gwendolyngrace (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
gwendolyngrace) wrote2005-07-04 10:13 pm
gwendolyngrace) wrote2005-07-04 10:13 pm
It's July 4, so I'm celebrating with a crossover fic!
So I bought a television, finally. Spent a little more than I intended, but this one has a DVD player built in! I've also cleaned all day and done about a quarter of the last day of Pennsic transcription. Productive me.
People are wibbling to varying degrees about the way they wear their patriotism (I wear mine by cleaning and catching up on email, typing, and Girl Genius, so that's how extroverted I am about it), but I thought I'd celebrate by posting this. It's the first chapter of a silly, unbeta'd crossover fic. Happy Independence Day, Americans.
Title: The DADA Wing
Rating: PG-13 to R
Summary: Severus Snape is less than impressed by the newest Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter world and characters are the property of JK Rowling. The West Wing characters were created by Aaron Sorkin and are copyright NBC television. This story is not intended to infringe on those rights. Have fun!
Author's Notes: You don't have to follow The West Wing or Harry Potter to appreciate this fic, but it helps. I have not been following The West Wing this season, either, so don't expect canon complicity. Also - Woe. I've lost my list of "S" names to call Snape. Suggestions welcome, no guarantee I'll use them.
Dumbledore smiled benevolently around the staff room, setting his quill down beside his parchment roll. ‘Well, I think that about does it,’ he said, ‘except of course for Defence against the Dark Arts. Now, having recently re-established positive relations with the Ministry,’ he continued over several soft groans, ‘I do believe it is important that the Minister feels he had a hand in my selection. However, I shouldn’t want any of you to harbour any doubts about your new colleague.’
Minerva McGonagall sniffed loudly. ‘Albus, do you really think it’s wise to do this without Severus here?’
Dumbledore nodded knowingly. ‘I realise that circumstances prevent Severus from joining us,’ he said guardedly. ‘But I did not wish to delay the announcement any longer. In any event, I think it’s for the best. She is highly qualified, and only recently became available. She attended an American secondary school with a wizarding division, and her teaching credentials come from no less famous a programme than the Witchhazel College at Stanford University. Nonetheless, I am certain she will need to be made to feel at home, Minerva, and well-oriented, Mr Filch, so please do your best to welcome her. She will arrive tomorrow, I understand.’
‘Albus,’ Professor Sprout said trimly. ‘Of course we all stand behind your choice, but...an American? And why is she suddenly available?’
Minerva bit her lip. Snape had applied for the position every time it became available, which for six years had been every year. She understood Dumbledore’s reasons for denying him, but wondered if perhaps the Headmaster’s newest measures were extreme.
‘Ah,’ Dumbledore grunted with a nod, as if expecting the question. ‘Well, she is an American because, as you know, the threat we face is of some concern to their Presidential Administration. It’s no secret that the current First Lady is also a well-known witch in her own right. As it happens, she recommended her to me personally, as a pre-emptive strike for greater national security. Someone with her connections could be useful in helping channels of communication between ourselves and America. Since she served the previous administration during both their terms, she has been...rather busy for the last eight years. I am given to understand that she recently desired a shift in occupation, as well.’ He winked. ‘You needn’t have any worries about her discretion, though. I’ll wager that in her service to President Bartlett, Claudia Cregg has already held one of the most difficult Defence Against the Dark Arts positions known to anyone.’
*~*~*~*
Professor Claudia Jean Cregg hated flying - on brooms, that is. For the last eight years, during the most visible job she’d ever held, she had had to live like a Muggle almost 24 hours a day. Everyone wondered how she had managed to fly back and forth to Dayton so often to see her father as he deteriorated under Alzheimer’s disease. Claudia, or C.J. as her friends called her, most often had flown courtesy of American Airlines or Southwest, or whomever had the lowest fares, just like any other Muggle. She had to admit that compared to Air Force One, any other mode of Muggle travel simply paled. But since neither the Press Secretary nor the White House Chief of Staff could command Air Force One to hop back and forth to Dayton, once in a while, she chose the best possible kind of travel. When she thought she could risk it, she Apparated directly to her father’s home. It was difficult, staying inside all week-end, running the White House by phone, and then charming the nurse’s memory, but at least no one would pay her father any mind if he told anyone she’d been to see him. If he remembered at all, himself. C.J. sighed. That was before Jed Bartlett left office. For the past eight months, she had been home legitimately, treating her father herself with every remedy she could think of, including some slightly illegal magical curatives. But nothing had stemmed the tide. Now that he had passed away, she preferred to be as far from Dayton, Ohio as she could get. So, when she received a mysterious parchment envelope with a quartered seal, addressed in green ink, she leapt at the opportunity. A secluded, Muggle-free castle in remote Scotland sounded like paradise right about now.
