It's Still as a Pond (I am staring into)

Looking at where Hogwarts stands in the distance, it really starts to hit Sam that they aren't anywhere even familiar to home. The castle turrets stand tall and lonely in the air, and it’s beginning to feel like a metaphor for how stranded in an entirely different universe he is. Except the towers are isolated atop the castle and made of brick and mortar, while Sam is just a human, with his brother standing right next to him outside the Three Broomsticks.

Dean makes a vaguely impressed sound from beside him, wizarding robes pulled over a casual outfit and wand tucked into his jeans pocket. “How long do you think our escort is going to take?” he asks, eyes scanning the singular street of Hogsmeade casually.

There’s barely anyone walking through the place, which makes sense considering the term for Hogwarts doesn’t start for another week, which, according to the landlady of the Three Broomsticks, Madam Rosmerta, is when the business starts to pick back up again. The stores lining the main and only avenue are colourful, but are more homely and intimate compared to the bustling Diagon Alley and cutthroat Knockturn.

True to Albus Dumbledore’s word, two owls had shown up at the Leaky Cauldron three days after their interview with separate letters offering congratulations on their acceptance as Hogwarts staff. Sam’s letter had another letter attached inside from a woman named Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts and Transfiguration Professor, who had mentioned that Sam would have to use the previous teachers chosen textbooks since the letters of which textbooks to use had already been sent out. She had apologised politely and offered to send copies of all the books as soon as she was able so that Sam could be familiar with what he was supposed to be teaching out of, which had made Sam’s early lesson planning a lot easier.

He had to argue with Dean for ten whole minutes to be able to read Dean’s letter, which was a variation of Sam’s congratulation letter, with a letter attached on the inside much like Sam’s own. However, unlike Minerva McGonagall, Argus Filch had spent the majority of his letter threatening to push Dean down a flight of stairs, which Sam had found entirely too funny at the time, much to Dean’s embarrassment.

After that, it was a simple matter of following the letters instructions, having bought almost full wizarding wardrobes and proper wizarding trunks with a lot of the savings they had managed to accumulate. They had even opened a shared Gringotts account, as their first paycheck came in advance and would have to be sent into an account and not held. Sam had spent the rest of the week studying the runes he was supposed to be teaching, which he was surprised to see, were just really basic versions of the sigils and runes he and Dean had been using and studying since they were kids.

The letter asked them to show up at midday on Sunday at the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade to wait for a staff member to escort them into Hogwarts, so that’s where they are, Dean shuffling his feet and tugging on his robes, and Sam staring at the towers, chest aching in an unfamiliar way.

“Sammy?” Dean asks, and Sam realises he hadn’t answered Dean’s question.

“Right, sorry. I don’t know, the letter says to meet at midday, and we’re a bit early,” he responds quickly, wrenching his attention away from the turrets and focusing on Dean’s green eyes. While maintaining eye contact, he pulls the acceptance letter which was signed by Dumbledore out of his pocket and waves it around a bit to remind Dean.

Raising his eyebrows, Dean seems appeased by Sam’s answer and goes back to staring at the street. He nudges Sam’s arm while Sam shoves the letter back into his pocket. “That looks promising.”

Sam looks up and follows Dean’s eyes to where a tall and imposing woman has come into view from the general direction of Hogwarts. As she approaches, Sam straightens his back and squares his shoulders, suddenly feeling a lot more nervous at the sight of the purple robed witch.

By the time she’s noticed them, she’s only a few feet away, and stern eyes lock onto his brother and him, which Sam assumes stick out like sore thumbs. It must be the height.

“Am I to presume you two are Dean and Sam Winchester?” she asks, and Sam is surprised to not hear a croaky old lady voice, but rather clear and smooth, if slightly accent accented, English. Her grey eyes flick between them and their trunks, laying at their feet from where they had been dragging them through the Three Broomsticks.

Sam lets his brother step forward and do the introduction, knowing the procedure by now. Dean always does the introductions and the bad cop thing, and Sam is the one who pushes them both out the door after either one of them scares or pisses off a witness.

“Dean Winchester, and this is my younger brother, Sam,” Dean begins while jutting his chin out in Sam’s direction. Sam nods politely and offers his hand to shake after Dean.

“Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress and Transfiguration Professor at Hogwarts. You may both call me Minerva,” she introduces as she shakes their hands firmly. She turns intelligent eyes to Sam. “I take it the Ancient Runes textbooks all arrived safely to you, Mr Winchester?”

Dean snorts quietly beside him, and Sam feels his polite smile drop into something a bit more horror filled at the address. He’s not even thirty. He discreetly tries and elbows Dean to make him shut up. If it were Dean in his place, he’d be freaking out too.

“Please, call me Sam. Please,” he almost begs, tone sounding a little desperate even to his own ears.

“Mr Winchester was our father, we aren’t quite that old. Call me Dean,” his brother jumps in helpfully, still grinning at Sam’s expense. Minerva simply stares at them, unimpressed, for a good minute, before gathering herself and gesturing down at their trunks.

“I’ll be escorting you to Hogwarts. Usually, our groundskeeper Hagrid would take your trunks and guide you, but he is unfortunately on leave, so as a senior member of staff, I’ve volunteered in his place. If you’ll follow me,” she explains primly, turning around and beginning to march back the way she came.

Sam turns to Dean, horrified at being called a ‘Mr Winchester’. Dean meets his eyes and begins cracking up, mouthing the name to himself and clutching his stomach.

“She made you sound old!” he says, too gleeful at Sam’s expense.

“Dude, shut up!” Sam grits out back, his cheeks colouring with embarrassment. “I’m barely twenty-six.”

Dean is still laughing at him, shoulders shaking and eyes scrunched up, even as Minerva turns around to stare at where they haven't moved an inch. Sam wonders what she thinks of them, Dean hunched over and laughing, yet somehow still managing to attract longing gazes from the few people shuffling past them, and Sam, shoulders bunched up to his ears and face probably as red as a tomato, clearly being made fun of. Whatever she sees is enough for her to fold her arms as she waits for them to catch up.

Sam punches his brother in the shoulder and begins dragging his trunk behind him as he tries to catch up to a waiting Minerva. He can still hear Dean laughing behind him as he drags his own trunk.

The trunks themselves are the greatest purchase they’ve made so far. They had been fine with second-hand robes and cheap meals, but Sam had made a good case for quality trunks, fitted with expanding charms on the inside and featherweight runes attached to them. They still have to drag them everywhere, but at least the weight isn’t too bad.

As Sam reaches Minerva, he notes the confused expression on her face. She’s flicking her eyes between where Sam’s wand is visible in his front pocket to where he’s dragging his trunk behind him, and then to where Dean is doing the same thing.

When Dean appears next to him, she reaches into her robes and flicks her wand while murmuring a spell. Instantly, both their trunks are floating beside them, and when she flicks the wand again, they move to follow her as she continues marching down the street, not even sparing them a glance. Sam has the distinct feeling that she’s mothering them.

“She stole our trunks!” he hears Dean whisper indignantly in his ear.

“Better than us dragging them around everywhere,” he shoots back before hurrying after her.

Sam doesn’t pay attention to much as they slowly make their way up the winding forest path to Hogwarts. Minerva guides them with a stern countenance and Dean walks next to her and makes appropriately impressed noises. Sam walks beside him, using him as a human shield to the severe woman. He probably won’t be recovering from the unknowing jab at his age.

“I’m sure Albus already explained in your acceptance letter, but since Hagrid is not here and his replacement is taking on heavier teaching duties, as caretaker, you’ll be expected to take on some of his roles,” Minerva is saying to Dean when he focuses back on the conversation.

They had come through an impressive set of gates, which, much like the Leaky Cauldron, had shimmered in and out of existence for a while before Sam was able to properly pinpoint them and walk inside. There had been a nagging feeling at the back of his head that kept saying he shouldn't be here, that he should just go back home so that he could make it to his dentist appointment, but when the gate had come into focus properly, it had disappeared entirely. He had tried to pretend he wasn’t unsettled by that. Or the hypothetical dentist appointment he was missing.

“–For example, escorting approved guests into Hogwarts, and guiding the first years to the Great Hall. If you’d like, you may work alongside Wilhelmina Grubbyplank, our current groundskeeper, to prepare the thestrals for taking the other students into Hogwarts, though that isn’t mandatory,” Minerva continues, and Dean is humming in acknowledgment.

Sam watches the trees gently sway in the soft breeze blowing through the grounds, trying very hard not to get the bottom of his robes dirty from the gravel path. The weather, despite having faint rays of sun spread ahead of them, is still cold, and Sam mourns their home world and dimension briefly. The heat during the werewolf hunt they had been on had led to a million arguments throughout the day, sweat and sunburns and the rundown AC in their motel grating at both of their patience. But Sam misses it, and compared to the perpetual dampness and wet misery of Scotland, their ratty hotel room on the outskirts of the city had been heaven.

“As we come inside, I will escort you to your rooms, where the house elves will take your trunks and I shall show you to your classroom and offices respectively,” Minerva is saying and Sam wills himself to stop reminiscing and focus. “Lunch has already been served, so you will gain the opportunity to meet the rest of your coworkers at dinnertime. Did Albus mention that dinner was mandatory?”

“He said so at our interview,” Sam jumps in, before gesturing to the castle coming up ahead of them. “I must say, Hogwarts is beautiful.”

Minerva smiles proudly when Sam turns his head to look at her from the other side of Dean. “She is, indeed,” she says.

When Sam said Hogwarts is beautiful, it’s not just empty flattery. While the towers before had seemed lonely, with sight of the whole castle, that description doesn’t seem to fit anymore. Stone archways and windows, aged and worn down with time, were spread across the outer walls, with no apparent pattern to them. Even from further away, the pathways were visible leading into and around the castle, all paved with stone, washed lighter in some places from use.

Hogwarts had a sense of gravity to her stone walls and mildewy rooftops. Sam couldn’t help but be ridiculously impressed. Even Dean was suitably in awe from beside him, eyebrows raised appreciatively.

