Correspondence Course, Part the Last
May. 5th, 2006 08:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
a_t_rainWhew, managed to finish this before leaving for Canada. Previous installments of the saga are here.
“You wanted to see us, Roger-the-Wiz?” Sirius asked cautiously.
It was nearly summer’s end, and we had been called into the Kwikspell office for the first time since our interview. The premises in Cleric Alley were still painted bright yellow and orange, but the walls were looking a little faded in the hazy heat of August, and even Roger’s teeth twinkled less brilliantly than before.
“Oh yes.” Roger ran a hand through his sleek, shiny hair with less enthusiasm than was his wont. “I’m not sure how to say this, boys, but it doesn’t look like Mrs. Figg and Mr. Prewett are making much progress, and I believe your two students quit weeks ago and you haven’t brought in any new ones, is that right?” Rather than giving me a chance to answer, he pressed onwards. “I’ve got to run a business here, as I’m sure you appreciate, and we pride ourselves on having only the top staff, people who can really help us build up a clientele, so – well, the long and the short of it is, we’re going to have to let both of you go. It’s nothing personal.”
Sirius and I exchanged a look. “We haven’t been working for you very long,” Sirius pointed out. “Can’t we have a few more weeks to learn the ropes?”
“Well, ordinarily I might think that was a pretty fair excuse,” said Roger, with a slight emphasis on the last word, “but there’s another lad who started at the same time you did, and he’s really at the top of his game. Brings in three times as many new students as anybody else, in half the time, and they all ask for him by name. If you want to know what you should have been doing all along, you should take a look at young Prince-Snape.”
“He’s a good teacher, then?” I asked Roger in what I hoped was a noncommittal voice, though it came out sounding rather strained. “You’ve read his letters and talked to his students?”
“Nah, can’t be bothered. But they wouldn’t be lining up to join his course if he weren’t that good – that’s my motto – follow the money if you want to know who can teach. The free market never lies.”
Sirius cleared his throat. “Actually,” he said loudly, “according to Marx and Engels, page three-hundred-and-seventy-one –”
Roger gave him a pitying look. “There, boy,” he said, “there’s your problem. The people who take our course don’t want to be lectured about Socialism and all that dry stuff, they want to be entertained. Give them a little song and dance to make the lessons go down, that’s what the All-New Fail-Safe Quick-Result Easy-Learn Conjuring by Correspondence method is all about. It’s plain to see that this Prince-Snape fellow knows all about that.”
I tried to imagine Severus Snape doing a little song and dance for the entertainment of his students, and failed miserably.
“He’s really a top instructor,” Roger enthused. “I’ve never seen anything like it – and at his age, too. I’m going to recommend him for a position at Hogwarts when he’s a bit older. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to send out the bills.”
“Bills?” I asked.
“To the students. They go out every month.”
* * *
Dear Madame Yeardley,
Please remit 3 Galleons for your first month of lessons.
Roger “The Wiz” Harbottle
* * *
Dear Mr Bugleblower,
Please remit 3 Galleons for your first month of lessons.
Roger “The Wiz” Harbottle
* * *
Dear Miss Mystii,
Please remit 1 Galleon 9 Sickles for your first two weeks of lessons.
Roger “The Wiz” Harbottle
* * *
Please remit ... please remit ... please remit...
I clutched my forehead and groaned. “How in Merlin’s name did we manage to forget about that?”
Sirius swore under his breath. “Why didn’t you say something? You’re meant to be the practical one.”
I glared at him. “You’re meant to be the clever one.”
“I don’t believe in pigeonholing people like that. It’s very bourgeois.”
“Then why did you just do it?”
“Consistency is the hobgoblin of petty minds. Marx said that.”
“Pope.”
“Marx. What would the Pope know about it?”
Our argument was interrupted by the appearance of yet another owl on the horizon, this one clutching a plump bundle of letters. I braced myself.
Sirius ripped open a letter, whistled softly, and opened another. “Moony, we’re saved!” he shouted. “I mean, we’re expelled, but it’s all good!”
“What?” I said weakly. “We’ve been expelled from Hogwarts?” The calamities seemed to be piling on too quickly for me to keep up.
“No, you twit. From the Kwikspell Correspondence Course.”
He handed me one of the letters. If Professor Prince-Snape had succumbed to a moment of uncharacteristic weakness in his letter to Sister Mary Perpetua, he was in rare form now that he had received the reply.
Mr Bugleblower:
I give up. I have slaved and toiled in the hopes of dispelling the fog around at least one of my students’ brains, only to receive nothing but scorn at the hands of those who are incapable of recognizing genuine talent when they see it. I have concluded that teaching is not a job for adults; in fact, it is the worst career on earth, mostly because it involves dealing with people like you. The purgatory of being in constant association with the slow-witted and addle-pated is simply too much to be borne. My sole consolation is the hope that you find your own company as stupefying as I do. You are, in short, expelled for terminal imbecility. I shall ask Mr Harbottle to refund your money if you promise never to come anywhere near me again.
Sincerely yours,
S. Prince-Snape
P.S. No, your Flobberworm is not going to get any livelier if you feed it cabbage instead of lettuce. IT IS A RUBBER BAND!!! How many times do I have to tell you?
