Correspondence Course

Chapter Four: Me Tarzan, You Owl

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

 

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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

 

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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 probably 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.”

 

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“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.

 

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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-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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Mr Bugleblower:

I have examined the ‘Flobberworm’ specimen you sent to me in your last letter. The reason why it refuses to eat or grow is quite simple: It is a rubber band. I wish you had half as good an excuse for being an idiot.

Sincerely,

Severus Prince-Snape

 

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Misty:

First of all, I insist that you furnish me with your surname, if such things exist in America, and that you refrain from addressing me as ‘Sev.’ This is not a nightclub or a bubble-gum chew. We are on a professional footing here, if you are capable of understanding such a concept. For the same reason, do not send me any more photographs of you in your bathing attire. It makes you look like a beached hippopotamus anyway.

Sincerely,

Professor S. Prince-Snape

As “Mystii” was in fact Rosalind Antigone Bungs, one of the cutest Keepers ever to grace the goalposts of the Holyhead Harpies, I thought this was rather unfair of Professor Prince-Snape. But there is, of course, no accounting for tastes.

He had not answered the third letter, the one from Sister Mary Perpetua, so I decided to send off a reminder:

Dear Professor Prince-Snape,

I understood from Mr Harbottle that I would hear from you within the week, but perhaps I misunderstood, or your letter has gone astray. If not – I do not mean to pry, but may I ask whether you are in any sort of trouble? Please do not hesitate to let me know if I can, in my small way, offer you any assistance.

If, however, you are simply displeased with the statue of St. Mungo, I agree that it may not have been one of my better efforts, so I have enclosed an additional sample of my work. I should be most grateful for any criticism you can offer.

Sister Mary Perpetua

I Transfigured an extra leaf of parchment into a delicate little angel, and sent it off.