Chapter Text
In reality, Metatron thought, it hadn’t been an unreasonable expectation that he would be banished. After that kicked puppy Castiel had manipulated him into returning his grace to him, he was no use to anyone in heaven. He had been given two choices: rot in prison forever or be banished to an alternate universe, powerless, with no possible way of returning. And they had called themselves merciful! Oh, what a tragic ending for this victim turned villain turned hero turned…villain again… Dammit, he needed to work on his autobiography. It would probably be an acclaimed, best-selling work in this…Where was he?
He was sitting on a curb in a suburban area. A woman was talking loudly on the phone in the house behind him, and her dialect proved that he was somewhere in this universe’s equivalent of Southern England. Before making any other decisions, Metatron tested to see if his powers were still working. He snapped his fingers, and the tire of the car next to him was shredded to ribbons. He tried to summon lightning from the overcast sky, but no dice. Alright, so he still had angelic abilities, though somewhat diminished.
Getting to his feet, he decided to check out the geography of this world. He tried to fly to London, but he didn’t move. To his slowly dawning horror, he realized that his wings had disappeared. But how? If he still had his powers…
In frustration, he turned on the spot looking for a plant or cat or something to kill, and, with a crack, suddenly found himself in the heart of London. What in the name of his glorious holy self was going on?! He turned again, and transported five blocks down the street. OK, so teleportation in this ridiculous universe requires ballet skills!
He was just about to turn again and see if he could get to Hawaii for a pina colada when a tall, black-haired man laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Sir,” he whispered angrily, “you should know better than to apparate in public. You could be reported for such actions.”
Metatron drew himself to his fullest height (which was still tiny) and said, “Reported to whom, may I ask?”
The tall man looked down at him with suspicion and confusion and replied, “Why, to the Ministry of Magic, of course.”
Metatron’s jaw dropped. “Magic! You mean this is a universe with wizards and mythical creatures!”
“Oh dragon dung,” his companion sighed, looking quite put upon. “What’s your name?”
“Metatron.”
“Well," he leaned in and looked at Metatron meaningfully in the eyes, "you’re a wizard Metatron.”
Metatron let out a very annoying laugh. “Of course! Of course I would be a powerful being in a universe of magic! Hahaaa! What is your name, good sir?”
“Runcorn,” Runcorn said, looking more bemused than ever.
“Well, Runcorn, if you wouldn’t mind directing me to this Ministry of Magic, it seems like a place I ought to see.”
“I suppose so,” Runcorn said slowly. “I’m heading to the Ministry myself, so you may accompany me.” They started walking down the street, Metatron hurrying his little legs to keep up with Runcorn. “Tell me,” Runcorn began, “how were you raised in such a way as to not realize you were a wizard. I can hear by your voice that you are from North America…”
Realizing that falsehood was the best option in this situation, and eager to practice his perfect literary talents, Metatron spun a thrilling tale of growing up in the hinterlands of the middle United States, learning to call his magical abilities Omizery with his family of boot-worshipers. He never felt truly connected to them, and they made him do all the hard work (“Oh yes,” he thought, “rock that Cinderella reference”). Growing too talented for his jealous relations, he set out to find his own way and ended up in London.
Runcorn had a tear in his eye as he replied, “That was an incredibly moving story. I’m sure a talented person like you could find a place in our Ministry.” Then they arrived at their destination, an old red telephone booth, and stepped into it. Metatron prayed to his very self that it wouldn’t be a TARDIS, because, come on. But it just descended into an underground tunnel, which opened into…woah.
Okay, Metatron would definitely take this room as his new office. It was huge and bustling, with glorious adornments and… people flying out of fireplaces? Things on the wall that constantly moved about? Whatever, it was awesome. Runcorn escorted him to a desk on the other side of the hall, past the huge gold fountain with the combination of creatures that Metatron assumed must exist here. At the desk sat a poorly-shaven man whose name tag read Eric Munch. Munch looked bored as he probed Runcorn with a weird looking stick and did the same to Metatron, who was slightly affronted.
“Wands, please,” Munch chanted and Runcorn handed his over. When Munch looked expectantly at Metatron, Runcorn leaned over the desk to speak.
“This man is a guest of mine from a foreign land. He has no wand.”
“It’s part of regulation-” Munch started, but Runcorn silenced him with a glare.
“I am a high-ranking official. You don’t want to get on my bad side, Munch.”
The scruffy man gulped and let them through.
“Ah,” Metatron internally sighed, “it’s so good to be making such lovely, minion-like friends so soon.”
A few hours later, Metatron was ushered into a small, cozy room with four other high-ranking magical officials, including the minister himself. At their request, he showed them the impressive feats he could accomplish without a wand, such as disapparating, healing wounds, levitating objects, and casting blasting spells. His audience was duly impressed, as no one had recorded skills like these since the time of Merlin.
“Well, Mr. uh…Metatron, that is,” Fudge began, “all I can say is that we would love to offer you some kind of position in the Ministry, wherever you see yourself most useful. We have several departments that may be of interest to-”
“Wait!” Metatron shouted, because he couldn’t listen to a word the Minister was saying. He couldn’t hear anything over the harsh pounding of his suddenly full, oversized heart. All those holes inside him, where his ambitious, conniving nature felt incomplete begged to be filled as he looked at the photograph of the lovely woman above Fudge’s head.
“Who is that woman?”
Why, uh…” Fudge turned around and looked at the picture. “That lady works for the Ministry, very nice person, she is. That clipping is from the Daily Prophet, when she took the Defense Against the Dark Arts job at Hogwarts. Her name is Dolores Umbridge.”
“Dolores Umbridge,” Metatron repeated reverently, as though he was ready to float into the sky forever. “What is Hogwarts? Where is it? Tell me.”
A different official answered this time. “It’s our school for young witches and wizards in the area. We feel it’s needed a bit more management than usual, so Ms. Umbridge kindly took up the free teaching position for us.”
“You said Ms. Umbridge. Is she married?”
“Um, no,” Fudge answered, looking confused.
Metatron had never before felt what he had so often heard described in books. Those tender feelings, that Romeo and Juliet-like longing. Wow, he should have played up the love sections in his Break Castiel’s Heart script. But he would play it up for himself. He decided to take his chance, that he might get to know this lovely pink-clad teacher. “Well, I myself am a great believer in education and teaching the ignorant youth. In fact I am not afraid to say that I am more applauded than any other for my extensive knowledge of literature.”
“Literature!” Fudge chuckled. “Well, that may be an important subject in Muggle education, Metatron, but it is of little use in a world of magic.”
“Little use!” Metatron fumed, “LITTLE USE! Literature is everything, Stories shape our society more than anything else. How we view the world! How we learn1 How we gain power and keep it! All the answers are buried in the pages of out fictional works! Tell me, how many wizard fictional authors can you name?”
Fudge was rather alarmed. “Other than Beedle the Bard and Flimicus Wolfgang, I can’t think of-”
“Oh, cruel world that you wretched ones live in! Minister, I beg you! Let me teach a Literature class at Hogwarts!”
“It is a school of magic, Metatron! We mustn’t forget-”
“Minister, I will incorporate magic into the class in ways you’ve never dreamed of. What’s important about learning a story is that you can learn to make your own. Think of the possibilities with magic on your side!”
Fudge looked torn, his face puffed up and red as though he was constipated and one tooth sticking out over his lower lip.
“It’s November now, Minister. I could start next term.”
“Very well, Metatron. We will attempt your experiment. But it will be an elective class! And Dolores will be keeping a sharp eye on you.”
“Oh, I hope so,” Metatron thought. He laughed. One day in this place and he already had the world by the short and curlies.