The Defenestration of James Potter by hlf_insn_insmnc
Summary: Dumbledore has a very good idea. True, it may be termed as 'illegal,' but when it concerns the happiness and futures of two sixth-years, James Potter and Lily Evans, 'illegal' isn't really important, is it? His portraits agree.

And while it could be said that two inexperienced students should never be responsible for a mass construction project and the hosting of an international festival... well, the teachers of Hogwarts have never really paid attention to propreity, have they?
Categories: James/Lily Characters: None
Warnings: None
Challenges:
Series: None
Chapters: 3 Completed: No Word count: 6344 Read: 9478 Published: 01/30/08 Updated: 08/18/08

1. Defenestration by hlf_insn_insmnc

2. Musicals and Meddlers by hlf_insn_insmnc

3. A Little Shot of Happiness by hlf_insn_insmnc

Defenestration by hlf_insn_insmnc
A/N: Not my first fanfic, but my first to Mugglenet!



The day that Albus had his wonderful idea was a very lukewarm day.

It started out with the regular end-of-term business—helping to coordinate the final feast, overseeing the prospective student lists, dealing with teacher’s complaints of summer pranks, and planning his annual vacation to Majorca. Fawkes was looking a bit peaky, which added yet another worry to his mind, and he felt the comings of a cold in his head.

He half-heartedly consoled himself with the fact that there was only a week left of term and that Gryffindor was hundreds of points ahead in the competition for the House Cup. Slytherin was in last place, due to some nasty pranks by some fourth-years, he thought with a gleeful chuckle.

Shouldn’t be having such thoughts, he sighed. No house prejudices anymore…at least none that any students can see.

A tawny owl tapped weakly on his window. Albus opened it and the bird flopped onto the ground, obviously overworked. Ministry of Magic: Great Britain was inscribed with green ink on the envelope. Typical of the Ministry, to not give their owls a bit of rest—but ah, nothing I can do about that.

Albus slid open the seal and skimmed the letter. It was hardly life-threatening, simply requesting help with trouble from the Gringott’s Goblin Union that the Minister was unable to handle. He tossed it onto his desk—today was not a good day to deal with the Ministry.

There was a quick rap on the door, and without asking permission Minerva entered. “I ask myself every day why I didn’t decide to be a Healer!” she exclaimed as she collapsed into a chair, clearly frazzled.

Albus chuckled. “What did some rascal do today?”

She shook her head angrily. “That Evans girl had better get a hold of those hormones of hers! Though there’s no doubt in my mind that Potter didn’t bring it upon himself, but—oh!” she finished with an indignant snort.

“What did she do—or may I ask, what did he do—this time?”

“Thought it would win over the poor girl to serenade her with a sappy Weird Sisters’ love ballad in the second floor corridor before lunch—idiot boy, he’s got to learn to be more subtle—and she, quite frankly, got enraged and pushed him out the window! Thank Merlin that Pettigrew was there to perform a quick Levitation, and even if the boy hadn’t Potter would’ve just landed in the lake, but still…”

Albus shook his head slowly. “She defenestrated him? Quite cheeky, wouldn’t you say?”

This stopped Minerva up short. “Defenestrate—?”

“To push out a window. From fenestra, ae, feminine.”

She raised her brows.

“Er—it’s Latin.”

“Hmm. Well, anyway, a second-year panicked and enacted a homing alarm her worried mother had given her. People in high-risk jobs use them—they automatically call St. Mungo’s alert team. They, of course, couldn’t Apparate in, so they were forced to repossess broomsticks from Hogsmeade and fly through some more windows—fifteen broken ones to count, including the one Potter had fallen through. Rest assured they weren’t happy when they saw it was a false alarm.”

“And who are we holding to blame?” Albus asked, unable to hold back a small chuckle.

“Evans, of course, though eyewitnesses swore she hadn’t intended him to push him so far. She’s waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Choose however many points you wish to dock from Gryffindor, though I’ll be giving Potter a good talking-to about the finer points of wooing myself.”

“Ah, yes,” Albus smiled. “Please, send her up. Just the kind of spice I needed for my day!”

“Oh, and before I leave—have you received the recommendations for Head Boy and Girl for next year?”

“No, must’ve gotten lost.”

