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Correspondence Course, part Six
First, a totally unrelated fic rec: Beautiful Days by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
naomisketchpad. The story of the women in Tom Riddle, Senior's life, Merope and Cecilia -- both wonderfully fleshed out from the handful of hints we get in canon.
Second, look what I learned to do! Correspondence Course, all together in one place!
I opened my next letter from D. J. Prod with trepidation. A photograph of an enormous, shaggy-haired ox with a distinctly grumpy expression fluttered out of the envelope and fell on the floor. Mystified, I picked it up and read the letter that accompanied it.
... I endeavored to use the Silencing Spell you taught me, but upon closer examination of your letter, I believe I may have misread your handwriting. Instead of ‘Taceo’ I mistakenly used the incantation ‘Yakeo.’ I am pleased to say that my wife was immediately Transfigured into a Yak, and we have got along beautifully ever since. I enclose a photograph and my profuse thanks for your wonderful tutelage. I have written to Mr Harbottle to terminate the lessons, as all of my problems have been solved, but if you are ever in Didsbury, I should like to buy you a drink.
With warmest regards,
Warlock D. J. Prod
Utterly horrified at this development, I thrust the letter and the photograph into Sirius’ hands. “Bloody hell, what should I do now?”
“What should you do about what? He said you’d solved all his problems.”
“He. Turned. His. Wife. Into. A. Yak. I’d say that counts as a pretty big problem!”
Sirius shrugged. “Let’s face it, Moony, some women are just better off as yaks. If somebody turned my cousin Bella into one, I don’t think anyone would complain. Least of all her husband.”
“D. J. sounded like a pretty unpleasant character himself.”
“So’s Rodolphus. Case in point. Unpleasant people tend to marry other unpleasant people, and if you’re going to do that, getting turned into yaks is sort of an occupational hazard.”
“Wellll...”
“This’ll make you feel better. Look what I got from old Snivellus.”
Mr Smith:
First of all, I refuse to address you as “Shifty,” and I am not your “mate.” You will address me with a proper measure of professional respect; namely, as “sir,” or “Professor.”
Sirius slapped his hand palm-down against the table in indignation. “He’s seventeen! Where does he think he gets off?”
Secondly, if you are serious about improving your Disguise and Concealment – which I doubt – I recommend that you read 725 Simple Shape-Shifting Strategies by Septimius Stratagem. I have no time to waste on pupils who do not intend to pay in the immediate future, but I understand that there is an institution called a “public library” to which the destitute may have recourse.
You might want to get a grammar book as well. You appear to need one.
Sincerely,
Professor Severus Prince-Snape
* * *
Mr Bugleblower:
I have inspected the matchstick that you attempted to Transfigure into a needle. The result shows no evidence of magical talent or power, but you may be able to foist it off on the Museum of Modern Art if they are in a particularly credulous mood.
In response to your inane query, “Can you help?” I can only say that God may be able to help you, but evidently He has chosen not to. I strongly urge you to pursue some other career than magic, but if you must persist in this foolish course you have chosen, I suggest you begin with something less taxing to your powers. Accordingly, I enclose a set of instructions for raising Flobberworms.
Sincerely,
Severus Prince-Snape
* * *
Miss Yeardley:
Never write another children’s book again.
Sincerely,
Severus Prince-Snape
Heartened by these responses, we decided to send out another batch of letters. It was at this point that we encountered an unexpected practical problem: we were running short of owls. My own family owl, Howland, was a nondescript mop of grey-brown feathers, and we could send him to the Kwikspell office several times before anybody noticed anything amiss, as long as my parents weren’t using him at the time. But we couldn’t continue to do this indefinitely, and the only other bird we had access to was James’ Whitey, an enormous snowy owl who would have been conspicuous anywhere.
“You could dye Whitey,” suggested Peter, who had come up to visit James for the day.
The trouble with Peter was that when he came out with a plan like that, there was never any way to tell whether he was being really clever or really idiotic without actually trying the experiment.
“Good thinking, Wormtail,” said Sirius in a voice that was carefully poised between sarcasm and seriousness. “Why don’t you do it and let us know how it works?”
“Me?” Peter’s voice took on a shrill note. “Why me? Why do I always get stuck doing these things?”
“He’s right, you know,” I said. “He always does, and it isn’t fair.”
“All right,” said James. “We’ll draw straws. Fair enough for you?”
