Chapter 5
Dean did not have one good feeling about this Dolores Umbridge lady.
He had been thrown off when he had walked into the Great Hall after delivering Minerva her first-years and seeing ghosts roaming around like they weren’t, objectively speaking, vicious freaks of nature. And the feeling had only gotten worse when the pink toad woman had turned to him with a slimy smile and offered a pudgy hand for him to shake in one breath, and then insulted everything about Filius in the next.
So yeah, he didn’t exactly like the woman. And, she clearly had a thing for Sammy. Which is gross since she looked like fifty years-old. He was so grossed out about it that he didn't even want to tease Sam about it, a whole new low for him.
“Good morning Mr Winchester!” calls a voice from down the hallway, and Dean cranes his neck to see a little first-year from last night waving a hand manically at him. Quickly, he searches his mind for her name, and as she skips towards him, he finally places her as Delilah Pettle.
“Good morning to you too, Delilah,” he says as she comes to a stop in front of him, the weird wizard hat all the younger year levels wear slipping to cover her eyes and her pigtails. Why do none of the hats they make the kids wear seem to come in kids sizes? The poor things are always having to lift the hat up to see past the brim as it covers their eyesight.
“Where’re you headed, Mr Winchester?” she asks while fidgeting with her hat and then her hair and finally settling to twiddle with her thumbs.
Dean waves a hand to gesture behind him, casual. “I was just walking my brother, Professor Winchester, to his first day of classes and was going to head down to my office quickly. On the topic of classes though, aren’t you supposed to be on your way to one?” he raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms playfully.
Delilah giggles and gestures down to her school bag on her arm. The bag has a bunch of little glowing charms on them that sparkle when he looks at them. It’s kinda cute, in a ‘makes you wanna gouge out your eyeballs’ way.
“I’m headed off to Charms on the third floor! I was reading this story on my way and got lost on my way back from breakfast though…” she tucks in her chin as she looks down at her feet.
Dean’s chest tightens a little at the sight of the kid as she fidgets, ashamed at something she probably can’t control. Years and years ago, it was Sam who was the clumsy kid that got lost in his own head and couldn’t remember the way to the cafeteria for food, and Dean was the one to spend his lunch breaks scouring whatever shitty highschool they were at for the month, just to force a sandwich down his kid brother’s throat. The memories are fond, if a little bit painful.
He’s good at ignoring pain though, so he pastes on his biggest smile and bends over a little so he can see her face properly before speaking. “How about this? I walk you to your Charms class before I start on my work. That sound alright?”
Immediately, Delilah’s face lights up, and she literally jumps for joy, her hat threatening to fall off her head with her excitement. “That sounds awesome! Thanks Mr Winchester!” she exclaims, pulling her little bag further up her arm at the same time.
“It’s no problem,” he says as he extends his arm to gesture for her to start walking beside him.
As he escorts her down a flight of sentient stairs to the third level, the kids start filling up the hallways more, though it seems to all be older year levels. Delilah is surprisingly quiet, apparently content to just hum and walk beside him, adjusting the hat on her head every few steps. The tune she’s humming is sweet in the way that all little kids are. All out of tune and seemingly unconscious, sliding randomly from one note to another. It’s not reminiscent of anything Dean recognises anyway.
“What room is your class in, Delilah?” he eventually asks, after they pass an empty classroom with a fire poker just left hazardously next to the entrance, which he eyes suspiciously. A group of kids crowd around it, but they scatter when they see him walk past. Leftovers from a Transfiguration class he guesses, if the slightly bent shape and weird sheen to it mean anything.
Delilah makes a sound of surprise and digs through her little satchel to pull out what Dean assumes is her schedule. He had seen Minerva passing them out this morning at breakfast.
“Room… 2E!” she states, shoving the paper in Dean’s face so he can see. He tries and scans the paper but Delilah puts it away, thinking he’s read it somehow in the span of a second. Kids.
He rolls his eyes fondly but starts looking at classroom door numbers. As he’s scanning the door to Delilah’s right, a loud yell sounds from down the corridor.
“Peeves! Scatter!” a boyish voice screeches, apparently too busy fleeing for his life down the corridor to notice the way his voice had cracked.
Dean is instantly on high alert, putting himself between Delilah and whatever threat was behind them. Kids start pushing past them down the corridor, and he makes a puzzled face as he sees a group of blue-tie kids run past with… pastry flakes covering them?
“What?” is all he has time to say before there’s suddenly a spirit in front of him, arms loaded with pastries, most likely stolen from the breakfast leftovers.
Like all other ghosts and sometimes buildings in this world, it takes Dean a moment of concentration to make the thing more visible. Even with squinting his eyes, he still can’t see much of what clothes it's wearing or what its face looks like.
The Peeves thing stares at him and he stares right back for a moment before it opens its mouth into a smile of intense glee.
“Who’s this? Fresh meat ripe for pranking?” the thing exclaims, and then has the nerve to giggle. Dean’s eyes narrow at it. He doesn’t move from where he stands, conscious of the hallway full of children standing directly behind him, like he’s supposed to protect them.
Day one on the job and he’s already slipping back into the hunter mindset. Eliminate the threat, protect the kids. So much for whatever Sam said about this whole thing being a type of vacation for them.
“Dean Winchester. Who and what are you?” he barks back. He stands his ground in front of the kids who whisper among themselves but shrink back when the thing starts speaking again.
It makes a surprised face and ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ at him. “The name’s Peeves, resident poltergeist at Hogwarts,” it teases, lowering itself into an exaggerated bow.
“Poltergeist?” Dean murmurs to himself out loud. Having only just found out about ghosts in this world, he hadn’t really thought beyond them, but if there’s ghosts, then there’s surely poltergeists too. Maybe there’s even skinwalkers or vampires. What he wouldn’t do to get his hands on a werewolf right about now. Call it revenge for being the last thing that him and Sammy were hunting before they got stuck here.
He snaps himself out of his thoughts, berating himself for not paying attention to what’s happening around him. “What are the chances of you leaving if I ask nicely?” he quips.
Peeves begins to cackle loudly, and the kids all collectively murmur in fear. Dean stands up taller in front of them protectively.
“My job here is to cause mischief and inconvenience, and yours is to chase me around like old Filch did for twenty-two years straight! There’s no way I’d miss out on such a rare opportunity!” it screeches delightedly.
Dean has just about a second to process that, before one of the pastries piled in its arms flies straight towards him. He doesn’t even need to think about it, simply smacking it down to the floor as soon as it’s within his range. He tries not to smirk at the sudden silence as everyone, including Peeves, stares down at the pastry lying pitifully on the stones below. What, like he was just supposed to take that? Ridiculous.
Peeves tears its eyes away from the pastry to make eye contact with Dean. Or at least, Dean assumes so. He can’t really make out many facial features, considering the spirit is just flickering in and out of sight for him, much like the other ghosts he’s seen at Hogwarts.
Then Peeves is throwing pastry after pastry at him, and then the students behind him when Dean proves adept at blocking the ones meant for him.
He blocks one at the very last second that was about to hit Delilah, manoeuvring himself effortlessly to catch it, and after remaining frozen for a solid second, she goes wild, screeching and cheering at him like he’s her knight in shining armour. Soon every other kid is yelling encouragement at him, pushing at each other and gripping onto their little hats as they turn their heads from him to Peeves like it's a tennis match and not Dean valiantly fending off leftover pastry.
Toying with Peeves like this was kinda fun, in a monotonous sort of way. Like playing an entertaining board game for the fifth time in a row, or doing a regular salt-and-burn on a corpse that had been bothering them for a while.
The poltergeist is starting to get frustrated, and the crystals on one of the chandeliers above Dean shatters loudly, raining pebbles of glass down between Dean and his opponent.
Don’t get him wrong, this was fun, but it’s not something he’d want to be doing for the rest of his day. He’ll have to get rid of Peeves somehow if he wants this to end, but he’s not exactly sure how, considering the poltergeist is floating at the entrance of the dead end corridor and doesn’t really seem that keen to just leave.