Right about now, however, she was cursing English traffic. The rental car from Gatwick had been a disaster - gear shift all overheating and wipers too flimsy for the late August rain. She flat-out refused to take the Night Bus after what her London friends had told her, so she had slipped her wand out of her briefcase at a light. After peering in all directions, she cast a few spells on the vehicle. When she returned it to the lot in Glasgow, she’s change everything back, complain loudly, and get a refund.
If she ever reached Glasgow, that is. It had not stopped raining anywhere on the trip, from the M1 all the way through to the A74, and traffic, at best glacially slow in the cities, was at a complete standstill here in the middle of...wherever the hell she was. Sherwood Forest, maybe. Or the moors of Brontë and Austen. Hey, she thought with a twist of her mouth, if she were going to be stranded in the wilds of England, it may as well be somewhere exciting.
The traffic inched forward, then puttered to a steady twenty kilometres an hour, and at last began to resemble a highway again. C. J. fiddled with the radio until it became obviously hopeless, tapped it with her wand and found the Wizarding Wireless Network. After half an hour of the most boring Quidditch commentary ever, she snapped the radio off in disgust. ‘I’ve heard girls’ softball games that were more interesting,’ she told the dashboard.
Eventually the spires and towers of a city came into view, or at least their lights glowed mutely off the edge of the night. The road widened and, using skills honed by years in L.A. and D.C. (and how nice it would be to live somewhere not identified by initials!), C. J. overtook car after car until the spray subsided and she could read the roadsigns. She reached Glasgow four hours behind schedule, too late to return the car and far too late to catch the last wizarding train to Hogsmeade that night. She found a room, pulled an overnight bag from the trunk (boot, she reminded herself), and settled in.
An owl tapped at her window a couple hours later. She let the poor, wet thing in and searched through her bag for owl treats to reward him. Headmaster Dumbledore had sent a message, wondering if she were all right. How sweet, C. J. thought, followed by, protective old man - who does he think he is, Leo McGarry? She turned the note over, scribbled an explanation on the back with her ball point (no one would ever convince her quills were superior!) and apologised to the bird.
‘Look, I’m really sorry, but this should get back to Hogwarts tonight, okay?’ The owl blinked at her balefully and shook itself, spraying her with water from between its feathers. ‘Hey! I said I’m sorry. Okay,’ she nodded, negotiating seriously, ‘I’ll ask Dumbledore to give you triple your normal treats. Deal?’ The owl turned its head in what unmistakably resembled a “No.” C. J. sighed. ‘And give you a fire to sleep by so you can dry out. Okay?’ The owl hooted and held out its leg. C. J. amended the note hastily and tied it in place. The owl hopped to the window and she let it out, shutting the pane against the elements as soon as she could.
Come morning, the sun managed a weak dominance over the clouds. C. J. found the rental agency (conveniently near the rail station), reversed her charms, and left with a coupon for twenty percent off her next rental, a scowl on her face, and a healthy loathing of smarmy, heavily-accented rental agents. At the wizard ticket office, she traded her ticket from the previous date for a local. Two hours later, the train track curved and she caught her first glimpse of the fabulous castle that would be her home for at least the next ten months.
She arrived in time for luncheon. Professor McGonagall lost no time showing her to her quarters, which were well-furnished if a bit too Medieval for C. J.’s tastes. The door of the sitting area opened into a giant, four-poster, curtained bed. In front of the fireplace to the left, a low table stood between two wing-backed chairs, laden with a covered tray. Steam rose from the covered dish languidly. It looked like something out of the Prisoner of Zenda. C.J. felt a pang for the White House. ‘The house-elves will see to your things - I’m sure your must be famished, Claudia,’ Professor McGonagall - Minerva - said.
‘C. J.,’ C. J. said.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Please call me C. J. Everyone does,’ she explained.
Minerva tilted her head back a bit to look her in the eye. ‘I daresay that’s a bit informal, to use around students, don’t you?’ She smiled. ‘And of course, you’ll want to change into robes, I should think. Travelling in Muggle clothing always leaves me feeling so confined.’
‘Well thanks, but...’ C. J. looked at her suit. It was a bit wrinkled, but nowhere near uncomfortable. ‘Frankly, Professor, robes really aren’t my thing. No one wears them in America these days.’
