The Count
Dumbledore stood at the front of the great hall, staring down at the students below, who were only a fraction of those that normally filled the great hall with loud, sometimes obnoxious talking. He always found the short snatches of conversation that he could catch a glimpse of amusing, in a strange way.
How trivial their problems were, and yet to them, they seemed like unconquerable foes, ones that they could never defeat, despite their best attempts. Yet they persevere, and overcame their enemies. Like exams and upcoming quidditch games. Although there weren’t going to be many of those for a while, were there?
Yet, today, it was filled with quiet, solemn murmurs that barely showed the graveness of the true situation at hand. Their whispers were like the snow outside. Falling to the ground, concealing the blood stained splatter of where Professor Quirrel’s body had laid, almost as cold as the ice that had surrounded it.
Dumbledore’s face was grim, his eyes an icier blue than normal under his half moon glasses.
He looked over at Professor McGonagall, who was sitting at her seat at the table, next to the now empty seat that had once belonged to the now dead professor.
He cleared his throat, and cast a spell that magnified his voice, so it was projected out to everyone in the Great Hall. He supposed that maybe that wasn’t quite necessary, as the hall had already been rather quiet.
The Ravenclaw table was the first to fall silent, although it wasn’t like they’d been particularly loud to begin with, as someone had spread the rumour of Quirrel being missing. And Ravenclaw being his house…yeah. That raised some alarm bells for them.
He looked down at the Gryfindor table and caught a glimpse of Harry Potter, who looked exhausted, like he hadn’t gotten any sleep. Almost like he’d been…wandering the halls at night. Dumbledore silently scolded himself.
He couldn’t go blaming students for an event that, however tragic, simply boiled down to him not being a good enough headmaster.
“Attention, students. Due to a…lapse in judgement,” Here Dumbledore paused, and looked at the empty chair. He shot a withering glare at Filch, before finally returning his gaze to the students. He then continued, clearing his throat. “We have hired a new professor for Defense Against the Dark Arts. He-”
Dumbledore was cut off as the door to the Great Hall slammed open, and a shadow appeared in the doorway of a man with crazy hair.
A mysterious wind swept through the hall, swirling up, up, and up and around the candles, which went out. The hall was as black as the night for a minute, until small lights started appearing, as students lit their wands up.
The wind chilled Harry Potter to his very bones. And although he didn’t know it yet, this was the last time that he’d have a peaceful meal for a damn long time.
A man with an ugly haircut stood in the doorframe when their attention returned to it. A tall man stood there, his hair grey. Harry noted, as he walked in, that he only had one eyebrow. His eyebrows weren’t missing, no. He just had one very long eyebrow.
He walked into the hall slowly. Each step was audible in the near silence of the great hall. When he passed Harry, Ron elbowed him sharply, and pointed at the man’s ankle, where a tattoo was visible. What Ron had been doing staring at the man’s feet, Harry had no idea.
Ron grabbed Harry’s arm, one of the only visible movements in the entire room, as the man walked up to the table. It almost seemed like he was preparing to make a run for it, almost as though he was…frightened. But of what? What did he have to fear?
Albus Dumbledore, the greatest wizard ever, was here.
Clack. Clack. Clack. He climbed the small flight of stairs that led to the teachers table, and sat in the empty seat that had once belonged to Quirrel, without a greeting or anything of the sort.
Dumbledore stood in silence for a minute, his face barely revealing that he was surprised. He had been watching the man walk up to the stage. His face had been almost completely blank until the moment he sat down.
The man spoke, in an unidentifiable accent that may have been fake, “Go on, Professor. Continue your…speech.”
Dumbledore paused for a moment, regrouping himself before he continued, taking a deep breath.
“As I was saying. Your new Defense Against the Dark Arts Teacher has arrived. Welcome to Hogwarts, Count Olaf.” Dumbledore sat back down. With a wave of his wand, the lights in the room went back on, this time in shades of blue and bronze.
A hesitant round of applause started, one that was much more muted than it seemed like it should have been.
Count Olaf made no move to rise to give a speech, and instead, reached out to the plate next to his, which happened to be Hagrid’s, took a turkey leg, and started eating it, tearing the skin off with his teeth, and wiping his hands on the tablecloth.
Harry watched this, slightly disgusted at the rude treatment of his favorite teacher, and the lack of respect to the school in general.
He made a move to stand, only for Hermione to grab his wrist, and with a slight shake of her head, he sat back down. He reached out and grabbed a roll, which he started ripping pieces from and eating them, slowly.
Most people were eating similarly to Harry. Hesitant and worried, as though they believed that the man would stand up, and snatch the food right from their hands.
When everyone was done eating, Count Olaf let out a loud, and quite rude belch. He stood, right as everyone else did. Well, everyone except for the other professors, who remained seated.
“Now children, where are you going?” He spoke loudly, his eyes roving over the crowd, as though he was looking for someone. His eyes locked on Harry.
The students, for the most part, ignored him, although a few visibly shivered. Harry was one of those. Although he wasn’t looking at the newest professor, he felt a pair of eyes on him.
Hours later, he was alone, wandering the halls. He hadn’t been able to sleep, after the events of the night before. He saw a shadow in the light of a candle, projected onto the ground in front of a doorway.
“It’s all coming together.” He heard. He recognized the voice. Count Olaf. Harry started sneaking forwards slowly, until he was nearer the door. He pushed it open slightly, and leaned closer. He stumbled, and cursed quietly under his breath as he slipped, barely catching himself on the wall.
“Oh, we’ll-” Count Olaf stopped speaking, and left the room. He looked to the left, and looked to the right, where Harry was standing. His lips twisted into a sneer.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t an orphan. Y’know, you should be careful. Wouldn’t want anyone to…attack you, and steal your fortune.”
Harry stared at him. He stood frozen in the doorway, almost as if the snow from outside had come and wrapped him up, freezing him to his spot.
“Run along, now.” Count Olaf said, turning on his heel and slamming the door behind him.
Harry stood frozen for another moment, before turning and running as quickly as he could. He climbed staircases and sprinted down halls, until he was at last back near the tower.
He practically screamed the password at the Fat Lady and dove through the portrait hole, collapsing in a chair by the fireplace. He felt warm again, for once. He reached to a table next to him, and grabbed a blanket. He threw it over himself.
He breathed a sigh of relief the moment that he sat down, and felt the warmth blanketing him from head to toe.
At least he was safe, and away from that creepy, creepy man. He was so relieved, that he barely even noticed the crow perched on a windowsill outside.
It cawed, and Harry looked over at it. He shuddered.
He’d always hated crows.