Minerva seems to softly shake herself out of her reminiscing and begins walking at a faster pace, still floating their trunks behind them all.

(-)

As their little group finished touring Dean’s caretaker office (filled with chains and torture devices for some reason?) and the classroom assigned to Sam’s ancient runes class (a relatively normal, if a bit damp, room), Minerva had led them up a particularly threatening sentient staircase to where she claimed the Headmaster’s study was. Their trunks had been left in the entrance hall at the mercy of the house elves.

While Sam watches the gargoyle outside the door twist and grate to reveal yet another flight of stairs to climb, Minerva opens her mouth to hopefully explain why they’re doing this.

“Now, generally speaking, this isn’t an issue for staff. But as you two haven’t completed your education at Hogwarts, we’ll have to sort you into your houses now. It doesn’t really make a difference beyond where your staff chambers are located,” she pronounces severely, and Sam is suddenly a bit more nervous about the whole situation.

Dean simply raises an eyebrow to prompt her to continue explaining, seeming just as confused as Sam is. Maybe less nervous though. Sam has a succinct feeling he’s not really gonna like however it is this works.

“The Gryffindor dorm rooms are located in Gryffindor tower, and the Ravenclaw dorms are also in their own respective tower. However, both the Slytherin and Hufflepuff dorms are in the dungeons. Staff residences are located near each dorm to help students in emergencies and to create a sense of house unity,” Minerva continues as she leads them up the narrow spiral staircase in single file.

Sam takes in the information, and turns around to raise an eyebrow at Dean, who’s hiking behind him and Minerva. Dean’s muttering the names of the houses to himself, nose scrunched up like he’s tasted something bad, clearly trying to remember which house is which. Sam can’t really blame him, even after having read about the houses and told his brother about them, he’s still confused.

No book, no matter how dingy or dark it was, had mentioned how the sorting occurred. Sam remembers having asked at least ten different witches and wizards, only to get laughed at and patted patronisingly. Clearly it was Britain’s best kept secret. Perhaps Dumbledore would just assign them one based on whatever he thought of them.

After what feels like forever, Minerva enters a landing at the top of the staircase and knocks twice on the wooden door, to which Sam assumes Albus Dumbledore’s office is located.

“Do come inside!” a cheery voice calls from behind the door, and Minerva turns around to give the both of them one last warning look before opening it and leading them inside.

The room is circular and rather tall, clueing Sam into the fact that they were probably in one of the towers, interestingly enough. The staircase they had entered through had been decidedly not anywhere near the towers.

The room held one Albus Dumbledore, an impressive desk and a modest lounge set next to a fireplace, with spindly wooden stools with strange silver instruments spread randomly across the room, letting out steam and making weird noises or whirring peacefully. An empty bird perch sat neglected in the corner, and the walls were adorned with paintings of assorted witches and wizards, all of whom’s eyes seemed to follow them as they strode across the room.

“Mr’s Dean and Sam Winchester! I welcome you both to Hogwarts,” Dumbledore greets jovially as he directs them all to sit on assorted couches and armchairs near the fireplace. He turns to his deputy Headmistress. “I trust you’ve been treating them well, Minerva?”

Minerva scoffs as she places herself primly in an armchair next to Sam and Dean’s couch. “Of course I have, Albus. I am no amateur.”

Dean nods his head sagely at Dumbledore to support Minerva’s claim. “Thank you for having us, Headmaster. You have a lovely office,” he says with his ‘charming young man’ voice. Sam almost snorts at it, but valiantly holds it back, if only to not embarrass himself.

Dumbledore seems to be a lot more at peace and cheerful at Hogwarts than he was at the Leaky Cauldron. Sam guesses the guy doesn’t leave the castle very often. It’s probably hard to do that as the most powerful wizard in Britain, and wizard paparazzi must be even more annoying than normal paparazzi. The current Dumbledore smear campaign is impressive enough already.

“Why thank you. I understand we’re here to sort you. I presume you haven’t heard anything about how the sorting works?” Dumbledore claps his hands and stands back up again, mauve and neon orange robes glittering painfully at Sam and his brother answers truthfully that they haven’t.

Sam turns slightly panicked eyes to Dean, trying to convey his not very good feeling about it, but Dean just chooses to raise an eyebrow briefly and ignore him.

Dean’s non-reaction somehow acts as a comfort to Sam, which is probably more fucked up than if Sam had been comforted properly with a pat or a smile. No reaction from Dean means there’s no threat, and Sam, no matter how hard he’s been trying to prove otherwise, is a little brother at heart, who will always look to his big brother for guidance. Somewhere, deep down, there’s a chubby twelve year old who is always following Dean, waiting and trusting him indefinitely. Very deep down.

Sam is once again shaken out of his stupor (his head really is in the clouds today) by a worn and dirty rag being placed ceremoniously on the table in front of them. Sam looks at the thing.

It looks… gross. To say the least. It’s got stitches and oddly coloured splotches all across it and rather looks like it’s being held together by a piece of thread. Sam briefly thinks it almost looks like a hat.

“Here you go, my boys. Simply place the hat on your head and let it do its sorting magic!” Dumbledore chimes in and Sam looks up at him with mounting horror.

“You want me to… put that thing on my head?” Dean says, incredulity and a note of disgust in his voice as he leans forward to stare at the thing.

“Dean, you should go first. You always said you would have been so excited to be sorted,” Sam blatantly lies, and he can feel the shit eating grin stretching across his face. Dean snaps his head towards him, green eyes looking betrayed and mouth opening, probably to give some very clever insult.

He doesn’t get to even make a sound before Minerva decides to say her two piece. “Perfect. Please, go ahead,” she urges and picks up a biscuit from the tray that Dumbledore must have conjured at some point.

Dean shuts his mouth and glares at Sam. Sam snorts as discreetly as he can while Dean reaches a hand to poke at the ‘hat’. Biting his lip, Dean finally grabs the thing with his index and thumb before placing it as gingerly as he can on his head and closes his eyes.

Sam watches with fading amusement as Dean immediately gives a full body twitch, face screwing up in discomfort. He whips his head towards Dumbledore and Minerva, not liking the situation anymore with the way Dean’s hand is itching towards the gun hidden under his robes.

Heart pounding but expression hopefully non-threatening, he raises an eyebrow at them, while keeping an eye on Dean in his peripherals.

“What exactly does the hat do?” he asks as calmly as he can, directing their attention away from his brother.

Minerva raises a brow and gently folds her hands in her lap, and Dumbledore’s eyes start their twinkling thing again. Sam knows Dean had felt unsettled by the twinkling at their interview, but he’s not exactly sure if Dean would prefer the hat to the twinkling. He doesn’t seem to be having much fun with the thing, but at least the twinkling had given him something to bitch about.

“The Sorting Hat is an old artifact from when Hogwarts was founded. It enters your mind and decides on a house based on your innermost trait,” Dumbledore explains, looking very calm for someone explaining how a raggedy hat is reading his brother’s mind. “I suppose your brother is uncomfortable with it.”

Sam clenches his hands in his lap and turns back to eye Dean, who is now looking a lot more pissed than he was just a second ago. “It reads our minds? Will it tell you what it sees?” he asks, voice slightly more hesitant now.

Dumbledore shakes his head. “It is magically bound to keep its secrets. Not even I can access the reasoning behind its decisions,” he explains carefully, but his eyes are still twinkling.

Sam sighs a breath of relief and hopes it doesn’t look too suspicious. After what seems like an eternity, but probably was only a few minutes, the hat’s brim opens in a mockery of a mouth to yell.

“Hufflepuff!” Sam winces and immediately goes to clutch his ears.

Dean rips the thing off his head and nearly throws it onto the table in front of them. His eyes are burning with anger, but Sam knows it’s because he’s uncomfortable. He can practically see the discomfort oozing out of him.

“What was that?” he demands. Sam grimaces at the tone and decides to do damage control before Dean can get anymore angry. Not like Dean would trust Dumbledore or Minerva’s explanations in this state anyway.

He reaches down to place a hand on Dean’s forearm placatingly. “That was the Sorting Hat. It’s a well-kept sorting secret, and reads your mind to find a character trait. It can’t tell anyone what happened in there,” he says carefully, trying to convey to Dean that there’s nothing to be worried about. He’s not sure if it's for Dean, or more to reassure himself.

Dean instantly deflates a little as he takes in Sam’s explanation, but still shakes off his hand. Sam tries not to feel hurt by that.

“Guess eleven year olds don’t have much to hide. Any other age and this is just weird. And invasive,” he mutters, mostly to himself, but directs an distrustful glance at the Headmaster and deputy across from them.

Minerva remains silent, looking at them with an inscrutable eye, but Dumbledore smiles disarmingly.

“Congratulations on being sorted into Hufflepuff. Hufflepuff’s are noted for their loyalty and hard working nature. All good character traits to possess,” he monologues with the twinkle turning appraising.

Sam looks down at the even more crumpled hat with dread curling in his stomach. Mind reading doesn’t really sound fun.

“C’mon Sammy, nothing to be afraid of. Just a mind-reading hat,” Dean says to him, probably trying to equal parts reassure and insult him.

Sam rolls his eyes and picks up the hat. He lifts the thing to his head and tries not to panic as his eyes almost involuntarily slip shut.

‘Another universe hopper, I see,’ a voice sounds in his head, and Sam gives a full body flinch at it.

Vaguely, he thinks this is quite possibly the worst feeling he’s ever experienced. He’s been beaten up, slammed through walls and windows, stabbed and burnt and lied to, and somehow, mind reading takes the cream of the crop. This edges dangerously close to vulnerability and his feelings. This is probably why Dean freaked out so hard. Emotions really aren’t their thing.

He ignores the comment on his dimensional displacement.

‘I see many things in you, Sam Winchester,’ the voice continues.

He decidedly does not like that it knows his name or that it can see things in him. Creepy.

