OPHELIA FAIRFOREST AND THE WEIRDASS SCHOOL OF WITCHRAFT AND WIZARDRY
Plot summary: basically this is an ongoing slice-of-life fic starring my vaguely autobiographical OC, Ophelia Fairforest, inspired by my discovery that most of the Hogwarts teachers are in their thirties during the events of the series. Professor Fairforest gets conned into becoming the first Muggle professor at Hogwarts. At some point there's going to be a romance with a (book-based) Lupin.
Author's note: I am once again ignoring canon chronology because setting something in the 90s is too much work, and am assuming that the events in Harry Potter happened sometime within the last two decades, minus The Plague. There will be anachronisms and inaccuracies everywhere. Please enjoy another shameless self-insert fanfic. I'm hoping to post a chapter at least once a month, but we'll see how that goes.
CHAPTER I: in which Professor Fairforest has an existential crisis
In retrospect, I suppose I should have noticed that something was weird earlier than I did. In my defense, I was severely jet-lagged and hadn't slept at all on the flight from New Jersey to London. I had dim memories of being met at the train station by an impressively professional woman who introduced herself as Professor McGonagall. I hauled my massive suitcase behind her up and down the many elevators and escalators of King's Cross Station, trying desperately to follow her brisk Scottish accent. I followed her blearily onto the platform and gasped at the beautiful steam engine.
"Wow, it's incredible," I said. "I can't believe they still use these here."
"Oh yes, the Hogwarts Express has been in use since the mid nineteenth century," said Professor McGonagall.
I suppose this should have been a clue, but what you have to understand about England is that things are shockingly old there. There's a pub in Oxford that started out as an illegal gambling den in the twelfth century and is still thriving. So I just said "incredible," and got aboard. I was a little anxious when she directed me to hand my giant suitcase off to a porter. When I'd been in the country before, I'd always been able to stow my luggage nearby, but I was too tired to do anything about it, and she assured me it would be quite safe, and that my luggage would be brought up to my room for me.
"Oh wow," I said, clutching my carry-on bag, which was about as conceivably large as a carry-on bag could be. "How much should I tip them?"
"Tip?" said McGonagall, visibly confused.
I tried to remember what the English policy about tipping was, and, fearing to be rude, dropped the subject.
The inside of the train was just as beautiful as the outside. After the cramped confines of the airplane, it felt like paradise. Abandoning all pretense at being professional, I apologized to McGonagall, curled up in a corner of the train, and went to sleep.
When I awoke, it was nearly dark outside. "Oh, good, you're just in time for tea," said McGonagall. A cheery-faced lady was standing outside our compartment with an ornate cart filled with food. "What'll you take, dear?" she asked.
I rubbed my eyes and stared at the baffling display of items. British snacks really were something else. "Some tea—with milk and sugar—and—some of those, please," I said, gesturing to a brightly colored sleeve of biscuits.
"That'll be five sickles and two knuts," she replied.
I blinked. "Beg pardon?"
"Five sickles and two knuts," she said, looking less friendly.
Baffled, I counted out what I hoped was five pounds and two pennies and handed it to her. She wrinkled her nose. "I'm afraid I can't accept muggle money," she said.
"It's my treat," said McGonagall cheerfully.
I stared with growing panic at the currency I was holding. I'd ordered it from the bank in America months ago. Had I gotten the wrong kind? The English sometimes made a fuss about Scottish notes, but they'd never refused them entirely.
"Thank you," I said, as I found myself the possessor of a whole pot of tea, along with cup, saucer, milk and sugar and a pile of biscuits on a silver tray. "I'm sorry—but is it the wrong kind?" I held up my handful of change for her inspection. "It looks just like what I had when I came to England before."
She examined it. "It's the right money for the muggle world, but the wizarding world has its own currency."
"The what?" I said, now definitely on the verge of a panic attack.
"The wizarding world," she said matter-of-factly.
