(7/9/2018) Hope all my fellow Americans had a good Eat BBQ and Set Off Explosions Day!

Thank you demon19027, SilverDragonFlyMoon, WhymustIpickaname, AriettaRyuusaki, WRose, RandomZambi, Lovingh3art, DreamFeathers, 1968, booklifeforlife, Mystery Guest, Samuel William Winchester, ngregory763, Sailor Dragonball 87, Dark-Supernatural-Angel, and Waterhead36 for the reviews! And all you favoriters and followers get Golden Snitch cakes!

"So let me get this straight," Dean said at breakfast the morning of the first Quidditch match. "We're watching a sport played on freaking brooms a hundred feet in the air."

"Yep."

"And there are four balls going all around the place the whole time?"

"Quaffle, two Bludgers, and a Golden Snitch."

"Okay, so, Quaffle is like the soccer ball, Bludgers are pretty much flying cannonballs, and a Snitch is… a mosquito."

"Pretty much."

"Awesome."

The buildup to the first Quidditch match of the season had been marked by an increase of intimidation tactics utilized by the student body whenever class wasn't in session. As it was deeply antagonistic rivals Slytherin and Gryffindor that would be facing each other the incidents were frequent but mostly innocuous; hexes and foul name calling and the like being hurled about the halls.

The students soon discovered that Sam was more apt to be impartial than most of the other professors; he took umbrage to any teasing or adverse spellcasting brought to his attention no matter which House the culprit belonged to. He unwittingly received a lot of practice on Priori Incantantato as a result. Dean, however, thought the whole thing was hilarious and kept his own private tally on which house was most creative. By the time the match rolled around Slytherin was in the lead.

Both brothers were at least peripherally aware of the sport; it was hard to miss the kids flying around the football stadium with the giant bubble blowers on each end. The mechanics of the game, however, escaped them through observation alone. They made good on their promise to have another dinner with Harry and his two friends and asked them to lay out the specifics of the game. It was amusing to watch Hermione being, for once, the one who was flabbergasted by detailed queries.

In the midst of the student rivalry, however, it was becoming obvious to most of the staff that Umbridge was trying to insert her grubby little fingers into every aspect of Hogwarts. A temporary ban on student gatherings had all those who were in clubs (not to mention the Quidditch captains) in a panicked frenzy. The unanticipated evaluations came in and a probationary period was put on the Winchesters and on Professor Trelawney. Sam and Dean grew inured to the random presence of Umbridge, her clipboard, and her interruptions, but the Divination Professor was inconsolable. She found refuge in sherry, causing even Dean (for whom alcohol was a vital resource) to be taken aback at how frequently she was discovered wandering the halls drunk.

Umbridge had also begun to implement what were ostensibly Ministry-sanctioned rules. Every day saw Filch hanging up another framed declaration on the walls around the Great Hall, some of which would have been, in other circumstances, utterly laughable. There was the one forbidding drinking liquids in the halls, another making walking and reading at the same time anathema, and nearly, if Filch was to be believed, one that would have criminalized eye rolls. But because Umbridge's authority went unquestioned by the Hogwarts staff (who didn't want the Ministry any more involved with the school than they already were) the students were left with no choice but to obey.

The children's reactions fell into three categories: the resigned, the terrified, and the retaliatory. The resigned just eyeballed the new postings, shrugged, and continued along as they always had. The terrified examined the decrees, memorized them top to bottom, and began weighing every decision against the new rules. A good number of Ravenclaws fell into the latter category and had begun asking Madam Pomfrey for Calming Draughts on a regular basis.

The retaliatory waited. Umbridge had become prey, and when the moment was right they would strike. Fred and George each had a trunkful of their experimental joke products hidden under their beds. Dean started wearing a blazer just so he could conceal a firearm and the demon killing knife on his person without being chastised for it. Sam, with Flitwick's blessing, began to practice a series of nasty, but nonfatal, hexes. Fortunately for Umbridge, these four were the only ones actively plotting, though there were many, many more who wished they had the resources or the gumption to do the same.

