Chapter 5 : Quidditch, Quirrel, and Quarrels
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I could scream. Actually, I did scream. The second I heard, I flew into Dumbledore’s office with the speed of a drunken missionary, spluttering and squawking in the way that only Dumbledore would understand.
“Severus,” he said, acting like he was a good, old mate (he is not), “I understand that you are upset about Harry.”
You see, Dumbledore likes to pretend that he can read minds. I bet he just keeps a list of all the things that he knows make me want to kill him, so that whenever I swoop down upon him, he can take it out, choose the most likely item, and then think that I think that he is reading my mind, which makes him feel really intelligent. (He is not.)
“But you must understand,” he continued, “that Minerva was desperate. I am quite sure that I’d bend the rules in the same way for you.”
I just gaped attractively for a moment and then gave my Die-You-Fiend Glare (with a slight baring of teeth), before storming out of the room. I refuse to converse with people who talk out of their arses. Then I decided that I could not let him off so easily, so back I ran to tell him how I felt. But again, I just couldn’t stand his voice. It kept talking. And it was talking total codswallop, too. So out I went again within moments.
This back-and-forth continued for a full ten minutes, until I collapsed against the wall across from those dumb gargoyles that guard his office. I never was a good endurance runner. Then that’s when I realized that even though I was no longer in his office, he was still talking to me. I could hear it through the wal,l and I was not going to stand for it.
“SHUT UP!” I yelled. A pair of seventh years were walking by, and that perked them up, let me tell you. One of them jumped out a nearby window, and the other pitched her books into the air so high that they slammed into the ceiling, and then ran. Unfortunately for her, she tripped over nothing at all and fell right on top of me, which would have been uncomfortable enough if I was not her professor.
I pretended not to notice (a difficult thing when someone is smack on top of you), and just kept yelling at the old bearded man, “YOU’RE STILL TALKING YOU OLD FART! I CAN’T HEAR YOU! LALALALALAAAAAALA!” The unfortunate Seventh Year Girl was wise enough to flee, “YOU GREAT, GREEN, GIANT, POTTER-LOVING, UNRECOGNIZABLE TALKING-FOOL! EAT YOUR WORDY WORDING WORDS, SEE IF I CARE! YOUR SOCKS SMELL LIKE QUIRREL ANYWAY AND NOBODY LIKES LEMON DROPS! WRINKLY LIMA BEAN!”
You know what? I think I will stop there. You see, sometimes something so witty in retrospect can seem like waffle, but I’m sure that in context ...Yes, I’m sure. Yes.
From now on I should just ignore myself, and not listen to or comprehend a word that I say. It would make life so much easier.
But in any case, Dumbledore’s favouritism has reached an all-time high. If I hadn’t already known for a fact that his last lover (urggggggghhhhhhhhhh) was a woman named Norma Jean “El Dicionario” Who, then I would think that there was something between him and McGonagall. I would tease him about it if it didn’t give me a distinct nauseous feeling thinking of anyone snogging either of those old bags. In that respect, they go very well together.
Still. Lima bean? It’s hard to believe that I, Master of Wit, could have said that. One would think that someone or other could have smote me down with a lightening bolt, as a favor, before I let that leave my mouth.
And this Quidditch thing was not the only thing I had to annoy me at the time. “Professor” Quirrel had now taken to stalking me. No, I am not joking. He followed me around like a bobbing piece of nothingness in a turban. And he began asking me dubious questions.
For example, he asked, “So, Severus, what was your l-line of work before H-hogwarts?”
This, as I'm sure you realize, is a thoroughly stupid question. Everyone knows what I did. I murdered innocent civilians. So I decided to have a private joke with myself and said:
“Oh, I was the Ministerial Dentist. That’s why it made so much sense for me to become a potions teacher. Because, you know, dentistry and potions are very closely linked.”
“Really,” Quirrel said. He looked exquisitely irritated, and he was doing a very bad job of hiding it. I’ve never seen him angry before, because he always quivers so much that it makes me twitch to look him right in the face because of all that moving around. He had forgotten his quiver, though, so I could observe very accurately that he is ugly. That fact rather distracted me, so I wasn’t quite paying attention when he said, “I had thought, for some reason, that you worked for V-v-v-v-vvv-vvvvvvv-v-v-v-v-vvvvv-vo-vo-vv-v-vo-vo—”
He went into some sort of spasm and purple electrical-looking shocks—I swear—began to come from his turban. It looked very painful, but I couldn’t be bothered helping him. First of all, I was too busy laughing at him to do anything else and secondly because I didn’t feel like finishing the conversation. Discussing the finer points of all my moral failings with Quirrel would have been the end of me.
So that’s the way I left him, a heap of turbaned nothingness, writhing from the electrical shocks emitted from his own turban. I wondered if that turban was of his own design, to stop him from ever saying the Dark Lord’s name if he ever felt tempted. I thought it strange though, that he would shock himself. But it was also very convenient. It saved me the trouble of doing it myself.
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