"I don't understand," I said. "Is that like, some kind of secret society?" I wondered if I had somehow accidentally landed a job with some weird cult.
She was beginning to look almost as confused as I felt. "Well, it is a secret society, in a way, ever since the International Statute of Secrecy, for all the magical folk. After all, you're going to be teaching at Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry, surely you're aware—" she paused, squinted at me, and said, "What exactly did Professor Dumbledore tell you?"
I glanced at the nearest exit. "I was told that I'd been hired to teach literature at the Hogmanay School for the Gifted and Talented."
Now it was Professor McGonagall's turn to look baffled. "He made no mention of the sorts of gifts these children have?"
"No," I said.
She stared at me for several seconds, and muttered something under her breath that sounded like "fudge."
Then, seeing the growing terror on my face, she said. "Don't be alarmed, dear, I'm not angry with you." She took a deep breath, and then poured herself a cup of tea.
"Some children," she said, "are born with the ability to use magic. Hogwarts trains them how to become witches and wizards."
I stared at her. "Is this some kind of joke?" I asked, sleep deprived and utterly at my wits end. British humor was very strange, but this seemed a bit beyond the pale.
"No, I assure you, Miss Fairforest, I'm quite serious," she said, looking at me over the top of her spectacles.
I stared at her for several minutes, waiting for her to start laughing at the gullibility of the new American teacher. But she didn't.
"But that's insane," I said. "I mean, magic isn't real."
Instead of replying in any kind of normal fashion, Professor McGonagall transformed into a cat.
I screamed, and bolted into the tiny hallway.
It was crowded with children in little black robes and wands. One was very clearly making a rat float in midair. I ran down the corridor, trying not to knock over any of them, and got stuck behind the trolley lady, who was having a cheerful gossip with what looked like a demon, while another group of children were cheering as a tall girl transformed her robes into different colors. I leaned against the rattling wall of the compartment, fully panicking now.
Something furry brushed up against my leg, causing me to shriek out a very non-kid friendly curse. I looked down and saw it was the cat, and screamed again as it turned back into Professor McGonagall.
"I'm terribly sorry," she said. "Please, allow me to explain."
"Please," I begged the conductor, who was clearly enjoying the excitement. "I want to get off!"
"It's too late now," said McGonagall, which didn't really make me feel any calmer. "Hogsmeade is the only station within a hundred miles."
This is it, I thought. I've done it. I've gone and got myself captured by a crazy cult. This is what I got for leaving home and moving to a heathen European country.
I closed my eyes. Please. Let me go back home. I'll be a good Proverbs 31 woman and never get mixed up with the devil again.
When I opened my eyes, I was still on the train. McGonagall the cat-woman was still standing there. By now, of course, all the children were staring, along with the conductor and the trolley woman.
"Please," said McGonagall. "Come with me and I'll try my best to explain everything."
I decided there was nothing for it but to try to pull myself together. I took a deep breath. "Okay," I said, racking my brains for something professional and sensible to say. "Okay."
She took me by the arm and steered me firmly back into the train compartment as if she was afraid I would make another break for it. The children followed close behind. She gave them a stern look. "Really," she said. "I suggest you return to your compartments and make yourselves presentable for your arrival at Hogwarts."
Then, she sat me down in the compartment, and poured two fresh cups of tea for both of us. Then she pulled out a small, ornate silver flask from her coat. "A splash of firewhisky, to settle your nerves," she said. She poured some into my cup and then into her own.
I took the cup, but waited until she had drunk from hers before I did the same.
"It's difficult to know where to begin," she said. "You see, our Muggle Studies teacher retired suddenly last term under rather unfortunate circumstances. There is, I am afraid, a great deal of anti-muggle sentiment in the institutions of higher learning at this time, so there was no one to replace her. So, Dumbledore thought that it would be best to hire a muggle to teach Muggle Studies."
"What," I said, "in the name of all that's holy, is Muggle Studies?"
