Naruto Fan Fiction ❯ The New Defense Against the Dark Arts Teacher at Hogwarts is.... Hinata Hyuuga!? ❯ Even Mice Are Strong (a.k.a. Victory, Strength, and Spies) ( Chapter 7 )

7. Even Mice Are Strong (a.k.a. Victory, Strength, and Spies)

 

“Ah! Prof-fessor Dum-bledore-re, m-may I have a w-w-word with y-you?” Hinata asked the aging man kindly as she turned a corner in the dank hallways of Hogwarts.

 

“Why, of course. Is there something wrong, my dear? I certainly hope not, as the year has only begun,” he responded, eyes twinkling like little blue stars on their white backdrop.

 

“A-actually, it does h-have to do w-w-with my t-teaching,” she nearly whispered, momentarily hating herself for how weak and terrified she sounded in front of her employer.

 

“Ah, well would you prefer to have this conversation in my office, then? I don't quite wish for wandering ears to hear,” Dumbledore frowned. This wasn't good. Since the moment he had seen this quiet, shy girl he had know she would make an interesting professor. He had been able to tell by her stutter and compact nature that her students, especially her Slytherins and probably her Gryffindors as well, as they tended to be quite malicious in their own respects, would walk all over her and take advantage of her and disrespect her (and judging by what he'd seen of their interactions with her, he was quite right in this assumption).

 

What he had not been expecting, however, was to be confronted about this problem by the young Hyuuga. She had seemed like the type to endure the pain and suffering on her own, not wanting to drag anyone else into the violence or corruption. Leading the girl who looked barely old enough to pass off as being out of school, he couldn't help but think that maybe he had pegged her wrong. But it was just the way she always acted, like a mouse, trying to be invisible, trying to fit in and avoid recognition, trying to please others while in the process sacrificing herself…

 

Telling the colossal gargoyle leading to the stairway to his office his new password, Hershey's Kiss, Dumbledore watched as it jumped out of the way and waited as the stairs took him and his subordinate to their destination.

 

Upon arriving and situating himself in the chair behind his large, cluttered desk, Dumbledore's fingers laced themselves together with almost no thought on his part and he waited for the quiet girl to situate herself. As soon as she was sitting (quite uncomfortably, he noticed, as she was perched on the very edge of the chair like she was ready to jump up and run out of the office as soon as possible), a smile found its way onto his old, wrinkled face and he could feel his mouth open slightly at the motion.

 

As opposed to making the skittish Defense professor relax, she seemed to tense by this small action and Dumbledore couldn't help but notice how quickly she turned her head away from the smile, an almost angry expression gracing her features for half a moment before she dragged her eyes back to him, refusing to meet his eyes, choosing instead to stare at his beard timidly.

 

“So, what seems to be the problem?” he asked as the silence became almost uncomfortable for him, though she seemed unaffected by the situation as she kept refusing to meet his face.

 

“Well,” she said slowly, the stuttering dissipating from her speech for the moment, “I was wondering if, ano, uh, i-if I could, maybe... Ano, I-I ap-pologize, Dumbledore-san, I mean, P-Professor D-Dumbledore.”

 

“It's okay, take your time. I have no place to be,” he said unsurely, seeing how the girl was fine until she became unsure of herself. As soon as she became doubtful, the dreaded speech impediment came back and she was left feeling even more unsure and most likely scared, he realized, and suddenly saw just how terrifying his room must have been to the foreigner. Large paintings hung on the tall walls of many moving people, all dead, all chatting away, all probably very menacing from below, watching like a hawk watches a river for its prey. Dumbledore could hear the painting of a woman behind him giggling like she had just heard a juicy piece of gossip and felt she needed to share it with someone immediately.

 

“T-thank you, s-sir,” she breathed out slowly, shutting her eyes tightly for a moment while taking deep breaths and most likely planning what she wanted to say to him. For a moment, she seemed to stop moving all together, before finally opening her eyes and looking at Dumbledore in the eye. Light lavender met twinkling blue for a split second, and she stood suddenly from her soft chair.

 

“Sir,” she said, her voice still quiet, but now stronger and less fragile, “a friend of mine contacted me the other day.” She froze again, turning away from the aging Headmaster for a few second, hyperventilating to herself, trying to calm herself down. Spinning around to face him again, she continued, “He said that h-h-he wants to become certified,” her eyes travelled down to his beard again, “as a teacher, that i-i-is. He was wond-dering if he could assi-assist me w-with my classes.”

