Chapter Text
Harry joined the crowd heading towards the great hall for the feast, his longer but slender legs (from lack of proper nutrition while living with the Dursley’s) meaning Hermione struggled slightly to keep up with him, especially as they entered the main throng of students; Hermione rectified this by grabbing hold of Harry’s hand in order to keep up with him, and so as not to be pulled away by the stampede.
When Harry turned to look at Hermione, wondering what she was doing, Hermione merely shrugged, carefully pocketing a sheet of special magical paper she had used to retrieve a sample of DNA and his fingerprints, and said cheekily, “Sorry, not sorry.”
Eventually they made it into the great hall, where vast amounts of food, as usual, sat upon the tables; Harry sat in front of where some bangers and mash lay. slightly further along the table was a big bowl of curry, and Harry saw Dudley sitting down there, probably at Padma and Parvati’s insistence, after all, they were both very visibly Indian, not just visibly, but also by smell.
At the front of the hall, Dumbledore bleated loudly to get everyone to be quiet at last, as he had what he considered to be a highly important announcement to make; “Shut up everyone!” screeched Dumbledore like banshee, “I have something very important to tell everyone, I have decided to become a musician, as of the summer holiday, and at that I’ve decided that I am the best musician to ever exist in the whole wide world, which everyone has to agree with because I come from a minority ethnic group.”
Whispers quickly spread across the hall, wondering what type of music Dumbledore was set to perform, as Dumbledore hobbled off from the staff table and returned with a drum machine. The rest of the staff, with the conspicuous absence of Professor McGonagall, seemed to be rather irate at this, and Sprout could be seen putting in earmuffs.
“Alright you lot, quiet. I’m about to start,” declared Dumbledore, as he fumbled with the controls, muttering to himself, “How on earth do you even use this thing?”
Finally, at last, he managed to get it to start playing something, a loud droning beat with cymbals thrown in, clearly not what Dumbledore wanted, as he fiddled more with it, panting as he did so, as the buttons were stuck in place and required lots of force to press dowjn, only making there be more cymbals, until at least it was so loud everyone started covering their ears.
“Oh well, screw this,” Dumbledore shrugged, and threw it at the Hufflepuff table, where it smashed into hundreds of pieces, the sound quickly stopping. Most of the pieces flew off harmlessly, although one lodged itself rather painfully in Ron Weasley’s forehead, who cried out in agony like a wounded dog, squealing pathetically as he pissed himself from the horrific injury that was inflicted on him, a small trickle of blood coming out from his head, as he felt dazed.
Professor Sprout, being the head of Hufflepuff house, rushed over, her earmuffs falling out her ears, looking rather horrified, and an older Hufflepuff cast a spell in order to slow the blood flow. Dumbledore just ignored this, although it was unclear if it was intentional or if he really couldn’t see, as his glasses had steamed up from all the heat that had been coming off from the drum machine, and his own heavy breathing.
At, last, Dumbledore continued, making his excuse for not having the drum machine, “Looks like there won’t be a backing track. Even better, because that means you’ll get to hear only my wonderful voice.”
With that, Dumbledore burst into song, song here of course meaning rap, a field in which Dumbledore had been trained when he had gone to the United States to practice rapping with some of the most infamous and violent African-American drill rappers, many of whom had committed anywhere from a couple to dozens of felonies, and where now in prison serving life sentences, and yet more were now on death row, which had given him what he thought was a great command of the English language:
“Oh innit yeah yeah innit yeah yeah,
My name’s Albus Dumbledore, yeah,
I’m proudly practicing jewish and gay,
I like to eat lots of tasty kosher hay,
Because I am genetically half goat,
The other half is pure Ashkenazi Jewish,
Oh yeah yeah yeah, I’m proud,
To be so cool and swag and smart,
I am the smartest professor about,
Yeah, innit, yeah yeah yeah,
I liked to sniff Grindelwald’s farts,
Oh yeah, a shame he is dead yeah yeah,
And if you thought that was gross:
You must be a homophobic antisemite,
Yeah yeah yeah innit innit goyim yeah.”