‘Oh.’ Professor McGonagall’s smile tightened ever so slightly. ‘Well, of course, whatever you feel most comfortable wearing, dear,’ she said, ‘but I do hope you’ll understand that a certain decorum is helpful when establishing authority over your classes. An outer robe at least--’
‘I’ll feel like I’m back at my college graduation!’ C. J. laughed. ‘Oh, all right, I’ll see what I can.... No, you know what?’ She squared off against the older woman. ‘All due respect, and I understand that teaching kids is different, but if I can handle the White House press corps in Donna Karan, then I can handle teenagers just fine, and while we’re at it, if they’re calling me Ms. Cregg, what does it matter whether you call me C. J. or Claudia Jean, and I’ll tell you something else, this place could use a step into the 20th century, okay?’
Professor McGonagall’s eyebrows remained arched as she nodded. ‘You’ll be fine, dear,’ she said with a reassuring smile. ‘And they’ll be calling you Professor Cregg.’ She backed out of the room quickly.
‘Professor Cregg was my father,’ C. J. said to the back of the door.
*~*~*~*
After she had eaten and freshened up, the caretaker, a rather unsavoury geezer named Argus Filch, showed her the best routes from her quarters to her office, her classrooms, and the staff room. ‘The students will be here in two days,’ Argus said with a sour set to his mouth. ‘If they give you any trouble, don’t hesitate to punish ‘em, miss,’ he continued. His eyes gleamed dangerously. ‘Or, you can send ‘em to me.’
C.J. swallowed. ‘You mean for detention?’ she asked carefully.
Mr Filch sighed. ‘Yeah, for detention.’ A wistful note entered his voice as he continued. ‘Professor Umbridge, now, she understood the need for proper discipline. But--’ he glanced upward-- ‘now that the Headmaster is back, that’s all over. Course, if you was to threaten the little buggers now and again, it wouldn’t go amiss....’
C.J. suppressed laughter. Once she’d gone on national television and handed a talk show host’s ego to him on a platter. She’d made dozens of grown men, from two-star generals, to hard-boiled journalists, to some of the toughest trial lawyers in the country, cry for their mothers, and all without magic. A few British teenagers would be no problem. ‘I’ll...bear that in mind, Mr Filch,’ she told him. ‘What’s next?’
‘I’ll take you up to the Headmaster,’ Filch said, leading her back to a massive staircase.
‘What are the rest of the staff like?’ C.J. asked on the way.
Filch sucked his teeth before answering. ‘Some better than others. Professor Dumbledore will tell you all you need to know.’
But her conversation with Dumbledore had more to do with her old job than her new one. An hour and a half later, Dumbledore escorted her to the Great Hall, and only then did it occur to her that she hadn’t asked a single question on her list. They had discussed American wizarding practices, the First Lady, President Bartlet’s last term and the British Ministry, compared Air Force One and the Floo Authority, and touched on her plans for the curriculum for the year. But she still knew next to nothing about her fellow faculty.
They came down the wide stairway to the entrance hall just in time to join most of the faculty arriving for supper. The small knot of robed figures looked up to watch them descend. Behind them, the main entrance doors swung open, letting in a gust of chilly September night air. Another wizard, cloaked in black, with high-collared robes, black, long hair, and a long, hooked nose, strode into the vaulted entryway. Dumbledore nodded to the newcomer solemnly, and several teachers turned to face him as well. Dumbledore did not stop leading C.J. down the stairs, but she somehow sensed a ripple of hesitation pass through her companion. The others must have felt some tension, too, for they parted to one side or the other as the sallow-skinned, dark-eyed man closed the distance between himself and Dumbledore. C.J. realised with a shock that his narrowing gaze was fixed, not on the Headmaster, but on herself. She was used to being in a spotlight - from cameras, from the press, from Bartlet’s fans - but this was an entirely different sort of look. It reminded her uncomfortably of the time she acquired a stalker. The thought brought a lump to her throat - not from fear, but because the agent assigned to protect her had died needlessly. She forced the thought aside; this was not the time to show weakness, she was sure.
She drew herself up to a height that rivalled Dumbledore’s in his tallest boots, held her head up higher, and sized up the wizard, now at the foot of the staircase. As if in answer to her silent challenge, he finally slid his eyes across from her to Dumbledore. Dumbledore paused, then patted her hand and left her side. He drew the other apart. C.J. could barely hear the beginning of their conversation.
‘Severus!’ Dumbledore said quietly. ‘I wanted to explain to you before Professor Cregg arrived, but you were delayed. Since you were due back so late, I hoped meeting her in front of the staff, you wouldn’t shout about it.’
When ‘Severus’ spoke, his voice was deathly quiet, but it echoed in the hall with disdain. ‘This is your latest idea of a Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, Headmaster?’ he hissed.
