..
"...By the way, I was wondering, Professor."
"Call me Horace. Aren't we fellow professors now?"
"...Ah, yes. Horace. I was going to ask you about that Defense position, if you assign just one professor in the post, because as I understand it, Defense's a core from first year onwards, and it seems like a lot for one person to do."
"That's right. That's why no one but the most foolish, masochistic wizards take the position. My advice is that a bright young man like you shouldn't even consider that damned subject, it's a sure way to get yourself into trouble. Sometimes that crooked headmaster of the school will hoodwink a young wizard who doesn't know what he's doing and keep him for a year, if he's lucky, that is. But if one's got a conscience, better to do a scam like that to a guy like Fowler, who doesn't have much to lose here after all!"
"...Ah...yes..."
"...Merlin knows... with how many people have been cursed so far... ...no damn curse like that..."
The revolving staircase in the Headmaster's office spun, and the voices of the old and the young men slowly faded away. Dumbledore, seated in the Headmaster's office, listened to the elderly Slytherin, who was now in full-blown socializing mode, and sighed.
Well, c'est la vie.
In any case, he had accomplished his primary objective - to get a promising, yet mysterious descendant of the Peverells with an unknown past into his sights. It would have been nice to have accomplished the secondary goals as well, but one could not have it all.
Such is life; with fifty years of teaching, you get to see some bloods by the claws of an exasperated McCat.
Professor Levine, the current deputy-head of Gryffindor, was too much of a Gryffindor, in a bad way, and an outright pushover to the students. Considering that Gryffindor Head McGonagall was unable to devote much time to her house due to her Deputy-headmistress duties, she was in desperate need of a competent deputy. Her one and only assistant being a perfect dupe, it was no wonder that the overworked Professor's claws were constantly bared.
So, for McGonagall, he had sketched out a plan to put this bright new professor under her, and have Peverell, as Deputy Head of Gryffindor, naturally befriend the sweet, good-natured boy, Lupin, who was slated to be Gryffindor fifth year prefect.
The headmaster ruefully sighed. The feast he had carefully prepared for himself was eaten up by the fat snake at the last minute.
...
"This is the Slytherin boys' disciplinary room... I mean, the male Deputy Head's Office."
Professor Slughorn announced, tapping the head of a snake-like statue that sat at the dead end of a corridor in the basement of Hogwarts, near the Slytherin dormitories.
The serpent statue opened its mouth, and with a gurgling sound, a door appeared at the end of the corridor. Slughorn muttered a short password and unlocked the door, and Harry stepped inside with him.
Inside the door, a short corridor of about three yards branched off to the left and right, with a thick door to the right blocking the way to the professor's private quarters. On the left, a light sliding door led directly to the professor's office.
Once inside the faculty room, Harry understood why Slughorn had made the mistake of saying "Disciplinary Room" instead of Deputy Head's Office.
Because it was.
It was a generously sized office, perhaps thirty feet across, but less than half of it was filled with the standard furniture one would expect to find in a professor's office: a desk, several bookcases, a filing cabinet, a couch and a table.
Harry swallowed hard when he saw the other side of the room, divided by a partition.
Against the wall was a window cabinet, filled with an orderly array of tools of various kinds (he'd like to say he didn't know what they were for, but their purpose was obvious even to the young man's naïve eyes).
Switches of various lengths, a flat tool that looked too long, thick and sturdy to be a ruler, a leather band with a split end, a stick with a curved end that looked like a gentleman's cane, a thick wood with bumps and dents, a sharp whip with multiple prongs, and long, ominous-colored iron chains. (What the hell do they need these for?! Harry screamed inwardly.)
There was a small medicine cabinet in the corner of the wall, and simple wash facilities. In the center of the punishment room were a couple of hard wooden desks that seemed a million light-years away from comfortable studying. In addition, a full-scale rack leaned against one wall, about five feet long, with handcuffs on either side, and enough for a student to lie on.
"A bit rustic, right?"
"...That... It looks frighteningly traditional."
At the young man's appreciation, Slughorn smirked.
"Most of the paraphernalia is for atmosphere. Since our dear headmaster took over, he's been very strict on physical punishment, so hanging the students in chains and flogging with a pain-cursed whip like back in my days, that sort of detention is very rarely done. He'd rather expel the student if he or she deserves that level of punishment."
"...Rarely done... of course..."
Harry repeated deadpan, without any inflection. Slughorn nodded breezily.
"Most of my corporal punishment is administered with standard canes and paddles."
He pointed to an umbrella stand (or so Harry had thought) in front of the cabinet. Instead of umbrellas, there were several straight, thin canes of three different lengths.
"This junior cane is for the lower years, 1-2." It was smooth, about two and a half feet long and about the thickness of a pencil.
"This one is for years 3-4." It was a little under three feet long and about as thick as a pinky finger.