 

Dumbledore, to say the least, was fascinated. “Ah, so your friend would also like to teach? How wonderful! The world could always use more professionals and demonstrators. Now, this friend, he wants to act as, say, an assistant to you?”

 

“Y-yes,” she stumbled over the words again, the brief moment of bravery gone, and her knees pulled together, pulling her down to sit on the edge of her chair once again, leaning forward, as if trying to remain healthy while riding on a rocking boat.

 

“Well, I suppose that could be an interesting idea,” he smiled, which she probably did not see from her near fetal position half on, half off the chair. She looked up, meeting his twinkling eyes once again.

 

 

“What did you say to her? Albus! Honestly!” was what one might have heard if they had gone into the headmaster's office just after dinner that night, as Minerva McGonagall huffed angrily and the headmaster sat at his desk, staring into his nearly depleted bowl of lemon drops.

 

“I told her,” he started, remembering how many times he had said these exact words within the last half an hour, “that Professor Hyuuga would be getting a teaching assistant - an assistant professor, if you will, Minerva - because he would like to work on his teaching abilities while being in contact with actual students. He wants to train in the environment that he will have to work in, which I believe is completely understandable.”

 

Minerva threw her arms in the air, exasperated, and commented, “Do you know the man, even? Have you written to him by letters or fireplace? Have you seen his resume and met him in person, and not just by word of mouth? I do believe that that is how she came to work for you in the first place. You -”

 

“Minerva, dear -”

 

“No! You never check into people as thoroughly as you should, Albus! I'm sorry, but it's true! You'd never even seen Hyuuga until the day the students came, and you'd never spoken to her in person, either. You looked at her resume and spoke to Karkaroff - who seemed like he was high or drunk or something when you spoke to him - to see what his opinion of her was, and then gave her the job! You used to speak with your employees before you picked them. That's how you denied… You-Know-Who.”

 

“No, I don't know who,” Dumbledore quipped, agitated. He had tried to set up meetings with the girl, but since she was from Japan or China or Vietnam or one of those countries that Britain used to own, and the significant time difference, it was hard for them both to get in contact and find a time that worked for the both of them. While it was true that Karkaroff had seemed a bit off when they had spoken about her possible employment and her grades and behavior while attending Durmstrang, he had seemed to speak from the heart and really seemed to have enjoyed her company while she was there.

 

According to him, she was not a troublemaker, she stayed away from the children who were destined to be Death Eaters, she never spoke poorly of anyone, and her grades were phenomenal; she had never gotten anything lower than an A, the highest grade possible. In fact, he had said, she had received a nearly perfect score on her Defense NEWTs and OWLs, the only problem being that her posture while performing the spells she was told to perform was too compact (which Dumbledore now knew was probably from fear, as he had seen the same “compact” look at least a dozen times now), and the students of Durmstrang were supposed to stand tall and strong.

 

“Albus -” she started again, Dumbledore's comment fanning her flames.

 

“Minerva,” he said soothingly, “I put much thought into who I was going to choose for the position, and after seeing her perform and speaking to her personally, I believe that I made a good choice. I had not realized, by the way she was spoken of, that she had a speech impediment, and I apologize if you do not approve of it,” Minerva looked down, suddenly feeling very self-conscious, “but you need to trust my decisions, and I think this teaching assistant will help her. Besides, we will be adding another educator of great minds to this loving, wonderful world of ours,” he finished on a light note, popping a lemon drop into his mouth.

 

 

Hinata collapsed on her soft, somewhat lumpy bed. The only word she could think of in English to describe her day was draining, hosu, and she momentarily cringed at her thought process. So what if she had been forced to speak to someone who was her superior, she never acted that way with Tsunade. Then again, Tsunade was a different story; she had known her for years now and was used to the woman's antics. They had trained together in the arts of medicine and healing, and Hinata had grown used to the blonde Hokage's brash comments and sizeable personality.

 

Dumbledore, however, was not Tsunade, was not brash, did not have a sizeable personality, did not train with her in the arts of medicine and healing, and did not spend much time with her. Dumbledore was only an employer, like the old woman who had come to the Hidden Leaf's council and asked that she take the mission of finding her lost cat, or the kind brunette man who lived down the street from Ichiraku's and whose garden she had helped to weed with Kiba and Shino.

 

This mission and those missions were no different, Hinata summed up. All three were difficult in their own respects, and all three included superiors that were not Tsunade or Kurenai. The old woman and the kind brunette man who lived down the street from Ichiraku's had been her superiors, her employers to her missions, and she had been at their command to do the tasks they had instructed her to do, and Dumbledore was no different.