‘Severus--’
‘A former White House Chief of Staff?’ ‘Severus’ continued, voice gaining volume.
‘Severus, really--’
‘A MUGGLE?’ he barked.
‘Hey!’ C.J. protested.
Severus looked up at her for a second before turning back to Dumbledore and bellowing: ‘Well, what the Hell made you think I wouldn’t shout in front of the rest of the staff?!’
Everyone gasped audibly. Dumbledore shook his head, eyes closed. But C.J. began to laugh. Her knees bent on their own and she sank to the stairs. ‘Okay,’ she wheezed, holding up one palm. ‘I’m not...laughing...at you. First of all,’ she continued, ‘I’m not a Muggle. I just played one on TV.’ She giggled again. ‘Sorry. Secondly, see, there was this time when Leo hired someone, a Republican, and--’
‘Fascinating as I’m sure this anecdote is,’ Severus interrupted, ‘I fail to see how working in the Muggle world for the past eight years makes you qualified to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts.’ He crossed his arms tightly.
‘Well, I ran the most powerful administration in the world,’ C.J. quipped, standing again. ‘Hi, I’m C.J. Cregg, and you are...?’ She smiled expectantly.
‘Professor Snape is our Potions master,’ Dumbledore said hastily.
‘Excellent,’ C.J. said brightly. ‘We can compare notes on curatives that come in handy in the field. I’ve also planned a unit on counter-curses and anti-hexes designed to neutralise air-borne potion effects like the Anti-Equilibrium Emulsion.’ She moved closer as she spoke and was pleased to find that she was an inch or so taller than the ill-tempered Potions master. ‘Here’s the thing: I don’t think I need to give you my resume or my credentials, but I’d say it’s about time someone around here taught these kids how to survive alongside Muggles instead of whitewashing what they’re really like and I gotta say that the Headmaster shows some forward thinking, which from what I’ve seen is unusual for the wizards in Great Britain. That said, if you want to throw down to prove to yourself how qualified I am, let’s just go now, but if we can get it over with quickly, I’d appreciate it, because for one thing, I’m still a little jet-lagged, and for another, dinner’s smelling pretty good in there, and mostly because it’s been a long time since I’ve had to resort to my wand to make a grown man cry for his momma, but I’m ready to get back into practise if you keep it up. So what do you say, Sparky? It’s entirely up to you.’
Once again, the hall filled with gasps, then silence. A muscle in Snape’s jaw twitched. C.J. pursed her lips, wondering if perhaps she had miscalculated. Then one of the professors, a tiny man who reminded C.J. of Henry Gibson, with white hair and a benevolent ruddy face, touched Snape’s sleeve, clearing his throat.
‘Confident as I am in both of your duelling skills,’ the diminutive professor said kindly, ‘I’m also famished. Let’s eat.’
Without giving Snape a chance to reply, the man led him away toward the great hall. C.J. glanced once at Dumbledore, who suddenly seemed a little less benevolent and a little more doddering, and followed.
Two tables were drawn up together in the centre of the hall with chairs surrounding them. She carefully chose a seat neither next to nor too directly across from the prickly Professor Snape. To her immense relief, the meal passed in relative peace. Professors Hooch, McGonagall, and Vector chatted with her merrily about school traditions and traded anecdotes about their own school days. Of course, some of C.J.'s stories needed extra explaining, like the one about how Josh Lyman had blundered onto his own fan site and, to C.J.'s horror, got involved. Only the Muggle Studies professor, a slightly pot-bellied man with an even more befuddled look about him, by the name of Wimbledon, seemed at all familiar with the Internet.
As practised as C.J. was at behaving with perfect civility to people she'd just as soon kill dead right in front of her, she knew that the game worked a lot better when everyone played it. She could feel Snape glowering at her all through the meal, even though she was careful to avoid eye contact without seeming rude either. She didn't want to make this day any longer, but she decided she'd better get them past the problem sooner, rather than later. After all, teaching was supposed to be a change from her political life.
So when they all rose and broke into small clusters, C.J. took a deep breath and sought him out. She was almost prepared for the look of contempt he fixed on her.
'Look, I'd rather there not be unnecessary friction here. Chalk up my rudeness to the jet lag, okay?'
Snape swept his eyes down her robes and back to her face in one long, appraising glance. He seemed to make a decision, for he uncrossed his arms and cocked his head to one side. 'Teach them appropriately,' he growled, lips barely moving, 'and there shan't be.' Then he walked around her and out of the hall.