“That's all you got?” he taunts, trying to buy some time, and watches as the thing shakes in what he assumes is anger.
“Ickle Winchester thinks he’s the top dog since he dodged some pastries! Thinks he can stand up to me! Peeves!” it starts ranting, and Dean tunes him out when he realises Peeves is out of pastries.
Surveying the damage around them, he notes the pastries laying desecrated on the floor, or in one memorable place, dripping its chocolate insides and flakes of pastry down towards the floor, stuck to the door to an empty classroom.
An empty classroom that has a fire poker at the entrance. An empty classroom that has a fire poker at the entrance that looks a lot like iron. One that’s placed just behind Peeves. An idea begins formulating in his mind.
“All out of ammo? Too bad then, Peeves. Guess I won this round,” he interrupts Peeves’ rant casually, shrugging a shoulder while keeping an eye on him. The poltergeist screeches loudly at his relaxed stance, not making any discernible sense. Apparently Peeves doesn’t like it when he isn’t taken seriously. Go figure, with the joke of a hat he's wearing.
“You!” it finally yells something intelligible.
“Me?” Dean points a finger towards himself, all faux innocence. He fights off a grin at the snickers and outright laughs behind him.
Peeves screeches loudly again when he sees the children who were previously scared of him laughing right to his face, and reveals his trump card, which, Dean notes boredly, is just levitating all the pastries back up to get ready to shoot at him again. No points for creativity.
Dean smiles slightly, before quite literally leaping into action, dodging the clumps of pastry with his whole body. Apparently no one has ever thought to give Peeves a taste of his own medicine, since the guy looks way too shocked as Dean throws himself in Peeves direction. The poltergeist backpedals hastily.
“What are you–” it starts, before Dean rolls to the side to dodge a quickly thrown pastry and picks up the fire poker from the doorway that Peeves was previously occupying.
He doesn’t give Peeves the time to freak out, simply swinging the fire poker at him and watching with quiet satisfaction how the poltergeist fades out of existence from the middle at Dean’s actions. Feeling comedic, he places a hand up to his eyes as if to search for the ball he’s just hit with the fire poker, like he got a hole in one or something.
It doesn’t get a laugh out of the kids, who, despite losing their minds just a minute ago, are dead silent again. Making sure that Peeves hasn’t made his way back and that the coast was clear, he finally turns to face the groups of kids.
He’s slightly surprised at the look of unadulterated awe on every single kid's face, including a blue tied kid that seemingly wasn't able to dodge one of the last parties and has a large clump of custard on her cheek.
“Mr Winchester!” a kid screeches, and Dean flicks his eyes down to see a bouncing Delilah in front of him. “That was awesome!”
As if on cue, the kids are all cheering again, crowding him and tugging on his leather jacket. He’s being bombarded by questions and compliments on all sides, and he raises his hands up in a placating gesture as they swarm him.
A warm feeling starts up in his chest, spreading throughout his body and relaxing him. The starstruck look in the kids’ eyes reminds him of when Sammy was a kid and Dean was his big brother, who hung the very stars in the sky for him. It’s been so long since Sam looked at him like that.
“Alright now children!” an adult's voice chimes from further down the hallway, and Dean snaps his head to see Filius coming down the hallway, parchment stacked so high in his arms, it’s almost covering his entire head. “Everyone, thank Mr Winchester and head on off to your classes!”
Filius breezes right past the congregation and into his classroom with bravado, and Dean hides a snort at the disappointed expression on a lot of the kids' faces. Seems like a lot of them just didn’t wanna go to class.
“Don’t bother thanking me, I think it was mentioned in the job description,” he reassures his entourage, who have all started jumping at each other to thank him hastily. Soon they all disperse, heading back down the hallway or into the few classrooms.
He feels a tug on the bottom of his leather jacket. Delilah looks up at him, eyes earnest and sparkling almost as much as the clips on her bag, her hat tucked under her arm. “Thanks Mr Winchester,” is all she says, before turning around and running off to the classroom that Filius had just entered.
Dean watches her go fondly. “I said don’t mention it!” he calls after her after a moment, smiling softly.
Protecting those kids from something as mundane as a poltergeist with a pastry problem had proven so fulfilling, Dean’s kinda concerned about what that says about him. Compared to how alive he was feeling currently, he can’t imagine how miserable he’s probably been since they got here.
Instead of digging deep within himself though, he’ll blame the shitty Scottish weather. Sticking his hands in his pockets, he starts to head downstairs to his office to get his checklist of jobs to do today. If there’s an extra skip in his step and a jaunty tune being whistled, then it’s no one's business but his own.
(-)
He’s distracted while negotiating with a suit of armour on the fourth floor when Dolores Umbridge happens across him.
It’s getting slightly heated, the armour having pulled its sword out of its sheath halfway when Dean had suggested that it couldn't stand vigil directly in front of the girls bathroom, mostly because it wasn’t just keeping perverts out, but also the girls who needed it.
Dean would have dragged the damn thing away ten minutes ago if he could, but the guidebook that Dumbledore had given him (‘Taking Care of Hogwarts So That Hogwarts Cares For You’ written by some caretaker four hundred years ago) said that the only thing that could get these things to move was a battle of wits. Even magic couldn’t move them, not that that was an issue with him anyway.
“Hem, hem,” the pink abomination coughs from beside him, and god, Sam was right when he said that the habit was irritating.
He spins away from the armour to face her, forcing a smile onto his face. Playing nice is what's best for both Sam and him.
“Dolores! How can I help?” He amps the drawl a little.
The woman looks slightly miffed at him for whatever reason. She’s entirely ignoring the suit of armour, crossing her little pudgy arms at him and tapping her foot impatiently.
“May I ask the reason as to why you are blocking the entrance to the… lavatory, Dean?”
Dean raises an eyebrow at her, incredulous for a moment. Maybe the preposterous hat she has on her head killed all her brain cells, because it seems pretty obvious to him what he’s doing. And also, he’s not blocking the door to the lavatory. The armour is.
“I’m trying to get our buddy over here–” he jabs his thumb at the armour, “–to get out of the way. If you need the toilet, I’m pretty sure there's a block on each floor, so either above or below should work.”
By now he’s fully turned his back on the statue to address the woman. He tries to look all polite but the uncomprehending expression on the woman's face makes his eye want to twitch.
“I can see that, dear,” she begins, and Dean feels his breakfast turn in his stomach at the patronising tone. “However, would it not be more efficient to simply levitate it out of the way? Surely you thought of that, yes?” she continues, and wow, how old does she think he is? Dean wouldn’t even talk this way to an actual child, let alone have someone talk to him like this as a grown man.
Pushing down the urge to roll his eyes, he plasters on an apologetic smile. “I’ve been told that the suits of armour are magic-proof. Can’t move ‘em unless they want to be moved.”
As if to prove his point, the suit of armour makes a harrumphing noise and sheaths its sword again, placing it upright so that its folded hands can rest on it. The sound of stone scraping makes Dolores wince but she looks otherwise unbothered by Dean’s explanation. Geez, doesn’t this woman have a class to get to or something? Or maybe it’s the lunch break.
“Nonsense,” is all she says in response with a click of her tongue.
While Dean is trying to discreetly pull out his newly acquired pocket watch to check the time, in case it’s actually lunch and he’s missed his appointment with Sammy, Dolores whips out her wand from out of her salmon coloured cardigan. Shit.
“I really wouldn’t do that–” he starts, but it’s too late, and she’s waving her wand dramatically, spitting out some random latin gibberish as a light shoots from her wand towards the statue.
Dean wasn't sure what the spell was going to do to the statue when she cast it, but as it bounces harmlessly off the armour chestplate and hits Dolores square in the face, it would be hard to miss the way she literally starts to float towards the ceiling, her wand clattering loudly across the stone floor below.
