Work Text:
The two Gryffindors walked through Hogwarts’ hallways in deep conversation.
“If we want to beat Slytherin,” said one, who was half of the Quidditch team’s Beaters, “then you mustn’t catch the Snitch until we’ve got at least seventy points.”
The Seeker pondered for a moment. “That won’t be easy,” he said gravely. “If the Slytherins get the Snitch before I do, it’s all over.”
“Nonsense, their Seeker is as dull as a brick,” the Beater scoffed. “Talk to our Captain, so you two can come up with a tactic to hold him on.”
They reached the portrait of the fat lady in pink and stopped. They stood in silence for a few moments.
“Well?” the fat lady said stiffly. “Aren’t you going to say the password?”
“Er,” the Beater stuttered, scratching her head and turning to the Seeker. “Do you know what it is?”
The fat lady tutted.
“Don’t tut at me!” the Beater said crossly. “It was really long and complicated.” She looked at the Seeker. “Come on, say it.”
The Seeker shook his head. “I have no idea.”
“Great,” the Beater muttered.
“It was something with… um… with an S, I think,” the Seeker said, thinking hard.
“That won’t do,” the fat lady said.
“I know!” the Seeker snapped.
“ ‘Super’!” the Beater shouted, “it started with ‘super’!”
“Yes,” the Seeker agreed, “super…callously… or something.”
A sixth-year, one of the prefects, rounded the corner. “What’s going on here?” she called.
“We can’t remember the password,” the Seeker replied sheepishly.
The prefect sighed. “It’s not that hard.” She turned to the fat lady. “Super exceptional calligraphy,” she said, emphasizing every syllable.
Nothing happened.
“Well?” the prefect said impatiently.
Now the fat lady looked confused. “I… I don’t think that’s it,” she said, shifting uncomfortably on her canvas.
“You are kidding!” the Seeker groaned.
“Right,” the prefect said, straightening her badge. “I’m a prefect, I’ll change the password now.”
“You can’t.” The fat lady shook her head.
“And why not?” the prefect snapped.
“Because you haven’t told me the password,” the fat lady insisted.
“This is ridiculous!” the prefect exclaimed, holding her badge aloft.
“What’s ridiculous?” someone said behind them. It was a seventh-year, strolling over, with a bunch of second-years following.
“Do you know the password?” the Seeker asked as more and more Gryffindors arrived and started to fill the hallway.
“Sour kerfuffle extraction, right?” the seventh-year said.
The fat lady shrugged helplessly.
“No, it starts with ‘super’,” the Beater said.
“Super kerfuffle extraction?”
The portrait stayed where it was.
“Why don’t you just change the password?” a fourth-year called over the chatter of the mass.
“I tried,” the prefect replied exasperatedly, “she won’t let me!”
“Who thought this up, anyway?” a third-year shouted.
“Phillip Newman, the muggleborn,” the other prefect from the sixth year replied.
The Gryffindors groaned. Someone muttered something about ‘mudbloods’.
“Oi!” a seventh-year prefect shouted, “if I hear that word again, I’ll take points away!”
“What is the password now, anyway?” someone asked.
“Super cautious Expelliarmus charms?” someone else suggested.
“Now you’re getting ridiculous.”
“Well, do you have a better idea?”
“Mrs. Norris!” one of Gryffindor’s Quidditch team’s Chasers shouted. The seventh-year prefect swore. “You didn’t hear that,” he spat at a few grinning first-years.
“If Filch catches us…” the sixth-year prefect began, but was cut short by the furious cries of Argus Filch, the caretaker, who was pushing his way through the students, making a second-year trip. “What are you doing here?” he roared. “Clogging the hallway like this?”
“We can’t get in,” the seventh-year prefect said calmly.
“Don’t lie to me, you impertinent brat!” Filch spat.
“Squib!” someone piped up, emboldened by the anonymity of the mass. The others laughed.