~*~*~*~
Any good? I figure this is worth at most maybe a chapter or two more; after that I don't think it will continue to work. Yeah, I've no idea where this is going. Unfortunately it's one of those things that needs a real clear stopping point. Humour's like that. Ahem, suggestions welcome, no guarantee that I'll use them.
People are wibbling to varying degrees about the way they wear their patriotism (I wear mine by cleaning and catching up on email, typing, and Girl Genius, so that's how extroverted I am about it), but I thought I'd celebrate by posting this. It's the first chapter of a silly, unbeta'd crossover fic. Happy Independence Day, Americans.
Title: The DADA Wing
Rating: PG-13 to R
Summary: Severus Snape is less than impressed by the newest Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter world and characters are the property of JK Rowling. The West Wing characters were created by Aaron Sorkin and are copyright NBC television. This story is not intended to infringe on those rights. Have fun!
Author's Notes: You don't have to follow The West Wing or Harry Potter to appreciate this fic, but it helps. I have not been following The West Wing this season, either, so don't expect canon complicity. Also - Woe. I've lost my list of "S" names to call Snape. Suggestions welcome, no guarantee I'll use them.
Dumbledore smiled benevolently around the staff room, setting his quill down beside his parchment roll. ‘Well, I think that about does it,’ he said, ‘except of course for Defence against the Dark Arts. Now, having recently re-established positive relations with the Ministry,’ he continued over several soft groans, ‘I do believe it is important that the Minister feels he had a hand in my selection. However, I shouldn’t want any of you to harbour any doubts about your new colleague.’
Minerva McGonagall sniffed loudly. ‘Albus, do you really think it’s wise to do this without Severus here?’
Dumbledore nodded knowingly. ‘I realise that circumstances prevent Severus from joining us,’ he said guardedly. ‘But I did not wish to delay the announcement any longer. In any event, I think it’s for the best. She is highly qualified, and only recently became available. She attended an American secondary school with a wizarding division, and her teaching credentials come from no less famous a programme than the Witchhazel College at Stanford University. Nonetheless, I am certain she will need to be made to feel at home, Minerva, and well-oriented, Mr Filch, so please do your best to welcome her. She will arrive tomorrow, I understand.’
‘Albus,’ Professor Sprout said trimly. ‘Of course we all stand behind your choice, but...an American? And why is she suddenly available?’
Minerva bit her lip. Snape had applied for the position every time it became available, which for six years had been every year. She understood Dumbledore’s reasons for denying him, but wondered if perhaps the Headmaster’s newest measures were extreme.
‘Ah,’ Dumbledore grunted with a nod, as if expecting the question. ‘Well, she is an American because, as you know, the threat we face is of some concern to their Presidential Administration. It’s no secret that the current First Lady is also a well-known witch in her own right. As it happens, she recommended her to me personally, as a pre-emptive strike for greater national security. Someone with her connections could be useful in helping channels of communication between ourselves and America. Since she served the previous administration during both their terms, she has been...rather busy for the last eight years. I am given to understand that she recently desired a shift in occupation, as well.’ He winked. ‘You needn’t have any worries about her discretion, though. I’ll wager that in her service to President Bartlett, Claudia Cregg has already held one of the most difficult Defence Against the Dark Arts positions known to anyone.’
*~*~*~*
Professor Claudia Jean Cregg hated flying - on brooms, that is. For the last eight years, during the most visible job she’d ever held, she had had to live like a Muggle almost 24 hours a day. Everyone wondered how she had managed to fly back and forth to Dayton so often to see her father as he deteriorated under Alzheimer’s disease. Claudia, or C.J. as her friends called her, most often had flown courtesy of American Airlines or Southwest, or whomever had the lowest fares, just like any other Muggle. She had to admit that compared to Air Force One, any other mode of Muggle travel simply paled. But since neither the Press Secretary nor the White House Chief of Staff could command Air Force One to hop back and forth to Dayton, once in a while, she chose the best possible kind of travel. When she thought she could risk it, she Apparated directly to her father’s home. It was difficult, staying inside all week-end, running the White House by phone, and then charming the nurse’s memory, but at least no one would pay her father any mind if he told anyone she’d been to see him. If he remembered at all, himself. C.J. sighed. That was before Jed Bartlett left office. For the past eight months, she had been home legitimately, treating her father herself with every remedy she could think of, including some slightly illegal magical curatives. But nothing had stemmed the tide. Now that he had passed away, she preferred to be as far from Dayton, Ohio as she could get. So, when she received a mysterious parchment envelope with a quartered seal, addressed in green ink, she leapt at the opportunity. A secluded, Muggle-free castle in remote Scotland sounded like paradise right about now.