She straightened up and cleared her throat. "You see, the muggle world and the wizarding world have been separated due to the Statute of Secrecy since the seventeenth century. Through the use of magic and common sense, we have attempted to conceal ourselves entirely from the rest of the world. The muggle world. I believe the American term is no-maj."
I took a sip of tea, feeling more mystified than ever, but less panicky.
"Magical folk have created smaller, hidden communities within larger communities. We have our own money, our own history, our own culture. Our everyday lives are often quite different. But an understanding of the muggle community is equally important to our survival, so it has always been a part of the curriculum at Hogwarts."
I sat pondering this in silence for several minutes, trying to wrap my head around it. "So, it's a class on…what it's like to be ordinary?"
"Yes," she said. "Exactly."
"But that's impossible," I said again. "You can't possibly fit a comprehensive understanding of—people and everyday life— into one school subject."
McGonagall sighed. "I know. I've been trying to get the board to add more classes for years, but they always say that if they want to learn how to be a muggle they should just go to muggle school. As it is, I'm afraid it's only an elective."
I covered my face with my hands. "This is insane," I said. "I don't think I'm really qualified to teach—just because I don't have magic doesn't mean I know about everything. I have a very specialized knowledge of literature with a dash of history and foreign languages, but outside of that—"
"The entire board believes you are qualified," she said. "To be completely frank, nearly anybody would be an improvement over the last one."
I ran a hand through my frazzled airplane hair. "Can you—do you have records of what's been taught in the past? Syllabi and stuff?"
"Oh yes," she said. "I can get you all of those. And there is a great deal of flexibility as to subject matter. You can of course play to your strengths."
I sat there, trying to comprehend all this, wondering if grad school had finally made me lose my mind. "All right," I said. "I'll do my best."
She looked visibly relieved. "Excellent. I'm sure you'll do very well." She said it like she meant it, and in spite of the utter insanity of the situation I realized that I wanted to make her proud.
"Another thing," I said. "I won't get paid in wizarding currency, will I?"
"Most of the professors take part of their salary in wizarding currency and part in muggle money—more or less depending on their living situation, but you can have all of it in muggle money if you like, but you'll probably want at least a little for expenses around Hogsmeade—it's one of the few entirely wizarding villages. I'll make sure you get some from the treasury when we arrive. Room and board are included in your contract, of course."
I decided that the best way to stave off additional panic would be to collect as much information as possible, so I spent the rest of the trip peppering her with questions, since apparently whatever Dumbledore had told me had been utter nonsense. What other subjects were taught at a wizarding school? Who were the faculty, and what were they like? How exactly had the statute of secrecy come about? What were wizarding communities and customs like? How familiar were they with the muggle world? What was Hogwarts like?
McGonagall was more than happy to talk about the wizarding world and gossip about the faculty. By the time we reached the station, my head was swimming with a vast array of information about a world in whose existence I never would have believed.
"So, let me get this straight," I said. "The four houses are Gryffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw, and…Hufflepuff?"
"Yes."
"And the Gryffindors are known for bravery?"
"Yes," she said, proudly.
"They're children," I said. "Who is expecting children to be known for bravery?"
"It's an old chivalric tradition," said McGonagall stiffly.
"And then Ravenclaw is the house for…academically-minded students."
"Yes," she said. "Quite respectable."
"And Hufflepuffs are known for hard work. That sounds a bit loaded somehow."
"I assure you they're just as good as the other students."
"And Slytherins are known for…racism and villainy?"
"Well, technically its pride and ambition," said McGonagall. "Of course, we'll have to assign you to a house. Muggle or not, everyone has a house."
I contemplated my options and hoped I'd be allowed to decide after I got a better look at the faculty. If I got to decide.
And that's how I found myself stranded in a Gothic castle in the middle of effing Scottish nowhere at the Hogwarts School of Demonic Occult Stuff and British Children.