She shrieks, high pitched and grating, and he instantly jumps in action, grabbing her hand that she’s outstretched as she turns upside down in her float to the ceiling. She grips it like a lifeline, still screaming bloody murder.
It’s with a sense of crawling dread that he hasn’t experienced this intensely in years that he notices that the previously held skirt is slipping to reveal the old lady stocking stretched around old lady thighs.
God no. Anything but that. He tears his eyes away from the horrific sight and jumps to grab her shoulder to pull her down, desperate to end this and spare himself the suffering
“Use magic!” she screeches at him and he continues focusing on gripping the cardigan so that he can get her upright and down towards the floor.
“I don’t have my wand on me, sorry Dolores!” he grits up at her, struggling to pull her down without touching her too much. God this is uncomfortable.
“Sorry, can I just–” he begins, before grabbing her around the waist and pulling her down entirely so that she’s right side up and floating while gripping onto his shoulder painfully. The spell she cast must have been a strong one if he’s struggling to pull her down this much, which is saying something considering he isn’t light.
“My wand! Get it!” she demands shrilly, and Dean actually rolls his eyes this time. How is he supposed to fetch her wand if she’s digging her claws into him like that?
“Dolores, are you okay?” sounds from nearby, and Dean sags in relief as he recognises Sam’s voice from behind him.
In a heartbeat, Sam is beside Dean, placing a hand on Dolore’s shoulder to help keep her down.
Dolores, the cougar, looks positively delighted by the change of events, immediately grabbing onto Sam and nearly pushing Dean away from her in her haste to wrap herself around his brother.
Dean steps back once he sees that Sam can hold her down better than he could, probably because of the height, and traces his eyes over the school children crowding the door to Sam’s classroom. Seems like Sam would have heard the commotion while teaching and decided to play the knight in shining armour.
Quickly, Dean picks up the short wand lying abandoned on the stones and thrusts it in Dolore’s face, if only to spare his brother the adoring expression on the woman's face. “Here you go, Dolores.”
She snatches the wand off him and quickly mutters another spell, and she’s suddenly on the right side of gravity, looking way too cosy in Sam’s arms. Sam makes a comically horrified expression at Dean, and he has to choke back a laugh at the pure distress on Sammy’s face.
He clears his throat and places a hand on Sam’s shoulder to subtly pull him away from Dolore’s evil clutches. She looks at him murderously but switches up when she goes to thank Sam. And not him. Even though Dean was the one that did the world a favour by keeping her from flashing the poor unfortunate children of Hogwarts.
“I must thank you for your quick thinking, Sam,” she simpers at him, and Dean bites the inside of his cheek hard to push down the surge of irritation. She quickly notices her slip-up, and turns her beady eyes to him next, and with considerably less warmth, thanks him too.
“It’s really no problem. How’d that even happen?” Sam asks, clearly directed towards Dean.
Dean shrugs his shoulders. “Misfired floating spell, I believe. Situations under control now though. Thanks Sammy.”
Sam smiles at him, all soft and tired. “Glad to help, it sounded pretty… well it sounded like someone was getting murdered,” he teases, and despite it being addressed to Dean, Dolores blushes a putrid colour and giggles. Dean wrinkles his nose.
“I didn’t mean to disturb your class, Sam. Thank you for helping me down, even if you had to grab me so…” she simpers at him, fluttering her eyelashes.
Sam’s eyes open wide in alarm at her wording. Dean nearly busts a lung trying to keep in his laugh at the misunderstanding.
“Oh no, I just left my wand back at the classroom in my rush, I wouldn’t–” he quickly cuts himself off with a grimace, before settling into a decidedly neutral expression. Dean calls that one the ‘Sam pissy supreme’ face, since Sam only makes it when he’s so unbelievably uncomfortable that he shuts down.
“We shouldn’t keep you any longer, Professor Winchester. Please, go on,” he intervenes before Sam gets any more traumatised, patting him roughly on the back and gesturing towards his clearly impatient kids.
“Hey, would you look at that!” Dolores, the evil witch, looks upset at Sam leaving, but has no choice to focus back on Dean when Sam makes his hasty retreat. “The armour moved out of the way! Thanks for your help, seriously, I owe it all to you!” he crows, all fake and sardonic.
Dolores doesn't seem to notice, not even bristling at him as she harrumphs and puckers her mouth in what he guesses is a pout. “I shall be on my way then,” is her final simpering statement, before she’s toddling down the stairway to another floor.
Dean takes a moment to lean against the wall and breathe. He really doesn’t like that woman. At least he has lunch with Sammy to look forward to.
(-)
Dean’s second day as Hogwarts caretaker starts much of the same as the first.
Last night after dinner and Dean’s late night patrol, Sam had shoved his way into Dean’s room (rude), and they had regaled each other with tales of their days.
Dean had spent most of his first day fending off an increasingly aggravated Peeves, who, in the span of the rest of the day, had tried to push him down three separate flights of stairs, put dirty dishwater in his cup at dinner in an attempt to ‘poison’ him (which he only became aware of when a furious Limpy had taken the cup off him and thrown it at Peeves, much to the delight of an entire Great Hall’s worth of students), and even attempt to crush him with an unwilling suit of armour. Dean was seriously considering exorcising the damn poltergeist. Peeves wasn’t even on the same level of danger as the spirits he and Sam dealt with, he was just plain annoying.
Sam’s day had been a lot more quiet. He had vividly recounted his first day of classes, highlighting a few of his students that stood out. He seemed real fond of some Ravenclaw girl named Luna Lovegood, who had followed him after dinner to try and comfort him after the run in with Dolores. Sam had looked like a kicked puppy when he told Dean that he had seen the other Ravenclaw girls making fun of her.
If he had to guess, Sam probably related to the whole bullying situation. Dean had tried his best to protect his brother, but Sam had always seemed to want to take on the burdens all by himself. Ever the bleeding heart, Sammy was. Another one he had mentioned in passing was a Gryffindor fifth-year, H-something Granger. She apparently was as bossy as all hell, but wicked smart. Dean promised to keep an eye out for Luna and her bullies, and for the bossy one too.
Since Dean’s night patrol didn’t finish until well into the night, and he and Sam’s debrief didn’t end until well into the morning, Sam ended up crashing on Dean’s couch yet again. Honestly, why did they even bother with separate quarters in the first place. Dean was weighing up the benefits of just asking for another bed to be put in his room for Sammy.
Waking up to the sight of Sam snoring lightly, hair in disarray across the couch pillow and drooling just a little bit had put Dean in a good mood for the walk up to breakfast, solidifying his idea to ask Limpy if the shared room was an option.
So, it was with great annoyance that when he approached the Great Hall (without Sam, since the guy had to go get his clothes from his own room), Dolores Umbridge appeared in his line of vision.
She was standing out front the doors to the hall, giving each and every student a cursory examination of their uniform, and forcing them to say good morning. Dean’s eye twitches just imagining the toad asking him to say good morning to her like he was some grade-schooler.
“Dean. Good morning,” she calls from across the room, girly voice rising above the din of students waiting in line to get to breakfast.
Dean closes his eyes and takes a calming breath before forcing a smile onto his face.
“Dolores. You seem to be… extra energetic this morning,” he remarks, raising his eyebrow at the line of long-suffering students.
He earns a laugh from everyone who heard it, the kids finding his unspoken criticisms funny apparently. He gets the impression that if the kids were in any position of power, they’d say something along the same lines.
Dolores, for her part, doesn’t seem too miffed about the jab at her. She just smiles widely back at him and clasps her stupid old lady hands together. “Indeed! We can’t have the next generations failing at dressing presentably, can we? I was appalled at the state of uniform during yesterday's classes!”
When she says this, loud grumbles arise from the crowd. He sees the pleading looks sent his way, and notably, a set of red-haired twins who clasp their hands and mouth ‘save us’ at him desperately.
There seems to be no other teachers around to put a stop to the madness, and Dean decides to play the knight in shining armour. Hopefully he can save Sammy from Dolores ‘tryna inspect his uniform too.