Right about now, however, she was cursing English traffic. The rental car from Gatwick had been a disaster - gear shift all overheating and wipers too flimsy for the late August rain. She flat-out refused to take the Night Bus after what her London friends had told her, so she had slipped her wand out of her briefcase at a light. After peering in all directions, she cast a few spells on the vehicle. When she returned it to the lot in Glasgow, she’s change everything back, complain loudly, and get a refund.
If she ever reached Glasgow, that is. It had not stopped raining anywhere on the trip, from the M1 all the way through to the A74, and traffic, at best glacially slow in the cities, was at a complete standstill here in the middle of...wherever the hell she was. Sherwood Forest, maybe. Or the moors of Brontë and Austen. Hey, she thought with a twist of her mouth, if she were going to be stranded in the wilds of England, it may as well be somewhere exciting.
The traffic inched forward, then puttered to a steady twenty kilometres an hour, and at last began to resemble a highway again. C. J. fiddled with the radio until it became obviously hopeless, tapped it with her wand and found the Wizarding Wireless Network. After half an hour of the most boring Quidditch commentary ever, she snapped the radio off in disgust. ‘I’ve heard girls’ softball games that were more interesting,’ she told the dashboard.
Eventually the spires and towers of a city came into view, or at least their lights glowed mutely off the edge of the night. The road widened and, using skills honed by years in L.A. and D.C. (and how nice it would be to live somewhere not identified by initials!), C. J. overtook car after car until the spray subsided and she could read the roadsigns. She reached Glasgow four hours behind schedule, too late to return the car and far too late to catch the last wizarding train to Hogsmeade that night. She found a room, pulled an overnight bag from the trunk (boot, she reminded herself), and settled in.
An owl tapped at her window a couple hours later. She let the poor, wet thing in and searched through her bag for owl treats to reward him. Headmaster Dumbledore had sent a message, wondering if she were all right. How sweet, C. J. thought, followed by, protective old man - who does he think he is, Leo McGarry? She turned the note over, scribbled an explanation on the back with her ball point (no one would ever convince her quills were superior!) and apologised to the bird.
‘Look, I’m really sorry, but this should get back to Hogwarts tonight, okay?’ The owl blinked at her balefully and shook itself, spraying her with water from between its feathers. ‘Hey! I said I’m sorry. Okay,’ she nodded, negotiating seriously, ‘I’ll ask Dumbledore to give you triple your normal treats. Deal?’ The owl turned its head in what unmistakably resembled a “No.” C. J. sighed. ‘And give you a fire to sleep by so you can dry out. Okay?’ The owl hooted and held out its leg. C. J. amended the note hastily and tied it in place. The owl hopped to the window and she let it out, shutting the pane against the elements as soon as she could.
Come morning, the sun managed a weak dominance over the clouds. C. J. found the rental agency (conveniently near the rail station), reversed her charms, and left with a coupon for twenty percent off her next rental, a scowl on her face, and a healthy loathing of smarmy, heavily-accented rental agents. At the wizard ticket office, she traded her ticket from the previous date for a local. Two hours later, the train track curved and she caught her first glimpse of the fabulous castle that would be her home for at least the next ten months.
She arrived in time for luncheon. Professor McGonagall lost no time showing her to her quarters, which were well-furnished if a bit too Medieval for C. J.’s tastes. The door of the sitting area opened into a giant, four-poster, curtained bed. In front of the fireplace to the left, a low table stood between two wing-backed chairs, laden with a covered tray. Steam rose from the covered dish languidly. It looked like something out of the Prisoner of Zenda. C.J. felt a pang for the White House. ‘The house-elves will see to your things - I’m sure your must be famished, Claudia,’ Professor McGonagall - Minerva - said.
‘C. J.,’ C. J. said.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Please call me C. J. Everyone does,’ she explained.
Minerva tilted her head back a bit to look her in the eye. ‘I daresay that’s a bit informal, to use around students, don’t you?’ She smiled. ‘And of course, you’ll want to change into robes, I should think. Travelling in Muggle clothing always leaves me feeling so confined.’
‘Well thanks, but...’ C. J. looked at her suit. It was a bit wrinkled, but nowhere near uncomfortable. ‘Frankly, Professor, robes really aren’t my thing. No one wears them in America these days.’