“As long as you don’t cheat,” said Peter darkly.
A few minutes later, I was staring at the shortest straw and silently cursing the contrary impulse that had made me stick up for Peter.
“All right, Moony?” said Sirius with more than a trace of a smirk.
“Fine. I’m just, er, thinking what would be the best way to do this.”
The others were still smirking. Resolutely, I strode into the bathroom with Whitey on one arm and a bottle of Mrs. Potter’s Hair-Coloring Potion in my other hand.
Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, alternately swearing and muttering healing spells at the places where Whitey’s talons had slashed into my arms. Brown water mingled with the blood; brown dye oozed from my hair, and streaked my robes; the Potters’ good guest towels were splotched with brown. In fact, everything was brown and dripping except Whitey, who was perched above me on the showerhead, hooting angrily. It was obviously the owl equivalent of the sort of language I had been using myself, except I didn’t see what he had to swear about. I didn’t have three-inch fingernails of steel.
I decided it was time to take control of the situation. I stripped down to my underpants, drew myself up to my full height, and announced, “Me Tarzan. You owl. Me bigger than you. You do what I say.”
Whitey didn’t like it – he squawked and flapped and inflicted several more wounds with his talons – but I wrapped him up in my robes and forced him into the bathtub. His wings beat the water and splattered the room from floor to ceiling, but they also splattered Whitey, so it was all to the good.
“Meet your new owl,” I announced triumphantly when I opened the door at last. “Brownie.”
James grinned. “Nicely done, O King of the Jungle.”
Abruptly, I became conscious of the fact that my three best friends were sniggering and giving each other Knowing Looks, and I was still wearing nothing but my underwear. “You ... you ... I didn’t know you were listening at the door!”
“‘Course we were, mate,” said Sirius. “It was better than the Wizarding Wireless Comedy Hour.”
“Shit.” Brownie flapped down the hallway, scattering drops of Hair-Coloring Potion. “There goes the carpet. And your mum’s going to need some new guest towels, Prongs.” Another unpleasant thought occurred to me as I spoke, and I shook out the brown-splattered bundle under my arms. “My mum’s going to kill me when she sees my clothes.”
“Did you drain the water out of the bathtub yet?” asked James.
“No. Why?”
“Then not to worry.” James waved his hand expansively, as if a set of nearly-new robes was nothing to him – as, indeed, it wasn’t. “Go and have a swim in the river, and leave everything to me.”
“You’re not going to give me some of yours, are you? Because I really can’t accept –”
“Nah, I know you wouldn’t. But I’ve got another idea that’s almost as good.”
* * *
“Those are nice robes,” said my mother at dinner. “I like that shade of brown. Are they new?”
“Secondhand-new. I bought them with my salary from Kwikspell.”
“Not a bad choice,” she said, inspecting the fabric, “but next time, you might want to take a closer look at the sleeves before you buy. It looks like the last owner had a very aggressive owl.”
Halfway through the meal, a note arrived from Mrs. Potter thanking me for the new set of towels. By coincidence, they were a lovely shade of brown too, and she wondered how I had matched her hair so exactly.
* * *
Hiya Sev!
How are you? My friend Suzy Jones says you’re the best teacher ever! which is why I’m writing directly to you instead of to The Wiz. My name is Mystii, well actually it’s Misty, but I think this spelling is more unique, don’t you? I’m twenty-two and from America. I’m sending you a picture so you can see what I look like. Do you like my new swimsuit? To tell you a little more about me, my hobbies are chewing bubble gum and going to nightclubs, and my favorite magicians are Merlin and The Amazing Kreskin. I hope you can teach me to be as good as them. Well, bye for now.
Love & Kisses,
Mystii
James was rather upset that Sirius sacrificed a page from the Quidditch Illustrated swimsuit edition, but we persuaded him that it was for a good cause.
Dear Mr Harbottle,
I am writing to you because the Mother Superior of my convent has requested that I study magic. We are a teaching order, and we have many young witches and wizards in the convent school who require instruction at a primary level. I realise that I am rather older than the average student, but I need only learn enough to teach the children the basics. I shall work very hard, and I hope that I shall improve with God’s help, and that you will not be too impatient with my deficiencies. I have heard that Mr Prince-Snape is a stern but effective teacher, though of course I should be pleased to be placed with any instructor you see fit.