The Gryffindor Quidditch Team, having been the last allowed to reform, would have wholeheartedly backed their DADA professors and their Beaters had they known. Most of them were sitting at breakfast with their chins held high, steeling themselves for their long-anticipated bout with Slytherin. The exception was their new Keeper, Ron, who looked like Dean had felt after a night with a bottle of vodka and a questionable stripper named "Katarina."

"He's gonna puke," Dean told Sam after pointing out Ron's delicate mien. "Dude looks like he's gonna shit himself when he gets on the field."

"Probably because of those," Sam replied darkly. He gestured towards the Slytherin table.

Dean blinked over at the sea of green and saw that most of them were sporting a silver badge in the shape of a crown. When a fourth-year walked by the table the hunter was able to read, "WEASLEY IS OUR KING" emblazoned under the tines. "What the hell?"

"Can't be anything good."

Both brothers jumped when a realistic lion's roar erupted from Luna Lovegood's headgear. "Jesus," Sam gasped.

Dean shook his head. "Freaking magic."

The Winchesters finished off their pancakes and followed the crowd to the Quidditch pitch. They joined the rest of the staff in a separate section, one that doubled as a post for the announcer (a student in Fred and George's year named Lee). Umbridge, thankfully, was absent, leaving the teachers blessedly free to engage in more lighthearted conversation.

"Charity!" Sam called amicably. He sat next to the Muggle Studies Professor with whom he'd developed a friendship and struck up a conversation. That, unfortunately, left Dean to either sit off in the corner, where the view was obscured by Pomona's flyblown hair and large hat, or sit next to Severus. He opted for the latter. The pair exchanged unfriendly glances before pointedly ignoring one another's presence.

"Wish there was a beer-dude," Dean said wistfully.

"We're at a school, Dean," Sam chastised.

The two teams were making their way to the middle of the pitch, brooms in hand. It was obvious that the Slytherin team had gone for brawn instead of brains; most of their members were tall and stocky. The exception was Malfoy who, like his counterpart, Potter, was far more lithe. "Harry's a Seeker, right?"

"Yeah," Sam replied as the two Quidditch captains tried to crush each other's palms in the guise of shaking hands. "He looks for Snitch."

"And that thing can be anywhere?"

"I think so."

The players were mounting up. Rolanda Hooch, the school's flying instructor, blew a whistle and both the teams and the balls flew off into the air. Alarmingly, the tiny golden mosquito ball came shooting towards the teacher's box. It swept between Dean and Snape before taking off towards the Hufflepuff seats. The two men exchanged astonished looks before remembering their mutual animosity.

Quidditch was bewildering. Even listening to Lee's commentary couldn't help translate the meaning behind the different balls flying back and forth between the fourteen broom-riding students. Eventually the brothers decided to focus on single areas; Sam chose the Chasers and their goals and Dean chose the Beaters. The Weasleys were absolute terrors with their bats, whacking the balls with stunning accuracy. "Damn!" Dean exclaimed as a Bludger smacked into the head of Slytherin Chaser, Cassius.

"Are they singing?" Sam asked curiously.

"Who?"

Severus gave a long-suffering sigh. "Apparently my House has decided to pay tribute to the Weasley Keeper."

The Winchesters listened carefully and quickly ascertained that the lyrics pertained specifically to the badges the Slytherin had been sporting at breakfast. "Shouldn't you stop them?" Sam demanded.

"What would you have me do?" Snape snapped. "Silence the lot of them? You realize that in keeping with the nature of Slytherin House they would just find more underhanded ways to express themselves."

Recalling how he'd spotted a seventh-year Slytherin use the cover of a crowd to cast a hex at George Weasley, Dean agreed. "You guys got a bunch of sneaky little shits in there," he said with a small degree of admiration.

"To put it mildly."

"Aren't they bullying him?" Sam asked angrily.

"If you haven't noticed, Winchester, Slytherin House is not the only one guilty of committing such acts."

Sam remembered having to chastise a Gryffindor in Harry's year for slapping a "KICK ME" sign on the back of the Slytherin captain's robe with a Permanent Sticking Charm. The clothing had had to be replaced, much to Marcus Flint's disgruntlement. "I guess."