“Here’s a copy.” She procured a sheet from her bag and handed it to him. “We’ll need the decision by next Friday.”

Minerva briskly walked out as Albus placed the list on his desk. “Potter?” asked the portrait of Lucille Edgemill, who’d clearly just woken up.

“Aye,” said the portly image of Sir Willoughby Hullahat. “Tried to sing her a love song, which I can promise you—”

“Didn’t go over too well?” she supplied.

The other pictures responded with enthusiastic agreements.

“Pushed him out a window!” came the tiny voice of Everett Twillpit.

“Playing hard to get, I say!”

“Must be. Who’d be able to resist such a man?”

“Can’t say… he was downright nasty back before puberty.”

“And after!”

“And during!”

This resulted with rounds of laughter from the portraits.

“Still pushing around the odd... snake, if you catch my meaning,” confided Sir Willoughby, “But can’t blame him. Not a bit.”

There was a quiet knock on the door, and the room fell silent.

“Come in, Miss Evans!” Dumbledore called, still grinning from the portraits’ exchange.

A nervous sixteen-year old girl walked in, shoulders hunched in embarrassment. “Listen, Professor, I really didn’t mean to—”

He smiled, cutting her off. “I have no doubt that you contain no violent tendencies. It was simply a normal response to an annoying boy that went a tad wrong.”

“If you call being scolded by the Assistant to Associate Director of St. Mungo’s in front of half the school as they regard your enemy as a martyr a tad wrong,” she muttered.

“Things could’ve been much worse,” Albus pointed out.

“How?”

“Well, Potter could’ve gotten wet!”

This elicited a small smile from her.

“Well, defenestrating other students is not included in the handbook, nor is there any precedent—”

“Sorry, sir—defenestrating…?”

Albus sighed. “We must add Latin as a subject. It means to push out of a window.”

“Oh. Right.”

“As I was saying, as there is no precedent, only my judgment will decide your punishment.”

She bowed her head, waiting for the blow.

“I’ll say seventy-five points from Gryffindor.”

Lily winced. Not as bad as she’d imagined, and she’d really scored some points with her knowledge of brettlebugs in Herbology, so that might be enough to offset that… but seventy-five points! Lily Evans gained points! She let scoundrels like Potter and his Mermaiders lose points…

“However,” Albus amended, “I do have some advice for you.”

“Ad-advice?”

“Give Mr. Potter a chance. You’re letting an image from five years ago blind you to who he truly is now.”

She cocked her head, confused. “But—but it’s not like he’s changed…”

He smiled. “Are you the same girl you were five years ago?”

“Well—no, I suppose not… but still--he's done so much to me! And to other people. Really, he's just a bully." Albus gave her a stern look. She wrinkled her nose. "Alright. I’ll give him a chance.” Dumbledore could tell she was simply making the promise so she could get out of his office, but he continued on.

“Ah. Good. Really, do think about it.” When she didn’t leave, Dumbledore asked, “Anything else?”

“Well… this—this won’t go on my record or anything, will it?”

“The defenestration?”

She nodded quickly.

“No, I don’t believe so, since only infractions of fifty points or above are recorded.”

“But mine was seventy-five!”

“However, due to your extreme open-mindedness about an old enemy, and a promise to improve your disposition, I’m awarding you… forty points. I’d say that would do it.”

She nodded gratefully. “Thank you, Professor. May I go now?”

Albus smiled. “Of course. Though let me congratulate you on your exemplary marks on the exams you’ve taken so far this week. You have a bright future.”

“Right—oh—well, thanks! Thanks a lot! I’ll see you... um… bye! Thanks!” She rushed out the door.

“Madly in love with him,” a portrait remarked.

“Made for each other,” another agreed.

Albus nodded. “True… very true… she just needs to see it.”

“And he needs to get some responsibility,” a woman added.

Albus frowned, glancing at the list of prospective Heads for next year.


Girls

Mary York

Hewford Pringle

Lily Evans

Alice Rhysford


Boys

Remus Lupin

Perry Winglepare

Will Wherins


He picked up a blue quill, a gift from the Giants Association for Fairer Hours and Better Wages (GAFHBW, ironically the word for ‘impossible’ in their language). Without thinking about the implications of his decision, he carefully penned in James Potter below Will Wherins.