"This one is for years five and up." It was over three feet long and about as thick as an index finger.
Slughorn pulled out the junior, smallest cane and swung it lightly.
Harry frowned at the sound of it bending and slicing through the air in a frightening fashion. It was the lightest of the bunch, but he was sure that if it made contact with his flesh, it would be painful enough to make him flinch violently.
Slughorn pointed to paddles next, and Harry, who had only ever thought of them as a paddle for a boat, felt like he was in a strange world. It certainly looked like a small oar. But the paddles at school were long, smooth planks of wood with handles that looked like they were tailor-made for slapping kids' arses rather than cutting waves. There were also different sizes for different years, with holes on the planks for middle and upper years.
Next, the old professor summoned some files with a muttered spell.
"Now, this booklet is the Rules of Hogwarts, and this is the detailed guidelines for corporal punishment, including the number of strokes and tools, and the awarding of merit and demerit points. This is the discipline file form. The individual discipline file and points record will appear when you cast the summoning spell with the student name."
"...That's more... Well, that's pretty organized."
"Well, it should be. What did you expect?"
Harry made a subtle face.
"I'm sorry if this comes across as an insult, but I personally have low expectations for the consistency, systematization... or should I say, lack thereof, of school discipline, to the point where I'm frankly surprised that there are specific guidelines at all."
Slughorn, who had fifty years of teaching experience, nodded calmly, not showing any sign of being offended.
"Well, were you trained by an over-punitive teacher? It's a bit of shame to say this, but there are some crazy educators out there, and in worst cases, they're either damn good in their subject, or they've got some strong connections who back them up that they don't get fired and last a long time in their position."
Harry smirked.
"I'm afraid I encountered both cases."
Slughorn shook his head ruefully.
..
After touring the Slytherin deputy's office and stepping out into the corridor, Slughorn and Harry now made their way to Slughorn's office. They found two students standing in front of the office.
"Wilkins. Flint. What's going on?"
Slughorn asked in a stern tone. It was clear from the way the two boys stood, facing the hallway wall, that they had been sent by a professor. The faces of students summoned or sent for detention could be recognized from a hundred paces away.
The two schoolboys lowered their heads in front of their head of house, each holding out a note in their hands.
"From Professor Sprout, sir."
The professor glanced at the green-colored note they held out, reading it briefly, and his brow furrowed.
Cheating on a Herbology end-of-term exam, and they thought they could pull it off? From the note, it seemed that they'd conspired and tried to sneak in an automatic writing quill; they were third years, not first or second, and thought it would work.
Pomona Sprout was usually laid-back and soft-spoken one, the kind of professor who used corporal punishment sparingly, so of course, she was an easy target for the foolish brats.
So they dared to con a professor, and were caught red-handed. From Slytherin perspective, being caught so plainly was another, even worse, crime. He could already feel the irritation creeping in, with the thought of Pomona making a subtle reference to 'sneaky' Slytherins at next week's faculty meeting.
Cheating on exams happened every year, but for something as important as the end-of-year exam, it was no small offence.
Aside from the punishment they'd get today, they'd better hope they got very lucky on next week's retest. Cheating on a test warranteed a grade reduction from the result of retest. If they didn't get an E or better, they were stuck to repeat the class.
Clicking his tongue, Slughorn opened the door to his office.
"Come in."
The two boys trotted after the professor, nervous as hell. Harry followed expressionlessly, herding the students.
The Head's office was equipped with disciplinary tools more modestly compared with his deputy's. After pulling the two students to the front and listening to their stories of cheating during the exam, Slughorn delivered the verdict after several sharp reprimands.
"Twenty points off for each of you, and seven strokes with paddles each. Wilkins, you face the corner. Flint, get ready and bend over the desk."
The third-year approached the small desk in the office with a grim expression on his face, a worn, uncomfortable-looking desk that was clearly not meant for studying.
The boy glanced at Harry, an unfamiliar adult standing in the room. Harry crossed his arms and gave him an indifferent look. His Head of House frowned and motioned for him to get down quickly. Flint sighed and prepared himself.
It wasn't his first time being paddled, so he knew the procedure. He removed his robe and draped it over the chair beside his desk, undid his waistband, and slid his trousers down to his knees. Finally, he pulled his shirt up, then bent over the desk and gripped the opposite side of the desk with both hands.
Only a single layer of underwear covered the boy's bottom as he bent over the desk, awaiting his punishment.
Slughorn waved his wand and summoned a wide, middle-sized paddle from the closet.
About one and a half foot long and a four-inch wide, the battered wooden paddle was medium-sized, but it looked quite ominous next to the third year's slim buttocks. Unlike the junior paddle, the wood had a couple of holes about an inch in diameter, to reduce air resistance.
Slughorn positioned himself behind the bent boy and raised the paddle up in the air.
..