"Dude," Dean said excitedly, "check out Harry!"

Sam and, reluctantly, Snape shot their gazes over at pitch. Harry and Draco were shooting down towards the grass at the foot of the Slytherin goals, their bodies and brooms so close that their robes were flapping against each other, each of their fingers extended towards a tiny, golden ball. The Snitch evaded the both of them and flew to the Gryffindor side. The pair of Seekers executed brilliantly sharp turnabouts to follow the ball. Unfortunately for Draco, Harry's was fractionally quicker. Another breathless second and the Gryffindor boy was lifting triumphantly into the air, the wings of the Snitch firmly grasped in his fist.

Most of the school cheered, the exceptions being a few scattered Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws and the entirety of the green-clad Slytherins. Harry was diving down, his face split by a wide smile, eager to join the rest of his team in celebrating their win. Sam's eyes locked a dejected Ron, decidedly the worst performer during the game, as he slunk towards the locker room, but Dean caught one of the Slytherin Beaters, Vincent, purposefully approaching an idling Bludger, bat prepped.

Dean grabbed Severus. "Stop him!" he demanded.

As the Potions Master's instinctive reaction to the man's abrasive demands was to sneer, they lost precious seconds. When Snape finally realized Dean's intentions the Bludger was already barreling towards Harry's head. There was a loud thud and the boy toppled from his broom. Thankfully Harry had been only several feet from the ground by that point and would suffer nothing more than a few bruises.

Severus at least had the decency to first glance apologetically at Dean, chagrined at his mistake, before palming his face in exasperation. "My apologies."

Dean gave a lugubrious sigh as they climbed down the teacher's box. "Hey, look man. I think we got off on the wrong foot. Long as you're on the up and up I'm good with startin' over."

The Potions Master's brow furrowed. "'Up and up'?"

"Yeah, you know. Not one of the dudes who're willing to crawl up Moldy Shorts' robes for a good time."

Before Severus could process Dean's lewd insinuation, a loud commotion erupted from the pitch. The pair of them hurried down and found a very unwizardly brawl, with George and Harry planting their fists into a shrieking Draco and Fred being dog-piled by the Gryffindor Chasers to keep him from joining his twin. The rest of the two teams were yelling invectives or encouragement, depending on their loyalties.

Snape, nonplussed at the very Muggle-like violence on display, fumbled with his wand while Dean sprinted out onto the grass. "Hey hey hey!" he said sharply as he shoved Harry into George and knocked them both aside.

The fight might have resumed, as Dean was discovering that holding onto two incensed teenaged boys was a lot harder than he assumed, had it not been for Sam's "Expulso!" and Rolanda's "Impedimenta!" colliding between the crowd and flattening everyone, including Snape and the spellcasters. Those other students who had lingered in the stands were now shouting for various professors for help.

McGonagall arrived first. She gaped at the carnage before rushing towards Snape to help him to his feet. Most of the others were already sitting upright and moaning about various bruises. Draco was making the most of the injuries than had been inflicted upon him, whining piteously over a bloodied nose and pain in his chest. "Ah, shut up," Dean growled. "You probably cracked a rib. You'll live."

"MISTER WEASLEY! MISTER POTTER!" Minerva yelled angrily as she stormed over, Severus on her heels. "Explain yourselves this instant!"

Sam sheepishly extended his hand towards his brother as George and Harry furiously informed their Head of House what had transpired between them and the Slytherin boy. "Sorry. Didn't realize Rolanda was going to do something, too."

"Freaking wizards," Dean grumbled. He rubbed the lump growing on the back of his head.

"Heads up."

At Sam's wary tone, Dean swiveled around. An irritatingly familiar "*hem, hem*" floated out from behind McGonagall's statuesque form. When she stepped aside Umbridge was revealed, her hands folded together and a smugly pleased smile stretching her lips. "May I help, Professor McGonagall?" she said sweetly.

"Help?" Minerva repeated waspishly. "What do you mean, 'help'?"

"Why, I thought you might be grateful for some extra authority."

"Can I punch her?" Dean asked in a not-so-quiet voice.

