Bad Education

Chapter 5

It was seven o'clock in the morning, and they were talking.

And talking.

And talking.

And all Tom wanted to do was finish eating and retreat to his classroom.

He was only in the staff room because he'd wanted to replace the study hall schedule with his own newly designed masterpiece - in which Dumbledore was prominently featured - and figured he might as well eat something while he was there.

But Peggy and Whatever-His-First-Name-Was Fogg had joined him at the table before he could escape, and he was now trapped in the worst of all social prisons: small talk. He had considered getting up and leaving, but he was still hoping to build positive (and therefore useful) relationships with the staff. So, he stayed.

"On a tiny screen," Fogg was saying. "Like one of our pictures, but with sound."

"How is that even possible?" Peggy asked in awe.

"No idea."

A month ago, he never would have believed he'd find himself sitting at a table next to a Muggle Studies professor, considering most of his associates would have hunted Muggles for sport if given the chance. Yet there he was, being talked at by a man who insisted that Muggles were "brilliantly innovative" because they had managed to stuff moving pictures into a tiny, ugly box and have them make noise. Poorly.

"And the best part," Fogg went on, "is now they're in color. Really, it's quite impressive."

"Indeed," said Peggy.

"Why?" Tom asked.

Fogg looked confused. "Why what?"

"Why is it impressive?"

"Because it's innovative!"

"Why is it innovative?"

"Er- I suppose because it's never been done before. The point is that we don't give Muggles enough credit for the things they come up with."

Tom nodded. "Yes. Like the atomic bomb. We should definitely give them credit for that."

"The what?"

"Never mind."

"So, Tom!" Peggy said, wisely changing the subject. "How are your classes going?"

"Fine," he said quietly.

"The first year is always the hardest," Fogg explained. "It gets easier."

That wasn't comforting at all.

"What years do you have today?" asked Peggy.

"First, fifth, second-"

"Oh no."

"What?"

Peggy shook her head grimly. "Second years."

"What about them?"

"I've never had to teach below third year, thank god," said Fogg.

"Nor have I," said Peggy, "but I've heard things. Awful things."

That was maddeningly unhelpful. "What 'awful things?'" he asked, wondering how on earth a class of twelve-year-olds could be considered threatening.

"You know how the first years are usually quiet and meek?"

"Yes..." He'd found the first years incredibly easy to teach.

"Well, the second years are the complete opposite."

"Why would the second years be any different from first years?"

"Not only are they further along in puberty, making them moody and vicious, but they also have none of the shy awkwardness that the first years get that keeps them so quiet."