“Right. Of course. Say, Dolores, would you help me out with understanding something?” he asks, marching right up to the witch, ignoring the children stuck in front of her, and leaning down a little to meet her eyes.
She nods in affirmation, eyes still glued to the miserable third-year in front of her with a crooked tie. “Of course.”
“See, I was reading the Daily Prophet a few days ago, and was a little confused about the new policy about import of cloth,” he starts, saying the first thing that came to mind when he thought of the news. To his knowledge, Dolores was a member of the Ministry, and from her personality so far, she’d probably love to jabber on about whatever mundane thing he brings up.
“Shall we discuss it during breakfast? I must really get back to the students and their uniform–” she starts but Dean raises his hands in alarm.
“No, no, I wouldn’t dream of keeping you from the kids! But see, my brother and I get our robes imported from America, and we were real concerned with how the new statutes will affect this,” he rambles. As he does, he waves his hands behind him, frantically motioning for the kids to begin slipping through the door to the Great Hall now that Dolores is distracted.
Dolores begins to protest, but its weak. Dean’s hit all her weak points, bringing up her stupid niche in Ministry business, giving her a chance to brag, and bestowing upon her (admittedly untrue) information about his brother.
The kids start streaming past Dean and Dolores quickly, learning not to say anything to either of them, while Dean keeps the woman busy, asking questions and responding in all the right places. He places his hand out for a high five behind his back and earns a stream of ‘em for his troubles.
Dolores is ranting about the increased scarcity of Dutch linen in the country when Sam shows up. The traitor had been trying to slip through the doors to the Great Hall while Dolores was distracted, abandoning his big brother to the wolves, when Dean caught the sight of his unmistakable height in the crowd.
Immediately finding his exit strategy, or at least a companion to take down alongside him, Dean waves his hand frantically. “Sam! Sammy! Hey!” he bellows, drawing eyes from pretty much everyone who heard, except Sam, the coward.
He freezes, gigantic shoulders drawn up almost to his ears, before he visibly sighs and turns around with a thin smile, all faux casual. “What’s up?”
Dean gestures to Dolores emphatically, who has stopped her rant to stare at Sam like he’s some gift from god. Sam locks eyes with Dolores and smiles. It looks painful.
“Dolores,” he greets, somehow sounding even more unenthusiastic than how he had greeted Dean.
Dolores’s beady eyes light up and she giggles at him. “Sam,” she titters.
Dean tries not to laugh in her face at how ridiculous she’s being. She can’t actually think Sam would be interested, right?
“Dean,” Dean jumps in, feeling left out. He earns a glare from both Dolores and Sam for his troubles. “Dolores was just telling me about the Ministry’s new policies on importing, and I remembered that it was an area that interested you, Sammy.”
Dean fights back a laugh at Sam's visible shudder and eye twitch. “I don’t really remember saying that,” he starts to argue, but Dean steps forward, angling himself towards the entrance door while patting Sam’s shoulder as condescendingly as possible.
“Sure you do. Keep Dolores company while I talk to Wilhemina, will you?” Dean smiles good-naturedly, completely ignoring Sam’s unspoken protests and Dolores weird eye-fuck she’s subjecting his brother to.
With the distraction posed, Dean scurries into the Great Hall, making a beeline for his seat between Aurora and Wilhemina. Aurora smiles gently at him and waves, while Wilhemina calls a greeting in a loud voice.
“Dean, good morning to ‘ya!”
Dean feels his smile become more genuine at the sight of his coworkers and their cheery attitudes. Despite what Sam says, Dean’s good at making friends. Just because he doesn't have any back home doesn't mean he’s incapable of making them. There’s a difference between allies and friends, and being here in this dimension, so far away from the death and turmoil of his own, makes it easy for him to form friendships.
“Wilhelmina, Aurora! ‘Morning to you too,” he greets as he takes his seat. He waves to Filius just two seats down. “And good morning to you as well, Filius.”
Filius smiles and garbles out something through his helping of eggs. Aurora chuckles softly.
He turns to Wilhemina while Aurora begins to pat Filius’s back gently as he continues to garble at her. “Hey, Wilhelmina, need any help with the thestrals this morning?”
He knows that she can’t take care of them as well anymore because of her age, but also because she can't see the damn things. Despite the general creepiness of the skeletal horses, Dean actually quite likes them. They’re quiet and peaceful, and he feels like Sam when he thinks of them as cute, but it’s true. They’re cute.
Wilhelmina, for her part, looks delighted at his offer. But despite her obvious enthusiasm, her response involves a lot of shaking her head. “I woulda’ loved your help, but I already fed them this morning! Maybe you can help tomorrow?”
Dean smiles understandingly. “Sure.”
He begins to serve himself breakfast as Charity jumps into the conversation. “I could do with some help, if you’re offering.”
“What can I do for you, dearest Charity?” he questions, immediately switching tracks.
She giggles at the address and swats at him playfully. “I had a few questions surrounding muggle holiday celebrations, and none of the other staff come from muggle backgrounds. You and your brother are muggleborns correct?”
He can tell they’ve gained the attention of a few of the more curious staff members at the table. “We were raised around the muggles, sure.”
Dean remembers a conversation Sam and him had once had about blood in the wizarding world. Obviously, they’re both non-magical, but if they were, would they not be considered half-bloods? Dean’s argument was that since their mom came from a long line of hunters and their dad didn’t, that would be the witchy equivalent to a half-blood. Sam had chucked a book at his head and told him he was getting sidetracked with a roll of his eyes and a smile.
Charity claps her hands in delight. “Then you must know about the muggle version of Yule, Christmas!”
“Sure I do. Haven’t celebrated in a while though,” he absently notes while taking a sip of his pumpkin juice. He’s not really sure why Sam is so reluctant to drink the stuff. It’s not too bad.
She pushes forward a piece of paper. When he looks down, a quiz stares back up at him. “Did you want me to fact check this?” he asks, unsure.
She laughs. “If you wouldn't mind! It’s just a few pages, in preparation for the Yule break.”
Dean mentally checks where they are in the year, and raises an eyebrow at Charity when he remembers it's not even a week into September. “And you want it done now?”
At her affirming nod, he sighs and looks down at the paper. “Do you have a pen–” he starts, and before he’s even raised his head, she’s waving a quill dipped in ink at him. “That works too.”
He reads through the quiz with vague interest, distantly seeing Sam still suffering at the hands of Dolores at the entrance of the Hall. Charity’s wizarding background shines through every question, and he finds himself begrudgingly intrigued by a few of the questions.
One in particular makes him raise his head to ask her about, concern blaring through him like a siren at the associated imagery.
“It looks good so far, Charity. I just had a question about this question here,” he starts, gesturing with the feathered end of the quill to the question he was confused about. Wilhelmina, placed in between Charity and him, leans backwards so she isn’t blocking the view, but looks at the paper with thinly veiled interest.
“You mentioned, uh, Yuletide rituals and their muggle counterparts? Two things. First off, muggles don't really do rituals,” he continues, and Charity hums appreciatively. “The second thing is just based on my own curiosity, but what exactly does a Yuletide ritual count as?”
In his head, he’s picturing all the horrific and bloody rituals that witches back home do. There’s a reason why he doesn’t like witches, and the reminder of the potential dark side to these ones makes him wary. He can almost feel the metal of the nails that he could be coughing up come Christmas if he makes an enemy or two.
To her credit, Charity doesn’t even seem phased by the question, apparently not noticing the slight desperation to Dean’s voice, that sounds obvious even to him.
“Ah! I wasn’t aware that there wasn’t a muggle equivalent!” she sounds. “I suppose Yuletide rituals are more of a pureblood activity, and they differ from family to family.”
Charity leans forward and raises her voice just that little bit, adopting a professor’s voice. “Yule is a magically powerful date, where the barriers between worlds are at their weakest. Many families will use this time to contact the dead, through various spells and instruments to channel it. Like candles and burning of herbs! All very common ways to communicate with the deceased.”