"Not in front of the kids," Sam replied.

After Minerva flatly refused to accept the offer of aid, Umbridge pretended to pontificate over her lack of power before proceeding to unveil another Educational Decree: "'The High Inquisitor will henceforth have supreme authority over all punishments, sanctions, and removal of privileges pertaining to the students of Hogwarts, and the power to alter such punishments, sanctions, and removals of privileges as may have been ordered by other staff members. Signed, Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, Order of Merlin First Class, etc., etc . . .'"

After seeing his brother's baffled look, Sam clarified, "Means she's got the last word on whatever punishments or rewards that'll be handed out."

"Precisely!" Umbridge trilled. "Very good, Professor Winchester," she added. Sam wouldn't have been surprised if she tried to pat him on the head. He was grateful for his great height at that moment.

"So," Umbridge continued, "I really think I will have to ban these two from playing Quidditch ever again."

"Ban us?" Harry said. The brothers frowned at the despondency in his voice. "From playing… ever again?"

"Yes, Mr. Potter, I think a lifelong ban ought to do the trick. You and Mr. Weasley here. And I think, to be safe, this young man's twin ought to be stopped too; if his teammates had not restrained him, I feel sure he would have attacked young Mr. Malfoy as well."

"What the hell is your problem?" Dean roared as he advanced on the woman. The students scattered out of the way. "Takin' away their game just for a fight?"

"Are you going to punish the Slytherins?" Sam demanded. "They spent the entire game bullying the Gryffindor Keeper! If George, Fred, and Harry are going to be punished then they should be too."

Umbridge ignored Sam and focused her malicious grin on Dean. "I do have a very important question, Mr. Winchester. I noticed that you physically restrained Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley." She tittered behind her hand. "Surely it would have been both swifter and easier to handle it with a spell, just as Professor Winchester and Madam Hooch so… effectively displayed. Was there something wrong with your wand?"

McGonagall, Harry and Sam, the only ones on the pitch privy to Dean's Muggle status, stiffened. Sam wracked his brain as fast as he could, trying to figure out some way of extricating themselves out of the situation before the secret was out, and if the consternated expressions on Harry and Minerva's faces they were doing the same. "Forgot it," Dean said simply.

"Oh, how irresponsible of you!" Umbridge said, her hand flying to her chest in a faux display of outrage. "Out of curiosity," she asked, her abrasive tone suddenly melting into one sickeningly sweet, "what is your wand made of?"

Dean had been hoping his initial answer was sufficient and was caught floundering. "Same as his," he replied quickly, his thumb jerking at his brother.

"Quite unusual! Perhaps, Professor Winchester, as the other Professor Winchester gave us such an excellent demonstration on how to disperse a crowd, you might one as well? If your wands are the same then it shouldn't take too much effort if you were to borrow his."

"No thanks."

If anything, Dean's reluctance made Umbridge's resolve harden. "I insist."

The brothers glanced at one another, and then at Minerva. She shrugged, helpless, and shook her head. "Uh, I can't," Dean finally muttered.

"Whyever not, Professor Winchester?"

He wiped a hand down his face. "'Cause I'm a—"

"Squib!" Sam inserted quickly. "He's a Squib."

"Oh?" Umbridge wondered. "And here I thought Dumbledore might have hired a Muggle. How dreadful a thought! Violating the Statute of Secrecy to hire an uneducated, unmagical, Muggle to teach our children."

"Yeah," Dean agreed sourly. "Totally fu—" belatedly he remembered the students' presence, "—freaking wrong."

"Instead he brought in a Squib to teach one of our most important subjects! Be sure, I will be bringing this up with the Board of Governors. Your days as a professor, Mr. Winchester, are numbered."

After her jaunty proclamation, Umbridge turned on her heel and strode from the Quidditch pitch. The students, and Madam Hooch (having spent the confrontation gathering the Quidditch balls) followed. Most of the Slytherins cast disgusted looks at Dean, his elevated status as a professor now tarnished by his supposed Squib-status. The rest of the children seemed to reflect mostly pity for the poor member of the Winchester Family. To be born around magic and yet be unable to use it seemed a horrendously unfair fate.