‘Oh.’ Professor McGonagall’s smile tightened ever so slightly. ‘Well, of course, whatever you feel most comfortable wearing, dear,’ she said, ‘but I do hope you’ll understand that a certain decorum is helpful when establishing authority over your classes. An outer robe at least--’
‘I’ll feel like I’m back at my college graduation!’ C. J. laughed. ‘Oh, all right, I’ll see what I can.... No, you know what?’ She squared off against the older woman. ‘All due respect, and I understand that teaching kids is different, but if I can handle the White House press corps in Donna Karan, then I can handle teenagers just fine, and while we’re at it, if they’re calling me Ms. Cregg, what does it matter whether you call me C. J. or Claudia Jean, and I’ll tell you something else, this place could use a step into the 20th century, okay?’
Professor McGonagall’s eyebrows remained arched as she nodded. ‘You’ll be fine, dear,’ she said with a reassuring smile. ‘And they’ll be calling you Professor Cregg.’ She backed out of the room quickly.
‘Professor Cregg was my father,’ C. J. said to the back of the door.
*~*~*~*
After she had eaten and freshened up, the caretaker, a rather unsavoury geezer named Argus Filch, showed her the best routes from her quarters to her office, her classrooms, and the staff room. ‘The students will be here in two days,’ Argus said with a sour set to his mouth. ‘If they give you any trouble, don’t hesitate to punish ‘em, miss,’ he continued. His eyes gleamed dangerously. ‘Or, you can send ‘em to me.’
C.J. swallowed. ‘You mean for detention?’ she asked carefully.
Mr Filch sighed. ‘Yeah, for detention.’ A wistful note entered his voice as he continued. ‘Professor Umbridge, now, she understood the need for proper discipline. But--’ he glanced upward-- ‘now that the Headmaster is back, that’s all over. Course, if you was to threaten the little buggers now and again, it wouldn’t go amiss....’
C.J. suppressed laughter. Once she’d gone on national television and handed a talk show host’s ego to him on a platter. She’d made dozens of grown men, from two-star generals, to hard-boiled journalists, to some of the toughest trial lawyers in the country, cry for their mothers, and all without magic. A few British teenagers would be no problem. ‘I’ll...bear that in mind, Mr Filch,’ she told him. ‘What’s next?’
‘I’ll take you up to the Headmaster,’ Filch said, leading her back to a massive staircase.
‘What are the rest of the staff like?’ C.J. asked on the way.
Filch sucked his teeth before answering. ‘Some better than others. Professor Dumbledore will tell you all you need to know.’
But her conversation with Dumbledore had more to do with her old job than her new one. An hour and a half later, Dumbledore escorted her to the Great Hall, and only then did it occur to her that she hadn’t asked a single question on her list. They had discussed American wizarding practices, the First Lady, President Bartlet’s last term and the British Ministry, compared Air Force One and the Floo Authority, and touched on her plans for the curriculum for the year. But she still knew next to nothing about her fellow faculty.
They came down the wide stairway to the entrance hall just in time to join most of the faculty arriving for supper. The small knot of robed figures looked up to watch them descend. Behind them, the main entrance doors swung open, letting in a gust of chilly September night air. Another wizard, cloaked in black, with high-collared robes, black, long hair, and a long, hooked nose, strode into the vaulted entryway. Dumbledore nodded to the newcomer solemnly, and several teachers turned to face him as well. Dumbledore did not stop leading C.J. down the stairs, but she somehow sensed a ripple of hesitation pass through her companion. The others must have felt some tension, too, for they parted to one side or the other as the sallow-skinned, dark-eyed man closed the distance between himself and Dumbledore. C.J. realised with a shock that his narrowing gaze was fixed, not on the Headmaster, but on herself. She was used to being in a spotlight - from cameras, from the press, from Bartlet’s fans - but this was an entirely different sort of look. It reminded her uncomfortably of the time she acquired a stalker. The thought brought a lump to her throat - not from fear, but because the agent assigned to protect her had died needlessly. She forced the thought aside; this was not the time to show weakness, she was sure.
She drew herself up to a height that rivalled Dumbledore’s in his tallest boots, held her head up higher, and sized up the wizard, now at the foot of the staircase. As if in answer to her silent challenge, he finally slid his eyes across from her to Dumbledore. Dumbledore paused, then patted her hand and left her side. He drew the other apart. C.J. could barely hear the beginning of their conversation.
‘Severus!’ Dumbledore said quietly. ‘I wanted to explain to you before Professor Cregg arrived, but you were delayed. Since you were due back so late, I hoped meeting her in front of the staff, you wouldn’t shout about it.’
When ‘Severus’ spoke, his voice was deathly quiet, but it echoed in the hall with disdain. ‘This is your latest idea of a Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, Headmaster?’ he hissed.
‘Severus--’
‘A former White House Chief of Staff?’ ‘Severus’ continued, voice gaining volume.
‘Severus, really--’
‘A MUGGLE?’ he barked.