Dean doesn’t let himself relax just yet. He puts on his most innocent expression, in hopes it’ll minimise the damage of what he’s about to suggest. “And there's no… blood or demon summoning, right?”
He winces when Charity gasps and looks at him all scandalised, putting her hands in front of her mouth. Even Wilhemina and Aurora look surprised at the question. Filius starts coughing up his toast, and Dean winces.
He raises his hands defensively. “Just checking! I’m not from ‘round here, remember?” he pleads his case, trying to mould his expressions into something apologetic. He lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding when they all seem to buy it.
“Of course not! Truly, what do muggles think of wizardkind for you to ask that?” Charity huffs. “Blood magic is considered dark, and generally frowned upon by modern society!”
Filius cuts in from his position further down the table, having finished regurgitating the toast. “But many types of blood magic are still deemed legal, no? Especially within older pureblood circles.”
At that, Dean gestures indignantly. “So you can see where I got the idea from, right?” he squawks, and gets a smile from Aurora and a laugh from everyone else.
As Wilhemina opens her mouth to speak again, Charity’s watch chimes loudly, interrupting the conversation cleanly. “I should head off to class now. Gryffindor and Hufflepuff sixth-years first up in the morning. Morgana give me strength,” she complains lightheartedly as she stands up from her chair.
Dean jumps up as well, taking the opportunity to also make his exit, if only to avoid more awkward conversation that could reveal his dislike of witches. Sam would probably want to hear about this anyway.
“I better head off too. Sam looks like he could use a hand,” he gestures towards where Dolores is still harassing a distantly polite Sam. Everyone makes an understanding noise, and even Minerva chuckles a little, before covering her mouth primly.
“Dean, would you mind helping me with some telescopes later this afternoon?” Aurora asks quietly as he’s leaving beside Charity. He turns around to grin and wink at her.
“Sure thing,” he responds as Wilhemina and Filius fake-swoon.
Sam gives him the nastiest glare he’s possibly ever given when Dean shows up again, a pile of toast on a napkin in hand. “Hey Sammy! You missed breakfast, so I thought I’d save you some food. No need to thank me!” Dean laughs.
His brother snatches the toast out of Dean’s hand before turning to Dolores with a barely there apologetic smile. “Sorry Dolores, I should get going. Classes to teach and all that,” Sam croaks, and drags Dean away from the Great Hall without another word.
Sam removes his hand the second they get out of sight, and stalks up the sentient staircase to his classroom. Dean watches him take a vicious bite out of his toast.
“You’re a jerk, you know that?” Sam snaps as he continues to practically stomp down the corridor.
“Someone clearly didn’t have fun,” Dean snarks back, feeling not even a little bit apologetic for sicking Dolores on him. “I bet you thought making me use that damn sorting hat first would go unavenged.”
Sam spins around instantly, hands thrown up in frustration and a few crumbs around his mouth from the remains of his toast. “Seriously? That was revenge? Classy, Dean, real classy.”
Dean laughs in his brother’s face. Totally worth it. He lets Sam continue his tantrum, but once they reach the classroom and Sam tries to walk in without so much a goodbye, he grabs his arm and spins him around again.
“Hey, ‘cmon, don't be like that. I think I’ve got a lead,” he rushes to explain when Sam looks actually pissed off this time instead of self-righteous. “How about we do some research in the library after your classes, or something?”
Sam instantly looks mollified and intrigued at the offer. “Fine. But only if you talk to Irma about using the place past student curfew and borrowing books. That woman is evil.”
Dean snorts and nods his head. “Deal,” he reassures, before waving Sam off and making the trek down to his office for another day of being Hogwarts caretaker, time-waster extraordinaire.
He goes about his tasks on autopilot, catching Irma to ask permission just before lunch, and dodging yet another assassination attempt by Peeves as he wanders the grounds to oil doors and settle disputes between paintings.
In fact, he’s so lost in his head that he doesn’t notice the group of kids about to barrel into him until they’re right in front of him.
It takes some impressive dodging on his part to jump out the way of the bushy-haired girl, mop-kid with glasses, and the male version of Pippy Longstocking, who all apparently were too busy with the piece of parchment in front of them to notice him either.
Unfortunately, in his haste to move, he must’ve scared the girl and the redhead, since they both shriek and drop everything they were carrying, including the parchment map of the school apparently, one pile of books, an open letter with scrawled writing to a ‘Mr Snuffles’, a few knitted scarf-sock-beanie things, and a pot of ink.
The pot crashes to the floor and shatters instantly, spilling black ink all over Dean’s jeans and shoes, even splashing a little onto his face.
The bushy-haired girl groans loudly in frustration while the redhead immediately starts freaking out. Mop-head looks down at the pile of their belongings scattered in places thankfully unaffected by the ink splash with equal parts horror and relief.
“Woah, didn’t see you there! Let me get these for you,” Dean immediately jumps in, reaching down to help pick up the books.
The kids seemed frozen before, but as he reaches for the letter, all three of them scream again.
“No! No, don’t worry about it, I’ve got it Sir!” the girl squeaks, snatching the letter from his hands roughly.
She seems to immediately regret her actions, as when he stands up to hand her the books and map with his eyebrow raised judgmentally, she has the decency to look ashamed.
Mop-haired kid takes the second of silence while Dean tries to think of a way to respond that won't make the kids scream anymore, to speak.
“Sorry, Sir, we really didn’t see you coming. We’re sorry about the robes,” he apologises, but there’s a pretty defiant look in the kids eyes for someone who’s supposed to be sorry.
Redhead remains quietly horrified, but thankfully is no longer hyperventilating. “We can clean them up, we promise! Please don’t give us detention! Sir!” he stammers, tacking on the title at the end like an afterthought.
Bush-girl rounds on him once she’s got her books and papers back in order. “Ronald! You’re offering to magic the stain away? You can’t even clean your bedroom, let alone remove ink from robes,” she harrumphs at him, and Dean snickers at the betrayed and indignant look on the Ronalds’ kids face.
“It’s fine, really. I’ll just get changed or something,” he coaxes. “And call me Mr Winchester or something, Sir makes me feel old. You guys are?”
The kids, despite what he considers a decent olive branch, all exchange looks of suspicion. Particularly, they seem focused on mop-haired kid and his expression. Really, he thought Sam’s haircut was bad, but this kid takes ‘windswept’ to a whole new level.
“I’m Harry, Harry Potter. This is Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley,” mop-hair, now known as Harry Potter begins, gesturing to the girl and then the redhead in turn, who both give him a nod and a wave.
Dean doesn’t let his surprise show on his face at the so-called saviour of the wizarding world standing in front of him. It’s hard to be impressed when the kid is like fifteen and in desperate need of a haircut. He does however have an interest in Hermione Granger, which is probably the one that Sam had mentioned as one to keep an eye out for last night.
“Nice to meet you. Where are you all headed?” he quizzes, trying to make them more comfortable as he surveys the damage to his robes. He winces slightly as he looks at the mess of glass and ink on the floor that he’ll have to clean at some point, and then towards the ink stains all over his jeans. He looks like he’s just lost a fight with a squid.
When he’s met with silence, he raises his head again, confused. The kids all look slightly gobsmacked at him, jaws hanging open and eyes wide. Witches and their damn staring problem.
“Is there something on my face?” he says instead, raising an eyebrow at them. Harry Potter seems to shake himself out of his stupor first.
“Er, no. Sorry,” he rubs the back of his neck, clearly embarrassed. “Ron and I have Care of Magical Creatures. We were just walking Hermione to Ancient Runes,” Harry continues, pointing his thumb at Hermione.
“Oh, the one with my brother?” Dean chimes, actually making an effort to appear interested.
The kids dutifully nod, seeming a bit less guarded now. He gets an idea.
“Hey, would you guys doing me a favour?” he begins, and watches the wariness settle over them again instantly. He raises his hands up in defence, for the second time today.