In Him,
Sister Mary Perpetua
Convent of St. Kilda
P.S. I enclose an example of my spellwork. It is not very good, so please be so kind as to tell me how I can improve.
“Let’s make this one really good at magic,” I suggested as I signed Sister Mary Perpetua’s letter with a flourish, “just to mess with his head.”
Sirius concentrated for a moment, waved his wand in the air, and conjured up an elegant little statue of St. Mungo. We tied the statue to one of Brownie’s legs and the letter to the other, and sent him off into the clear blue sky over Godric’s Hollow.
naomisketchpad. The story of the women in Tom Riddle, Senior's life, Merope and Cecilia -- both wonderfully fleshed out from the handful of hints we get in canon.Second, look what I learned to do! Correspondence Course, all together in one place!
I opened my next letter from D. J. Prod with trepidation. A photograph of an enormous, shaggy-haired ox with a distinctly grumpy expression fluttered out of the envelope and fell on the floor. Mystified, I picked it up and read the letter that accompanied it.
... I endeavored to use the Silencing Spell you taught me, but upon closer examination of your letter, I believe I may have misread your handwriting. Instead of ‘Taceo’ I mistakenly used the incantation ‘Yakeo.’ I am pleased to say that my wife was immediately Transfigured into a Yak, and we have got along beautifully ever since. I enclose a photograph and my profuse thanks for your wonderful tutelage. I have written to Mr Harbottle to terminate the lessons, as all of my problems have been solved, but if you are ever in Didsbury, I should like to buy you a drink.
With warmest regards,
Warlock D. J. Prod
Utterly horrified at this development, I thrust the letter and the photograph into Sirius’ hands. “Bloody hell, what should I do now?”
“What should you do about what? He said you’d solved all his problems.”
“He. Turned. His. Wife. Into. A. Yak. I’d say that counts as a pretty big problem!”
Sirius shrugged. “Let’s face it, Moony, some women are just better off as yaks. If somebody turned my cousin Bella into one, I don’t think anyone would complain. Least of all her husband.”
“D. J. sounded like a pretty unpleasant character himself.”
“So’s Rodolphus. Case in point. Unpleasant people tend to marry other unpleasant people, and if you’re going to do that, getting turned into yaks is sort of an occupational hazard.”
“Wellll...”
“This’ll make you feel better. Look what I got from old Snivellus.”
Mr Smith:
First of all, I refuse to address you as “Shifty,” and I am not your “mate.” You will address me with a proper measure of professional respect; namely, as “sir,” or “Professor.”
Sirius slapped his hand palm-down against the table in indignation. “He’s seventeen! Where does he think he gets off?”
Secondly, if you are serious about improving your Disguise and Concealment – which I doubt – I recommend that you read 725 Simple Shape-Shifting Strategies by Septimius Stratagem. I have no time to waste on pupils who do not intend to pay in the immediate future, but I understand that there is an institution called a “public library” to which the destitute may have recourse.
You might want to get a grammar book as well. You appear to need one.
Sincerely,
Professor Severus Prince-Snape
* * *
Mr Bugleblower:
I have inspected the matchstick that you attempted to Transfigure into a needle. The result shows no evidence of magical talent or power, but you may be able to foist it off on the Museum of Modern Art if they are in a particularly credulous mood.
In response to your inane query, “Can you help?” I can only say that God may be able to help you, but evidently He has chosen not to. I strongly urge you to pursue some other career than magic, but if you must persist in this foolish course you have chosen, I suggest you begin with something less taxing to your powers. Accordingly, I enclose a set of instructions for raising Flobberworms.
Sincerely,
Severus Prince-Snape
* * *
Miss Yeardley:
Never write another children’s book again.
Sincerely,
Severus Prince-Snape
Heartened by these responses, we decided to send out another batch of letters. It was at this point that we encountered an unexpected practical problem: we were running short of owls. My own family owl, Howland, was a nondescript mop of grey-brown feathers, and we could send him to the Kwikspell office several times before anybody noticed anything amiss, as long as my parents weren’t using him at the time. But we couldn’t continue to do this indefinitely, and the only other bird we had access to was James’ Whitey, an enormous snowy owl who would have been conspicuous anywhere.
“You could dye Whitey,” suggested Peter, who had come up to visit James for the day.
