This was written for min älskling, who made me feel bloody guilty for not having finished it earlier. Anyway, here's the obligatory crossover. Enjoy and leave a review, if you please.
Professor Kirkland was, even by the liberal standards of Hogwarts, not normal.
First of all, there was the way he dressed.
The first time Harry saw him at the start of term feast, sitting between all the other teachers with their robes dressed in a simple tweed suit, he couldn't help but think 'What's a muggle doing here?'. He was not alone in this, as he heard many others voice the same thought. A suit might be normal for other jobs, but Hogwarts was a wizarding school, where robes and hats were the norm.
When he turned up for their History of Magic lessons five minutes late wearing something that looked like an old muggle army uniform, Harry couldn't help but ask questions.
Sir, why are you dressed like that?
And... The professor just looked at him for a long minute before looking down at himself and swearing under his breath. Harry just managed to catch the words 'bloody old fashioned wizards... Made enough fun of me... Medieval...'.
He wisely decided not to ask again.
Secondly, the way he spoke.
He had the weirdest accent Harry had ever heard, one minute he would sound as upper class as the queen herself, the next he'd speak a dialect only heard in the kind of places the Dursleys would always warn Dudley to stay away from, though they'd never warn Harry of the same thing. The professor would switch accents from English to Scottish to Irish to Welsh all in the space of a single sentence. Everyone agreed that there was no way in hell that could be natural, yet he kept up this strange way of speaking all year.
Thirdly, his lessons.
The first thing he did in their first lesson with him was tell them to put all of their books in a big pile on the floor. The second thing he did was to proceed to set fire to them with his wand. Amid the inevitable questioning this produced, he just sat there watching impassively until every page had been incinerated, chastising any pupils who attempted to put out the blaze. It was only when every book had burned to a cinder that he did anything, at which point he stood, clasped his gloved hands together, grinned and spoke to the class.
Right! Listen to me, I've got more bloody sense than whoever wrote those pieces of shit. Now take out some paper and a pen, or whatever you use, and copy down what I say. You fall asleep in my class and you'll live to regret it. Now, eighteen thirty two, the year of the Great Reform Act, though I don't suppose you know that, anyway, eighteen thirty two, what happened in that year?
Hermione, predictably, stuck up her hand with the answer. He picked her out with a lazy wave of his hand.
That was the year Gwenllian the Goblin killer decided to... Well, kill goblins. She waged a war against their race.
He nodded, sitting down on his desk and crossing his legs together in an oddly feminine way, his weirdly thick eyebrows knotting together in remembrance.
Ah, yes, Gwenllian. Nice girl, pity about the homicidal tendencies, but what can you do when you can't pronounce your own name? Well, wage war on goblins I suppose. She couldn't half cook a bloody fantastic stew though.
And most of his lessons were like this. He spoke as if he actually fought in the battles, as if he actually met the people. It was one of the strangest ways of teaching Harry had ever encountered, yet... He couldn't deny it made lessons more interesting. Who wants to hear how many witches died in the Equal Rites riots of seventeen eighty five when you can find out that the one to lead the witches revolt was terrified of frogs and would happily kill any that happened to cross her path? Professor Kirkland could do something Harry considered impossible, he could make wizard history interesting.
Fourth, there were the peculiar visitors he got.
Nobody knew where these guests came from, only that they would always speak to Professor Kirkland for a few minutes, often longer, often in foreign languages, and then go back to wherever they came from.
One turned up once when they were in the middle of learning about Marvin the Malicious, a tall blonde man with glasses pulling a struggling child in a sailor suit behind him. Professor Kirkland just stopped speaking and looked at them, a put-upon expression darkening his features.
Oi, didn't I tell you not to bother me when I'm teaching?
The child took that opportunity to speak up, crossing his arms petulantly as well as he was able while his arm was still being held by the tall man.
Like I'd want to come to see you! But Papa wanted some time alone with Fi-Tino and told me I've got to come to see you for a bit! Like I'd want to see a big jerk like you anyway!
The professor sat down on the desk, rubbing his temple with his hand, and sighed loudly to himself before answering, his voice taking on an uncharacteristic pleading note.
Berwald... Can't you take him for half an hour more... Until I finish classes for the day...?
The tall man then shook his head, choosing to speak up for the first time in a language Harry thought he might recognise as Swedish.
Filmen börjar om fyrtio minuter. Ta pojken. Han har redan förstört tillräckligt många nätter för mig och min hustru.