“I do like this scandal!” exclaimed Madame Rose Truflee.

Albus quickly circled Lily’s and James’s names, blew on them to dry the ink, folded it up and addressed it to the Ministry (who handled the sending of beginning-of-term letters).

“A good day’s work,” he said quietly to himself.





A/N: The idea for this came in a flash: why in the world did James Potter, troublemaker extraordinaire, end up Head Boy? If I get a good response, I might continue this into their seventh year (the story of James and Lily through the teachers’ perspective).

Please review!


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Musicals and Meddlers by hlf_insn_insmnc
At heart, Filius was a romantic.


He still thrilled in the wedding announcements of the Daily Prophet, and upon occasion there was even the odd couple whom he’d taught years ago. Just the other day, there was a sweet little article detailing the nuptials of Norma Nottina and Presley Fannian, who only a few years before had been rival Quidditch captains (one from Hufflepuff, the other from Slytherin).


Filius wiped his tearing eye. Ah, how love did overcome prejudices.


He’d met a girl once, a Muggle, just after his final year at Hogwarts, ages ago. He fell in love instantly, and though she was charmed by his magic tricks and short stature, Bob Miller from Babel’s Bagels had more prospects.


It had quite ended any romantic aspirations he may have had.


But life had gone on, and Filius soon regarded himself as the prime matchmaker of Hogwarts.


Jonnah Fitz and Trey Naylan? Completely his doing. John West and Briza Halfar? The result of carefully given detentions and a conveniently locked broom closet.


And when Filius received a rather urgent message from Albus over the summer, he knew that finally, there was a real challenge.



Dearest Filius,


I’m sure you’ve received the list of the new prefects and Heads. While you may be shocked by one of my decisions, I can assure you that young Potter is up to the task. Although it is true he needs some responsibility, my main reason for selecting him is this:


Lily Evans.


We all know they are simply made for each other, and it’s quite apparent they need some help. She is hardly open to his advances, and he, as is well known, does not comprehend the word ‘subtlety.’


I am not as blind as it may seem, Filius. I know who is responsible for John and Briza West, Presley and Norma Fannian, and (who could forget?) Trey and Jonnah Naylan. We must decide a plan of action! Time runs short until the beginning of term.


I’ve come up with a few ideas for your perusal, ideas that would necessitate that our Heads be together for long periods of time, working on projects and such.



-New greenhouses as the seventh-year’s projects? Pomona has been complaining the current one is crowded, and too close to the lake.


-A small winter party for the seventh-year students?



Those are all I can come up with at the time, and please tell me if you have any other ideas!


As Miss Evans plans to follow Arithmancy and Mr. Potter intends on becoming an Auror, we have only till the end of the year!


Ah, what meddling old fools we have become. What better way to distract us from the trials and tribulations of teaching?



Yours fondly,


Albus



Filius pondered the letter. Lily Evans had always been one of his best students, true, and she really did need to focus a bit less on her studies. As for James Potter… perhaps Albus was right. Maybe a bit of responsibility would do him good. In fact, he hadn’t pulled a prank for a good two months before exams (though of course there was one at the final feast, but who could blame him?).


He glanced at Dumbledore’s options. Yes, the greenhouses would kill two flobberworms with one stick. In addition to presenting an astronomical logistics problem for Lily and James to tackle together, it would also stop giving cause for Pomona to gripe about soggy Heuwurths and overcrowded Mandrakes at every staff meeting. But a small gathering? It simply wouldn’t do! Filius mused over more extravagant options.


He shuffled through his papers, and caught sight of a letter from the Magical Music and Arts Alliance. It was sent out to all of its Plasma members, one of which Filius had been since the fall of ’26, and detailed the events of their four-hundred and sixtieth annual musical competition. He scanned it quickly and noticed the bit he’d been looking for:



The competition will take place in the week between Christmas and New Years, and all patrons will be invited to a formal ball taking place New Year’s Eve, the night of the awards ceremony.



And then—



We are as of yet still searching for a host school for this renowned event, and all applicants will be informed when such a location has been secured.



