Edmund Blackadder: A wizard of noble blood and acid wit. Cowardly, charming, and selfish. Ambitious, cunning, and treacherous.

Baldrick: A dogsbody with the brain of a particularly stupid hedgehog. His family have been servants to the Blackadders for centuries.

Captain Flahsheart: Arrogant, stupid, and juvenile Auror captain. Extremely popular with the politicians and the ladies. Woof, woof!

Kevin Darling: Senior Oversecretary to the Minister.

Elizabeth: Beautiful and vapid witch, hailing from a famous Pureblood wizarding family. She is Edmund's lover, although Flashheart covets her.

Albus Dumbledore: Wise old headmaster of Hogwarts Schol of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Minister Melchett: Minister of Magic. Stolid, proper, and dense. A great fan of Charlie Chapman.

(Music plays; a vaguely Celtic and somewhat dark and melancholy version of the traditional Blackadder theme, with a fiddle taking the main role, and the tinkling of a harp forming the counterpoint.)

There is a large, ebony table, carved ornately in a style best described as 'baroque done by Tim Burton.' Snakes so beautifully carved as to appear lifelike twist and wind their way around the legs of the table. The claws on the end of the table's legs grasp carven skulls, which in turn have snakes coming out of their nasal cavities. The table is covered with battered grimoires, most of which look slightly suss, and a few downright Dark. A dagger with threatening designs and an ornate steel mask also sit on the desk.

Curling around a nasty looking potion bottle is a black serpent, which swiftly evades the grubby hand that tries to grab it. Finally, a wand appears and vanishes it, replacing it with an object.

A small badge with the Hogwarts crest.

Episode 1: Hogwarts.

Albus Dumbledore steepled his fingers meditatively, looking over them at his irate Deputy Headmistress. "Come now, Minerva," he said lightly, his eyes twinkling madly. "Calm down and have yourself a lemon drop."

"Thank you," McGonagall said coolly, clearly thinking very little of lemon drop, "but no. We really have to speak, Albus."

"But of course. On what subject?"

"On the subject of a Defense Against the Dark Arts, of course!"

"Ah," Dumbledore replied. "As to that… I have the perfect candidate."

"Well," she snorted, "if you call Sammael Quirrell a perfect candidate!"

"Sammael?" Dumbledore asked, eyes twinkling even harder. "Oh, goodness me, whatever gave you that idea?"

Several hundred miles away, in a large mansion outside of Cardiff, a wizard of ancient, if eclectic, lineage looked up from the grimoire he was reading. "I suddenly have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach," he observed to his manservant.

"Should Oi fetch you something for that, My Lord?" the servant asked.

"Oh, shut up, Baldric."

"Baldric," Blackadder sighed some time later, "this is not a matter for debate, which should be obvious, given our respective positions as servant and master."

"Eh?" Baldric replied blankly.

"Baldric, between a master and servant, no command is up for debate. I speak, and my words are as a command from God. Do I make myself clear?"

"But, Mr. B!"

"BALDRIC!" Blackadder shouted, drawing his wand (blackthorn and serpent fangs, and very expensive, thank you very much; Nightshade and Belladonna's best) from his very expensive emerald and black robes, and pointing it at Baldric's head. "Don't make me curse you. Just do it."

"But, My Lord! No Baldric has ever taken a bath, even back to moi great great great great great great great great great grandfather Baldric, 'oo served your great great great great great great great great great grandfather Prince Edmund! It's a family tradition!"

Blackadder heaved another weary sigh. Baldric truly did look a pitiful sight, with his long, greasy hair, unwashed clothing, and general air of being a very stupid puppy who had just received a swift kick for playing in a dung heap. Fortunately for Blackadder, his family had a genetic resistance to kicked-puppy looks.

"Mordeo acuo!" he snapped, swishing his wand elegantly.

"OW!" Baldric shouted, pained by the stinging hex.