‘You have committed many courageous actions, befitting a Gryffindor and their braveness. Recklessness is almost your middle name,’ it gives the impression of joking, and Sam winces at the volume. Somehow it was almost as loud in his head as it was when it announced Dean’s placement into Hufflepuff.

‘Yes, Hufflepuff,’ it agrees. ‘You are certainly a hard working person, that I can see. You are driven by determination. But determination can be oh so easily twisted.’

He’s starting to get a bad feeling about where this is going. He feels himself clench his fists even harder.

‘I see a deep yearning for knowledge, and many memories spent in libraries researching. A true academic with an impressive thirst for knowledge,’ it notes mildly.

‘You are also a very ambitious man, though who can fault you for that? There is so much desire in you, twisted and driven by rage. What is it that truly motivates you? Where do you fit, Mr Winchester?’ it murmur-yells in his head, and Sam feels his heart drop.

He tries and thinks insults at the hat, but it’s simply humming in his head, apparently deliberating which house to send him to. Surely it can't be this difficult?

‘You are right, Mr Winchester, it usually isn’t this difficult. Generally, I only sort eleven year olds. I admit, I am unpracticed at reading an adult mind. There is so much turmoil in your head, I am loath to dig around too much. So much to unravel, so little time.’

Briefly offended, Sam rolls his eyes in his head and continues the insults.

‘Yes, I think I know where to put you. You would make a good fit in the courageous Gryffindors, or the curious Ravenclaws, or, much like your brother, the loyal and diligent Hufflepuffs.’

Sam gets the unsettling impression that he’s being mentally flayed open by the hat.

‘But that is not who you really are, is it, Mr Winchester? Should you continue down this path, it may tear you apart. But you already knew that, didn’t you? You march on regardless. Yes, I am quite sure I know where to put you now. That crusade of yours will give you a good home in-’

“Slytherin!”

Sam rips the hat off his head, heart racing and palms clammy. He pants a little as Dean takes the hat from his hand and places it on the table again. He can feel three sets of eyes on him, but takes a moment to just breathe and try to will some colour into his no doubt pale complexion.

“That sucked,” he eventually says flatly, and Dean snorts loudly.

“Yeah man, tell me about it.”

When Sam makes eye contact with Dumbledore, his expression is more calculating, reminiscent of their first meeting.

His eyes aren’t twinkling anymore.

(-)

Long after Minerva had guided them towards their new chambers, both located inside the castle dungeons, Sam is sat on Dean’s bed, nursing a glass of water from the attached kitchenette while his brother inspects the room for the third time.

They have their own separate quarters, both fitted like a medieval motel room, now that Sam thinks about it. There’s a small kitchenette, a private bathroom, and a small lounge area in front of the four poster bed, though Sam’s room is decorated with shades of green and silver instead of Dean’s frankly unsettling yellows.

Sam’s room is only a few twisting corridors away from Dean’s, and apparently closer to the Slytherin common room than Dean’s room is to the Hufflepuff ones.

Sam hadn’t really wanted to spend time in his room alone. He’s not used to having his own separate room, and even when he was at Stanford, he either had a roommate, or he had Jess. He’ll put up with the colour scheme if he has to.

“Did you see the look that Minerva gave back in that Hogsmeade place?” Dean calls out from where his head is buried in a set of drawers.

Sam thinks back to Minerva and her slightly cooler reception of him after his sorting. She hadn’t said anything, and neither had Dumbledore, but he had a feeling that there might be a bit of prejudice against him now. He’s sure Dean noticed it too, but it’s probably not what he’s thinking of right now.

“No?” he chooses to answer, as honest as possible.

Dean goes to remove his head from the draw but hits it on his way out and lets out a startled yelp. Sam laughs openly as Dean carefully removes his head and rubs it angrily.

“‘Course you didn’t. The trunks,” Dean offers and lets Sam connect the dots instead of answering straight.

He’s wracking his brains and looking back on all of Minerva’s expressions in relation to their trunks when it clicks. He had noticed she seemed confused when they had bodily dragged their trunks, and had ended up hovering them for them.

“That’s why she kept looking at us like we were idiots on the way up,” he says, surprised. “We didn’t use magic and she was confused.”

Dean nods his head while walking towards his trunk. “Exactly. She isn’t stupid, and we aren’t magical. If we aren’t careful, she’ll guess something is up.”

Something is nagging at Sam, right in the corner of his mind. Something that is important to this, but he can’t remember what it is, or how it connects. He wrings his hands in frustration but doesn’t contribute anymore to the conversation.

Dean is now digging through his trunk for something, placed at the foot of the bed. He’s whistling some song Sam doesn’t recognise, and seems completely unaffected by the whole invasive hat rag or potential ruin of their cover. After a minute, he makes a triumphant noise and pulls out a bottle of whiskey, raising it in Sam’s direction with a grin.

“Seriously dude?” Sam finds himself saying as he rolls his eyes.

“What, a man can’t have a drink after having his mind read by a freakin’ hat?” Dean shoots back just as quickly, but it sounds more like a pre-planned excuse.

He pours a decent amount into a glass but grimaces when he notices there’s no fridge for ice. Sam holds back a snort at the sad expression on his brother’s face as the guy goes for a sip anyway. Dean’s picky about his alcohol when he’s not at a bar.

Then there’s a loud cracking sound and suddenly there’s a wrinkled potato sack standing in the middle of the room.

Its big brown eyes stare at where Dean has startled so bad his drink smashes on the floor, laser focused in on the gun pointed right between its eyebrows a split second after it appeared. Sam himself had rolled off the bed to the side furthest away from the noise, hand reaching for the candelabras placed on the bed side table, a last ditch attempt at protection.

The thing screams, voice high pitched and its leathery ears (ears?) flap as it immediately throws itself to the floor.

“Limpy did not mean to disturb the Mr Winchester’s! Limpy is a bad elf!” the thing cries as it shakes softly.

“What the fuck,” Dean declares, his gun still trained on the thing.

They stare at it, but it doesn’t make any more moves. It just kinda lays on the floor and trembles pathetically. Sam flicks his eyes to Dean but he’s just staring at the thing, and Sam starts to feel a bit sorry for it.

Since no one is moving beyond breathing, and in the self-proclaimed Limpy’s case, quivering, Sam decides to make the first move by standing up and walking around the bed to crouch next to the pile of Limpy.

He’s still holding the candelabras but has it hidden behind his back as he motions for Dean to put the damn gun away. Dean stares forlornly at his smashed drink but ends up slipping the gun back into his jeans, even if the leathery sack is too busy trying to plaster itself to the floor to notice the lack of threat.

“I’ve seriously had enough of sentient fabric,” Dean mutters from somewhere to the side. Sam bravely doesn’t laugh.

“Um, Limpy, right?” Sam begins, reaching a very tentative hand to rest on the things trembling shoulders. Upon closer look, it’s wearing a tea towel, not a potato sack, and its skin simply has a leathery sheen to it, but otherwise appears to be skin-like and fuzzy in places. Almost like a bat, really.

It lets out a little squeak in response and trembles even harder. “Yes, that is Limpy’s name. Limpy did not mean to scare the Mr Winchester’s, but Limpy was instructed to bring them to dinner by the Deputy Headmistress McGonnagal. Limpy is sorry!”

It had lifted its head a little to speak, but by the end of its explanation and the subsequent apology, had thrown itself back down to the floor to twitch sadly. Sam sends a panicked look towards Dean, but Dean doesn’t seem to care all that much, shrugging his shoulders and waving his hand around. Sam’s on his own here then.

Sam takes a deep breath and turns back towards Limpy with the same smile he generally uses on scared witnesses or children.

“Thank you for coming to get us Limpy. We didn’t mean to scare you when you appeared, and we’re sorry. Aren’t we, Dean?” he grits out in Dean’s direction but keeps a smile up for Limpy.

Dean looks slightly annoyed that Sam brought him into it despite his unrepentant actions, but eventually crouches down as well to pat Limpy’s head, kind of like a dog. “Sorry little guy. I’m not used to Limpy’s making themselves at home in my room.”

With both Sam and Dean gently coaxing it, Limpy eventually raises himself from his heap to stand and stare at them hesitantly. “Mr Winchester’s aren’t mad at Limpy?”

Sam feels his heart constrict at the scared expression on its face. It appears so genuinely upset, almost human. He always did have a soft spot for things that could probably kill him.

“No, we were just surprised. Like my brother said, we aren’t used to things appearing in our room without warning. Next time, would you knock on the door first?”

Limpy blinks at them, eyes flicking from where Sam’s hand still rests on his shoulder and the no longer scary expression on Dean, before an abashed expression makes its way onto his leathery face.

“Limpy will keep that in mind. Limpy is grateful for the Mr Winchester’s kindness,” he says, before snapping his fingers. Dean whips his head around to find the drink that had shattered before, sitting perfectly whole on the countertop and being filled with more whiskey, courtesy of a floating bottle. He whistles, impressed.

“Thanks Limpy,” Dean says as he gets up to walk towards the drink. “Call me Dean.”

Sam smiles at the familiarity, before standing up himself and placing the candelabras on Dean’s now closed trunk.

“And I’m Sam. Mr Winchester makes us sound old,” he jokes, and Limpy looks delighted. “You said Minerva called us to dinner?”

Dean checks his watch and raises his eyebrows at Limpy. “It’s only half past six. Dinner already?”

Limpy, apparently a lot less shy now that he knows Sam or Dean won’t attempt to shoot him again, nods his head enthusiastically. “Deputy Headmistress McGonnagal says she has forgotten to tell Dean and Sam Winchester when dinner time starts at the Great Hall. She has asked Limpy to fetch Dean and Sam Winchester but Sam Winchester was not in his room, so Limpy came to Dean Winchester instead,” Limpy continues.

Sam hums in response. “Thanks for fetching us, Limpy. We’ll head over now,” he says as he adjusts his robes to look less wrinkled and start walking towards the door, trusting his brother is behind him.