 

If he was willing to pay for the mission, then she would fulfill it, whether she had to make sacrifices or not. She knew, at that moment, that she could not let herself get in the way of this mission, this “teaching” job, this employment. This was her mission, he was her superior, and she needed to toughen up if she really wanted to complete it and go home at the end of the year. Tsunade said that she could only come home once the mission had been completed, and Tsunade's word was law. If Tsunade wanted her to infiltrate, spy, protect, and kill, then she would infiltrate, spy, protect, and kill.

 

She would not be weak, would not be defenseless, would not stutter or stumble or cry or be uncertain. She would be strong, would laugh in the faces of her nosey, rude students, would teach them how to defend themselves, how to fight, how to battle, how to survive.

 

Gaara was coming soon, and she was the reason it was okay. She smiled at the thought, turning over on the musty bed. She remembered the announcement at dinner that Dumbledore had made, how he would be allowed to come as a professor's assistant, how he would be helping her. Smiling to herself, she realized how nice it would be to see someone from her past, even if it was crazy Gaara. At least they spoke the same language, she marveled.

 

 

Shikamaru sighed, bored with life as he prowled the silent streets of Hogsmade. Nobody with a sane mind would be out that late at night, he thought to himself silently, pulling his anbu cloak closer to himself in an attempt to keep warm. Sighing again, noting how he could see his breath in the dark, clear air, he spotted a tavern that still looked to be open. Walking over to it, he peered in, viewing only a small amount of customers, all of which looked about ready to either leave or pass out. Stepping into the shadows cast by the building, he completed a few simple hand signs, muttering the words he needed to at the end, too lazy to move his mouth much.

 

After the smoke had cleared from his transformation jutsu, he strode into the tavern, looking like a true Brit with tidy, short brown hair a few shades lighter than his natural hair color, bright blue eyes, the color he had always wanted, and a “smashing” outfit, comprised of tan slacks and a red shirt from Wilson & Finch, which clashed with his now pale skin. None of the tavern's patrons looked up from their drinks to see him as he entered, and he found a sigh escaping his lips without even realizing he had made the conscious decision to sigh again.

 

“Hey there, what can I get'cha?” a busty woman with soft features and a kind face asked from behind the bar as the bell jingled above his head.

 

He sniffed a moment, getting himself used to the alcoholic smells and adjusting his eyes to the brighter colors, the multicolored bottles lining the walls being illuminated with an iridescent glow that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at the same time.

 

“You make Rocky Mountains?” he asked quietly, pleased with how his voice had changed with the transformation. It sounded gravelly to him, and it had a slight smoky edge to it that he remembered only a few men ever having, and it reminded him of the steam that evaporated from his morning tea, light and airy, yet weighed down with invisible weights, like how Rock Lee was always weighed down with weights, yet they seemed to be invisible, he never felt them.

 

A small smile tugged at his pale, now thin lips as the woman behind the bar mixed some Amaretto, Southern Comfort, and lime juice in a container. Had Asuma or Ino or Chouji heard his crazy comparison back when they were a team, they would have laughed and he would have sighed and smiled and told them how troublesome they were, not meaning a word of it as he relaxed and watched the clouds, being yelled at for not working hard enough and not training and not being dedicated and motivated.

 

A frown dragged itself onto his face slowly. Asuma had always said that he was unmotivated, which he had to agree with to a certain extent. If he didn't, then he must not have been the genius that all of the IQ test he had been forced to take said he was, but he was definitely motivated. Why else would he be there, halfway across the world, for a recon mission?

 

Shikamaru hated recon, he remembered as he observed the woman who had just finished making his shot and was now placing it on the bar top in front of him, smiling at him languidly and flirtatiously. The Hokage had sent him on a recon mission, of all things! He hated the way he had to be so silent and so observational and could not just sit and watch the clouds. He needed to always be aware, even though he always was, as that was the shinobi way, but he was supposed to be on his toes, ready to make any sudden movements, ready to jump up at the drop of a dime, and he was tired already.

 

Taking the tiny clear glass with his drink in it into his too large, too pale hands, he remembered the class that everyone had been forced to take while in the Academy about drinking and drugs. It had been about the effects of alcohol and certain drugs on their bodies, and it was meant to prevent them from doing them during or before a mission.

 

How he'd hated that class. He'd hated how boring it was and how informational it was, like a dry pamphlet that his parents used to receive in the mail with no return address. Thinking back on it, he remembered how everyone got those types of pamphlets, and how most people had always thrown them away. Shikamaru himself had read a few of them, and while they were dry, they did have some good, interesting information hidden in the plain lines and sentences.