As he finished, Dumbledore clearly expected a massive applause, and when it became clear there wouldn’t be one (all the students were in fact in shock at Dumbledore’s idiotic and nonsensical rap), he started crying like an infant, balling his hands into fists and rolling around on the floor sobbing and whining and punching the lectern, as his tears quickly pooled under him, eventually forming a full puddle that soaked Dumbledore’s extremely expensive (Magical Saville Row) purple robes, mandating a trip to the magical dry-cleaners (who liked to extort their customers (especially Dumbledore), as the ministry of magic had given them a monopoly in their field, and made it illegal for anyone to offer cheaper rates or even compete at all). This display at last provoked some visible reaction, and some of the older years began to laugh, this confidence eventually filtered down, and soon the entire school was laughing at Dumbledore’s childish tantrum.
Inevitably, this quickly changed Dumbledore’s mood from distraught to furious, he scrambled up to his feet, growling like a bull, his nose flaring wildly. Finally, as he seemed to be fully fuelled up in his anger, Dumbledore cracked his knuckled, and charged straight at the Ravenclaw table, plowing into it with such incredible force that the first three metres of the table shattered into shards of wood, which, along with the food, cutlery, and plates flew off in all directions (one fork wedging itself on Ron’s hand, causing him to sniffle in pain and exasperation).
Dumbledore was finally stopped as he ran out of momentum to keep plowing through the table, and he turned, growling savagely at the Ravenclaw students, and, in his fury, reached to grab onto Anthony Goldstein’s hair, before he finally shook himself straight (only in one aspect) and strode back confidently to the staff table, although his expression was somewhat meek, as if deep down he knew what he had just done was not just incredibly stupid but also not at all how the headmaster of a school should act in front of his impressionable young pupils.
“Let’s forget all about that,” Dumbledore declared, clapping his hands together as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened, though the sweat on his brow gave him away.
But then, the doors of the great hall swung open, and McGonagall rode her wheelchair breathlessly down the centre, towards the front, her elderly arms struggling to spin the wheels fast enough, releasing a nasty stench, evidently her inferi nature had somewhat surfaced again, combined with her waist-down paralysis.
“Hear me, Dumbledore,” she cried, eyes wide in panic, “Fluffy has escaped!”
Immediately, Dumbledore’s mood changed, and he stood up which such force that he knocked over the whole staff table, hurling food everywhere again, the rest of the teachers rather annoyed as they lost whatever they had been eating.
“Say that again!” boomed Dumbledore’s voice, as his own elderly eyes became sharp once more.
“Fluffy has escaped, the door was left unlocked, and the chain was broken!” McGonagall again exclaimed, “And… we have a fatality.”
“Say that thing you just said again again!” boomed Dumbledore’s voice again, his eyes growing even sharper, though now it seemed less authoritative and more idiotic instead, although it was true that Dumbledore did have rather serious hearing problems.
McGonagall sighed, before speaking slowly and measuredly, “Hagrid’s three-headed dog that we put in the third floor corridor to guard you-know-what has escaped, and it has savaged and eaten a student, the Slytherin first-year girl Sophie Roper.”
“I get it,” Dumbledore nodded, though it was clear he was struggling to comprehend how this happened, “But how did the dog escape?”
“I have no idea,” McGonagall replied, her eyes flicking over to the Gryffindor table, settling on Harry with a vengeful glare, “But I know who I suspect.”
“Of course,” Dumbledore affirmed matter of factly, missing who McGonagall was looking at, and immediately assuming it was the usual pair of troublemakers, as such smiling at Fred and George, “Oh you too little pranksters, always trying to do one better. And actually making a student die this time? Masterful escalation, incredibly comic timing have five points to Gryffindor.”
Fred and George looked confused but pleased as Dumbledore spoke, though he hadn’t finished speaking, and noted after, with a wink, “Same time as usual tonight lads, for your extra special private lesson, in my office?”
Both Weasley twins nodded affirmatively, while the other third-year students shook their heads, knowing full well what these nighttime escapades entailed, which was, as the twin’s friend of Senegalese descent Lee Jordan put it “ayo no good innit.”
In the meantime, McGonagall, from exhaustion, lent back in her wheelchair, eyes closing, as she lost consciousness temporarily, while at the Slytherin table, the first years, all sat on the same area, started talking as they ate, with Crabbe speaking first; “Dead?”
“Yes, Crabbe,” Malfoy sighed, twirling his fork in his hand, “That ghastly and disgusting girl, Sophie Roper, a filthy mudblood, somehow sorted into our ancient and noble house of Slytherin, has finally died, bless the lord.”