“Dean, leave the drink!” he calls behind him without looking back.

He hears a loud groan and a slam of a glass drink onto the counter a second later, before Dean’s footsteps are trailing behind him.

Limpy hasn’t disappeared despite completing his job, and is instead shuffling next to Sam, big brown eyes raking over Sam’s face while they tread out of the dungeons and towards the Great Hall.

It’s less than a five minute walk, but Sam’s starting to get a bit uncomfortable with the staring. He clears his throat as quietly as he can.

“Uh, Limpy?” he starts. Limpy trips over his feet in his excitement at being addressed.

“Yes, Sam Winchester?”

Dean coughs “awkward” into his fist behind them. Sam ignores it.

“I don’t mean to sound rude, but uh, what exactly are you?” Sam asks, fiddling with his wand in his pocket.

Limpy skips a little and smiles toothily at Sam. He doesn’t look offended in the slightest, even seeming to be a little happier to educate him.

“Limpy is a house else, Sam Winchester, and Limpy lives at Hogwarts. Limpy’s family have served Hogwarts for many generations,” he declares proudly, the tea towel being adjusted so that Sam can see the Hogwarts emblem on it.

Sam remembers reading about house elves. It had sounded a little too similar to slavery for him to truly be comfortable with, but Limpy doesn’t seem to mind. Sam still finds it weird.

“Right,” Sam eventually responds. His shoes squeak against the stone floor.

“Limpy is grateful for Hogwarts, otherwise Limpy and his family would have nowhere to go, Sam Winchester” Limpy continues, and wow, the third person stuff is really starting to get to him.

“Sounds interesting,” Dean chimes in, having apparently decided to catch up and walk on the other side of Sam.

They continue up a final flight of stairs that leads them right outside the door to the Great Hall, which is currently closed. The room is large and grand, which leads Sam to believe the inside of the Great Hall is probably going to be even more impressive.

Sam stops walking as they approach and turns around to say goodbye to Limpy.

“Thank you for getting us here, Limpy,” he says with an awkward smile on his face. He nudges Dean next to him.

“Yeah thanks, Limpy. We’ll see you around?” Dean offers, and it's probably the nicest thing he’s said to Limpy since he appeared.

Limpy looks absolutely delighted and the prospect of seeing them again, and Sam wants to wince. He doesn’t really mind Limpy, he’s just… intense. The staring made a bit of an impact.

“Yes, thank you very much, Mr Winchester’s!”

“You know you can call us just Sam and Dean, right?” Sam tries.

“Of course, Sam Winchester,” Limpy responds instantly, then disappears into thin air with a loud crack. Sam almost misses the mischievous smile on his face, but not quite.

Dean laughs from beside him and Sam rolls his eyes. “Old habits die hard, I guess,” he says.

“He’s certainly a personality, that’s for sure,” Sam agrees.

As Dean’s laughter trails off, Sam stares at the large doors to enter the Great Hall. He feels a bit more nervous now that they’re finally here, the shadows from the dimly lit torches on the walls making Sam feel smaller in the face of the entrance.

Dean must sense his hesitation, since he kicks Sam’s shin none too gently after a moment.

“Dude! What was that for?” Sam hisses, distracted by his outrage enough to drag his eyes away from the door and towards his now smirking brother.

“Dean thinks that Sam Winchester should stop being a pussy,” Dean says, pitching his voice up as high as Limpy’s. Sam fights the urge to either punch him or roll his eyes. Maybe he’ll do both.

Of course, Dean ruins the fun by grinning at him and opening the door with his shoulders squared. Sam can see the chord to the necklace he gave Dean all those years ago at the back of his neck, and that is what kicks him into gear to follow after him quickly.

“You still didn’t have to kick me that hard,” he grits out to Dean as they walk through the doorway.

“Sure, I did.”

Sam’s very witty response is cut short by the sight of the Great Hall. While Dean immediately locks on to the teachers table, Sam is blown away by the sight of the ceiling. He had read all about the Hall in Hogwarts: A History, but it was another thing to see the lazily twinkling stars and hovering candles across the roof. It really was a direct copy of the sky outside, and Sam finds himself once again distracted by the sight of constellations that were familiar enough, just in the slightly different positions.

Tearing his eyes away from the ceiling as they walk, Sam surveys the four empty long tables that they’re walking between, and finally turns his eyes to the teachers table as they’re nearing it. He notes that Dumbledore isn’t present, which might explain the elaborate chair in the middle that sits empty.

Most other seats seemed to be filled, with the exception of two. One was placed in between a man dressed in black with long, greasy black hair and a woman with round rimmed glasses that looked about as thick as Sam’s wrist, while the other was near the other end of the table, between a witch in ornate olive robes decorated with constellations and an elderly witch with short grey hair. Clearly the seats had been left empty on purpose, but Sam isn’t sure why the staff would want to separate him and his brother.

From beside him, Dean raises his hand in greeting and puts on a smile, in spite of the seating arrangement.

“Hi there, sorry we’re late. We got a little lost,” he says as an excuse for why they were late, beyond accidentally terrorising a house elf. Sam guesses that it might not go down well with their new coworkers if Dean had opened with the truth.

Minerva makes to stand up as they stop in front of the table, but Sam jolts forward to motion for her to stay seated. “Please, sit. It’s on us for being late,” he exclaims as earnestly as he can.

Minerva raises an eyebrow at his outburst but otherwise doesn’t seem offended. She sits back down and picks up her cutlery again as the rest of the staff stare awkwardly at them. Sam desperately tries not to shuffle about self-consciously in the brief silence.

The staff have already begun their meal, food piled onto their plates and drinks half drunk already. Sam makes eye contact with the black haired man in between Minerva and the empty seat and is surprised to see blatant dislike on his face. Sam’s pretty sure he’d remember meeting the guy, or at least offending him that much. Maybe he’s just a generally rude kind of man.

“Nice to meet you all, I’m Dean Winchester,” Dean starts up again, trying to ignore the mix of blank stares, shy smiles, and discomfort across the nine staff members seated at the table. “I’m the new caretaker at Hogwarts.”

He addresses the table, turning his head to make eye contact with everyone individually. Sam decides he should probably introduce himself too. Lest the silence stretch on too long.

“And I’m Sam Winchester, Ancient Runes Professor. He’s my brother,” he nudges Dean with his shoulder in a friendly manner, which earns him a decently warm smile from Minerva and the elderly witch next to the empty seat at the other end of the table.

“Are you two dears Americans?” a voice chimes in from the end of the table next to the elderly witch. The voice belonged to a witch dressed in outdated muggle clothing, her curly hair pulled back from her face with a red polka dotted headband. The whole outfit screams two decades ago, but Sam can’t really judge considering he’s wearing a glorified blanket, and probably will continue to for the foreseeable future.

The woman smiles warmly at them. “Charity Burbage, Muggle Studies Professor. Call me Charity” she introduces herself as before either him or Dean can answer. Sam relaxes a little at the olive branch they’d been given. Usually Sam was good at dealing with people, as an offset to his job as a hunter, but both he and Dean have been a little off-kilter ever since they got stuck in this dimension.

“Yes ma’am, born and raised,” Dean grins at Charity, gesturing for Sam to follow his lead and take a seat before beginning to walk around the table to stand behind the empty chair next to elderly witch and olive robed witch.

“This seat taken?” Dean asks the olive robed witch as Sam tries not to grimace at the look the black haired man is giving him now that the seat next to him is once again the only seat available.

The elderly witch jumps in for olive robes, gesturing for Dean to sit and then sticking out a hand for him to shake after he does. Sam walks and sits in his own seat with as much grace as he can manage, nodding at Minerva politely and tuning in to the events at the other end of the table.

“Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank, but please, call me Wilhemina. I’m substituting as groundskeeper and Care of Magical Creatures Professor while Hagrid is on leave. The witch beside you is Aurora Sinistra,” the elderly witch, now known as Wilhemina, says, and that seems to be what was needed for other professors to start to introduce themselves.

Aurora Sinistra places a dark hand in Dean’s when he offers, with a cat-like grin that matches Wilhemina’s stretching across her face. “Aurora. I teach Astronomy,” she explains before the short man beside her sticks his own hand towards Dean, leaning over his plate to enthusiastically introduce himself.

“Filius Flitwick, Charms Professor and Head of Ravenclaw. You haven’t eaten yet have you? Make sure to fill up on the pie, it’s a Hogwarts speciality!” Filius gushed from his specially made chair that seemed just a bit taller than everyone else's.

“I do believe that it’s my fault that Dean and Sam were unable to find their way to the Great Hall,” Minerva interjects, still appearing as severe as ever, but with an apologetic undertone to her voice. “I requested a house elf to escort you. I presume that went well?”

With everyone’s attention still on Dean, even the grouchy man sitting stiffly beside Sam, it’s hard to miss the embarrassed flush and smile that floats onto Dean’s face. Charity, Wilhelmina, and Aurora all seem charmed by the way Dean’s green eyes flick to the table and his head bows a little. Even McGonagall seems to soften a little as Dean chuckles. Sam wants to roll his eyes at the act.

“Limpy? We had a bit of a rocky start, but we eventually figured it out. He was cool,” Dean says after a moment, and despite being exasperated, Sam really has to admire how easily Dean’s able to charm people. Wherever Dean goes, people stare, and it seems that the staff of Hogwarts are no exception.

“You’ve met Limpy? He’s a good elf, isn’t he?” another witch chimes in, this time from across the table, two seats down from Sam. The woman has a large smile on her round face, with a streak of dirt on her forehead that she hasn’t seemed to notice yet.

“He is,” Sam agrees, with a polite smile on his own face. She leans back in her chair precariously to make eye contact with him, before reaching behind the witch between them to shake his hand.

“Pomona Sprout. I teach Herbology and take care of the Hufflepuff’s. The elves at Hogwarts are truly very friendly if you make the time to talk to them, you see?” she pronounces jovially. Sam instantly feels at ease with her, her kindness shining through instantly.

