list available on the office door of a Mr. Filch). "We have had three changes in staff this year," the Headmaster continued. "We are very pleased to welcome back Professor Grubbly-Plank, who will be taking Care of Magical Creatures lessons; we are also delighted to introduce Professors Winchester and Winchester, our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers."

Polite applause came from the students, but most of them were staring at the brothers curiously. Some of the female students (and a few of the male) giggled behind their hands and cast coy looks at the instructor's table. Sam swallowed nervously and hoped that he was just reading too far into what those gestures meant.

With a bit of supposedly unfeigned enthusiasm, Dumbledore said, "We would also like to introduce Miss Umbridge of the Ministry or Magic who will be filling in the newly created position of Head of Curriculum." He clapped quite cheerfully for the woman, though barely anyone else followed his lead. Harry Potter, however, appeared to be both disgusted and horrified while Hermione narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

"Tryouts for the House Quidditch teams will take place on the—"

"Hem hem."

The look of surprise on Dumbledore's face lasted only a moment. Then he sat down as if he'd expected the interruption and would like nothing better than to listen to what the Umbridge woman had to say. Sam and Dean were among the professors who weren't bothering to hide their astonishment; the former looking around at the others for guidance and the latter grabbing a butter knife just in case the pink thing turned out to be a monster.

"Thank you, Headmaster, for those kind words of welcome," sang Umbridge in a high-pitched voice that grated on the brothers' nerves. She looked about and, in a tone more suitable to a group of preschoolers or kindergartners, promptly hoped that they would all be "very good friends."

"What the fuck?" Dean wondered, then winced. The acoustics in the Hall were apparently better than he estimated; though he tried to pitch his tone soft enough so only Sam would hear he ended up projecting down to the students at the front of the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables, all of whom looked scandalized (the exceptions being Fred and George who looked absolutely delighted).

Umbridge hadn't noticed. Her attention was completely on the bland speech she was current inflicting upon the students. "Progress for progress' sake must be discouraged," the woman was saying, "for our tried and tested traditions require no tinkering."

Sam frowned darkly as did many of the other teachers. The students, however, quickly zoned out save for several Ravenclaws, a few Slytherins, Hermione, and several of the older children who were listening with furrowed brows. It was obvious, at least to Sam, that the Ministry of Magic had, for whatever reason, decided to be more involved with the institution and was interested in curbing any changes that might be detrimental to its power. Maybe that included hiring a pair of American hunters to teach their progeny, which meant that the Winchesters might very well be headed back to the bunker a lot sooner than they thought.

Sam glanced at Dean, worried that his brother might have fallen asleep (as most of the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs seemed to be in danger of doing), and was surprised to find him looking at Umbridge the same way he eyed a potential hunting target. "Don't," Sam whispered.

"There's something off about her."

"Like what?"

"I dunno."

Dean's tendency to see threats everywhere had grown exponentially since his exit from Purgatory, with Castiel's suspicious demeanor doing nothing to curb the issue. Thankfully, before Dean could make a scene, Umbridge's speech came to a end with a long-winded sentence that made Sam feel as if he were back in Stanford stuck in a lecture hall listening to an unimaginative doctoral candidate. "Let us move forward, then, into a new era of openness, effectiveness, and accountability, intent on preserving what ought to be preserved, perfecting what needs to be perfected, and pruning wherever we find practices that ought to be prohibited."

Umbridge sat amidst scattered, polite applause, and Dumbledore stood back up to resume his own interrupted announcements. The familiarity of his voice jolted the students (mostly) awake and the feast came to a close. Prefects such as Hermione and Ron began ushering the first-year students from the Hall as the older children meandered their way out.

The professors were mostly quiet, most everyone other than Umbridge exchanging apprehensive looks. They drifted back into the room with the portraits and the fireplace as Umbridge, clearly clueless as to the others' mood, said, "Well! I am certainly happy to have gotten the students up to speed on the Ministry's stance for this upcoming year. I trust, Professor Dumbledore, that you are in agreement?"

"Oh, I most certainly heard what you intended," he replied mildly.

"Very good!" She turned towards the Winchesters. "Now, I understand that you two gentleman are the ones who—" Umbridge cut off abruptly as Dean tossed a handful of salt at her face with one hand and splashed holy water on her from a flask in the other. Other than being seasoned and wet, however, the woman was unaffected.

"Oh," Dean said sheepishly. Sam closed his eyes and took in a deep, calming breath, but a few of the other professors appeared to be doing their best to try and hide snickers.

"What the devil do you mean by this?" Umbridge shrieked. She continued to harangue Dean as most of the others drifted out of the room. A disdainful McGonagall, a bemused Dumbledore, and a greatly entertained Snape remained to listen. No one seemed inclined to interrupt, not even Dean (who was actually taking the opportunity of the pink thing's open maw to check for fangs and other anomalies).

Out of the corner of his eye Sam spotted the hat. As everyone else was preoccupied (Umbridge was currently expounding on the lackluster quality control in regards to teacher appointments), he decided to quench his curiosity. Before anyone could notice, Sam slowly and quietly stepped to the stool, grabbed the careworn headgear, and jammed it on his head.

"Interesting," said a voice in Sam's ear. "I've never quite met a mind like yours. You're far older than most of the new students I've seen."

"I'm not a student," Sam retorted quietly.

"Are you not? If you insist." The hat seemed deeply skeptical about Sam's denial. "I suppose you wish to know where I would sort you, yes?"

"Please."

"Hmm. Very difficult. Even more difficult than Harry Potter. A good deal of cunning, and no lack of bravery. Intelligent, very intelligent, and quite loyal to your brother and your friends. But you aren't quite selfishly ambitious enough for Slytherin; not as blindingly headstrong as Gryffindor; and you lack the placidity of a Hufflepuff. As you are now, Samuel Winchester, I would put you in Ravenclaw."

"Wait, what do you mean 'as I am now'?"

"Why, there is much in you ripe for change. You are—"

Sam found his hair flying up and then down as someone swiped the hat from his head. "Dude," Dean said, amused, "I wish my phone worked in here. You looked totally stupid."

"I'm not done—oh." The room was nearly empty save for the brothers and Professor Dumbledore. "Sorry."

The Headmaster smiled. "Alas, curiosity gets the best of us sometimes. Let us meet in my office for a bit before you retire."

"Lead the way."

Author's Note : I had to dig around to figure out a new position for Umbridge. From the websites of a couple of British schools it looks like the Head of Curriculum position is a thing. Maybe?