CHAPTER TWO: In Which Professor Fairforest sees some Ghosts
For some reason, I thought things would be less weird when we arrived at the train station. They weren't.
It was dark, so I couldn't see much of the village. What I could see was that the next stage of our journey involved horse drawn carriages. Which sounds picturesque and lovely except A) hella cult vibes and B) they were pulled by skeletal, hairless black creatures that bore a vague and uncanny resemblance to horses.
"What the hell are those?" I hissed to McGonagall, trying to keep my voice down to a whisper.
She turned to look at me with a grave face. "You can see them?"
This is not the response one wants to hear under such circumstances. I'm not really sure what is, except maybe the Ghostbusters theme playing in the background.
"Yeah…" I said.
She sighed, and looked so sad that I almost stopped freaking out. Almost. "So can I."
"But what are they?" I asked, as she opened the door to the carriage.
"They're called Thestrals," she said. She got inside, and, with one last reluctant look at the Eldritch Critters, I followed her.
Once we were inside, she said, "They can only be seen by those who have seen death."
"Oh," I said. It took a minute for this to sink in.
I looked out the window at the horses as we jolted along in the carriage. They had enormous, batlike wings. I hadn't noticed them at first.
After a few minutes, I looked over at McGonagall. Her lips were pressed together in a tight line, and I realized she was trying not to cry. "I'm sorry," I said. Which probably isn't the right thing to say to someone who's trying not to cry. But sometimes there is no right thing. "There's been so many," she said quietly. Her shoulders shook, but she didn't cry. Somehow that was worse.
I hugged my purse to my chest and looked out the window as we lurched along. You couldn't see much of the village through the darkness. "I'm sorry," I said.
"Was it someone close to you?" she asked.
I shrugged awkwardly. "Oh. It was my dog, that's all. He was very old, and then things got rough towards the end and we had to put him down." It was not a good memory. But it felt very small compared to whatever horrific things that McGonagall appeared to have gone through.
She took a deep breath and said, "They're very gentle, the thestrals, if treated with care. Like ordinary horses. They roam through the forest most of the year. Some people think they're ill omens, but they're not."
I bit my lip and tried to keep an open mind.
"I grew up on a farm," she said. "Near Caithness."
"That must have been lovely," I said.
She smiled sadly. "It was. Not an easy life. But it was lovely."
We rattled on in silence, out of the forest. The moon was surprisingly bright. Suddenly, as we rounded a corner, I saw a huge castle silhouetted on the horizon. It was absolutely nothing like the Georgian building that Dumbledore had sent me in the fake informational packet, and nothing like the sort of place I'd expect to go along with a name like "Hogwarts." It was beautiful, with its wild Gothic proportions and dizzying turrets, like something out of a dream, with warm lights glowing from its many windows. I shivered in delight.
Really, I felt like somebody, when I was once again told that my bags would be brought up for me. By the time we started up the staircase to the prosaically named Faculty Tower, I could have danced with excitement. I was in a castle. I was going to live in a castle.
And then I saw the ghosts.
In their defense, they looked quite harmless, three of them in costumes of different centuries, just having a cheerful little gossip together. They looked up at us and waved happily. I put my hand against the big cold stone wall to prop myself up, feeling my stomach lurch, something instinctively telling me that these weren't illusions. They were people. They were dead.
That's when I fainted. At least apparently. I don't actually remember it. The next thing I knew, I was lying in a big four-poster bed with Professor McGonagall and another woman in the wildest hat I'd ever seen looking at me anxiously. Truly one of the most embarrassing moments of my life, and there were plenty to choose from. All in all it was not shaping up to be the most stunning of first impressions.
The woman with the impressive hat gave me something to drink that made me cough (Pepperup Potion, as I later learned). I wished that I were literally anywhere else in the world, preferably in some remote corner of Wyoming where there weren't any people.
"I'm sorry," said McGonagall. "I forgot about the ghosts."