Sam had just opened his mouth to respond, and Dean had only just begun talking to a very curious Wilhemina and Aurora, when the witch with an unhealthy amount of jewellery and thick glasses who was seated in between him and Pomona suddenly dropped her teacup and jumped to her feet with a shout.

“Death! Death comes for you, Sam Winchester! I have foreseen it in the leaves! The leaves, they tell of your death!” she yells, her voice high pitched. Sam and Dean, unlike almost everyone else, hadn’t jumped when the woman had begun shouting her proclamations of death.

Silence reins in the Hall for a split second, before Minerva begins to cough primly into her fist. The woman is still standing up, her arms spread wide and staring at the ceiling, like she had stated this in front of a crowd of hundreds, rather than an empty hall, save her now embarrassed looking coworkers.

“Sybill, please do sit down,” Minerva pleads stiffly, and with a wave of her wand, the smashed teacup is repaired and placed next to Sybill’s plate.

Most of the staff have cut off their conversations and are staring down at their plates or off at another part of the room, to avoid making eye contact with the woman. Sybill herself seems entirely unembarrassed by her outburst, and simply sits down with a loud jingle from her jewellery.

Sam really wants to turn away from the woman, just to commiserate with Dean about how insane that was, but Sybill, once sat, turns her widened eyes to him, almost like she’s expecting him to drop dead at that very second.

“Um… Thank you for the warning?” Sam eventually says, feeling more incredulous than threatened. Sybill extends a thin hand, bracelets tinkling loudly, and after a beat, he shakes it.

“I am Sybill Trelawney. By profession I instruct the young minds of the present about what lies in the future, through the mystical art of Divination,” she said in a lilting and soft voice.

Smiling awkwardly, Sam pulls his hand back and covertly tries and wipes it on his pants. She had been alarmingly slick, probably because of the no doubt heavy necklaces and bracelets covering half of her frame. Sybill didn’t seem to notice, turning back to serenely eat her food.

Slowly, conversations started back up. Minerva is sipping on her drink quietly, while Dean looks a bit overwhelmed with fending off Filius, Aurora, Wilhelmina, and Charity at once (though Sam suspected they were doing it on purpose with how cheeky their smiles were). Pomona had been pulled into a conversation with the woman at the end of the table that hadn’t introduced herself yet, which left Sam stuck between a rock and a hard place. To open conversation with either the crazy woman or the stick in the mud, or to not.

Food eventually fills up on Sam’s plate, and he leans forward a little to check that Dean’s also gotten some. After finding that his brother was in fact fed, Sam tracks his eyes back to his own plate, but not before making eye contact with the gloomy guy next to him.

He hides a wince, but they’ve already made eye contact, so it would be rude to ignore the guy now. “Hi, uh, I don’t know if I’ve introduced myself yet. Sam Winchester, Ancient Runes,” he says with a small and earnest smile on his face.

The guy, despite having been staring for probably the whole dinner, continues to stare at Sam like he was an idiot. The guy was thin, and he looked a bit unhealthy, skin pale and drawn around his face like he was eternally tired. Sam got the feeling he probably didn’t smile much.

The silence was starting to enter into awkward territory again. Maybe wizardkind was just really bad at introductions and liked to stare instead of introducing themselves, if the past hour of Sam’s life was anything to go off. Or maybe it was a British thing.

Finally, the man seems to get sick of watching Sam almost-squirm, and parts thin lips to respond. “I did in fact hear your first introduction, Mr Winchester.”

His voice is cold and dry, but with an almost musical rhythm to the sarcasm. Sam smiles just a bit more at the response. Sure, it’s easier to get along with people who are open to it, but Sam’s got ample experience at dealing with sarcastic and bitchy people. No one’s got Bobby beat when it comes to derision.

“Please, call me Sam,” he continues, keeping up the smile. He can see Sybill begin to fidget at him from his peripherals and makes the easy decision to try and talk with Batman rather than deal with another awkward prophecy of his demise.

The guy squints at him distrustingly, before sliding away to stare out at the empty Hall. “Severus Snape, Potions Professor and Head of Slytherin,” he finally introduces himself as, and Sam nearly pumps his fist in victory.

Sybill is jingling her bracelets in his direction and wiggling her fingers at him and Sam subtly tries to manoeuvre his body away from her to discourage whatever it is she wants to say. No Winchester has ever really been a fan of fate, or the future. Generally, they like to take things into their own hands, so Sam has a feeling he wouldn’t get along too well with her.

“Oh, you’re a Slytherin? Me too!” Sam says, latching onto the possible conversation topic tightly. Dean’s still talking to Aurora, Wilhelmina, and Charity at the other end of the table, having devoured his food in the time since Sybill’s outburst and Sam’s conversation with Severus Snape. Sam spies that Filius has started up a secretive conversation with Minerva. Sybill is now fiddling with her teacup and edging it slowly closer to him, as if to attract his attention. He focuses back on the conversation defiantly.

“That Sorting Hat thing” –here, Sam cuts himself off to grimace slightly at the memory of the invasive dirty rag– “in the Headmaster’s office sorted me here. Apparently the staff quarters are all divided by house, but since Dean and I are from overseas, they had to sort us now.”

Severus Snape looks distinctly unimpressed by Sam’s explanation. “Is that so?” he remarks, in a mocking tone.

Sam smiles as disarmingly as he can, turning back to his food briefly to continue eating. “How long have you been teaching?” he tries, swallowing a bite and taking a sip from his drink.

He nearly spits it out instantly when the odd taste of pumpkin hits his mouth instead of literally any other drink. He gurgles pathetically for a moment, drawing a raised eyebrow from Severus Snape and a feathery pat on the back from Sybill, immediately followed by a much more hearty one by Pomona, who advises him to drink some more ‘pumpkin juice’ to swallow it down, before turning back to her previous conversation.

“Are you quite finished, Sam,” Severus Snape says, and manages to deliver his name with such venom that Sam is surprised. He’s had people who have genuinely tried to kill him say his name with less ridicule. It’s impressive, honestly.

“Yes, uh, thank you for your concern,” Sam eventually coughs out, pointedly refusing to touch his cup again.

“Then I shall bid you farewell,” the man says instead of answering Sam's initial question. He stands up before Sam can say anything, and in a flurry of black flowing robes, bids absolutely no one else good night and disappears out of the Great Hall like a vengeful spirit.

Sam stares at where the guy had gone, before turning back to his half-finished food. Sybill seems excited now that his attention isn’t taken up by the Potions professor anymore, but just as she opens her mouth, probably to share her visions of his upcoming funeral, Dean places a heavy hand on Sam’s shoulder from behind.

“Sorry Sybill, I’m gonna have to steal Sammy here,” Dean interrupts, not sounding sorry at all.

Sam is so grateful at the intervention, he misses the use of his nickname. Unfortunately, no one else at this end of the table does, which prompts Pomona to coo loudly at them.

“Sammy? How cute,” she exclaims, clasping her hands together in front of her. The witch beside her covers her smile with her hand, obviously listening in, and Sam wants to bang his head into the table.

“C’mon man, you gotta stop calling me that. I’m twenty six,” Sam laments, feeling his reputation already cementing as Dean’s little brother all over again.

“No I don’t, Sammy,” Dean snarks back, and Sam narrows his eyes at him, pissy. “Anyways, we’ve had a big day, and if I’m tired, Sammy surely is too. So I’ll do the responsible big brother thing and drag him to his room.”

That gets an even louder coo from Pomona, and even Sybill is starting to look a little touched. “You’re dead meat,” Sam whispers to Dean as he stands up out his seat and pushes it back in neatly.

“Been there, done that,” is all Dean whispers back before he starts saying goodnight.

Sam pulls away to shake Pomona’s hand one last time and wish her goodnight. The woman she had been talking with introduces herself as Septima Vector, Arithmancy Professor, and wishes him pleasant dreams with an absent smile.

“Goodnight everyone, it really was a pleasure to meet you,” he says towards the rest of the table while Dean personally says goodbye to Aurora, Wilhelmina, and Charity. Sam will have to tease him later about the lady gossip circle he’s managed to worm his way into, but for now, he settles for pinching Dean’s side and making him yelp.

“That’s my cue! Night ladies,” Dean finally finishes, and they both turn to walk out of the Great Hall, exhausted.

(-)

One week later, Sam sits at the teachers table in between the ever-frosty Potions Professor and Sam’s personal death omen, the now bored Divination Professor Sybill Trelawney waiting for the students to show up for the opening feast.

Dean’s seat at the other end of the table is empty, much to Aurora and Wilhemina’s disappointment, as he’s off guiding the first years across the giant lake. Sam thinks he only agreed to the gig so that he could scope out the Giant Squid, probably to see if it was something he could hunt, but Sam can’t really blame him. He’d rather be out hunting some squid than avoiding the weird come-on’s by the pink toad sitting next to Dumbledore.

Indeed, for the first time since Sam and his brother had begun their employment at Hogwarts, Dumbledore had shown up, leading a stout woman dressed in a matching pink set that Sam was sure even Dean would call an abomination whenever he laid eyes on it. They entered the Great Hall just after the rest of the staff had settled down, with the addition of the school nurse Poppy Pomfrey and librarian Irma Pince.

Sam could feel her beady eyes latch onto him and stay there as she approached the staff table, both her and Minerva flanking the Headmaster. She didn’t miss a beat or even stop her conversation with a decently polite looking Dumbledore, but a putrid coloured blush had risen on her cheeks as she swept across the staff table and landed on him.

Sam could recognise the signs easily. He was a frequent receiver of them according to his brother, but he apparently was far more oblivious to it than Dean was. Like Dean really had any room to talk. He could probably flirt his way out of a paper bag, especially if the paper bag was as obsessed with him as any other normal person was.