The professor then looked at them in a thoroughly beseeching way and had asked them not to tell any of the other teachers but he had to let them out half an hour early. Not even Hermione complained about this, everyone grateful for an extra half an hour free time. They left to the sound of the small boy saying something cheerfully in another language and the professor banging his head against the chalkboard. He was informed later by a giggling Hermione that the boy had, in fact, been swearing at them all colourfully in Finnish. Somehow, Harry wasn't surprised.
Fifth, he shared a love of dragons on par only with Hagrid.
Harry and his friends would often go down to see Hagrid, only to see him chatting animatedly to the professor about the fire breathing properties of Welsh Greens compared with Romanian Humpbacks. It was weird, to find someone else who shared Hagrid's suicidal love of the creatures.
Sixth, his wand had a star on the end of it.
It looked like a cheap muggle toy. Really.
Seventh, the picture on his desk.
On his desk was a photo of a young man with blonde hair, blue eyes and glasses, with one strange piece of hair sticking right up. It didn't move, which was weird in itself. Very few wizards bothered with muggle photography.
A few people tried questioning Professor Kirkland about the person in the photo, but every one of them got detention for 'prying into a teacher's private life'.
Fred and George started taking bets half way through the year on who the man was, anything from the plausible 'long lost brother' to 'runaway son', to 'gay lover'. He'd heard quite a few girls place bets on the last possibility, for some reason. The twins told everyone that they would reveal the winners on the Monday of the last week of term, to give them time to gather the answers first.
Everybody waited in anticipation for this, and on the last week of term everybody hovered around the common room, even those who hadn't placed a bid. Everybody wanted to know, it had been built up into a huge mystery. Eventually, however, the twins trudged in, holding the bag containing everyone's bets, identical grins on their faces.
I am afraid to say
Began one of them, Fred maybe.
That nobody bet on the correct answer!
Finished the other, obviously restraining laughter.
Turns out, Kirkland found him in a field and brought him up!
Of course, nobody believed them. However, they stuck to their story as the truth, and, grumbling to themselves, people eventually trudged up to bed without their money.
Eighth, his eyes.
They were green, yes. But... There was something in them. Something that made you not want to look too closely, lest you get lost. They spoke of untold age, experience, and though his face was youthful, his eyes carried the wisdom and weariness of someone much older. There were rumours going around that he was really the same age as Dumbledore, but he used vanity spells to keep himself looking young. They said the huge eyebrows were an unfortunate side effect of this.
Harry, when listening to him talk about the Goblin Riots as if he was actually in the middle of it, the Goblin Riots that happened at least three centuries ago, couldn't help but wonder if he was perhaps much older than even Dumbledore.
Ninth, the last conversation they had before the end of the year.
Professor Kirkland had told Harry to meet him back in his office after last lesson, and, though annoyed at seemingly getting punished despite doing nothing wrong, Harry couldn't refuse a request from a teacher.
When he walked into the class, the professor was sitting at his desk, staring at the picture he kept on there. He snapped to attention as Harry entered, and told him shortly to sit down, laying his hands out flat on the wood of his desk, as if steadying himself.
Harry, who do you think I am?
He'd blinked then, not sure what the teacher was trying to get at.
Um... You're Professor Kirkland?
The professor had stared at him for a long minute before slowly nodding his head, his emerald eyes staring into Harry's own, as if analysing him, deeming him worthy for something. Harry fidgeted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable under his professor's intent gaze.
Good luck, Harry, remember that England will always be on your side. Things won't be easy for you, but you can always rely on me.
He'd gestured towards the door then, a sign that Harry could leave, which he did gratefully, trying not to hurry more than was polite. After running two corridors, he almost managed to forget the lingering foreboding of his teacher's words. The look, he feared, would stay with him forever.
Tenth, he left.
The next year Professor Binns was back as usual, and none of the teachers ever made a reference to the fact there was ever another History of Magic teacher.
It was bizarre, and yet... It fit with the man, Harry felt. He didn't seem to do anything normally.
Okay, I do have an excuse, I wrote this in a fit of guilt from two in the morning to five in the morning. -s-sob- I know it's bad but if you'd please leave a review I'll love you. U-uh... Jag hoppas du inte misstycker alltför mycket hur illa det är, Thai... Jag älskar dig?
OH YEAH, and the Swedish translation from up there is basically 'The film starts in forty minutes. Take him. He's already ruined enough nights for me and the wife'. I think. Min svenska är inte bra OTL