I coughed again, and looked up at her. "You forgot. About the ghosts? How do you forget about literal, actual ghosts?"
She shrugged. "Well, you do get used to them, and to be completely honest, I sometimes forget Professor Binns is a ghost because he's exactly like he was when he was alive."
"It's true," said the witch in the medieval hat. "Drink the rest of that," she urged.
I looked at the cup. It was the most ornate thing I'd ever seen. The liquid inside looked and smelled like if someone had combined whiskey and Nyquil with a healthy dose of dry ice. I took a deep breath, and downed it. I'm pretty sure there was steam coming out my ears.
"I'm Poppy Pomfrey, the school nurse," she said cheerfully. "Madam Pomfrey to the students, but you can call me Poppy."
I turned to look at her. "What else is in this school? Zombies? Vampires? Werewolves?"
"We did have a three-headed dog last year," said Poppy. "And he who must not be named. But they're both gone now."
I assumed "he-who-must-not-be-named" was some sort of universally hated admin guy.
McGonagall had screwed up her face, clearly racking her brains. "Well there is the giant squid in the lake. And the mermaids. They're not above eating people. And the grindylows. There may or may not be werewolves in the Forbidden Forest."
"Don't forget the giant spiders," said Poppy. "Oh, and the goblins are not to be trusted."
"No vampires or zombies," said McGonagall decisively.
"Well, there was that one time," said Poppy.
"That was over a century ago," said McGonagall. "Anyway, don't fret yourself about the ghosts, dear. They're quite harmless. Peculiar, of course. And rather sensitive. But definitely the least of your worries, all things considered."
[author's note: I've left Peeves out because he's a nuisance].
I buried my head in my hands. Despite this exhaustive and distressing list, I was not wholly convinced they had remembered everything. But I gritted my teeth and told myself that I had somehow been conned into a most extraordinary adventure, and I had better pull myself together.
I made a move to get up out of the bed. "Allrighty then. What happens now?"
"Personally," said Poppy, "I should like you to rest a while longer, but no one ever listens to me."
"It would be best if you did not miss the start-of-term feast," said McGonagall firmly.
So, shortly thereafter, I found myself in the great hall. I'd snagged a few moments to change and freshen up, and I was glad I had, because it was the sort of place that would make anyone feel underdressed. I spent several minutes staring up at the enchanted ceiling, which looked exactly like the sky above, mesmerized and utterly speechless. And underneath that there were hundreds of candles. In that moment, I felt that no matter what horrors or insanity I might face, it would be worth it just to be in this beautiful place.
Eventually, I recovered enough to realize that I was now confronted with all six or seven or eight of my new colleagues. It was hard to tell exactly how many there were from where I sat. I was seated at the very far end of a literal medieval high table like a disgraced lady in waiting. McGonagall had abandoned me, probably out of disgust, so I found myself sandwiched between the biggest, most terrifying looking man I'd ever seen, and a greasy-looking black-haired man with a very prominent, very British nose and billowing black robes, kind of like a cross between Gerard Way and Mr. Collins.
The latter looked me up and down when I asked him to pass me the salt. Despite being the same height as me, he gave one the impression of passing out judgment from a great eminence. "You must be the new Muggle studies teacher," he said.
"Yes," I said. "Ophelia Fairforest. And you are?"
"Professor Snape," he said coldly, as if that ended the conversation.
"What do you teach?" I persisted.
"The subtle science and exact art of potion making," he said.
Ah, he was a STEM major. That explained it. I returned to the safety of my soup.
"Looks like it'll freeze soon," boomed the giant, looking up at the sky. "It'll ruin my petunias," he said mournfully.
I turned over to look at him in astonishment. "Do you…garden?" I said. This seemed like dangerous ground. English people have very strong feelings about gardening. Having grown up in the American south, a garden usually refers to someone else's very expensive landscaping or to the acre-sized vegetable farm in your backyard. Or just a regular farm with a little fruit stand on the side of the road where you sell overpriced peach jam that was definitely not made by peaches grown on your farm.
