Balls and Walnuts
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Those Potter spoilers for which you have yearned
Now that the Rowling wench has profited from her lies, I supposed you would like to know the truth of the matter. Sans filigree, sans varnish, as those Americans say.
First and foremost, I am fine, as you can plainly see. In the bone-chilling denouement of our misadventures, I most certainly did not get my hair caught up in one of Voldemort’s Convolvulus spells; my scalp warms my pate still, nary a drop of blood spilt. Nor did that spell foreshorten Little Lord Potter’s wand, as is evident here. (That last image is neither safe for work nor conducive to good corneal health. Click only if you wish to indulge your most self-destructive tendencies.)
Norbert the dragon did not, with a fiery belch, roast the hapless Luna Lovegood. Luna and Hermione presently cohabit in a kitschy Soho flat, but don’t expect La Rowling to provide those steamy details. No, she’d rather turn the poor girl into Lovegood flambé than scandalize her young readers and jeopardize her precious profits.
Given Ms. Granger’s present lifestyle choices, I needn’t comment on her on-again, off-again histoires de coeur with that Weasley sniveler. But never fear: I understand Nymphadora slipped Weasley some Amortentia potion at last year’s Sorting Ceremony Feast, and now he is an official Tonk Boy Toy. I was wondering why she asked me for a dram of Rohypnol . . . the woman never did have confidence in her potion-making abilities.
What about all those deaths and resurrections of which Rowling is so very fond? All of it untrue. Yes, yes, life is so dreadfully undramatic, isn’t it? Why, just the other day Albus and I were giggling over our butter beers on this very point. We had received our advance copy of Deathly Hallows (Rowling grows a positively fetching tail if she fails to send us each an ARC) and for all the laughter, we could not see through the tears. Voldie swung by our table and made a grab for Albus’s copy.
“What is it? What is it? What confabulations has that hideous muggle wrought now?”
“You — you’re dead again,” said Albus. “Sorry old chap.”
I didn’t have time for Voldie’s grumblings. He was bringing us all down. I said, “Simply be content you’re not the object of slash fiction couplings with young Potter.”
That stopped him. “Much of that, is there?”
“Reams of it,” I said.
“Oy,” said Albus. “You’re making me hot. I wonder what Minerva’s up to tonight?”
S.
Overheard at the Hogwarts Association of Romantic Bisexuals and Lesbians
Reports of Voldemort-sympathizers among the HARBL prompted the Hogwarts faculty to send an observer to their most recent meeting. Minerva was the logical choice, but stubborn as ever, she insisted she liked a good hard pounding as well as the next slag; and Hagrid declined this opportunity to acknowledge his true self. I drew short straw.
With my drab attire and poorly coiffed hair, there was little chance I could pass myself off as bisexual — though, if there were no other way, I might have invited young Weasley along; the boy would provide believable cover. But there was another way. I swallowed a polymorph draught and soon became the dentists’ daughter: Granger.
I set out for the HARBL assembly, sharing my most simpering smile with each passing classmate. How difficult was it to feign the malapert’s identity? Not difficult at all. I had borrowed the library’s dustiest tome and now hugged it to my apricot-sized breast, spouting inane trifles like, “There’s little truth Rabastan Lestrange waterboarded Frank and Alice Longbottom; he himself admitted to using the cruciatus curse!” Blah, blah, blah. I needn’t have bothered; by custom, everyone ignores the impudent child.
Mere feet from the oaken door, I espied Granger herself heading for the meeting, her face a mask of lusty purpose. Who knew! And now, I had to think quickly, for fast approaching was Edvardus Moot, the transsexual Hufflepuff Chaser.
“You!” I cried out, eager to get in the first “You!”
“You!” quoth the real Granger.
Came my riposte, “The warp of your cardigan has come loose,” and when she looked down, I struck her with my ebony wand, then hustled her into a vacant broomstick closet. After applying a hasty Immobulus spell to the vain little oaf, I hastened to the meeting.
Spineless
If I had known Walnut had become a quivering pile of ichor, I would have packed a draught of NoSnivellus potion. I mean, my word, the indulgent flatulence I see before my eyes! I do not believe I have seen anyone reduced to such spineless inanity . . . save, perhaps, Lucius Malfoy — back in school, when I caught him in the broom closet with black-and-white boudoir photos of Yvonne DeCarlo and a handful of hippogriff oil.
Blathered our dear Walnut, “I’ve written this long post on death, but I don’t know whether to publish or shit-can it –”
I slapped him sharply across the mouth. I find this is the best way to focus his attention.
“Snap out of it, man!” said I. “Did you learn nothing from your brief and largely abysmal time at Hogwarts? Do you lack even the most delicate shred of Slytherin pride?”
In a manner reminiscent of Moaning Myrtle at her most despondent, Walnut wailed, “But what should I do?”
“Fool! Save it as a draft and let your wife read it. The woman has more sense in her little finger than you have in that fat grizzly thing you call a head.”
“But but but then I won’t have a post –”
“I’ll write your post. Satisfied? I’ll be a hack-writer for you, but you must cease this miserable moping at once.”
“You’ll write it? But, what will you write?”