"That's better," Blackadder commented, settling himself back into his favorite chair (the ebony one with the clawed feet and green silk upholstery), snagging a biscuit from the tin on his desk. "Now, Baldric, let me make myself perfectly clear. I have not been to Hogwarts since I graduated, and I'll be damned thrice over if I permit myself to humiliated by dragging an unwashed manservant into that most hallowed of halls. Why, the Slytherins would laugh their heads off at me, and tell their parents! My reputation for wit and sophistication would be in shambles thanks to you! A gentleman is supposed to have a proper manservant."

"Then why not buy a house elf?" Baldric asked sourly, picking himself up.

"Because, Baldric, I cannot. As I have told you before, you and your degenerate bloodline are the Curse of the Blackadders. Some families, Baldric," he explained sourly, "have hereditary lycanthropy. Some suffer a tendency to view spiders as culinary delights. Still others, or so I surmise from the expressions shown in their portraits, must avoid going to the lavatory lest they die. My family has you. Oh, what a cursed lot we are."

"So I don't 'ave to bathe, then?" Baldric asked hopefully.

"Oh, on the contrary, Balders. Imperio!"

"Aw, Mr. B, you didn't have to do tha- tha- th- th…" Baldric trailed off as the curse finally penetrated his exceedingly dense skull.

"Excellent. Now, Baldric, I want you to bathe. Er, use that old tin tub you use to scrub the dogs in*, would you? I don't want a ring around my tub, although with your dirt it'd be a two rings, a bridal veil, and a wedding cake. Oh, and wash your hair. Preferably till it looks more like actual hair, and less like a drop-bear that dropped in on your head and felt disinclined to leave."

Later that day, Edmund stood, his hands clasped behind him as he contemplated the ancient and much patched tapestry before him. The entire family tree of the Clan Blackadder was laid before him, stretching back to his ancestor Prince Edmund.

That little toad. It was a wonder he had managed to breed.

And there were the Whiteadders, off to the side. The last of them had moved to Northern Ireland, where a pipe-bomb had ended that offshoot of the clan. Fair enough, given how many Catholics they had burned in their time under Queen Elizabeth.

And over there the clan McAdder, about the daftest sods ever to emerge from the primeval depths of Scotland, and that was saying something. Astonishingly, there were still a few around, although what they did for a living, Edmund simply did not know. Probably something horribly uncouth, knowing the Scottish. Edmund winced slightly as he recalled the McAdder who attempted to become a bard. Family tales stated that his bagpipe sounded exactly like a cat trying to go to the lavatory through a sewn-up bum.

The horror.

And there was dear old couple-of-greats grandfather Edmund, who was butler to Prince George until he replaced him. Now there was a muggle with the soul of a Slytherin.

Oddly enough, magic sort of skipped generations of Blackadders. It had entered the family with the Edmund Blackadder who had been adviser to Queen Elizabeth. Apparently he had married the apprentice of the local wise woman (she hadn't done too well as a wise woman, being far too young and pretty) and gotten a magical brat on her.

"Oh, Edmund darling!" a voice squealed from behind him.

Speaking of rutting, now it was the current Blackadder's turn, once the pleasantries were gotten out of the way.

"Hello, Elizabeth," he replied.

There, that ought to do it, he thought.

With a final wave of his wand and a rather- if he did say so himself- clever hex, Edmund threw the giant three-headed (also three- oh, god, you must be joking!) hound against the wall. Smoking and singed, the dog tried to get up once more, but was stopped by a deadly glare from Professor Blackadder.

Slightly tattered robes billowing behind him, Professor Blackadder strode from the room, down the old stone hallway to where they waited in breathless expectation.

There was good old Dumbles, looking awed. "I say, my boy! Well done. I'm quite proud. Tell me, would you be interested in being headmaster when I retire?"

And there was Minnie, looking faint with awe.

"Ah," Blackadder said cheerfully, seeing the face he had been looking for. "Flashass. What did you think?"

"My God, sir! You were astounding! Can I hold your coat? Shine your shoes? Give you my former legions of horny female fans?"

"Woof, woof," Blackadder replied dryly, smiling smugly. "No. You can, however, get my luggage, and tell Baldric he's fired. Feel free to use Unforgivables. Elizabeth!" He grabbed the red-haired witch, kissing her senseless (literally; she fainted dead away) before turning to the next onlooker. "Ah, Minister Melchett! Smashing to see you here, sir."

