Dean hunched next to the doorway to the classroom, arms crossed tightly over his chest as twerps in robes filed past him. Christ on crackers, leaving America had been the worst idea they'd ever had, let alone coming to this bizarre castle school of magic and… gayness. What the hell was taking Sam so long in that classroom?

Shaggy Glassesface and his lackey Fire Balls (Dean had given them the nicknames while the professor had been rambling about teacups and playing with "wands" and other weird British shit) stopped next to him outside the door, and watched it expectantly for a moment before turning toward him.

"I can't believe you ate an entire handful of Bernie Botts'," the ginger kid said to him, eyes wide.

Dean grimaced. "Is that what passes for food in this mausoleum?"

"They've got more normal stuff," the kid with glasses told him, and reached into his bag, pulling out an orange pastry thing. "Try a pumpkin pasty."

Dean unwrapped it and shoved the entire thing in his mouth. "Fangks," he garbled, and both boys stared at him. He forced himself to swallow, wincing, and then grinned. "Dean Winchester." He held his hand out.

"Harry Potter," Shaggy Glasses said.

"Ron Weasley." The ginger kid shook his hand. Christ, what a name.

"I'm sorry," Dean told him sincerely. "I'm sure your parents actually love you. Maybe it's a family name, or something."

Ron opened his mouth, looking befuddled, and then closed it again, looking more confused. Dean patted his shoulder comfortingly.

"Hermoine says demons aren't real," Harry interrupted the bonding moment (obviously he was seriously territorial about his friends. Jeez, Dean was gonna have to take it easy around this kid.).

Dean refrained from snorting, but couldn't help the pitying smile. "Okay, kid. How about just the same, you answer me a question or two. Both of you." They both nodded. "You seen anybody acting weird? Maybe not like themselves, but maybe just sneaky."

"SNAPE!" Ron shouted abruptly.

At the same moment, Harry yelled "DRACO!" so emphatically that his glasses nearly fell off his nose.

Dean took a moment to glance at the boys critically. They looked… a bit crazed. And their answers had been a bit too quick, like they had some kind of grudge. Good to know magical high schoolers were just as petty as regular ones.

"Oooookay," he said and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Seen anybody with black eyes? Avoiding silver? Stop putting salt on their food? Smoking without a cigarette? Slitting throats? Praising the Dark Lord?"

A collective gasp went up in the hallway, and the dozens of students around them froze in their tracks.

"We call him He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," Ron muttered to him. "And no, we haven't."

"Well actually…" Harry hesitated, and Dean immediately turned to him. "Rhonda Rhodewater. She always wears this silver badger around her neck."

A badger. What the frigging frig. Dean bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

"I only remember because a pixie grabbed it during class and nearly throttled her with it. Anyway, she stopped wearing it about a week ago. And she had a mark round her throat for a day or two till she magicked it away."

Dean nodded, face serious. "Rhonda Rhodewater. Got it. Where can I find her?"

"Hufflepuff wing," Ron said, thumbing toward one end of the castle. "Most likely, anyway."

Sam suddenly walked out of the classroom, with the ferret girl scuttling after him dreamily, seconds from having her pupils obscured by giant pink throbbing hearts. Dean smirked. Fuck, this was gonna be good.

"Sam," she blurted as he waved to his brother and started to walk over. "You. I mean. Your notes. I… I'm afraid I missed… Because… there was the pen…" Her face went beet red, and Dean smirked. "Could you explain… or just the notes… there's a tavern. Drinks. You know. Notes. Books?"

Sam looked so uncomfortable. His forehead was all wrinkly and his mouth all curled awkwardly, and his fucking ears were the same color as ginger kid's HAIR. Oh God. Why had Dumbledore forbidden their cellphones on campus? This was a goddamn Kodak moment, and Dean didn't have a single tool to capture it short of pen and paper.

Not that there was any way Dean's stick figures could accurately capture the way Sam fumbled with his notes and shoved them into the girl's hands.

Dean felt CarrotTop tense next to him. Smirking, Dean raised an eyebrow and glanced at him. Teenagers were so frigging ridiculous.

Sam was quickly walking from the girl, giving Dean an expression that clearly read Can We Get The Fuck Out Of This Hallway NOW Please? Ferret Girl clutched the papers to her chest and watched them go.

"Twelve year olds, am I right?" Dean snickered as Sam dragged him by the elbow down the hall.

"Twelve?" Sam asked, glancing irritably over his shoulder. "They're sixteen."

"Six- what?" Dean demanded, twisting to look over his shoulder at her, and nearly tripping over his feet. "I'm pretty sure they don't even make a bra that small. I wear a bigger cup than she does."

"No one wants to hear you brag about your dick," Sam retorted dryly. He finally stopped after they'd rounded a corner into a quiet, empty hallway. "I hope no one saw that. I'm pretty sure she was six seconds away from offering to give me a guided tour of her bedroom."

"Are these kids really full on teenagers?" Dean asked in disbelief. "They're tiny. And so awkward. Even you were more developed at that age."

"Dean," Sam mumbled warningly.

"Seriously, you weren't even that tall then," Dean said, still looking down the hall, obviously hoping for another glimpse, "but you had those broad shoulders that were already showing muscle-"

"Dean," Sam repeated, sounding like an embarrassed teenager admonishing a gushing parent.

"-And the long throat, and the way your ass looked in jeans? Man, you should have seen the way girls stared at that thing."

"Dean!" Sam's entire face was flaming crimson.