“Nothing too difficult, I promise. Could you just let him know that Madam Pince gave us the go ahead in the library? I’m supposed to be off helping Professor Sinistra prep something for her class, but I’ll need to go change first. I don’t really have time to scale four flights of stairs to pass along the message…”
The kids all look a little embarrassed at their suspicion once he explains. Seriously, why are these kids so paranoid? Just what makes a group of semi-normal fifteen year olds so wary of a simple favour?
“We’ll pass along the message for you,” the Hermione girl says as she pulls out her wand a little hesitantly. “I can remove the stains, if you’d like me to?”
Dean weighs the pros and cons for a moment. Pro, he won’t have to scale four flights of stairs to go get changed. Con, a witch will use magic on him. Pro, he won’t be late to help Aurora. Con, magic.
After a few seconds of deliberation, he shrugs. “Go ahead.”
He holds himself as still as possible as Hermione waves her wand, murmuring the spell quietly. He looks down at himself and makes an impressed noise when the ink spill disappears from the stone and from his robes.
He opens his mouth to thank her but again is cut short by her puzzled expression. “Thanks. What’s the look for?”
He doesn’t mean to sound rough but she doesn’t mind it, just waving her wand again, pointed directly at his face. Now he’s starting to get worried. It didn’t seem like she has any malice towards him, so surely nothing went wrong.
Nothing happens as she waves the wand for a third time, movement and latin phrase more forceful this time. The Harry and Ron shaped lumps start to look a little confused too.
He raises his hand to touch his face, and when he looks down at his hand, it’s got ink on it. He furrows his brows as Hermione speaks up.
“Um, Sir. You aren’t shielding the spell, are you?” she asks meekly.
He shakes his head, patting his pockets with his clean hand. “I don’t have my wand on me, I’m not sure why it isn’t working.”
All three of them look perplexed.
“Maybe you have some lingering protection spell on, or something,” Ron suggests, and Dean considers it for a second. He looks down at the necklace resting his chest, before lifting it so the kids can see.
“It might be this? Protection runes that my brother gave me once. Who knows?” he eventually says. The kids look appeased, making sounds of agreement. He waves a hand at them.
“Don’t worry about it, I’ll wash it off in the bathroom. Thank you. Uh, ask Sam to give you points to Gryffindor from me. Best be off.”
All three of them blink at him again before Ron and Harry smile widely. Hermione still looks slightly upset that her spell didn’t work, but is staring enviously at the necklace. Dean gets the feeling his brother is about to be harassed about the runes on it for a while.
The kids all flounce off with their own goodbyes, and Dean smiles and nods in acknowledgement.
He ignores the bad feeling settling in his stomach. Dean knows for a fact that the only thing engraved on the necklace was a good luck charm, which doesn’t translate to this worlds’ runes from what Sam and him had gathered. He lied to make the kids feel better, but that excuse won’t work forever.
Which leads him to the question at the core of the issue. Why doesn’t magic work on him?
(-)
When Sam had slammed a pile of books in front of Dean, sending up a cloud of dust from the general mustiness of their hidden corner of the library, Dean had simply groaned, slammed his head into the table, and picked up his half of the book pile with reluctance.
Now, hours after the library had closed and Irma had begrudgingly left them the keys to lock up before Dean’s after-curfew patrol, Dean’s finally had enough.
“You didn’t find anything about Yuletide rituals either, did you,” he states in the direction of the slumped form of his brother, ditching his book to lean back in his chair and raise his arms above his head to stretch.
Sam looks up from his own book, green eyes glinting in the candlelight. “No. I found stuff about who does it and why, but nothing on how. Purebloods keep this thing wrapped up tight,” he glares down at the book in his hands.
Dean shuts his eyes and relaxes into the chair. Well, as much as he can with the stubborn wood biting into his shoulder blades and the near permanent ache in his lower back. God he needs a drink.
“Debrief us then. Then you call it a night. I’ll head down to the kitchens before patrol,” he commands, keeping his eyes closed as he waits for Sam’s voice to recap.
“Where are you really going?” Sam stops his yawn to ask, instead of giving the summary Dean wanted.
Dean cracks open one of his eyes to glare at Sam through the slit. “Why are you so paranoid,” he complains.
Sam gives him his infamous eyeroll. “I just know you, Dean. You’re up to something, and you should tell me so I can tell you off for it.”
Dean groans from deep in his chest. “I really wasn’t going to do much. Just ask Limpy where the best bar is in Hogsmeade. For the weekend,” he confesses tiredly and slams his eyes shut at the look on Sam’s face for a single second.
“Dean,” he starts, and Dean sits up and glares.
“Shut it. What did you find on Yuletide? The words ‘magic ritual’ don’t sit well with me, and they shouldnt with you either, if Dolores’ obsession with you is anything to go by,” he bites, and only feels a little bad about the venom in his tone.
Sam barely even blinks at the jab, which shouldn't make Dean feel upset, but it does. He shoves it under the rug where all his other issues and bad feelings lie.
“Don’t think I’ll forget about this,” Sam warns, before pushing forward a piece of parchment with notes on it for Dean to scan. “Long story short, not much is written about what Yuletide rituals actually entail. Lot’s of books mention the concept of a veil or a barrier between worlds. The idea is that it weakens on either the summer or winter solstice, which allows for families to communicate with the otherworldly. Generally that means the dead.”
Dean hums to show he’s listening, even if he hasn’t looked at the parchment. “And?” he prompts when he can tell Sam wants to continue.
“And, it’s more of a pureblood thing, hence why we can’t find anything. Rituals differ between families, but the general rule is the same. Contact the dead during Yule, since it’s the solstice more inclined towards dark magic,” Sam finishes.
“So our options are either get the information out of a pureblood, or join in on one,” Dean summarises, and Sam scoffs.
“I’m not torturing someone for whatever issue you have with Christmas.”
Dean sits up with an incredulous expression. “Sammy. I know I’m the smart one, but did the whole reason I wanna know about this thing actually slip past you entirely?”
Sam somehow looks annoyed, insulted, and intrigued all at once. “There’s a reason for this? I thought you were just being paranoid again,” he raises an eyebrow at the end of his sentence, clearly expecting an explanation.
He takes a moment to bask in the trust that Sam inadvertently has admitted to having in him. Dean came to his brother with something Sam thought was general anxiety about witches and he just ended up getting the stuff Dean wanted and sitting with him for hours in some musty corner of the library, without a single complaint until now.
He shakes himself out of it. “C’mon Sammy, think. If the barriers between worlds are weak, would that not be prime time to contact Cas again? He’s not dead, but he’s certainly in a different world, and if we can figure out how to do the whole ritual thing… As long as there’s no human or blood sacrifices, I guess.”
By the end of his explanation, he’s leaning forward to gesture expressively at the room. It takes a moment for the pieces to click, and suddenly Sam’s eyes light up magnificently.
“Of course! Why didn’t I connect it before? It’s genius!” Sam gesticulates wildly, before reaching for his parchment again. He starts crossing out things and writing other stuff down frantically, while Dean watches with light amusement.
“Slow down there Sammy. It’s late, and I promised Irma we’d be out of here before my patrol starts. Which,” he looks down at his watch, “–is in five or so minutes. Yule will still exist tomorrow.”
Sam smiles up at him, not even mad that Dean’s stopping his research like he normally would be, he just looks genuinely happy that there's a lead. Dean’s heart constricts at the thought. It’s not like their home dimension has anything good waiting for them. There’s nothing except the unavoidability of him or Sam saying yes. Nothing except the end of everything they’ve ever known at the hands of some cosmic bullshit.
Does Dean even want to bring his brother back to a place like that? Where, despite how hard they fight, the inevitable hangs over them both like a guillotine and Dad’s disappointed stare. Can Dean willingly go back to the place where he’ll have to kill his brother, even if he won’t really be him, and his brother won’t really be his brother?
He doesn’t like the train of thought, so he snatches the parchment off Sam and begins to pile the books up roughly. As much as he hates it, he knows he lashes out when he’s upset.