“I have no idea. Perhaps I’ll answer questions about your failure at Hogwarts. Perhaps I’ll — what is it you do when you’re at a loss? — perhaps I’ll share my recipe for batwing and elvenballs soup.”
The floor, as they say, is open.
D.
Thirteen of my favorite potions
The conversation, as best I can recall, went like this:
Walnut: Remember, it’s Thursday.
Me: Indeed. It generally follows Wednesday.
Walnut: I mean, you agreed to write the Thursday Thirteen.
Me (scribbling on parchment) — 13.
Walnut: You’ll have to do better than that.
Me: Thirteen . . . thirteen what? Thirteen numbers, perhaps? I could do that.
Walnut: Look, if you won’t act in good faith, I’m not going to talk to Mrs. Snape for you, and I am not going to help you with Michelle Duggar tomorrow. Do — oh, I don’t know. Do thirteen happy memories.
Me (arctic stare).
Walnut: Okay, don’t do thirteen happy memories. You know what they say — write what you know.
And that, my dear muggles, explains the subject matter of our Thursday Thirteen: my favorite potions.
Responsa
I wanted to post an image of myself seated behind my escritoire, fresh-nibbed pen in hand, thoughtfully considering the answers to your questions, but Mrs. Snape won’t let me retrieve our camera from the luggage. She won’t let me step foot on her side of the house, as a matter of fact, and she has erected a most effective Punishment Veil to ensure her privacy. Vindictive witch.
Note to self:
No more magical houseguests. No. Uh-uh.
— Walnut.
Sadly, you will have to imagine me sitting behind my escritoire, thoughtfully penning my replies. Without further ado . . . (more…)
Q&A
Knock knock knock.
Me: Go away.
Walnut: You’re being ridiculous. You know that, don’t you?
Me: I am never ridiculous.
Walnut: I see . . .
Me: If I remember correctly, you received a D in Defense Against the Dark Arts — and that was a gift.
Walnut: Your point?
Me: Given your shortcomings, I would be careful to whom you direct your sarcasm.
Walnut: Oh. Great. Now you’re threatening me. You’re a guest in my house, and you’re threatening me —
Me: Cautioning you.
Walnut: . . . and you’ve grabbed the laptop and locked yourself in the bathroom. REAL mature, Professor. One little blow-up with Mrs. Snape, and you’re taking it out on the rest of us.
Me: Hardly a little blow-up —
Walnut: Want some advice? If Mrs. Snape is still screaming at you? Not a good time to ask for make-up sex.
Magical hogwash
“Walnut” (and what is it about you muggles and your nicknames? I am reminded of Regina Whitworth, a fellow Slytherin whom I dated during my fourth year at Hogwarts. She insisted on calling me Sevvy, but I put an end to that. Afflicted her with a lengua paralyticus potion; every “Sevvy” produced an array of painful and unseemly spasms. But in the end, Regina had her revenge. No matter how much I wash my hair, it looks like this) finished Jonathan Stroud’s Bartimaeus trilogy today and saw fit to regale me with a tiresome series of quotes and anecdotes.
After an aeon, he noticed my angoisse de vivre and queried, “Did I say something wrong, Professor?”
“No, not at all. I was simply having a painful flashback. Earlier this year, I caught Parvati and Padma Patil giggling over a passage in Ptolemy’s Gate. I made them recount the whole nonsensical mess to me, right then and there.”
“I . . . I don’t think I understand your hostility,” said my host.
“No? Well, let me tell you.”
First, let it not be said that I am immune to the charms of popular culture. Often I listen to Claude Debussy’s Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune on my phonograph whilst sipping espresso and reading Edith Wharton’s The Age of Innocence. I’m not a “total square,” you see. I do, however, object to our young magicians heads’ being filled with this claptrap Mr. Stroud calls entertainment.
I pinned Walnut with my most penetrating stare, the one that makes my Gryffindor students soil their robes.
“It’s stuff and nonsense,” said I. “The magicians in this trilogy are petty, cruel, cowardly, egotistical megalomaniacs. Name me one Hogwarts-trained magician who fits that description.”
“Um, well, there’s He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”
“Not cowardly enough. Try again.”
“Lucius Malfoy?”
“He only plays at cruelty. If Lucius spent more time practicing his Unforgivable Curses and less time preening before the mirror, he might meet the description.”
Walnut squirmed. “Concede the point,” I said. “Without magic, your muggle world would be tawdry. And without magicians, there would be no magic.”
“True enough,” said Walnut. “I rather like Penn and Teller.”
“Grrrrrrr.”
“You still haven’t fully explained your enmity towards the Bartimaeus Trilogy.”
“Imps.”
“Imps?”
“Imps.” I gave a sniff and a dismissive wave. “House elves, by any other name –”
“That’s not true! Stroud’s imps are far more powerful than your house elves.”
“House elves with attitude, I’ll grant them that. And Stroud’s writing –”
“Oh!” said Walnut. “You can’t seriously criticize Stroud’s writing, not if you’re going to compare him to Rowling. Stroud’s a far better writer.”
I growled again and slunk away.
“I know,” said I. “And it galls me mightily.”
I told Dumbledore to audition other candidates for Chief Chronicler, but the fool was quite taken with the woman, heaven only knows why. Perhaps it was her plump, delectable scones.
S.