“Indeed,” Pansy Parkinson giggled, her pug nose wobbling about like a stiff jelly, as if her cartilage had been liquified, as she ate a chunk of cottage pie, even as a bit fell onto her lap, staining her robe’s skirt, which she swiped away onto the floor to hide it. However, Crabbe, having surprisingly good eyesight, instantly noticed, and scrambled under the table, wolfing it down, along with plenty of dirt and dust that was under the table (the house elves weren’t very good at cleaning).
Next to her, Daphne Greengrass shook her head, her own plate remaining largely untouched, as she was a rather fussy eater, “It’s a shame actually, I was rather thinking of taking that girl as my personal slave. You know, put her to use, plus, it would save me having to do my hair myself every morning.”
Goyle started laughing horrifically loudly at Daphne’s words, so much so he burped, causing the most recent thing he had eaten from the table, that being a whole Brussel Sprout (as Goyle had decided that using his teeth to each food was cheating, so swallowed everything whole instead) flying up and of his throat, at speed, and bumping the back of Ron Weasley’s head, the saliva on it sticking to his hair as the Brussel Sprout itself fell to the ground. Ron turned around, and picked up the Brussel Sprout from the dirty floor of the Great Hall, looking around to see where it had come from, and, not noticing Goyle on the Slytherin table, which was right there behind him, shrugged, and popped it into his mouth, chewing, before returning to his own plate.
Back on the Slytherin table, Malfoy gawked, “That Weasley creature is more repulsive than I thought it even could be.”
Daphne laughed, her attention becoming even less focused on her food, “You know its name?”
“Yes,” Malfoy answered silkily, “The Potter boy told me its name, but he seemed to dislike associating with it.”
Blushing hard, Daphne set down her fork, and queried, “P-potter?”
“Yes,” snarled back Malfoy, “Disgusting nose-picking, short-sighted, gross, filthy Potter.”
“Aren’t you just describing yourself?” asked Crabbe stupidly, as next to him Blaise Zabini shoved pasta into his mouth with his bare hands, his dark skin contrasting with the off-white colour of the pasta and the red tomato sauce.
Livid, Malfoy turned to Crabbe, seething, “Shut up you partially lobotomised freak!”
At the front of the hall, at last Dumbledore had managed to get some sort of a grip on himself, and screamed, “Please, stop eating, silence!”
Everyone quickly did as Dumbledore asked, since they rather didn’t fancy Dumbledore wrecking their house table too, content to just let the Hufflepuffs be the only ones (or in the case of the Hufflepuffs, wishing to avoid further damage).
“Good goyim,” Dumbledore chortled, “But yeah, we have a bit of a problem, as I just remembered, that nasty dog business, so we can’t let you all out just yet. Me, and a crack team of seventh-year students, are going to head out, catch and contain this beastly dog, and then we can all carry on with our days, okay?”
Without waiting for a response, Dumbledore continued, “All the seventh-years who are in either Luminary or Adeptus caste, line up, now!”
Immediately, all those from the top two castes lined up in regimental fashion (even though there was only twenty of them). Dumbledore smirked at the remaining seventh-years, “Now, you lot, line up in front of them as canon fodder.”
The remaining seventh-years (another twenty) reluctantly stood up, and filed over to Dumbledore, in a noticeably less regimented fashion, dreading what was to come.
“And, go!” Dumbledore squeaked, as his voice momentarily broke, and he marched out of the great hall with the seventh-years following. Once he left, Snape, Sprout, and Flitwick (McGonagall was still unconscious) moved to secure the great hall itself, to protect the remaining students.
“Do you reckon he will succeed?” Ron muttered quietly, half to himself, half hoping to trigger a conversation with the other Hufflepuffs, so he might at least make some friends.
“Why, surely!” Cedric Diggory exclaimed, as he stood up on the table, “Dumbledore is a very intelligent visionary, we are truly lucky to have him as a headmaster. He keeps all of us safe from harm, well educated, and much more besides.”
Ron snivelled, “That’s easy for you to say, being in Luminary caste.”
“I do forget,” Cedric nodded, finally getting down from the table, as he had been getting stairs, “But don’t worry, I still promise to campaign for the Hogwarts Student Council election on the grounds of having the Null Magi task changed.”
“That’s all well and good,” Ron said, nearly crying, “But today is a Tuesday, that means today us first-years have our first extra class as castes; I’m going to be eating manure after dinner!”