It was hard to ignore it this time though, especially when the woman very obviously pointed to him and whispered to Dumbledore with a garish giggle. He could almost feel Severus shudder beside him, and Sam had to stifle a laugh at the reaction.

When the entourage finally arrived at the table, rather than give Dumbledore enough time to introduce her to the staff, she immediately walked around the side of the table, and made to sit down in the golden chair placed in the centre of the seating arrangement, which was clearly meant to seat Dumbledore.

Every staff member, except of course Dumbledore and the eternally judgemental Severus, gasped. It’s not like Sam himself cared much for tradition or anything, but the slimy look she had given him and the barely disguised greed at the golden throne-chair had been enough to make him dislike her. He gasped right alongside everyone else.

The frozen looks and bewildered expressions that everyone was giving her, seemed to stop her in her tracks. She cleared her throat with a loud “hem, hem” before moving backwards from around the seat. That gave a stone-faced Minerva enough time to hastily transfigure a chair similar to every other staff members’, and place it next to Dumbledore’s.

The woman made to sit down, and, in a patronising fashion that was clearly becoming a habit, waved a hand to gesture for Minerva and the Headmaster to sit down too. Sam hid a wince as Minerva gave Dumbledore an incredulous look while following him to sit down. Minerva had placed the woman's chair on the other side of Dumbledore’s, kicking poor Filius down a seat.

That was the woman’s first strike, Sam mentally began a tally in his head. Looking discreetly at the expressions of the other staff, it didn’t seem that the woman's actions had been popular so far.

The woman began to “hem, hem” again. Severus’s eye twitched, and Sam mentally added another score to the tally.

“Thank you Headmaster, for that lovely tour of the castle,” she began, and her voice was just as simpering and high-pitched as Sam would have expected it to be. She turned to address the staff, all staring at where she had waited for Dumbledore and Minerva to sit down before standing back up again.

“I am sure that many of you already know who I am,” she continues, but it couldn’t have been the greatest way to start the conversation considering that not one staff member looked to know who she was like she claimed.

“My name is Dolores Umbridge, previous Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic. However, I am proud to say that because of the Ministry's careful choices, I have been selected as prime candidate for the Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor. You may all address me as Dolores.”

There were quiet murmurs throughout the staff table, though Dolores didn’t seem to notice, sitting down with yet another “hem, hem”.

Sam had a bad feeling about the issue of apparent Ministry interference at Hogwarts. The whole reason he and Dean had chosen to apply for Hogwarts, was for access to the library and resources that could only be given to them from either here or from the Ministry. At the time, Sam had assumed that the Ministry was competent, and that it would be easier for their lack of magic or alien nature to be more easily discovered should they choose to infiltrate there. So, with confidence in the fact that Hogwarts had always remained separate from the state, they ended up here. But if there were Ministry workers infiltrating the school, then Sam wasn’t exactly sure things would be safe anymore, regardless of whether or not their identities as frauds were revealed.

Another, equally grim thought came to mind. What if whatever this was, became Sam and Dean’s problem. What if it kept them away from home?

“Thank you, Dolores. Perhaps we should introduce our staff?” Dumbledore jumps in after a moment. His eyes are fixed on Dolores, pleasant and attentive, like there’s nothing in the world he would rather be doing.

Dolores, despite her rough manners before, smiles silkily at Dumbledore. “Yes, I do believe that is in order! From left to right shall do just fine,” she gestures to the left of the table, turning her beady eyes to where Irma Pince sits at the end.

The staff introduce themselves by name and position one after another, but none look particularly happy about it. Dolores doesn’t seem to be doing herself any favours by treating them like children and not the powerful wizards and witches they are. Or aren’t, in Sam’s case.

When it’s Filius’s turn, Dolores looks positively disgusted at his polite introduction. She stares him up and down with such venom, eyes fixed on Filius’s slightly pointed ears and shorter stature. Dolores doesn’t exactly look like a prime example of tolerance, probably why she’s clued into Filius’ goblin blood so quickly

Minerva doesn’t bother introducing herself, and neither does Dumbledore. Poppy gives a humble and brief introduction, and Severus simply states his name and subject in a drawling tone.

Soon, it’s Sam’s turn. Dolores looks a little too interested for Sam to be anything but awkward. She leans forward and puts her chin in her hands in a girly manner, staring directly at him and fluttering her eyelashes slightly, even despite the four people seated between them.

“I’m, uh, Sam Winchester, Ancient Runes professor. My brother Dean and I started here this year. He’s the new caretaker,” he keeps it short, nodding his head at her and his expression neutral. The less attention he gives, hopefully the quicker whatever interest she has in him falls away. It wouldn’t be good to have the Ministry looking too deeply at him or his brother.

Dolores makes a delighted noise and her beady eyes flutter even faster at him. “Such a… common name. Are you American, dear?” she asks demurely. He tries not to feel offended at the patronising tone, or the jab at his name. Sam is a great name, if he says so himself.

“Yes, we moved here a few months ago,” he responds, not bothering to comment on the name dig. He turns his head to Sybill beside him, hoping that she’ll start kicking up a fuss about the shape of the candle floating near her, marking it as an omen of Dolores’ upcoming death.

His saviour from more awkward questions comes not in the form of Sybill’s premonitions, but rather a gaggle of teenagers bursting in through the Great Hall door. Immediately, Dolores abandons her next introduction to pay attention to the children beginning to stream through the doors in groups of five to seven.

Soon the Hall is filling up at an impressive rate. All the kids are wearing the uniform, seating themselves in friend groups and chattering loudly or hugging their peers, separated only by their house table. Sam watches them, and feels his chest warm a little at the sight of them running up and down their tables all excited for the school year and the people in it.

He’s so focused on the joy permeating the previously empty Great Hall, that he almost misses the entrance of the silvery humanoid blobs that float through the walls.

He nearly jumps out of his seat, but manages to stop himself and instead smack his knees painfully under the table. He grits his teeth, but remains transfixed on the multiple beings that float through students and tables and settle themselves on benches like it's entirely normal. Some of the students even begin to chatter at them.

He turns to Severus beside him, not moving his eyes away from the one seated at Slytherin table, even though he can’t see the figure that clearly. It’s like the gates to Hogwarts, or the Leaky Cauldron, seeming to be just out of focus. If he concentrates, they stay in sight, but they slip and slide out of his vision if he isn’t paying attention.

“What are those?” he murmurs as softly as he can, dread beginning to settle in his stomach.

Severus turns to look at him with an almost amused look in his dark eyes. “Children?” he responds lazily.

Sam doesn’t laugh. “Of course, how could I forget about the children–” he starts sarcastically before rolling his eyes, “–I’m talking about the pale floating guys.”

At that, Severus raises an eyebrow, surprised at the line of questioning. “You mean to tell me that America is not in possession of ghosts?”

Sam’s blood runs cold. “Ghosts?”

Severus rolls his eyes, the most expressive Sam has seen him all week. “Yes, Sam, ghosts. They’re harmless. They simply float around Hogwarts and mind their own business. Unlike some living people,” Severus finishes, tone pointed. He turns away and leaves Sam to his hopefully private freak-out.

Ghosts. At Hogwarts. Apparently peaceful and free to do whatever they want. Ghosts.

Sam is drawn out of the spiral by Minerva disappearing from the table and the Great Hall as the last students trickle in through the door, which closes soon afterwards. Dolores starts up a hushed conversation with Dumbledore, having angled herself as far away from Filius as humanly possible. He doesn’t seem to be too deeply offended by that though, simply turning to speak softly to Aurora.

Dean shows up and begins to walk to his seat between Aurora and Wilhemina. He stops dead a few steps away from the staff table when he lays eyes on the ghosts.

His eyes flick wildly about the room for another second before he finally kicks his body into gear and stiffly approaches his chair and sits. Wilhelmina greets him cheerfully, and Dean looks like he’s physically pushing down the urge to start throwing salt and burning things. Sam watches him move much like a puppet with dodgy strings.

Seeing that the first years haven’t come in yet, Sam stands as unobtrusively as possible and walks behind the staff table to get to where Dean’s sitting, perfectly still and locked onto the closest ghost. He gets a few stares from particularly nosy students and a flirtatious one from Dolores as he leans over Dean's shoulder to whisper at him.

“Yes, those are ghosts. Apparently they’re harmless. Stop freaking out, we’ll talk later,” he hisses softly. He waits for Dean to nod and manually relax his shoulders before heading back to his own seat.

While whispering to Dean, he had made eye contact with three school children sitting next to a ghost with what looked like a deep cut across its general neck region. It was hard to miss the lightning scar, not as faded as one would expect for a decades old injury, even if it was trying its best to be hidden behind a mop of dark hair and glasses. Harry Potter, the infamous Boy-Who-Lived, who had been staring at where Dean had sat down and started talking with Wilhemina with a curiously betrayed expression.

Soon after Sam sits back down in his own seat, gaining a perplexed look from Severus, the doors to the Great Hall once again open, this time with Minerva leading a line of tiny children up the aisle between houses to begin the Sorting.

Sam tries his best to listen to the hats song, but the echo of its voice starts to bore him after the first verse. He tunes out the rest of it, but claps politely alongside Sybill when the hat apparently finishes. Minerva raises a long piece of parchment paper and begins to read out names.

He continues to applaud during the sorting with the rest of the staff and students, but the issue of the Ministry nags at him, and he certainly doesn’t feel very safe with ghosts floating around, despite Severus reassuring him in his own rude way.

He doesn’t come back to himself until food appears, and even then, he’s quiet. He eats his food, and makes sure to avoid the abomination called pumpkin juice this time. He subtly swipes the neglected salt shaker sitting between him and Sybill. Just in case.

When it seemed that everyone in the Hall had finished eating, satisfied grins and hunched shoulders echoed throughout the student body, Dumbledore stands up, and silence reigns throughout the Hall again.

“Well, now that we are all digesting another magnificent feast, I beg a few moments of your attention for the usual start of term notices,” Dumbledore starts. “First-years ought to know that the Forest in the grounds is out-of-bounds to students - and a few of our older students ought to know by now, too?”