Ah, perfect! Filius grinned to himself. The musical competition had long been a favorite of his, and while he was generally unable to leave Hogwarts in the holidays for long enough to see the productions, he made it a habit to go to the ball. Certainly Lily and James were capable of planning such an event! They’d also have to find a way to procure some kind of theatre for it as well, but he trusted in their judgment.


What an exciting idea! Filius couldn’t endure the long wait in a slow reply to Albus, so he sprinkled a bit of Floo into the fire and chortled, “Dragon’s Paradise, Majorca!”


As he stepped into the pleasantly warm flames, his view went from a scorched wall of bricks to a quaint, tropical lobby. It was mostly deserted, containing only a drowsy-looking young man and a bored receptionist.


“Hola!” she said, perking up when she saw him, a potential customer.


“Er… no hablo Espanol…?” he said hopefully.


“English?” she asked with a strong accent.


“Ah, yes!” he said, relieved. “I was wondering if you could send down Albus Dumbledore?”


“Yes, yes! Professor! Famous man, stays here every summer!”


“Yes, quite. Tell him it’s Filius, if you’d please.”


“One moment,” she said, snapping her fingers. When a short house elf appeared, she spoke to it quickly and Spanish and turned back pleasantly. “He should be down in a second. Understandably, we have Apparation blocks throughout the location, but Tally will fetch him.”


Filius gave a polite thanks and sat down. This entire affair was quite exciting! He was absolutely brimming with potentials for this new matchmaking project.


“Filius? Is something the matter?”


He looked up to see Albus walking briskly toward him. “No indeed! In fact, I had such a brilliant plan I had to tell you at once!” He held out the Magical Music and Arts Alliance informational letter, brought along for such a purpose.


Albus took it and asked, “What’s this? What does it have to do with the current matter at stake—you know what I’m referencing, right…?”


Filius grinned. “Of course! The Alliance needs a host for their musical competition—Hogwarts is perfect! It would take months to plan!”


Frowning as he skimmed the text of the letter, Albus asked, “How many guests are we expected to accommodate?”


“Wait—you mean we’ll do it! Oh, splendid! I’d say there are a good five hundred every year, though they provide their own quarters… though about two hundred actors, and we need to lodge them, but that shouldn’t—”


“Er—actors? You said this was a musical competition.”


“Quite correct. They put on musicals.”


“Ah. Understandable.” Albus clapped a hand on Filius’s shoulder and grinned. “I suppose I’ll contact the head of it all… a Mr. Poenia, it says here.”


“Good! Very good!” Filius beamed. “And as for your other idea—the greenhouses—I’ll contact Pomona and have her draw up a design by the end of the summer.”


“Really? I do think it may be necessary for a little gathering before the term starts to discuss the plans… with the Heads attending, of course—just a little prelude to next year.”


Flilius grinned cheekily. “Splendid!”


He strode back to the fireplace, took a pinch of complimentary Floo powder, and called out his address as he stepped inside.


All of Albus’s ministrations were all well and good, but worth nothing if there was no romance to sustain it! Filius, as he had done many a time before, scrawled out a short note to Bella’s Blossoms. It was a quaint little flower shop just north of Diagon Alley, especially notable for their secrecy and deliveries. He directed them to send some roses to a Ms. Lily Evans, anonymously from a secret admirer.


Yes, finally a real challenge.


And needless to say, Filius Flitwick never turned down a challenge.





A/N: Well, that's good old dear Flitwick. Gotta love him. If you have any requests for the teacher of next chapter, go ahead! I'm thinking of having it be one of the odd ones...

Review!
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A Little Shot of Happiness by hlf_insn_insmnc
Author's Notes:

Hello again! I am terribly terribly sorry it's been so long since I've updated; I wouldn't be surprised if you have completely forgotten what this story is about.

Apologies!

I have been very busy, but recently was browsing through my documents and realized I'd half-finished this chapter. After that, the charming and debonair Argus simply pulled me in. Oh, and if any of you notice the slight similarity between Argus and Fezzik... well, its just a little tip of the hat to my love of S. Morgenstern (William Goldman?)

Ahh this author's note is much too long. Now, go--read!

A Little Shot of Happiness

Muck.

Luck muck.

No, no, no!

Duck muck?

Duck muck!

The duck brings the muck from the lake by the rake.