A few minutes later the grass was empty save for McGonagall, Snape, and the two brothers. "Well, that sucked," Dean grumbled.

Severus lifted an eyebrow. "Are you truly a Squib?"

"He's a Muggle," Minerva stated firmly, "which does not change his ability to instruct our students, Severus."

Surprisingly, the Potions Master, the Head of Slytherin House, merely nodded. "It does bring about the question, however, how it is that you can interact with our world."

"Got no clue," Dean said irritably.

"I'm assuming I need to keep this a secret?"

"For now," McGonagall said. "Let's go, you two. We need to speak to Dumbledore before that horrid woman contacts the Board."

They headed towards the castle, McGonagall and Snape in the lead. Sam noticed the latter subtly glancing back at Dean an inordinate number of times as they walked. The Potions Master wasn't quite so serene about Dean's Muggle status as he was letting on. They would have to be more wary around the man from this point forward. A pity, especially since Sam believed they were finally clearing the ugliness that had colored their initial meeting.

The group was brought short at the entrance by the sound of Umbridge's shrill demands. "—is impossible! Therefore you will explain how you maligned the castle wards or you will be removed by force!"

McGonagall and Snape glanced at one another apprehensively before slamming the doors open. Umbridge was in the middle of Entrance Hall, thankfully with no students present, confronting whomever she was accusing of… something. The sight of the intruder had Sam and Dean exchanging their own set of apprehensive glances before they shoved past the other professors.

"Cass!" Dean greeted.

"Hello, Dean," the angel replied stoically. "Sam."

"…And then Madam Umbridge said that he's probably going to have to leave! Isn't that terrible?"

"Oh, quite. I'm so sorry. You seem quite fond of him."

"Very much so." The boy sighed. "I better go. Filch is a right bloody bastard about curfew."

"Watch your language, darling."

"Sorry, mum."

"It's all right. I love you."

"I love you, too."

Lady Bevell tapped her phone to end the call and sat back with a sigh. She missed her son, but it wouldn't have been any easier if he'd chosen Kendricks, her alma mater, instead of Hogwarts. At the very least she felt easier knowing that the likelihood of his demise at a fellow student's hands had gone down exponentially.

She placed another call. "Umbridge came through. It's begun."

"Good. The sooner those Winchesters are back in the States the better. I worry that the measures we may have to take in order to curb Riddle's plans will run contrary to their sense of… morality." The man sighed. "I'm a little worried about how useful Umbridge will continue to be, however."

"Minister Fudge assured us that our agreement still stands."

"Yes, but as long as he clings to his delusions about Riddle's return then his cooperation will be limited. Hold on a moment, Booker's calling. What the devil…?"

Lady Bevell flipped idly through her notebook as she waited impatiently for her coworker to answer his other call. Something had to be wrong; Booker had been the one sent to monitor Azkaban. If he was using a phone rather than an owl then he'd left his post. Either Booker had suddenly turned coward (unlikely, given his sociopathic tendencies) or…

The voice returned. "We have a problem," the Man of Letters said worriedly. "It wasn't Booker."

"Williams," Bevell surmised, the name of Booker's backup written beside his on the page detailing the growing dilemma with Tom Riddle.

"Yes. He found Booker a quarter of a kilometer from their rendezvous point. Kissed."

Lady Bevell fought the undignified urge to curse over the loss of a fine operative. Then the disturbing implication of what had happened to the man came to her. "Dementors that far out from Azkaban?"

"The wizards are losing control of them. Riddle will be moving soon."

"Push the timeline up. Contact Dumbledore and let him know about what we suspect about the Department of Mysteries."

"Very good."

The call ended. Lady Bevell resisted the urge to call Mr. Ketch and have him retrieve her son. They were certain Lord Voldemort would eventually try to take Hogwarts for his own; according to their intel it was the one place the wizard had felt he'd belonged. The thought of Jasper having to deal with that monster…

No, it was too soon. If the Men of Letters tipped their hand early it was possible all would be lost. Besides, speaking with Arthur was never pleasant. She would have to wait and pray her duty wouldn't cost her son his life.