Farfarello was in Hell. crossover with HP. Yeah...I know.
Farfarello was in Hell and he wasn't enjoying himself nearly as much as he had thought he would.
Or, rather, something worse than Hell. Almost...heavenly. And how he ended up there was beyond him. One minute he had been cheerfully reading Marx, the next Crawford had been telling him to pack a bag and prepare himself for a long flight, a flight on which he had would be sitting next to Schuldig.
The white-haired man had figured they were going out on a mission. Hopefully one with lots of religious overtones and blood. He deserved it after umpteen hours of sitting next to Schuldig in an enclosed place.
That had been the first level of Hell.
The second had been the flight meal. He didn't feel pain, true, but his stomach had still cried out in protest at the grey-ish brown meat substitute.
They landed in England. Level the Third. Farfarello had hissed and managed to hit the first person that hummed a line of "God Save the Queen." The fact that it was a certain German bothered him not at all, though he supposed he could have pulled the punch a bit.
He hadn't realized how much of a sadist Crawford was. It was impressive to say the least.
"Are we getting rid of another politician, Crawford? Or protecting one?" Nagi had asked with a pinched expression on his face. The sight of so many black umbrellas always made him feel slightly depressed.
The oracle had smirked. "Neither, I'm afraid. Gentlemen, I think you'll find this assignment quite unique. And...refreshing, even."
The other three members of Schwarz had been torn between smirking and ducking for cover.
The latter would have been more appropriate, Farfarello decided. Which brought him back to his main point.
Brad Crawford. Sadist extraordinaire.
"Professor Farfarello, your eye is twitching again. Are you sure you're okay, sir?" a voice that was a few octaves too high said from somewhere on his left.
"I'm fine," he growled.
"Are you sure? You look like my mum does when me and my brothers are home for holiday. She always makes a lot of tea."
Farfarello glared, yellow eye flashing dangerously and fingers itching to dig out the knife hidden in his arm.
Brad Crawford. Sadist extraordinaire. Future victim.
"So. Yer all English, are you?" he asked the class of black-robed teens. If he kept the surge of anger going, his psyche would bend a bit and Crawford wouldn't see him coming.
Surrounded by innocent English children in a Scottish castle where they only seemed to serve tea and pumpkin juice. And he was supposed to teach these creatures; mold their minds, as Crawford had put it.
But they were /English/. Proud countryman though he wasn't, there are some things an Irishman just didn't do.
"I'm not!" a freckled kid suddenly exclaimed, looking proud about that fact. "'m Irish. Seamus Finnegan's me name. Me mum's a witch and me dad's a muggle. Bloody fanatical, both of 'em. Me mum's sittin' room is all orange and green."
"S'tha' so?" Farfarello's attention was on the boy now. "Yer Catholic?"
"Not really. Mostly just Irish."
"You will not be killed."
"...erm...thanks?" the freckled boy gave him an odd look and sat back in his seat. The rest of the class had tried to shift backwards as well.
"I killed me mum, y'know," Farfarello continued, conversationally. "And me Da. And sister. Wasn't really me though. I was jus' a victim. It was God and his bloody angels. Nasty twits." For lack of a dagger to lick, the Irishman used the fancy paperweight on his desk. "They get inta yer minds, take o'er. Brainwash all the little lambs."
Hermione Granger was searching through her DADA textbook for a section on Angels but her search was in vain. "Professor, I can't find an entry on them in our book."
The day suddenly started to improve.
"Well, I'll jus' hafta tell you young whelps about them meself then. Y'see, there was once a happy lad in the green hills of Ireland..."
Twenty minutes later, he was still teaching a class of English children in a Scottish castle.
But there was now a distinct distrust of religion and God in general and a deep interest in everything the new Defense Against the Dark Art's teacher had to say.
Something inside of Farfarello cackled with glee.
"So," one student started, "coveting your neighbor's wand...."
"S'fine. Might piss the Great Liar off a bit, but only cause the bastard wants it fer himself, you see?"
There was a collective "ooooh".
A black haired boy's hand drifted towards the blonde next to him and down toward what Farfarello could only guess was the blonde's wand.
Personally, the assassin thought the kid was taking the juvenile innuendo a rather far but sodomy hurt God too so he wasn't about to complain.
Far, Braddles wants to know how things are going. You're doing your job, right? a nasal voice slid into his mind. Eel-like cold and graceful.
Sighing, he figured he should move onto the next part.
"O'course, most people won't teach you this stuff. What I'm here fo'. Not only me. A couple o' friends o' mine think th' same. Could tell you even more."
"Will they be visiting at all?" an excited brunette asked from the front row. "I'd love to hear more."
"When can they come?"
The thing with children, Farfarello reflected, was that they tended to follow whoever told them what they wanted to hear.
"I'm sure I can arrange something..."
Farfarello wandered back to his room after his three classes were over for the day, steps slower than they normally would be but he was tired for some reason. All that talking and answering questions and reminding himself not to maim.
He deserved a vacation. Maybe to Bora Bora. He heard it was nice there. A lack of English and what have you- too many French, he figured.
With relief, he opened the door to his chambers and looked forward to a few hours of rest. They day had gotten better as it went along, at least.
"Hey, Far! Look what I bought!" Schuldig's voice pierced his brain and twisted around a few times. "Now I get to show off my legs all the time!"
Farfarello twitched as his vision was assailed by plaid.
Schuldig in a kilt.
The Irishman practically felt the floor drop beneath him. Down to the ninth.
"Hey, Far? You okay? You're twitching a lot. Want me to do some high kicks and make you feel better?"
AN: gift for kuiama