The duck brings the muck from the lake by the rake in the yard by the bard...

In Hogwarts.

Argus frowned. There was one word, in so many of his little ditties, that he could never seem to rhyme: Hogwarts. It was the main occupation of every spare hour, and while he could come up with half-rhymes (log sports, fog sorts, Prague shorts), to his seasoned mind they simply wouldn’t do. He needed a true rhyme, a real rhyme, one that made the listener sigh in relief when they heard the matched pair, fitting together more perfectly than jigsaw pieces, a more symbiotic union than the sun and the moon…

Argus Filch.

Zilch.

It seemed appropriate to him that the one word he’d ever come up with, through hours of agony, to rhyme with his name meant zero.

Argus had always been an amateur poet, though in truth it was more the rhyming verses than deeper meaning that appealed to him. He’d attempted to have some poems published in The Wizard’s Digest, but had only gotten polite, yet curt, replies.

He espied a student, Yolanda Croft (loft, soft), giggling with her latest conquest as they meandered throughout the halls. Idiot students. He staggered to the center of the hallway, leering at them as they passed.

Ridiculous. Snotty, pimple-popping, wastes of time and magic.

Ah, that reminded him.

Argus reached in his bag, and feeling the hard shape of a U, gripped it tightly.

Robbie Quinbat’s Successful Book for Successful Squibs had recommended the horseshoe, saying that any late bloomer (as Argus preferred to call himself) who held onto it once an hour (flower) for a week would suddenly be overpowered by magic.

It made sleeping a disaster, but as it seemed that Mrs. Norris never slept, as the past four days she’d kindly woken him up at the appropriate times.

Ah, Mrs. Norris.

They were two of a kind (bind), he and she, though he often thought that she seemed to be a tad more intelligent. He cared for her well, and she would sympathize with his driving need to give students the punishment they deserved. It was quite the mutualistic relationship.

“…and how would I know where to find a bloody theatre in Hogwarts?”

“Well, what did Dumbledore say? He’s got to have some sort of idea! He’s not just going to plop that onto your lap without any guidance, is he?”

He groaned. More students. And by the sound of them, Marauders.

As they came around the corner, he heard the Potter boy say, “Yes, apparently he is! And Lily’s given me all kinds of assignments, she’s in charge of that damn greenhouse fiasco, but I’m supposed to find a theatre somewhere!”

Argus grinned as he saw him tossing a Snitch up and down as he spoke.

“Just conjure one up! Stick it in the dungeons, the Slytherins could use some fine culture—oh, shitballs and damn.”

The three boys stopped still, gaping at Argus in fear.

In that moment he felt the familiar rush.

There was something positively thrilling about disciplining the Marauders. They were, quite simply, the epitome of all that Argus hated about Hogwarts and its students. The entire school was composed of rash (crash, flash) rule breakers who rarely concerned themselves with anything but their own selfish agendas. Especially Potter and Black, both of whom, in addition to being disgustingly wealthy, were quite good at spells. Argus could barely contain his hatred of the cocky boys, and the sight of the Snitch in Potter’s hand made his day so much brighter.

“Hello, Potter!” Argus cackled. Ah, what a glorious day it was truly turning out to be! First that Dungbomb scare from the snotty Ravenclaw girl (five detentions of scraping Trynine bogies for Hagrid), then the boy experimenting with love potions (fifteen detentions cataloguing information slips for Professor Graven), and now Potter with a snitched… Snitch!

Argus giggled over his little joke.

“Er—Filch—this isn’t my Snitch,” Potter said desperately, eyes darting around as if the cold flagstone surrounding him would somehow answer his prayers.

“I do believe that’s the matter at hand here, Potter.” Argus leaned in towards the boy (an intimidation tactic, according to Being Assertive: How to Make Those Puny Freaks Shut Up and Listen by a certain Chum Plankton) and grinned toothily.

“No, sir, its—er—Dawson’s!” Potter grabbed a passing third year by the collar and dragged him forward. Dawson simply looked confused.

“What’s mine?”

“The Snitch! Remember, you said I could borrow it earlier!”

Argus rolled his eyes. He wasn’t dumb. Okay, well, at least he wouldn’t be fooled by this pathetic excuse for an excuse by Mr. Potty Potter.