“I wonder what’s happened to make him so angry at the world,” said Sirius, contemplating another letter of much the same tenor.
“I can’t imagine,” I replied.
“Oh well. Lucky for us, though, isn’t it?”
“Indeed.”
Epilogue
Lily, to nobody’s great surprise, decided less than a week after we returned to school that she did want to be James Potter’s girlfriend, after all. By this time she and Sirius had worked out that although they were both in love with the same man, it was quite a different sort of love, and they became the greatest of friends.
Brownie slowly became a barred owl, and then a white one again, but he never forgave me for the dyeing incident. He spent much of the next year hacking up mouse fur pellets in my shoes and dive-bombing my head with the morning post.
Several months later, the first-ever production of the Hogwarts Drama Society, written by Sirius Black, opened to great applause. It was called Who is Rubeus ‘Big Red’? and it was about a dashing young working-class hero (played by Sirius, naturally) who took the corrupt bourgeois society in which he lived by storm. His name was on everyone’s lips; crowds rallied around to hear him speak; women, and a few men, fell madly in lust with him. (And so the line I had inadvertently contributed to the play’s script fell perfectly into place.) Big Red, however, was resolutely chaste and virtuous, caring only for Social Justice. In the end, he was nefariously assassinated by the play’s villain, a character who was known only as “The Boss-Man” but who shared certain quirks of speech and an unusually sharp and gleaming row of teeth with Roger the Wiz. Workers and students wept; young girls vowed revenge upon the System; and out of this orgy of grief emerged a Revolution. In the end, everybody joined hands and sang the Internationale.
I cannot truthfully say that Sirius missed his calling when he decided not to become a playwright; but I do think the sixth-year Slytherin who played the Boss-Man would have found a better use for his talents if he had stuck to the stage. He was really a rather good actor when he wasn’t sulking about not having the lead role, but he thought that the business of putting on a play involved too much collaboration and not enough glory. He took off for Wagga Wagga after leaving school and published a poorly researched and sensationalistic book called Wanderings with Werewolves a year later.
Hagrid was much better at performing spells with his pink umbrella when we returned to school, although I found it hard to look him in the eye for many months afterwards. Mrs. Figg never did improve, but she stayed on friendly terms with Sirius and sent him Christmas cards with many pictures of her cats. By far the most successful of our former students, however, was D. J. Prod, who ended up writing glowing testimonials for Kwikspell and selling yak’s-wool mittens on the side. The shaving spell, it seemed, came in handy in more ways than one.
I have lost many jobs since that summer, but seldom so deservingly.
“You wanted to see us, Roger-the-Wiz?” Sirius asked cautiously.
It was nearly summer’s end, and we had been called into the Kwikspell office for the first time since our interview. The premises in Cleric Alley were still painted bright yellow and orange, but the walls were looking a little faded in the hazy heat of August, and even Roger’s teeth twinkled less brilliantly than before.
“Oh yes.” Roger ran a hand through his sleek, shiny hair with less enthusiasm than was his wont. “I’m not sure how to say this, boys, but it doesn’t look like Mrs. Figg and Mr. Prewett are making much progress, and I believe your two students quit weeks ago and you haven’t brought in any new ones, is that right?” Rather than giving me a chance to answer, he pressed onwards. “I’ve got to run a business here, as I’m sure you appreciate, and we pride ourselves on having only the top staff, people who can really help us build up a clientele, so – well, the long and the short of it is, we’re going to have to let both of you go. It’s nothing personal.”
Sirius and I exchanged a look. “We haven’t been working for you very long,” Sirius pointed out. “Can’t we have a few more weeks to learn the ropes?”
“Well, ordinarily I might think that was a pretty fair excuse,” said Roger, with a slight emphasis on the last word, “but there’s another lad who started at the same time you did, and he’s really at the top of his game. Brings in three times as many new students as anybody else, in half the time, and they all ask for him by name. If you want to know what you should have been doing all along, you should take a look at young Prince-Snape.”
“He’s a good teacher, then?” I asked Roger in what I hoped was a noncommittal voice, though it came out sounding rather strained. “You’ve read his letters and talked to his students?”
“Nah, can’t be bothered. But they wouldn’t be lining up to join his course if he weren’t that good – that’s my motto – follow the money if you want to know who can teach. The free market never lies.”
Sirius cleared his throat. “Actually,” he said loudly, “according to Marx and Engels, page three-hundred-and-seventy-one –”
Roger gave him a pitying look. “There, boy,” he said, “there’s your problem. The people who take our course don’t want to be lectured about Socialism and all that dry stuff, they want to be entertained. Give them a little song and dance to make the lessons go down, that’s what the All-New Fail-Safe Quick-Result Easy-Learn Conjuring by Correspondence method is all about. It’s plain to see that this Prince-Snape fellow knows all about that.”
I tried to imagine Severus Snape doing a little song and dance for the entertainment of his students, and failed miserably.
“He’s really a top instructor,” Roger enthused. “I’ve never seen anything like it – and at his age, too. I’m going to recommend him for a position at Hogwarts when he’s a bit older. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to send out the bills.”