The trouble with Peter was that when he came out with a plan like that, there was never any way to tell whether he was being really clever or really idiotic without actually trying the experiment.
“Good thinking, Wormtail,” said Sirius in a voice that was carefully poised between sarcasm and seriousness. “Why don’t you do it and let us know how it works?”
“Me?” Peter’s voice took on a shrill note. “Why me? Why do I always get stuck doing these things?”
“He’s right, you know,” I said. “He always does, and it isn’t fair.”
“All right,” said James. “We’ll draw straws. Fair enough for you?”
“As long as you don’t cheat,” said Peter darkly.
A few minutes later, I was staring at the shortest straw and silently cursing the contrary impulse that had made me stick up for Peter.
“All right, Moony?” said Sirius with more than a trace of a smirk.
“Fine. I’m just, er, thinking what would be the best way to do this.”
The others were still smirking. Resolutely, I strode into the bathroom with Whitey on one arm and a bottle of Mrs. Potter’s Hair-Coloring Potion in my other hand.
Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, alternately swearing and muttering healing spells at the places where Whitey’s talons had slashed into my arms. Brown water mingled with the blood; brown dye oozed from my hair, and streaked my robes; the Potters’ good guest towels were splotched with brown. In fact, everything was brown and dripping except Whitey, who was perched above me on the showerhead, hooting angrily. It was obviously the owl equivalent of the sort of language I had been using myself, except I didn’t see what he had to swear about. I didn’t have three-inch fingernails of steel.
I decided it was time to take control of the situation. I stripped down to my underpants, drew myself up to my full height, and announced, “Me Tarzan. You owl. Me bigger than you. You do what I say.”
Whitey didn’t like it – he squawked and flapped and inflicted several more wounds with his talons – but I wrapped him up in my robes and forced him into the bathtub. His wings beat the water and splattered the room from floor to ceiling, but they also splattered Whitey, so it was all to the good.
“Meet your new owl,” I announced triumphantly when I opened the door at last. “Brownie.”
James grinned. “Nicely done, O King of the Jungle.”
Abruptly, I became conscious of the fact that my three best friends were sniggering and giving each other Knowing Looks, and I was still wearing nothing but my underwear. “You ... you ... I didn’t know you were listening at the door!”
“‘Course we were, mate,” said Sirius. “It was better than the Wizarding Wireless Comedy Hour.”
“Shit.” Brownie flapped down the hallway, scattering drops of Hair-Coloring Potion. “There goes the carpet. And your mum’s going to need some new guest towels, Prongs.” Another unpleasant thought occurred to me as I spoke, and I shook out the brown-splattered bundle under my arms. “My mum’s going to kill me when she sees my clothes.”
“Did you drain the water out of the bathtub yet?” asked James.
“No. Why?”
“Then not to worry.” James waved his hand expansively, as if a set of nearly-new robes was nothing to him – as, indeed, it wasn’t. “Go and have a swim in the river, and leave everything to me.”
“You’re not going to give me some of yours, are you? Because I really can’t accept –”
“Nah, I know you wouldn’t. But I’ve got another idea that’s almost as good.”
* * *
“Those are nice robes,” said my mother at dinner. “I like that shade of brown. Are they new?”
“Secondhand-new. I bought them with my salary from Kwikspell.”
“Not a bad choice,” she said, inspecting the fabric, “but next time, you might want to take a closer look at the sleeves before you buy. It looks like the last owner had a very aggressive owl.”
Halfway through the meal, a note arrived from Mrs. Potter thanking me for the new set of towels. By coincidence, they were a lovely shade of brown too, and she wondered how I had matched her hair so exactly.
* * *
Hiya Sev!
How are you? My friend Suzy Jones says you’re the best teacher ever! which is why I’m writing directly to you instead of to The Wiz. My name is Mystii, well actually it’s Misty, but I think this spelling is more unique, don’t you? I’m twenty-two and from America. I’m sending you a picture so you can see what I look like. Do you like my new swimsuit? To tell you a little more about me, my hobbies are chewing bubble gum and going to nightclubs, and my favorite magicians are Merlin and The Amazing Kreskin. I hope you can teach me to be as good as them. Well, bye for now.
Love & Kisses,
Mystii
James was rather upset that Sirius sacrificed a page from the Quidditch Illustrated swimsuit edition, but we persuaded him that it was for a good cause.