“What? Oh—wait—right!” Dawson chirped. “Of—of course. I lent it to James.”

Argus shrugged mentally. There was no way to disprove what Potter had said, if the younger boy agreed to it, but at least he’d still be able to hand out another detention today. “Dawson, is it?” he asked, swiveling around to face the boy who suddenly began quaking violently.

“Y-yes, sir.”

“Are you aware that it is against school policies to allow any Quidditch balls outside of the pitch, and even in there they are only to be used during scheduled practices and games?” Quoting the official Hogwarts rulebook had always been pleasurable for him.

“N-no, sir.”

“And are you aware that it is also against school policies to be in personal ownership of a Quidditch ball unless it is specifically registered with Madame Hooch and kept under locked supervision in the broom shed?”

Silence.

It was too easy.

Potter, Black, and Lupin scampered off quickly, while Dawson faced nine weeks assisting Madame Pomfrey with restocking medicines and a stern lecture from Professor MacGonagall.

In the far back corner of his brain, some long latent part of Argus gave a tiny quiver at the injustice of the whole situation: allowing one boy to take the fall for another. It was just a peep, though, and too far hidden by decades of putrid hate and reeking jealousy to be taken much notice of.

“Argus?” came a voice from beyond his office door, accompanied by a soft rap.

“Stay out!” Argus shouted vehemently, desperately trying to shove his horseshoe into a desk drawer stuffed with a long accumulation of illegal articles and joke shop items. Although it had been over a week since he’d begun his horseshoe endeavor (with little results), Argus figured that perhaps he was such a late bloomer he just needed a few more days of squeezing the iron U every hour for it to take effect.

The door opened and Albus swept in, taking a seat (greet) on a chair in front of Filch. “Good morning, Argus!” he said cheerily.

Argus sighed. While he was grateful to Albus for giving him this job, he could barely tolerate the man. Cheery, serene, loved by the student body… Albus was everything Filch was not, and everything Filch would never want to be.

“I have a… favor to ask,” Albus began slowly. Argus regarded him dully, certain that it would be unpleasant at best. “You see,” he continued, “Filius and I, along with a few other professors, are endeavoring to make two young adults realize the depth of their feelings for one another. We are securing the happiness and….” The voice droned on, but Argus stopped listening. He had never been one for sappy overtures, and this one was particularly dry. Any mention of young love, too, was quite simply a conversation turn-off for him.

However, with a few words from Albus his attention was immediately focused. “…and we’d like you to give Ms. Evans and Mr. Potter detentions together, with you at your leisure to determine the cause of it.”

This was too good to be true! Argus grinned widely.

Ever since he’d accepted this post, he’d always had a private bet with himself: give each student a detention before graduation. Each year he’d succeeded (though Rallia Tristite had been a close call—he’d only managed to finally give her a detention the last week of school). He hated to leave things up to chance (dance), preferring as a general rule to target goody-two-shoes early on in their magical education careers. Lily Evans, however, had been a long source of discomfort and frustration. No matter how many times he tried, he could never find her breaking a rule!

It had come close, to be sure, with the entire pushing-Potter-out-the-window-and-damaging-school-property situation the previous year, but Albus had insisted that a detention was unnecessary. Even though he still had eight months left before she graduated, it made him anxious to even risk failing his personal bet all because of a snotty prefect.

The fact that Potter was included was merely icing on the cake—Argus loved to torment the boy. Even though he’d already received more detentions than any single student in Filch’s reign (the first being just moments after stepping off the train for the first time), every time Argus gave Potter a detention it gave a little shot of happiness to his mind.

“Minerva and I will only ask that their task may be something that… incites conversation between the two of them. I’m sure you’ll be able to think of something.” Albus paused, as if waiting for some kind of response, but Argus was too far into his mad machinations for the pretty Heads that he forgot the Headmaster was there altogether. With a sigh, Albus stood to leave, not entirely sure that bringing Filch into the situation was the best idea. But really, there was nothing else to be done, as the situation had begun to get desperate. At this point Albus was willing to do anything to force the two obstinate teens together.