A ripple of quiet laughter echoes through the hall at that, quite a few students exchanging secretive smiles or boasting smirks. The first-years look appropriately scared, easily distinguishable despite being sorted into the older years. Sam swears he was never that small, even when he was their age. Even Limpy had seemed bigger than some of these children.

“We have had quite a few changes in staffing this year. We are very pleased to welcome back Professor Grubbly-Plank, who will be taking Care of Magical Creatures lessons,” he continues, waiting for the unenthusiastic applause to die down before speaking again. “We are also delighted to introduce Professor Umbridge, our new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, and the new Study of Ancient Runes teacher, Professor Winchester.”

Sam raises a hand in acknowledgement, waving politely when almost half of the Hall turns to him. Whispers begin to circulate throughout the room, at the new professors, many students torn between looking at Dolores or himself.

The title Professor sits weirdly on his skin, pulling at a forgotten part of himself, buried underneath all of the grief and anger of his life after his stint at Stanford. After Jess. It really hadn’t been easy to give up on those dreams of a white picket fence. So, being known as Professor Winchester feels like pulling on an uncomfortably tight sweater. Winchester’s don’t wear sweaters. They don’t become teachers. They’re hunters, and that’s all they’ll ever be.

But Dumbledore doesn’t stop his welcoming announcements because Sam is having a crisis at being known as Professor Winchester. He waits for the tables to quieten again before speaking.

“I am sure that many of you noticed the absence of Mr Filch, the previous caretaker. I am sad to announce that Mr Filch has unfortunately had to vacate his position after twenty-two years of service,” he pauses for a moment as stunned silence reigns throughout the Hall. “Mr Winchester will be acting as his replacement for the continued future.”

The general student population all seem to be frozen at the noise, dead silent, and with their eyes opened wide and jaws dropped. Dean raises a hand in greeting and smiles lazily.

Suddenly, two red-headed boys who almost look like twins jump out of their seats at the Gryffindor table, cheering loudly.

It’s like a spell has broken, and suddenly almost all of the Gryffindor table and parts of the Hufflepuff table are cheering loudly. The boys who started the cheer are hugging and making fake crying noises loudly, and students across the Hall laugh at their antics.

Judging by that reaction, Sam guesses that Mr Argus Filch wasn’t very popular here. He wonders if it had anything to do with the chains and whips in his office, hazardously thrown around like he had left in a hurry and left his sadistic hobby behind. Filch hadn’t exactly seemed to be the kindest guy out there from his letter to Dean.

“Tryouts,” Dumbledore begins once again, and the kids quickly settle down, “–for the house Quidditch teams will take place on the–”

He stops abruptly. Sam can hear Dolores clear her throat again, and notices finally that she’s standing up beside Dumbledore, and making her now signature “hem, hem” noise. Dumbledore sits down gracefully, looking at Dolores with an expression that doesn’t reveal any discontent at being interrupted so rudely.

Murmurs once again reign throughout the Hall, at the woman's interruption. It doesn’t look like any student can control their incredulous expressions, but at least the other staff look well composed.

“Thank you Headmaster,” Dolores simpered, voice pitched higher than he’s heard it all night, “for those kind words of welcome.”

Sam could tell this was going to be a long night.

(-)

“I’m just saying, she doesn’t seem like very good news,” Dean is whispering to him as they make their way out of the Great Hall and towards Sam’s classroom.

Since it’s Sam’s first day of classes, Dean had offered to walk him to it in a show of brotherly affection that Sam doesn’t really know what to do with. He’s got a fourth year class of Ravenclaws and Slytherins, though he hasn’t heard anything too bad about that particular year level. Pomona had hinted that the year that every teacher struggled with was the current fifth and sixth years.

“Of course she’s not good news, Dean,” he sighs. “She works for the Ministry and she specifically mentioned she was here to change things at Hogwarts.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “At least she isn’t very popular here. Charity and Wilhemina were weirded out by her when she tried to strike up a conversation on how pure their blood was within the first few minutes of talking to them,” he replies, before waving to a little first-year scurrying past them with his hat falling to cover his eyes.

Sam’s eyes widen and a grin lights up his face as he latches onto the topic of Dean’s choice in friends with distinct glee, remembering the scene of Dean surrounded by older witches and actually enjoying it.

“‘Course! How could I forget about the sisterhood you’ve created with Aurora, Charity and Wilhemina. Should I be expecting an invite to knitting club soon?” he teases and laughs as he dances away when Dean makes a swipe at him.

“Shut up, man,” is all Dean responds with, ears turning red with embarrassment.

Sam continues to laugh loudly, not noticing how it echoes down the corridor and draws a few stares from stray students. Dean doesn’t seem to notice either, at least. In fact, he seems a little more comfortable with the visible delight on Sam’s face.

Both of them had been tense and on edge last night with the reveal of the ghosts that apparently just float around Hogwarts. Sam himself had gone straight to the library after getting permission from a haughty Irma Pince, and dragged as many books as he could with him back to Dean’s room. They had read well into the night, and Sam had ended up camping out on Dean’s couch in his quarters rather than shuffle back to his own at three in the morning.

After some light drinking and heavy debate, they had agreed that these ghosts weren’t like the ghosts they knew, more like school mascots than vengeful spirits. It probably wasn’t worth the trouble they’d get into if they exorcised them anyway.

As they finally turn the corner to the corridor where Sam’s classroom and attached office are, they’ve settled into a companionable silence. They had spent the previous week essentially holed out here, decorating the place and making plans on the table inside Sam’s office. Said office had been furnished with the help of Limpy and stolen furniture from the multitude of empty classrooms in the corridor.

Sam unlocks the door to the classroom with the key that he’d been given. Minerva had made sure to reiterate to him that if he left it unlocked, it was on him for whatever damages either students or Peeves wreaked on the place. Sam didn’t know what a Peeves was, but it didn’t sound particularly friendly, especially if it was mentioned in the same breath as vandalising students.

“Lunch at your office?” he asks Dean as he turns around to say goodbye.

Dean looks a little surprised but quickly recovers. Sam smiles at him as Dean steps forward to adjust the collar to Sam’s robes, his finest and most flattering one’s for his first day of teaching. “You’re such a mother hen,” he teases, and Dean glares.

“Bitch,” Dean huffs.

Sam laughs in his brother’s face. “Jerk.”

Dean clears his throat and turns to walk away. Sam watches him pause, relax his shoulders, and turn around to face him again.

“Good luck, Sammy,” Dean says, and Sam can’t help but soften a little at the pride underneath his brother’s rough exterior. The necklace glints in the morning light, resting against Dean’s chest and protecting him, even after all these years and all the heartache they’ve been through.

“Thanks, Dean,” he responds, and it feels just a little bit like forgiveness.

(-)

Sam hadn’t changed much from the original layout of the classroom. It still had the old-school blackboard up the front of the room next to his desk that he had moved from the office, and rows of tables and chairs for the students. The most change he had made was the large storage cupboard and bookshelf he had moved into the room, filled with materials he had intended to use to teach the class.

Runes worked differently here than they did back in their dimension, which had made his lesson planning easier. It also made his life a lot easier, considering that the runes that he had spent years memorising actually became more useful than a good luck charm on Dean’s neck. It meant that Sam could use runes in a physical sense now, holding more power than they did back home, and he could use them to teach and to impress his students. Because he’s a teacher now. And he has to impart his knowledge onto impressionable children.

At his desk, research notes and his own personal journal lain in a disorganised mess across it, he places his head in his hands. What has he gotten himself into?

His suffering is interrupted by the sound of children walking in the corridor, and when he looks up, he sees a gaggle of Slytherin’s at the door. They peer at him and look about the room with curiosity, and Sam waves them in with a smile.

They hesitantly make their way inside, and Sam counts about five Slytherins, three boys, two girls. As they situate themselves in chairs, he stands up so that he can lean on the desk to wait for the rest of the children to come in.

“I guess you already know who I am, but in case you missed it, I’m Sam Winchester, your Ancient Runes Professor. Since I’m new here, it would be nice if you could all introduce yourselves?” he introduces himself with his newly dubbed teacher voice.

The kids all have surprisingly good poker faces. Except the dark haired kid in the back. He looks distinctly nervous. Sam points directly at him with an encouraging smile.

“Your name?” he asks.

The kid honest to god squeaks, and Sam has to stifle his laugh. “Aldo Dupont, sir,” the kid says, voice cracking on his last name.

“Nice to meet you, Mr Dupont,” he shoots back easily, before turning to the girl sitting next to Aldo. “And you?”

The girl gives a lazy wave, but the tightness of her smile reveals she’s more nervous than she’s acting. “Nerissa Brody. This here is Helena Talbert,” Nerissa states, using the hand she’d waved to point to the girl sitting on her other side. Helena smiles shyly and fiddles with the quill in her hand.

“Nice to meet you both,” Sam continues, turning eyes to the two remaining boys. “Saving the best for last, you two are?”

The two remaining boys look very similar, both with light hair and warm eyes. One of them is wearing glasses, while the other isn't.

Glasses boy speaks up first. “I’m Renly Darth.”

Not-glasses-boy waves his hand politely. “And I’m Leander Darth. We’re cousins, in case you were wondering Professor,” Leander explains, and Sam raises his eyebrows.

He actually thought they were twins, but looking closer, there are key differences, like the slope of their noses, the freckles on Renly and the mole just under Leandar’s eyebrow.

“I was wondering, thank you for explaining,” he admits, just as a group of Ravenclaws tumbles in.

A boy from the front of the group makes an appropriately sorry sound when Sam turns to look at them and then down at his watch, noting that class technically started two minutes ago. Filius had assured him that his Ravenclaw’s were the most likely house to be punctual.