‘Hey!’ C.J. protested.
Severus looked up at her for a second before turning back to Dumbledore and bellowing: ‘Well, what the Hell made you think I wouldn’t shout in front of the rest of the staff?!’
Everyone gasped audibly. Dumbledore shook his head, eyes closed. But C.J. began to laugh. Her knees bent on their own and she sank to the stairs. ‘Okay,’ she wheezed, holding up one palm. ‘I’m not...laughing...at you. First of all,’ she continued, ‘I’m not a Muggle. I just played one on TV.’ She giggled again. ‘Sorry. Secondly, see, there was this time when Leo hired someone, a Republican, and--’
‘Fascinating as I’m sure this anecdote is,’ Severus interrupted, ‘I fail to see how working in the Muggle world for the past eight years makes you qualified to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts.’ He crossed his arms tightly.
‘Well, I ran the most powerful administration in the world,’ C.J. quipped, standing again. ‘Hi, I’m C.J. Cregg, and you are...?’ She smiled expectantly.
‘Professor Snape is our Potions master,’ Dumbledore said hastily.
‘Excellent,’ C.J. said brightly. ‘We can compare notes on curatives that come in handy in the field. I’ve also planned a unit on counter-curses and anti-hexes designed to neutralise air-borne potion effects like the Anti-Equilibrium Emulsion.’ She moved closer as she spoke and was pleased to find that she was an inch or so taller than the ill-tempered Potions master. ‘Here’s the thing: I don’t think I need to give you my resume or my credentials, but I’d say it’s about time someone around here taught these kids how to survive alongside Muggles instead of whitewashing what they’re really like and I gotta say that the Headmaster shows some forward thinking, which from what I’ve seen is unusual for the wizards in Great Britain. That said, if you want to throw down to prove to yourself how qualified I am, let’s just go now, but if we can get it over with quickly, I’d appreciate it, because for one thing, I’m still a little jet-lagged, and for another, dinner’s smelling pretty good in there, and mostly because it’s been a long time since I’ve had to resort to my wand to make a grown man cry for his momma, but I’m ready to get back into practise if you keep it up. So what do you say, Sparky? It’s entirely up to you.’
Once again, the hall filled with gasps, then silence. A muscle in Snape’s jaw twitched. C.J. pursed her lips, wondering if perhaps she had miscalculated. Then one of the professors, a tiny man who reminded C.J. of Henry Gibson, with white hair and a benevolent ruddy face, touched Snape’s sleeve, clearing his throat.
‘Confident as I am in both of your duelling skills,’ the diminutive professor said kindly, ‘I’m also famished. Let’s eat.’
Without giving Snape a chance to reply, the man led him away toward the great hall. C.J. glanced once at Dumbledore, who suddenly seemed a little less benevolent and a little more doddering, and followed.
Two tables were drawn up together in the centre of the hall with chairs surrounding them. She carefully chose a seat neither next to nor too directly across from the prickly Professor Snape. To her immense relief, the meal passed in relative peace. Professors Hooch, McGonagall, and Vector chatted with her merrily about school traditions and traded anecdotes about their own school days. Of course, some of C.J.'s stories needed extra explaining, like the one about how Josh Lyman had blundered onto his own fan site and, to C.J.'s horror, got involved. Only the Muggle Studies professor, a slightly pot-bellied man with an even more befuddled look about him, by the name of Wimbledon, seemed at all familiar with the Internet.
As practised as C.J. was at behaving with perfect civility to people she'd just as soon kill dead right in front of her, she knew that the game worked a lot better when everyone played it. She could feel Snape glowering at her all through the meal, even though she was careful to avoid eye contact without seeming rude either. She didn't want to make this day any longer, but she decided she'd better get them past the problem sooner, rather than later. After all, teaching was supposed to be a change from her political life.
So when they all rose and broke into small clusters, C.J. took a deep breath and sought him out. She was almost prepared for the look of contempt he fixed on her.
'Look, I'd rather there not be unnecessary friction here. Chalk up my rudeness to the jet lag, okay?'
Snape swept his eyes down her robes and back to her face in one long, appraising glance. He seemed to make a decision, for he uncrossed his arms and cocked his head to one side. 'Teach them appropriately,' he growled, lips barely moving, 'and there shan't be.' Then he walked around her and out of the hall.
~*~*~*~
Any good? I figure this is worth at most maybe a chapter or two more; after that I don't think it will continue to work. Yeah, I've no idea where this is going. Unfortunately it's one of those things that needs a real clear stopping point. Humour's like that. Ahem, suggestions welcome, no guarantee that I'll use them.