"I'm the groundskeeper here," he said brightly. "But the petunias are mostly part of me own garden."
I wasn't completely sure what the duties of a groundskeeper were, but it sounded like big-time gardening. "Oh," I said. "I hope I didn't offend you."
"Not at all," he said, smiling.
I cast about for gardening small talk material. "What other kinds of plants grow well up here?" I managed.
He happily launched into a discussion of the Hogwarts grounds. They did, as it turned out, have a massive kitchen garden, as well as multiple greenhouses "although those are more Professor Sprout's," the Whomping Willow, which fell under the list of terrifying things McGonagall forgot to mention, as well as lots of natural greenery and forest. Despite his appearance, I slowly realized he was quite kind and friendly.
"So is the Forbidden Forest forbidden to everyone or just students?" I asked.
"Mostly just students," he said. "But definitely don't go there by yourself, specially if you're a Muggle."
"Are there really vampires and werewolves in there?" I asked. If you're wondering if I had Twilight on the brain, the answer was yes.
He then launched into a comprehensive discussion of the assortment of creatures that inhabit the Forbidden Forest, which occupied the remainder of the feast (except for the part where Dumbledore got up to give one of the weirdest speeches I ever did hear, but more on that in a minute). He also recommended that I check out Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them from the school library. McGonagall had spoken enthusiastically about the library, and I couldn't wait to check it out.
As Hagrid talked, I looked out at the four long tables of students. I had never been to private school as a kid, so it was strange to see everyone wearing the same clothes (and the same silly hats). Richly-embroidered tablecloths marked the house colors. The red house was lively and exuberant. I'm pretty sure someone was shooting off fireworks underneath the table. The green house was a bit more subdued and refined, as if they'd spent a great deal of time being trained in which spoon to use. The blue house had clusters of people talking eagerly, and one section of the table devoted to people who had brought books and were companionably ignoring each other, as well as the recognizable demeanor of a teen holding forth in a philosophical debate. I think there was also some kind of chemistry experiment going on. The yellow house seemed the most normal—eating and talking and swapping action figures and Pokémon cards. They looked the happiest.
The new students were assigned to each table by means of a weird anxiety-inducing spectacle involving a hat, which they placed on their head. The hat was, apparently, sentient, and after a few moments, it would scream out the house name at the top of its metaphorical lungs. At least, I hope they were metaphorical. I looked down the high table at the staff and entertained myself by trying to guess which house they were in, based on what I could remember of my briefing from McGonagall. Hagrid, I thought, must be a Hufflepuff. McGonagall had said they were known for their kindness and hospitality. Given his obvious STEM inclinations and haughty demeanor, I took Snape for a Ravenclaw. Poppy Pomfrey was more difficult. Since she was in the medical field, she might be a Ravenclaw, but she was also very hospitable, like Hagrid, so she might be a Hufflepuff. The man with the impressive head of blonde hair, on the far end, who Dumbledore had announced as Professor Lockhart, was definitely a Slytherin. You could just tell. I wondered what kind of shampoo he used.
Now, back to Dumbledore. You can imagine that my opinion of him was none of the highest, at this point. I was, however, awed by his impressive fashion sense—long bejeweled robes that would have made a medieval bishop jealous—and equally impressive beard.
The speech began normally enough. "Welcome to another year at Hogwarts," he said. "An especial welcome to our new professors. Gilderoy Lockhart will be serving as your Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher"—here he was interrupted by loud applause, cheers, and squealing from the girl students (it rivaled the time I ran into Harry Styles at Tesco), at which Lockhart (he of the hair) preened and tossed his head like a pigeon. I took a second look at Lockhart and found it difficult to believe he was capable of teaching anything. Incompetence just radiated from the man. After a good ten minutes Dumbledore majestically waved his hand for silence. "I would also like to welcome our new Muggle Studies teacher, Professor Fairforest."