“We’re sorry we’re late, Professor!” the kid blurts out, seeming to take responsibility for all his yearmates. “Peeves was throwing pastries on the second floor and we had to get rescued by Mr Winchester!” he continues to ramble like Sam won’t believe him. Sam looks at the pieces of pastry flakes all over the kids’ head and shoulders, and the splat of what looks like custard on a girl behind him, and believes him anyway.

“Don’t worry about it. C’mon in and take a seat. We were just introducing ourselves to pass the time, but if this is everyone, then we can start the lesson.”

The kids near trip over themselves to get to their seats, and Sam smiles encouragingly at them. He hasn’t smiled so often in what feels like years. Mostly he uses it on scared witnesses to cases, but being in such a serene environment has made it easier to smile. It’s effortless to slip back into a softer version of himself when every threat of doom and demons and heavenly wars are literally a world away.

“Is this Ancient Runes with Professor Winchester?” a voice chimes in from the door, and Sam blinks at the sight of a lone Ravenclaw girl with a mane of wild silvery-blonde hair tilting her head serenely at the doorway.

He gestures for her to come in as every kid inside the classroom twists to stare at her. “It sure is. Welcome, Miss?”

She slides into a seat near the door with a dreamy smile and waves her hand. “Luna Lovegood, Professor,” she introduces herself as, and Sam nods in acknowledgement.

Checking his watch and noting that well past the time to start class, he claps his hands together to get the kids attention. He tries not to feel nervous, remembering the way Dean had seemed so proud of him earlier. Usually Dean only gets like that when Sam is particularly messed up or when he’s done something that’s very Dean-like, so he savours the memory of Dean being proud at Sam doing something as benign as teaching, and uses it to strengthen his voice when he speaks.

“I’ve already been introduced at the start-of-term feast, but in case everyone here has forgotten, my name is Sam Winchester, and I’m your new Ancient Runes Professor for the year,” he starts, and makes eye contact with each student individually as he speaks. “My brother is Dean, but to you guys, he’s Mr Winchester, the caretaker.”

So far, none of the kids look liable to start yelling about foreseeing his death, so he takes it as a good sign. Maybe Sybill was an anomaly here.

“We recently moved to Britain, and since research and runes has always been a passion of mine, I applied when this position was opened. Yes, I am American,” he says, before making eye contact with Helena Talbert who is now raising her hand, seemingly excited. “No I did not attend Ilvermorny,” he finishes, and she quickly puts her hand back down with a kicked puppy expression.

“Since none of you seem to have any questions, I thought we should get started on the lesson,” he smiles at their eager expressions, visible even on the seemingly nonchalant Nerissa Brody and custard covered girl. “Now, according to the manual the school gave me when I started here, it’s customary to start the first few weeks with a bunch of theory.”

Their expressions dim a little when he mentions theory lessons and he fights back a fond smile. Everyone that is, except Miss Luna Lovegood, who smiles knowingly at him.

“However,” he begins, and instantly, every kid is perking up. “I thought it would be more fun with a practical and slightly advanced introduction to runes. So put away those textbooks and parchment, but leave the quills and ink pots out!” he ends, and the kids all cheer a little, putting away their textbooks with relish.

Walking around to the blackboard, he pulls out a piece of chalk and begins to sketch out a fairly difficult rune onto the board.

“Mr Leander, would you mind going over to that cupboard over there for me and pulling out enough rubber mats for everyone in the classroom?” he directs with his back still to the classroom as he draws out the rune in long strokes. He can hear a chair scraping and then the telltale sound of the cupboards creaky hinges.

“These ones?” Leander calls, and Sam turns his head to nod when he sees that he’s holding the right ones.

“Yeah, those ones,” he affirms. “Miss Lovegood, would you mind going to the third drawer in my desk and opening it?” he continues, and directs the girl to the desk situated next to the blackboard.

Luna absently stands up and almost dances to the front of the classroom to open the desk drawer with a smile. He smiles back at her.

“Lovely. Can you hand each student one of those carving tools? Make sure to pick one up for yourself too,” he asks her, and she agrees in a lilting voice. He finishes the unfinished rune and turns around as Luna hands out the last carver and Leander has just finished closing up the storage cupboard again.

“Thank you both for your help,” he thanks them, then turns to the class. “Can anyone guess what I’ve drawn up for you on the board?” Sam asks.

The Ravenclaw boy that apologised for his group's tardiness raises a hand, and Sam points to him. “Yes, Mr?”

The kid, despite raising his hand, still looks somewhat surprised Sam picked him. “Declan Haworth, sir. Is it a rune?”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Astute observation, Mr Haworth. It is indeed. It’s a multilayered rune, but it’s unfinished. Can anyone guess why I’ve left it unfinished?”

This time, a few hands in the class are raised. He picks Renly. “Yes, Mr Renly?”

“Is it because you want us to finish it?” he answers but he doesn’t look very confident in his ability to complete the rune. Sam smiles to reassure him.

“Good guess, but no. This rune is more advanced than your curriculum level, so I’m not expecting you to finish it off. Any other takers?”

This time, a Ravenclaw girl raises her hand with a slight giggle. She must have figured it out. “You there, Miss?”

“Amy Lotte, sir. Is it because you don’t want it to activate?” she says, and looks more than a little smug when he chuckles.

“Two points to Ravenclaw! Yes, I didn’t finish the rune, just because I didn’t want to activate it just yet. I was just trying to trick you all,” he apologises, but none of the kids look angry. In fact, a few look a little gratified that he’s even trying to joke around with them.

“Now, I want you all to copy this rune onto your rubber mats with your ink. Remember to keep your strokes light enough that the quill won't catch on the rubber and snap! I snapped, like, three quills when I was planning this lesson, and that was only because the school supplies me with the quills in the first place,” he warns.

There's a few chuckles around the room as the kids enthusiastically begin to work. He thinks he’s doing well, if there’s no screaming or grievous injuries. The injuries might come later though, with the way some of the kids are eyeing their carvers.

He walks down the aisle and corrects a few strokes on some of their work, making sure to keep himself polite and kind, so he doesn’t scare them.

When everyone looks about finished, he instructs them to start carving. “Remember to keep the tool pointed away from yourself, your other hand, and preferably any of your classmates! I don’t really want to explain to Madam Pomfrey why I have a class full of bleeding children, she’s very scary.”

Looking at Luna’s work, he’s surprised to find a perfectly carved rune on her rubber mat. He raises his eyebrows and makes eye contact with her. “Very impressive, Miss Lovegood. Five points to Ravenclaw.”

The chattering in the room picks up as the kids all finish carving. It’s messy in places, in fact, very messy in a lot of places, but Sam guesses that they don’t really spend their days doing physical labour at Hogwarts, let alone carving into things.

“Since we all look about finished, I suppose it’s time I explain what the rune is,” he walks back to the blackboard. “This here, as I mentioned before, is a multilayered rune. That means it’s a combination of a few different runes which work together to form another one. Despite the runes being able to work separately, they don’t work with only two of the three runes, because the ones up there simply don’t want to activate at the moment. Runes are complicated like that,” he explains calmly. He gets a few nods at his words.

He points to the unfinished finished rune he originally drew on the board. “This here, is a pretty common protection rune. Elhaz,” he continues, drawing Elhaz by itself beside the original drawing.

He steps aside so they can see it, and then draws the second rune next to Elhaz. “This is Thurisaz. It’s a more obscure protection rune, meaning thorn, or sometimes giant,” here he turns to the class. “Can anyone guess what the finished rune is going to do?” he prompts the kids, and watches as their brains kick into gear.

Aldo Dupont raises his hand. “Is it a protection rune, professor? You mentioned that both of the runes are for protection,” he answers when Sam points to him.

Sam smiles gently. “You’re almost there, Mr Dupont. Two points to Slytherin. Any other takers? Try to get a bit more specific,” he urges them all.

This time Amy Lotte speaks up. “Yes, Miss Lotte?”

“Is it a defensive rune that attacks? You said Thurisaz means thorn, so maybe if you touch it, it will stab you,” Amy guesses.

“Not a bad guess! Two points to Ravenclaw for your reasoning,” he reassures her when her face falls. He quickly turns back to the board to begin drawing the final rune.

“I admit, I did rig the question a little bit. When I mentioned that the rune won’t activate until it wants to, I lied. The rune won’t activate without the third rune because Elhaz and Thurisaz aren’t compatible enough to form a complete rune.”

Whispers start up around the classroom, and the kids are leaning forward in their seats as he finishes drawing the third and final rune next to the previous two.

“This–,” he points to the last rune “–is Isa. It generally means ice. If we combine a defensive rune for protection, Elhaz, a rune to defend against adversaries, Thurisaz, and a rune that freezes things…” he trails off as he adds Isa to the unfinished rune he originally drew. The now finished rune glows for a brief second before fading back to its chalky colour. 

“We have a protection rune that freezes whatever aims to harm it,” he finishes, before swiping the closest carving tool.

“Now, please don’t think I’m crazy for this,” he mutters loudly as he throws the craver directly at the finished rune with as much force as he can manage.

The kids all gasp at once, startling in their seats, but they quickly settle down when he steps aside to let them see the damage. Or lack thereof.

His rune worked perfectly, as he expected, and there in the very middle of the rune, is a floating carving tool, perfectly held in mid-air. He waves his hand all around it to show he’s not doing it, and very quickly, he has the whole classroom crowding around, trying to tap and move the craver.

It doesn’t move an inch for any of them, and eventually they meander back to their seats, talking excitedly and sneaking awed glances at him.

“This rune is decently advanced, so I’m not expecting you to use this any time soon. As you can see, the threat is neutralised, and frozen before it can reach the rune. Or, since it was drawn into the blackboard, before it can reach the board. Interesting, right?” he exclaims and the kids chatter back at him all at once, a million questions bombarding him.

“Your turn!” he smiles and starts directing the kids to finish their runes.

When he gets a whole class full of kids who smile at him brilliantly when their runes work and they’re free to try and stab their rubber mats to their heart's content, the nervous feeling tugging at his guts settles a little. Guess he’s alright at this teacher thing.