As Sam’s smile dies, Dean doesn’t look him in the eyes. “Take these back to your room if you want to keep researching. I’ll lock the library up,” he grunts out.
Sam nods understandingly, but his shoulders have that little hunch to them that Dean always hated to see growing up. Sam grew up big, and somewhere along the way, despite Dean’s best efforts, he decided to start making himself smaller instead of filling outwards like Dean or Dad did.
“Sure, Dean. I’ll see you tomorrow at breakfast?” he offers, hesitating only a little.
“Yeah, goodnight,” Dean responds shortly, before ushering his brother and his pile of books out of the library.
He doesn’t turn around to watch Sam walk away, waiting for his footsteps to recede back down to the dungeons before he starts his patrol.
(-)
The thing is, Dean’s bad day turned into three whole days of bitchiness.
What started as an uncomfortable reminder of Christmas and his time spent in Hell, turned into avoiding Sam when it wasn't strictly necessary, leaving his brother to the research. He got snappy with his coworkers, but Sam was probably playing damage control behind the scenes, if the understanding looks he got when they thought he wasn’t looking were any indication.
He ran himself ragged in the castle during the day, and after his night patrols, stalked back to his room early in the morning to stare at the ceiling until he either passed out or had to get ready for his morning duties. He couldn’t even drink to drown out his memories, since he was at Hogwarts. He liked a drink, as much as the next man, but he’s not stupid enough to get caught drinking in a school.
It took until Friday for Dean to finally get his head out of his ass, and it came in the form of one Harry Potter.
Dean had been doing his night patrol after curfew, and was checking down the third floor corridor when a familiar mop of hair rammed straight into him, sending the kid sprawling to the floor with a pained hiss, and Dean stumbling back a step.
“Shit! You alright, kid?” he blurts, forgetting he shouldn't be swearing around children in his haste to apologise and pull the kid to his feet.
Harry looks slightly dazed, glasses knocked askew and blinking owlishly up at him. With an apologetic wince, Dean gently fixes the kids glasses while cursing himself for not paying more attention. The guy was probably sprinting full speed down the hallway, how was it that Dean didn’t hear him coming?
“Why does your chest feel like a slab of bloody concrete?” Harry mumbles dazedly after a moment, and Dean laughs in surprise.
“Thanks, I think. Are you alright?” he asks after he’s gotten himself under control. With a start, he realises that the kid is clutching his right hand, and in the dim torchlight, Dean can see blood dripping through his fingers.
Without thinking, he grabs the kid's hand to inspect it, instantly going over their collision and wondering where he managed to cut his hand on the smooth cobblestone.
Harry wrenches his hand back and shoves it behind his back, but not before Dean see’s the words ‘I must not tell lies’ carved into his skin.
“Hey!” the kid shouts, indignant and slightly fearful as he gapes at Dean.
Dean can feel his expression shift into something more dangerous, but grits his teeth to try and keep it under check. He doesn’t want to freak the kid out anymore, but he has to know where the kid got a wound like that from, considering it looks fresh, and is too fine to be carved with a knife. Did he do it to himself for whatever reason, or is someone carving things into the kids, like some fucked up form of torture?
“Mr Potter. Where did you get that, and how?” he demands, trying, and probably failing, to appear non-threatening.
The kid shuffles back and forth on his feet, pointedly not looking at Dean in the face. “Get what?”
Dean blows out a breath. Does the kid have no self-preservation?
“You know what I’m talking about. Don’t play dumb,” he tries.
The kid doesn’t look any more willing to speak, but his eyes betray him, shifting to the corridor behind him quickly, before settling back on his shoes.
Dean flicks his eyes to the corridor, and then asks himself what floor they’re on. Third floor, Defence Against the Dark Arts corridor.
The blood freezes in his veins as he connects the dots. Dolores had mentioned that she was hosting a few detentions this week, bragging about it to Sam loudly on Wednesday’s breakfast, and the kid was coming out from the area where Dolores’ office was, clearly in a rush.
He grabs the kid's arm as gently as possible and drags him out of the corridor and down the flight of stairs. Harry’s protests die off pretty quick when Dean glares at him, and he settles for grinding his teeth together and trying to explode Dean with his mind, or whatever he’s trying to gain through staring so hard.
When he drags the kid down the final step, he rounds on the kid, leaning down to stare at him directly in the eyes.
“I want you to tell me the truth about that,” he gestures to the hand, “and what Dolores has to do with it. If you know what’s good for you, that is.”
The kid, for all his bluster and righteous anger, looks just a little scared, so Dean leans out of his space and tries to make his expression seem a bit more friendly. He’s not sure it works.
“I told you, it’s nothing! Can I just go back to my dorm?” Harry hisses angrily, but he’s looking panicked.
“Did Dolores do this to you? Answer me, kid,” he pushes. “If you just tell me, I’ll deal with it, okay?”
Somehow, the kid looks even more horrified. “No! You can’t tell anyone!” he cries out.
Like this, green eyes blown wide in terror and anger, completely determined to suffer in silence than share the burden, Dean is reminded of his brother. He softens, running a hand through his hair.
“Look, I won’t tell anyone, alright? Just tell me what happened, and I’ll deal with it. Discreetly,” he emphasises when the kid still looks suspicious.
Green eyes squint at him warily. “You won’t tell Dumbledore? Or McGonagall? Or your brother?” Harry prompts, and thank god, the kid is finally going to spill.
“Yes to the first two, no to my brother. I trust that Sammy wouldn’t reveal someone else’s secrets, even under torture. And trust me, people have tried,” he quickly reassures, waving a hand jokingly, and missing his slip-up until it’s well out of his mouth.
Harry’s jaw drops open. “Your brother’s been tortured?!” he shouts, before slamming his hands over his mouth and looking around the empty corridor like he expects Dolores to jump out of a dark corner.
“Um, forget I said that. Who did that to your hand?” he rushes to change the subject.
The kid switches tracks instantly, but he looks less scared now, and more defeated. There’s a hint of awe in his eyes. Dean’s not sure what’s so awe-inspiring about being tortured, but whatever works for the kid.
“It’s not really a big deal… Professor Umbridge just made me write lines all week in detention. With this special quill. It’s been using my blood for ink, I think,” the kid quietly confesses, and Dean’s eyes narrow.
“So she’s making you write, ‘I must not tell lies’ with some type of magic quill that’s carving it into your flesh?” he repeats, horror mounting. “Kid, you gotta know that’s insane. She’s essentially mutilating you, for what? The thrill of it?”
The kid shuffles, eyes downcast again. “I told her that Voldemort is back, and she got mad that I was telling people about it,” he mumbles into his robes, and Dean holds back the urge to pinch his nose bridge in frustration.
“So you’re getting tortured in detention, and you don’t want me to tell anyone?” he eventually grits out, and the kid nods vigorously.
“You promised you wouldn't tell anyone, except Professor Winchester!” Harry rambles, still clutching his raw hand.
“Okay, okay, I won’t tell anyone. Except Sammy. He’s gonna have to know if we’re gonna get rid of the damn thing,” Dean eventually says, finally giving in to the urge to sigh and massage his head. His mind is whirling with ways to get into Dolores’ office and burn the damn thing.
“You… You’re going to destroy it?” Harry asks, and Dean flicks his eyes to look at the kid when he hears the surprised tone to it. The kid looks equal parts scared, relieved, and hopeful. There’s an impossibly young air to Harry, and Dean is once again reminded of his brother.
He reaches a hand out to gently ruffle the kids hair, even as he squawks. “Yeah kid, I’ll work something out. What does it look like, and where does she keep it?”
“I think she keeps it in the drawers in her desk, but I’m not sure which one. It’s pretty big and pitch black. It would be hard to miss,” Harry explains, eyes shining warily at Dean.
Dean hums and nods. “Okay. Tell you what, you head off back to you dorm, and Sammy and I will work something out. Tell your friends if you want, but if word spreads to Dolores, then that’d make it harder to get rid of it. So keep this on the down-low. Got it?”