There was a disappointed silence, followed by polite and unenthusiastic clapping as I waved awkwardly and hoped I looked more competent than Lockhart. This seemed like a reasonable and expected introduction, but then Dumbledore added, "Professor Fairforest will be making history as the first muggle professor at Hogwarts."
There was a quiet, sibiliant murmur of disapproval, the kind you get when you say you don't believe in complementarianism in Bible study or tell literature students that you don't like Flannery O'Connor. Except that generally you don't get the sense that those particular individuals might be down with murder if the opportunity presented itself. I tried not to squirm in my seat.
Dumbledore went on, unperturbed. "And of course, I must remind you not to go looking for hidden chambers filled with murderous beasts. Trouble will always be found by those foolish enough to not know where it is. Reserve your curiosity for academic subjects, since those are the least likely to teach us anything. And make sure to butter your toast counterclockwise to stave off the nargles. Now, enjoy your dessert!"
What the hell was that supposed to mean? It sounded like he was sabotaging us before we even began.
I glanced at Hagrid to see his reaction, but he was happily serving up trifle to Professor Flitwick. Snape had mysteriously vanished. I looked across the table at McGonagall to see how she had reacted to the speech, but she wasn't there.
There was nothing for it but to see if we could make it through dessert. McGonagall reappeared, looking irritated, and made some urgent communication to Dumbledore. A few minutes later, Dumbledore, having finished his trifle, got up and left. Eventually, she dismissed the students, and offered to lead me back to the Faculty Tower.
"I'm terribly sorry, but I don't think you'll be able to see Professor Dumbledore this evening," she said, her brow furrowed with annoyance. "Two of the students just crashed a car into the Whomping Willow."
"Oh my gosh," I said. "Are they—will they be all right?"
"Oh, they'll be fine," she said, waving her hands impatiently. "But they've caused serious damage the tree. It's very rare and valuable, you know."
I stared at her. Now, I know how British people are about their plants, but really, this seemed to be taking it a bit too far. I hoped the students really were all right. It didn't seem like a situation one could get out of without at least a major concussion or some broken bones.
She muttered something in Gaelic that might have been a curse (it might have just been a regular curse in a very thick accent). "Potter and Weasley. My own house. Disgraceful. And of course Severus had to find out first." She took a deep breath. "Where was I? Oh yes. I'll make sure that you and I speak to Dumbledore tomorrow. What he could be thinking I don't know. And I've put the teaching schedule on your desk. And a map."
She bade me a brisk good-night at my door and went on down the hall, muttering to herself.
It was with some relief that I went in and locked the door behind me, although I wondered how much protection that would be against literal ghosts. Aside from that, the room seemed way too impressive for a new muggle teacher. There was the large four-poster bed with thick blue velvet curtains, a bright, a cozy fireplace, a big wardrobe, beautiful Gothic windows with matching curtains, and a desk and bookcases in one corner. The other side of the room had a little table and chairs, along with a steaming teapot and a plate of biscuits. My two battered suitcases looked wildly out of place on the elaborately carved chest at the end of the bed. (Later, I learned that this was, in fact, one of the plainer bedrooms at Hogwarts. Dumbledore's room made Versailles look cheap).
I wondered if I would have to share a bathroom, but fortunately there was one attached. It was stunning. The windows were stained glass. Stained. Glass. It didn't have a shower, just a massive tub, which was a little weird. Still, considering that the last time I'd stayed in Scotland I'd had the choice between a narrow, coffin-like tub or a gross and equally narrow shower, I decided I could live with this glistening marble behemoth. Really, all the insanity was probably worth it for a room like this.
When I finally climbed into the bed, I was so tired that I fell asleep almost instantly, ghosts nonwithstanding.
But when I woke the next morning, the first thing I realized was that in exactly twenty-four hours I would be teaching my first class in a subject that I had not prepared for.