Dear Mr Harbottle,
I am writing to you because the Mother Superior of my convent has requested that I study magic. We are a teaching order, and we have many young witches and wizards in the convent school who require instruction at a primary level. I realise that I am rather older than the average student, but I need only learn enough to teach the children the basics. I shall work very hard, and I hope that I shall improve with God’s help, and that you will not be too impatient with my deficiencies. I have heard that Mr Prince-Snape is a stern but effective teacher, though of course I should be pleased to be placed with any instructor you see fit.
In Him,
Sister Mary Perpetua
Convent of St. Kilda
P.S. I enclose an example of my spellwork. It is not very good, so please be so kind as to tell me how I can improve.
“Let’s make this one really good at magic,” I suggested as I signed Sister Mary Perpetua’s letter with a flourish, “just to mess with his head.”
Sirius concentrated for a moment, waved his wand in the air, and conjured up an elegant little statue of St. Mungo. We tied the statue to one of Brownie’s legs and the letter to the other, and sent him off into the clear blue sky over Godric’s Hollow.
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applause!
And Mystii! ROFL! Now I wonder if Severus is going to react in usual derisive manner, or Mystii`s picture will change his mind. He IS a teenaged boy, after all and does have some hormones in him.
I love the idea of Sister Mary Perpetua - this is really going to puzzle Snape.
The DJ Prod story really is a little disturbing - i`m curious if he`s going to be revealed as someone we know.
I was just slapping myself for staying up too late again (4.45 am here), but this is a perfect excuse. I cannot wait for more!
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Indeed he does. Heh heh :)
The DJ Prod story really is a little disturbing - i`m curious if he`s going to be revealed as someone we know.
D.J. Prod is a canon character -- he wrote one of the testimonials in the Kwikspell ad that Filch is reading in CoS -- but no, he's not anybody else we know.
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This is one of the best fics I've read in a while. A lot of the stories passing themselves off as humor just aren't funny, but this is hilarious.
*Waits for Next Part*
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That sums it up pretty well right there! I so want art of Remus in his underwear talking to the owl.
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Also, Tarzan!Remus. Brilliance, sheer brilliance, and also hilarity. May I request permission to doodle?
Can't wait for the next bit—your Snape rocks socks.
-dark
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May I request permission to doodle?
Of course! (Maybe
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Thanks for mentioning who Prod was above btw, I didn't think to look there! Also thanks for mentioning Beautiful Days -- I might now be able to spike my own vague notes for a Cecilia-centric fic, although I think I was planning something rather different and less sensible. :)
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And part of me really, really wants to know what would happen if Snape accidentally sent his letter in reply to Mystii to Sister Mary...
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Never mind Severus's head - what about mine? It's now full of seriously disturbing images of yaks and Tarzan!Remus in his underwear. *Bursts into maniac giggling for the third time this morning.*
Oh, and the Mystii letter. Brilliant. I'm looking forward to Snape's reply.
MM
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On the upside, I got to read more of your fic. The day's shaping up pretty well.
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My favorites are Snape's letters -- they just agree with his snarky character so much... I really want to see how he reacts to the new ones (especially sister Mary Perpetua).
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Snape's letters are perfectly Snape-ish - the mixture of wit and cruelty is spot on.
And poor Remus and the owl!
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BTW, well done with Snape's characteriation, it's just perfect!
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Snape truly is "a gift of a character."
It is certainly obvious why the Marauders liked to torture him so much. I would have loved to mock him, and I'm not the mocking type. I'd like to read a fic that doesn't act as an apologist about the Whomping Willow incident (although, I think it was an awful thing for Sirius to do.)
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Delicious humor and wonderful characterizations, especially the haughty Prince-Snapeing and Remus's attempts at behaving himself. Which of course all fail.
Nuns and cake and Remus Lupin in his underwear. I might be in love.
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I just got caught up with this again, and it's too fabulous. It's nice to know that James does have the occasional good idea. I'm glad Mrs. Potter liked those towels.
I do love Professor Prince-Snape's impecunious students, but whatever happened to Remus's Swede?
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*cracks up* Fancy that!
I also love the continued Snape prank; I'm not sure which I enjoy better - your spot-on Snape insults, the bubble-headed American Mary-Sue, or the nun. They're all fabulous!
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Correspondence course.
Re: Correspondence course.
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I'm glad to see this isn't over yet!
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