Over the next few days Argus found himself to be in a rather exasperating and maddening situation. He’d caught Potter in the act almost instantly (moments after Albus left, Argus had gone to snatch a snack from the kitchens when a large tub of pumpkin juice deposited itself on his head. Mrs. Norris found Potter and Black, the two culprits, hiding in a nearby closet almost immediately), but Ms. Evans seemed on especially radiant behavior that week. Every time Argus saw her, she was either helping a lost first-year or scouring the castle for Xeno Lovegood’s hidden schoolbooks.

In short, Argus was desperate.

Finally a situation arose. He saw the Evans girl scurrying to class—even though she had a few minutes until classes started, he supposed her to be the type that hated (bated) being the last one to arrive.

“Ms. Evans!” Argus yelled to her, staggering across the hall to her when she stopped short.

“Wha—Filch? Oh—er—hello!”

“Would you like to tell me what you’ve been doing?” he sneered. True, what he was about to do was entirely unfair, but when he had the double motive of keeping his record and pleasing Dumbledore, the term ‘fair’ did not apply.

“Er—going to Transfiguration—I’m running a bit late because Professor Slughorn needed help with his newt eyes and—”

“I think that’s the key of the matter here, Evans.”

“Wait—what?”

“You were running. Are you aware of the implications of that offense?”

“What? It was barely more than a speed walk! I was late to class, sir, I’m really very sorry—”

Ah. This felt good.

“I’m sorry Ms. Evans, but I feel that a few detentions with me are in order to make sure the offense is not repeated.”

“What? But sir, I have a perfect record! Please! I’ve never gotten a detention before!”

Good god, the girl was groveling! He smiled slightly at that. Groveling always hit a little soft corner of his otherwise rock hard heart, but on this matter he could not be swayed. His record would be safe still. Argus whistled for Mrs. Norris, who he knew would be waiting nearby, and began his trek down the hall for other miscreants as Lily stared after him, incensed.

“Sod off, you prick.”

“Now that’s just not nice!”

“Ugh.”

“I was just trying to make some innocent conversation!”

Argus gritted his teeth. When he’d agreed to do this for Albus, to supervise their detentions, he’d never imagined that two little brats could be so annoying. He’d set them to cleaning Hogwart’s many trophies with soap and water, a time tested detention that was so excruciatingly boring it was almost impossible for the students not to talk. While they worked on the loathsome task, Argus himself sat in an adjoining classroom filling out detention records—the most frustrating aspect of his job (which was saying quite a bit).

There was a blessed moment of silence, then Potter broke it tentatively.

“Er—Lily—I was wondering how the greenhouse plans are going? I’m really sorry I couldn’t make the last meeting—Georgiana scheduled a practice that I couldn’t miss…”

“God forbid you should miss your basketball on broomsticks to discuss our astronomical responsibilities as Heads so we aren’t the laughingstock of the whole school!”

“Basketball?”

“Never mind.” The Evans girl paused, then said more reasonably, “Professor Sprout finally finished drawing up the plans. She wants three now! Three! I’ve no idea why Dumbledore is forcing us to do this, we’re just students… anyway, tomorrow I’ll contact the dwarves Hagrid recommended and we’ll see if they’re compliant. If they are, after that we’ll have to write letters to the Minister to get special building licenses. And that’s just the beginning.”

Argus was bored with their meaningless prattle, but in a sudden spurt of self-honesty he admitted that even the trivial concerns of a student were (fur, burr) more interesting than his reports. He focused his attention more sharply to the trophy room.

“Wow. After that you’ve made me feel like my job’s easy!”

The girl laughed. “I don’t think anything we have to do as Heads is easy. How goes the search for a theatre?”

“Well, actually, I had a pretty good idea. It’s very very advanced magic, but Dumbledore said he’d help if we needed it. Actually… well, it all started from a sarcastic comment Sirius said,” Potter admitted sheepishly.

Oh, yawn. Perhaps even reports were more interesting than these two.

The boy continued, “Basically, the idea is that we need a big empty space with a few requirements—it has to be warm, which rules out the grounds because the competition’s in December, and it has to be able to be Transfigured for a longer period of time, which rules out the Great Hall because we need to eat there.”

“And that leaves…”

“The dungeons! Most are empty anyway, and we could leave the Potions classrooms and Slytherin common room as they are. See, at first I thought that it wouldn’t work, but then I was reading in Hogwarts, a History how Salazar Slyth—”

“You’ve read Hogwarts, a History?” Evans’ voice sounded dubious.