Filch spun around, practically foaming at the mouth. “Who said that?” he barked, but the only reply was more laughter. The caretaker turned to the seventh-year prefect again. “Say the password and stop clogging the hallway!” he bellowed, but the prefect didn’t flinch.
“I told you, we can’t remember,” he said.
Filch and he stared at each other, the old caretaker fuming.
“Right,” he said at long last, “and I thought you lot couldn’t get any more useless.” He spun around again. “I’m getting Professor McGonagall,” he growled, “she’ll sort you out.”
“No need,” McGonagall called, appearing, it seemed, out of thin air. She rightened her tartan robes and fixed her Gryffindors with her intense eyes. “Now what is going on?”
“Phillip Newman, that damn mudblood…”
“Ten points from Gryffindor!” the seventh-year prefect bellowed.
“Merlin’s beard!”
“I told you I’d take points!”
“You just shot yourself in the knee!”
“So what?”
“I need to do my potions essay,” a third-year whined.
“Well, if you’d done it earlier…” another said snappily.
“I had Quidditch practice!”
“I’m hungry.”
“I’m tired.”
“My feet hurt.”
“This bag is too heavy.”
“Oh, look, it’s raining!”
“Damn, I hope it stops ‘til tomorrow.”
The chatter grew louder and louder. Filch opened and closed his mouth like a fish on dry land, outraged by their insolence, but McGonagall simply raised her wand to her throat.
“QUIET!!” her magically magnified voice boomed through the hallway.
Silence fell at once.
“Now,” McGonagall said, her voice normal again, and pointed to the seventh-year prefect. “Tell me what is going on.”
“Newman thought up a far too complicated password,” the prefect replied, “which no-one can remember.”
“Aha. And that’s why you’re stuck out here?”
The prefect nodded.
“Right. Well, now that I am here…” McGonagall turned to the fat lady. “Would you open up, please?”
To all their great surprise, the fat lady shook her head. “I need the password.”
McGonagall’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. “What?”
“I need the password,” the fat lady repeated.
“Surely, as Head of House, I…”
“I can’t let you in without the password.”
Professor McGonagall went very, very still. The students closest to her scrambled away. “I am Professor Minerva McGonagall,” she said, her voice calm and quiet, “Head of the House of Gryffindor, and I demand you give me access to the Common Room right this instant.”
The portrait swung to the side.
McGonagall’s nostrils flared. “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it,” she said and climbed through the portrait hole.
The Gryffindors stood frozen in stunned silence, then the Seeker followed McGonagall, and the others followed him.
Phillip Newman, the muggleborn prefect, was the only one in the common room, sitting in the best armchair and completely lost in his book, not even noticing when McGonagall strode up to him. Only when she cleared her throat, he looked up – and recoiled.
McGonagall stood only inches away from him, towering menacingly over him with her arms akimbo and a face as if she was about to murder someone.
“Professor,” Newman stammered and jumped up, “what…” Then he saw the other Gryffindors, who had gathered behind McGonagall. “There you are!” he exclaimed, “I was beginning to get worried!”
“Not worried enough to come looking, though,” the sixth-year prefect snapped. The others muttered in agreement, though careful not to mention the word ‘mudblood’.
Newman went bright red, but before he could say anything, McGonagall held up her hand. “Enough,” she said sharply, “this has gone on long enough. Newman, I advise you to choose less complicated passwords in the future. From now on, the new password is ‘Animagus’, is that clear?”
Everyone nodded. Only a first-year whispered, “What’s an Animagus?” but didn’t get a reply.
“Good. Now off to bed, the lot of you, it’s already late.” And she strode off.
But shortly before she reached the portrait hole, she stopped and turned around once more. “What was the password?” she asked.
Everyone looked at Newman.
He looked at his feet. “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious,” he said sheepishly.
McGonagall blinked. “Right,” she muttered. “Good night.” She climbed through the portrait hole and was gone.