At last, that tipped Ron over the edge, and he broke out into loud sobs that shook his whole body. Nearly immediately, as if in call, the dozens of Hufflepuffs herded around him, like long lost aunts might at a wedding, or a funeral, all offering a used handkerchief, or perhaps a mint (pre-chewed) as a means of comforting him. These predictably didn’t work, and soon Ron was literally crying a river, as his tears cascaded off the side of the table, pooling under his feet, making it look as if he had pissed himself.
Meanwhile, at the Gryffindor table, Dudley yawned, having already injected much of the curry in front of him, much to Padma and Parvati’s surprise, and causing them to start to praise Dudley’s ‘high-level Brahminic appetite’ too. This would have been amusing to Harry, who could just about see what was going on with Dudley and his Indian girlfriends, even though they were quite far down the table, if it wasn’t for the fact that this meant Dudley was getting attention; worse, female attention. Harry was so enraged by this that he didn’t even consider the fact that Padma and Parvati were Indian, and, despite claiming to be Brahmin, didn’t really look it.
Hermione caught his gaze, and tutted, “Soon Harry, soon, but not right now, we have to work out a proper plan that doesn’t put us in prison.”
“Even prison would be worth it to get at that foal Dudley creature,” Harry snarled, imagining himself ritually disembowelling Dudley and sacrificing his entrails to a lion in a zoo.
“Trust me,” said Hermione, shaking her head, as she stirred her food with a spoon, “Azkaban, the wizard prison, had dementors, that suck out your happiness, and ultimately your soul. It’s a fate worse than death, trust me, no revenge can be worth ending up in their hands.”
Back at the Slytherin table, the conversation quieted down, and everyone got back to eating, although they were mostly more cultured in their table manners, if a little sloppy (with the natural exception of Millicent Bulstrode, who was forced to sit a fair distance away from everyone else, Crabbe and Goyle, however they got a pass as they were Malfoy’s goons, and Blaise Zabini, due to his Sub-Saharan upbringing, though he sat with everyone else because he paid them each 3 galleons per mealtime, not wanting to be sat alone).
The other houses soon followed, as they didn’t want to eat cold food, and figured it was probably best to finish eating before Dumbledore got back, with whatever news he had. This intuition proved correct, as, at last, half an hour later (by then everyone had already managed to eat their fill) the doors of the great hall swung open, and everyone gasped in shock.
There, in the doorway, stood Dumbledore, dishevelled and bruised, and behind him, from the original forty seventh-years that he had brought, only nineteen remained, and all of them were variously injured or maimed; some where missing arms, a few had horrid wounds that were already festering, and most if not all were limping.
The silence that set in was interrupted as Goyle inadvertently farted loudly, causing everyone around him to grown and grimace, Malfoy in particular looking like he regretted a lot of his life choices.
“Everyone, as you can see, the fight was a long and hard one,” Dumbledore sighed, coughing up a furball, “We charged at the beast with our bare hands, and sadly, about half of us didn’t make it. Turns out when it has three heads, it can savage quite a few more people than with the usual creature that only has one. However, he did successfully beat it to death with our bare hands eventually. I even bit into it a few times, and tore out some of its fur, hence the furball.”
The seated student’s expressions changed quickly from shock to disgust, from horror to surprise. McGonagall, still in the central aisle in her wheelchair, unconscious, stirred, “Albus? Albus?”
“Yes, Minerva,” Dumbledore smiled, “We killed the three-headed dog, Fluffy, by the way.”
“Really?” she asked, still to weak to move.
“Indeed,” Dumbledore said, suspiciously cheerfully, “It was rather fun in fact, got my adrenaline pumping in a way it hasn’t for quite some time now.”
“How did it go?” McGonagall asked, finally gaining the strength to lift her head up and look into Dumbledore’s deep animalistic eyes.
“Ahh, quite well,” nodded Dumbledore, “Twenty one students died, all ten from Null Magi, all ten from Ashborn, and one from Adeptus. The rest are somewhat maimed, but not too badly, nothing Madam Pomfrey can’t fix up over the next few weeks.”
“How many Gryffindors died?” furthered McGonagall, now rather anxious, even with her remaining weakness, she sat up somewhat straighter in her wheelchair.
Quickly counting on his fingers, Dumbledore came up with an answer, “Of the ten total… seven died.”
McGonagall looked rather annoyed, and maybe a tinge sad, but didn’t press any further, seemingly accepting the situation.
“Well,” Dumbledore clapped his hands, “No sense in stopping the school day just for this, lunch time is just about to end per the timetable, and you all ought to be getting to your next classes. Hurry, you wouldn’t want to be late!”