 

Throwing back the drink, he couldn't help but remember how motivated he was. Because even if he never really seemed like it and was always just thought of as the lazy genius who never did anything other than lay around and watch the clouds go by, along with his life, his life that was unsuited for a shinobi and in his mind never should have been used to build a shinobi, never mind an anbu, he was motivated, and if Asuma and Ino and Chouji could have seen him just then, the look he got in his new blue eyes, the rigor he got in his red-clothed shoulders, the determination that seemed to glow from him like the light glowed through the multicolored bottles on the walls, they would have realized his startling dedication and ardent motivation.

 

But even then, without seeing him or hearing from him or speaking with him, they should have known that he was motivated because he was on a recon mission and above all else he hated recon missions.

 

 

Severus Snape by then had become accustomed to being called a snake, and it really never bothered him until now. Sure, as a child when it had first started he had been upset by it, but over time the insults and annoying jabber about him had ceased to affect him and he no longer cried nor felt bad about himself.

 

This day, however, had snagged a thread in his self-conscience and pulled at it until his entire mind had unraveled and broken him down, deteriorating his life from the inside out, almost like a corrosive poison or potion that he had made a thousand times called Mercuradience by other potions masters, though Snape preferred its proper name, Mercurpalla-algerradience.

 

While the proper name was less commonly used and much harder to pronounce, Snape liked it and thought it described the dark green liquid perfectly, all the components of the name describing the purpose of the potion. So if the shorter name was talked about more, then why didn't it hold all the properties of the potion?

 

To Snape, everything had always been black and white, bad and good, evil and innocent. Everything had always been stated and showed exactly what it was supposed to. The answer was always in a book, the professor was always right, and questions weren't worth asking because all the information was already provided.

 

Snape couldn't help but briefly think about his class of sixth year Gryffindors and Slytherins that he'd taught earlier that week. They'd not understood his directions for the class period and had nearly blown up their cauldrons, though sparks had flown and hit a better portion of the students. Upon finding the culprit, a very skittish, scared, and severely-burnt Neville Longbottom had stuttered and whispered about how he hadn't understood and then proceeded to beg for mercy.

 

Snape could remember how his face had contorted into a sneer and how he'd seen the boy's potions book and copy of the directions lying on the floor. It seemed that the boy had not thought that they could have held the truth in them, for he had not followed them exactly, and he hadn't asked any questions not because he hadn't needed to, but because he was too afraid.

 

Blood boiling, Snape was drawn back into his current situation with a painful gasp, and he absently felt himself being yanked harshly by the collar of his cloak and his face was thrown away from the pensive of his own memories, the day he had received his Dark Mark.

 

Glancing up at his assailant with unfocused eyes, Snape was finally aware of why the hurtful words that had been uttered to him on that day had stung so much. They had come from his new master, his owner, his leader with the power to either take him into the dark abyss or put him on a pedestal and achieve glory and domination against anyone who had ever wronged him or said mean words to him or looked at him the wrong way or asked him useless questions when they didn't need to.

 

And looking up into those cold, red, snake-like eyes with a wooden wand pointed at his left forearm nearly made that risk worth taking.

 

 

A/N: Heyy guys, hope ya'll like it. Sorry I haven't updated in nearly 10 months, but I've just been so busy and unmotivated. Like, honestly, I would've had a chapter out such a long time ago, but I just couldn't think of anything to write.

 

You guys who reviewed are my heroes, and I love you guys. You're all the best. You're support and suggestions really helped me get through this.

 

Umm, the writing of this chapter only took me about 3 or 4 days, writing a section or half a section a day over the course of about a week. I really wanted to make this chapter longer for you guys because it's been so long and a real problem of mine is not being able to write long chapters, so I really wanted the text to accumulate, and after my Shikamaru section, I just felt like I was stuck, so I really couldn't write any more after that. It's been about a month and a half since I've written the Shikamaru section and I'm just posting this now.

 

As you've probably noticed, my style changed a little bit, and hopefully my grammar has gotten better as well. I went back and was reading the previous chapters and could hardly get through them, the grammar was so atrocious, as was the content and the info, and again guys, thank you so much for reading it and supporting my story. You all rock.

 

I don't want to keep you all waiting again, so I'll try harder, but I can't promise you anything, sorry. Just like last time, reviews and suggestions are always welcome, and feel free to talk to me. Most of you reviewers know that I talk back.

 

4.6.09