"Dashed good show, Blackadder. Always knew you could do it without breaking the old sweat, eh? Order of Merlin for this. First Class! I say, how about acting as my running mate in the upcoming election, eh? Darling! Fetch my new running mate a glass of wine."

"Yes, Minister," Kevin Darling said humbly, in awe of Blackadders achievement. "And may I say, sir," he added, "wake up."

"I do beg your pardon?" Professor Blackadder, Order of Merlin (First Class) asked blankly, affronted.

"Wake up, darling," Darling replied.

Disturbed, Blackadder readied a scathing retort, only to…

"Wake up, Edmund!"

Wake up. Yes. He had been dreaming.

"Oh, damn," Blackadder muttered, throwing back the silken sheets (green, of course), and climbing out of bed. "Why did you have to wake me?" he asked Elizabeth wearily.

She pouted. "You have to go to Hogwarts, dear."

"Yes, but the feast doesn't start 'till hast past seven, and it's nine o'clock in the morning!"

She grinned lecherously. "Just enough time for a proper goodbye, then," Elizabeth replied, shifting the covers so Edmund could see her idea of a 'goodbye.'

He felt much more cheerful, suddenly.

"Baldric, do hurry up."

Blackadder glared at his idiotic servant, who was weighed down by enough baggage to serve for a noble lady in the days of Queen Elizabeth the first. It is said that an ant can carry many times its own weight, but that's nothing compared to the lifting power of a Baldric threatened by a Blackadder.

"'ere, now, Mr. B! 'ow am I supposed to know where to put these things? They ain't told me where your room is!"

"My word, Baldric! You managed to utter a sensible thought, terrifying as the thought may be. Well, almost. Just ask Argus, I'm sure he knows. I have better things to do."

"A thousand years or so ago,

There were mages steeped in lore,

Helga, Rowena, Godric, Oh!

And cunning Sal, to make up four.

Came they here to learn their arts,

And teach them to the youth,

To gather wisdom from foreign parts,

And teach, that's the truth.

Now, I was made as they grew old,

To sort you to the houses four,

They made me, or so I'm told,

To sort when founders were no more!

You might find your place in Huffelpuff,

Those who love to care,

For them, a friend is quite enough,

And you'll make plenty there.

Or in Ravenclaw, you'll find your place,

Searching for knowledge good,

Stare at a book or into space,

Learn as every wise man should!

If bravery calls to you,

And chivalry's your creed,

If you yearn for honor true,

You're a Gryyf indeed.

Or, you might be cunning,

As a serpent in his nest.

Slytherins yearn to prove themselves,

Rise higher than the rest.

All these Houses have their place,

None above the other.

Now, join together, Hogwarts all,

Sister and Sister, Brother and Brother.

I have told you, every one.

My rhyme is finished,

The Sorting's begun!"

"Ah, I'd forgotten how terrible the Sorting Hat's songs were," Professor Blackadder murmured to McGonagall. She didn't even crack a smile, the old bird, but then she had always been the Gryffindors Gryffindor (Even more than that bloody poor excuse for an Auror, Auror Captain Flashass) and thus loathed that personification of the values of Salazar, Edmund Blackadder.

"Come, now, Edmund," Albus said quietly. "This is a joyous occasion. Look at the expression on the children's faces!"

"You mean the expression of terror mixed with hope, like they don't know whether to cry, cheer or wet their pants?" Blackadder grunted around a mouthful of chocolate gateau. Ah, Hogwarts cooking. Would expand your belly to epic proportions if it wasn't liberally seeded with fat-burning and nutrient potions.

"Exactly. Now that's what I call happiness."

Edmund surveyed his new quarters, later that evening. Well, Hogwarts teachers certainly did have it made, didn't they?

Silk sheets on the bed, and even in his favorite color!

A tin of his favorite chocolate biscuits on the spacious desk, a bottle of Surlie Vintage 399, and a roaring fire. What more could one wish for?

"Er, sir? What should Oi do?"

Ah, yes. That's right.

"Footstool duty, Baldric," Blackadder said, taking a sip of wine. Ah, yes. This Professor business was quite nice indeed.