“Bills?” I asked.
“To the students. They go out every month.”
* * *
Dear Madame Yeardley,
Please remit 3 Galleons for your first month of lessons.
Roger “The Wiz” Harbottle
* * *
Dear Mr Bugleblower,
Please remit 3 Galleons for your first month of lessons.
Roger “The Wiz” Harbottle
* * *
Dear Miss Mystii,
Please remit 1 Galleon 9 Sickles for your first two weeks of lessons.
Roger “The Wiz” Harbottle
* * *
Please remit ... please remit ... please remit...
I clutched my forehead and groaned. “How in Merlin’s name did we manage to forget about that?”
Sirius swore under his breath. “Why didn’t you say something? You’re meant to be the practical one.”
I glared at him. “You’re meant to be the clever one.”
“I don’t believe in pigeonholing people like that. It’s very bourgeois.”
“Then why did you just do it?”
“Consistency is the hobgoblin of petty minds. Marx said that.”
“Pope.”
“Marx. What would the Pope know about it?”
Our argument was interrupted by the appearance of yet another owl on the horizon, this one clutching a plump bundle of letters. I braced myself.
Sirius ripped open a letter, whistled softly, and opened another. “Moony, we’re saved!” he shouted. “I mean, we’re expelled, but it’s all good!”
“What?” I said weakly. “We’ve been expelled from Hogwarts?” The calamities seemed to be piling on too quickly for me to keep up.
“No, you twit. From the Kwikspell Correspondence Course.”
He handed me one of the letters. If Professor Prince-Snape had succumbed to a moment of uncharacteristic weakness in his letter to Sister Mary Perpetua, he was in rare form now that he had received the reply.
Mr Bugleblower:
I give up. I have slaved and toiled in the hopes of dispelling the fog around at least one of my students’ brains, only to receive nothing but scorn at the hands of those who are incapable of recognizing genuine talent when they see it. I have concluded that teaching is not a job for adults; in fact, it is the worst career on earth, mostly because it involves dealing with people like you. The purgatory of being in constant association with the slow-witted and addle-pated is simply too much to be borne. My sole consolation is the hope that you find your own company as stupefying as I do. You are, in short, expelled for terminal imbecility. I shall ask Mr Harbottle to refund your money if you promise never to come anywhere near me again.
Sincerely yours,
S. Prince-Snape
P.S. No, your Flobberworm is not going to get any livelier if you feed it cabbage instead of lettuce. IT IS A RUBBER BAND!!! How many times do I have to tell you?
“I wonder what’s happened to make him so angry at the world,” said Sirius, contemplating another letter of much the same tenor.
“I can’t imagine,” I replied.
“Oh well. Lucky for us, though, isn’t it?”
“Indeed.”
Epilogue
Lily, to nobody’s great surprise, decided less than a week after we returned to school that she did want to be James Potter’s girlfriend, after all. By this time she and Sirius had worked out that although they were both in love with the same man, it was quite a different sort of love, and they became the greatest of friends.
Brownie slowly became a barred owl, and then a white one again, but he never forgave me for the dyeing incident. He spent much of the next year hacking up mouse fur pellets in my shoes and dive-bombing my head with the morning post.
Several months later, the first-ever production of the Hogwarts Drama Society, written by Sirius Black, opened to great applause. It was called Who is Rubeus ‘Big Red’? and it was about a dashing young working-class hero (played by Sirius, naturally) who took the corrupt bourgeois society in which he lived by storm. His name was on everyone’s lips; crowds rallied around to hear him speak; women, and a few men, fell madly in lust with him. (And so the line I had inadvertently contributed to the play’s script fell perfectly into place.) Big Red, however, was resolutely chaste and virtuous, caring only for Social Justice. In the end, he was nefariously assassinated by the play’s villain, a character who was known only as “The Boss-Man” but who shared certain quirks of speech and an unusually sharp and gleaming row of teeth with Roger the Wiz. Workers and students wept; young girls vowed revenge upon the System; and out of this orgy of grief emerged a Revolution. In the end, everybody joined hands and sang the Internationale.
I cannot truthfully say that Sirius missed his calling when he decided not to become a playwright; but I do think the sixth-year Slytherin who played the Boss-Man would have found a better use for his talents if he had stuck to the stage. He was really a rather good actor when he wasn’t sulking about not having the lead role, but he thought that the business of putting on a play involved too much collaboration and not enough glory. He took off for Wagga Wagga after leaving school and published a poorly researched and sensationalistic book called Wanderings with Werewolves a year later.
Hagrid was much better at performing spells with his pink umbrella when we returned to school, although I found it hard to look him in the eye for many months afterwards. Mrs. Figg never did improve, but she stayed on friendly terms with Sirius and sent him Christmas cards with many pictures of her cats. By far the most successful of our former students, however, was D. J. Prod, who ended up writing glowing testimonials for Kwikspell and selling yak’s-wool mittens on the side. The shaving spell, it seemed, came in handy in more ways than one.
I have lost many jobs since that summer, but seldom so deservingly.