“Course! Most of it’s dull, but there are some cool bits in it that really have helped my friends and me with our… er…”

“Unauthorized excursions?” she supplied dryly.

Argus felt a brief bit of excitement. Was Potter about to admit to all kinds of nefarious doings? Was this detention just one of a series that could result?

“I suppose you could put it that way,” Potter admitted.

Ah, pity. It had been such a golden opportunity.

“Anyway, there’s a bit in there about the architectural design of Hogwarts, and all. And apparently the dungeons used to be one huge room for Salazar Slytherin to keep his pets. Because the castle was originally intended to just be a house for the four friends, you know? But when they turned it into a school and Godric Gryffindor kinda… took control, I guess, he turned it into a huge series of different levels of empty rooms in case the school needed more space or classrooms ever.”

Lily chuckled. “That’s brilliant! It shouldn’t be difficult to temporarily remove the added walls and floors!”

Bloody brilliant? Bloody brats. If Dumbledore hadn’t specifically asked that they be allowed to talk to each other, Argus would’ve liked to lock ‘em in separate broom closets with their own personal chimera.

“Yeah! That’s exactly what I was thinking. And I checked it with Dumbledore, and he was totally willing to do that. Once we get closer to the date we’ll have to help more, though, and figure out how to create a stage and the seats themselves.”

“True, but this was always our biggest obstacle—finding a place to put it.” There was a moment of silence, and Argus half-hoped they’d finally decided to shut up.

You could be doing your reports, he reminded himself glumly.

But then the girl spoke again—“Good job, James. I mean—well, I don’t think I’ve been properly enthusiastic about you being Head Boy. But—you’ve done a good job. A great job. Thank you.”

“No problem. That’s what I’m here for!”

Argus heard a splash and a high-pitched shriek. “Oh—I’ll get you for that!” the Evans girl laughed.

Sounds of a scuffle ensued, with screams, laughs, and splashing water. Argus briefly wondered if Albus would want him to interfere, then realized what he was thinking. Letting that old fool dictate what you do! You’re turning into a softie, his inner voice grumbled. To prove to himself he was not (forgot) indeed soft, Argus stormed out of the classroom and onto a chaotic scene.

The trophies were scattered about, at least those unfortunate enough to have been near the Heads. Potter and Evans were tackling each other and splashing each other with their soapy buckets of water, and it appeared like Evans was prepared to dump hers on the boy’s head.

Argus was briefly reminded of a scene he had not remembered for years—himself, and his first love at nine—Vanessa Simmons, his Muggle next door neighbor—playing in her sprinkler in the scorching sun. It was a happy memory, and a good day.

That had been an entirely different time in Argus’s life, however, and he instantly dismissed the memory as soft and insignificant. He did discipline the young pair, giving them extra detentions together as a result of this botched one, though even a child could have seen the couple was not quite as disappointed at that prospect as they’d been earlier.

He returned to his reports as Potter and Evans cleaned up the mess, still in a surly mood. Finally he got caught up with filling out the forms just as the students were leaving. Yes, he thought with relief. Time for some good old rhyming.

Look, a book!

I took a look at the book.

Mice eat rice and play dice.

So nice!

Filch is zilch, but Filch is…

Why was there no other rhyme? Hilch… gilch… dilch… it was hopeless. “Filch…zilch…” he sighed to himself. He supposed there was nothing to do about the situation, so he may as well—

“Milch.”

The word was spoken clearly from the doorway. Argus glanced up to see the Evans girl, looking at him patiently.

“What?” he asked gruffly.

“Milch. It means… well, I suppose it just describes a creature that nourishes. Er—well, could I have a pass? It’s after curfew.”

Argus grudgingly scrawled out a short note on a bit of parchment and handed it to the girl. She scampered away.

Hmm…

Filch is not zilch.

Milch Filch.

He scowled, but if one knew him well they could see the radiant grin lying dormant beneath the morose mask.

But perhaps only if they knew him very well.

End Notes:

Argus... really do like him...

I got a few requests for Slughorn, so he might be our newest narrator, though I personally have an affinity for tennis-ball eyes...

;D

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