“Yes, Mr Winchester. Um, have a good night,” the kid mumbles, before sprinting off back up the stairs to the Gryffindor dormitory.
Dean sighs, checking the time and noting it’s the end of his patrol, heads down to the dungeons, fury simmering in his veins. It’s poisonous, how angry he is over the whole situation. He knew there was something wrong with that wicked bitch, and turns out he was right all along.
He stomps all the way down to Sam’s room, footsteps still quiet despite his anger. He imagines what it would have been like if Sammy had been in Harry’s place. Dean would have killed Dolores himself, but Sam, like Harry, would’ve wanted to just deal with it quietly, or suffer without telling him in the first place.
He’s so worked up, that he doesn’t even knock, just barges into Sam’s room.
Sam’s reflexes are quick, but so are Dean’s, so when a book is launched at his head by an instantly alert Sam, Dean simply ducks, picks up the book, and slams the door behind him.
“What the fuck, Dean?” Sam complains from his position on his couch, books and paper scattered around him messily.
“Dolores has been torturing kids in her detention,” is all he says as he paces around the room.
Instantly, Sam snaps his eyes to Dean’s form, taking in how he’s probably vibrating out of his skin with anger.
“Explain,” he demands. Bossy.
“I ran into Harry Potter during my patrol, after he'd finished detention with Dolores. Quite literally ran into me,” Dean begins.
Sam continues to look at him expectantly, and Dean’s whole body aches when he remembers the comparison between Harry and his little brother.
“He was bleeding from his hand. When I asked why he had ‘I must not tell lies’ carved into his skin, he spilled. Said the wicked bitch of the West made him write lines all week with a quill that uses the writer's blood, essentially etching what he was writing into his skin, over and over again.”
Sam sucks in a painful breath, eyes darkening. “And then what?” he prompts, already looking like he’s calculating what they can do.
“I promised the kid I wouldn’t go to the Headmaster or Minerva. He was reluctant to even tell you, but I persuaded him. By the way, if he or his friends ask why you’ve been tortured, dodge the question,” he adds on as an afterthought, and ignores the exasperated look on Sam’s face.
“I know you, Dean, you wouldn’t have just said that if you didn’t have a plan,” Sam says, that trust that had pissed Dean off not even a week ago ingrained into Sam’s expression again. This time, he’s not mad about it, openly basking it for a moment.
“I told him we’d handle it. So we’re going to handle it,” Dean says simply, finally stopping his pacing to look at his brother, determined to get rid of the thing. He sees the same look echoed in his brother's eyes.
(-)
The plan they hatched up that night was pretty simple. Just a simple distraction on Sam’s end, so that Dean could sneak into Dolores’ office and destroy the quill.
Sam had been sent off to the Great Hall earlier than Dean, dressed in his nicest robes and his hair styled all pretty. The idea was to get Sam to bait Dolores out of Hogwarts and down to Hogsmeade for a drink or something. Dean’s pretty sure Dolores would have to be blind to reject Sam’s offer when he looks so polished. Albus Dumbledore would probably agree to have a drink at the Three Broomsticks with Sam like this.
Dean himself goes to breakfast shortly afterwards, and while in his chair, had made sure to loudly make it known that he had a long day ahead, taking care of the broom shed, helping clean up the Owlery, and assisting Aurora in the Astronomy Tower among other things.
Him helping Aurora in the Astronomy Tower was, of course, untrue. But since it gave credibility to him, he said it anyway. It’s not like Aurora was going to say anything, with the knowing glint in her dark eyes as she regarded him and agreed airily.
Dolores, the slimy bitch, was giggling with her hand on Sam’s arm as he escorted her out of the Great Hall, a demure and handsome smile on his face. Whispers followed after them, but Dolores’ beady eyes remained on her prize, a disgusting blush on her old lady face.
Dean continues his conversation with Filius about the state of goblin leather, and once he’s sure Dolores won't be making a quick return to her office, heads out of the Hall, and up the stairs towards the third floor.
He’s just made it into the corner when a familiar voice calls out to him from behind. He spins around and is met with Harry Potter, flanked by a blustering Hermione Granger and an indignant Ron Weasley.
“What can I do for you three? I’m kinda in a rush here,” he snaps, flicking his eyes to the corridor behind them to find it’s still empty, not even the sound of footsteps echoing down from the stairway.
Hermione steps forward, arms crossed and expression wild. “Harry told us you were planning to get rid of the quill. We want to know what you’re going to do,” she demands, and geez, Dean can see why Sam likes the girl. She’s almost as bossy as his brother.
Ron takes the moment to glare at Hermione. “You made it sound like we’re mad at him. We want in,” he says towards Dean.
Dean raises an eyebrow at Harry. “So you did tell your friends,” he remarks.
Harry nods. “They found out on Thursday…”
“There’s really nothing you can do. Sam’s already distracting the toad, which leaves me to slip into her office and burn the thing in the closest fireplace. Not really much room for you kids to interfere,” he says gruffly, eyeing them all with a raised eyebrow.
All three seem to bristle at that.
“We’re perfectly capable!” Hermione bolsters, before slipping past him to jab her wand at the door to Dolores’ office and whispering a spell. The door swings open instantly, and she crosses her arms and stares challengingly at him.
Dean rolls his eyes and steps past her to stand in the doorway, effectively blocking them out. “Thanks. Now scram, before I start docking house points,” he threatens.
None of them seem phased at all, so he decides to count his losses and ignore them. He can see them follow him into the office like particularly annoying ducklings from the corner of his eye.
He makes his way over to Dolores’ desk, and stares at the drawers, squinting when he notices that one of the drawers is flickering, wavering in and out of his sight, like how Hogwarts and the Leaky Cauldron hadn’t been visible at first to him or Sam.
The peanut gallery gasps when he immediately goes for the drawer and wrenches it open.
“How did you know that was there? I thought there were only three drawers,” Harry breathes from beside him, peeking around Dean’s shoulder.
Dean, eyes fixed on the black quill laid neatly in the otherwise empty drawer, reaches a hand out to flick the kid’s forehead. Harry yelps and jumps backwards, and Dean hears both Hermione and Ron laugh at him.
The quill doesn’t look evil. It sits in his palm easily, and sure, it’s kinda ornate with the black feathers, but it’s so plain, he’s almost tempted to try it out. Almost. He’s not that stupid.
“This is it, right?” Dean asks as he lifts the quill for the kids to see.
Harry’s eyes widen. “That’s it!”
Hermione leans closer to it, as if to touch it, and Dean brings it away from her. “No can do, Miss Granger. No touching the evil torture quill, unless you’re me and about to burn it to a crisp.”
Hermione looks a little put out but doesn't say anything as Dean walks towards the fireplace roaring in Dolores’ office and simply drops the quill into it. He watches it burn up to a crisp and disappear in the flames, before turning around to the kids.
“Awesome. Someone kick that drawer closed, and we’re out of here,” he directs, and Ron jumps to kick the thing shut, before they all follow him out of the office.
When he confirms there’s no Dolores waiting for him, he looks down at the three of them with his arms crossed, a serious expression on his face.
“Please re-lock that door Miss Granger. If she gives you any more detentions and there’s another quill in there, I want you to come straight to me, and I’ll destroy it again. If she finds some other fucked up way to torture you, you come straight to me, and I’ll ice her. Got it?”
The kids mirror his serious expression, suddenly looking a lot older than they are.
Harry steps forward. “Got it. Thank you, Mr Winchester,” he says, glasses slipping down his nose as he puffs his chest a little. Ron nods his head enthusiastically in agreement.
Dean nods and smiles a little. “Good kids. Tell anyone I did this and I’m dragging you down with me,” he jokes, and is relieved to see Harry and Ron smile. Hermione just looks over with exasperation from where she’s whispering some type of locking spell at the door.
Dean walks off then, leaving the kids to chatter about aimlessly. He’s got a little brother to rescue from an evil toad.