My Teenage Fan Club

My Teenage Fan Club

"This place is a disgrace," said Severus Snape, casting a critical eye over the clutter of student essays, half-read books, and empty teacups on my desk. "But I suppose you're too busy answering letters from your teenage fan club to think of cleaning it up."

Wolfsbane is the vilest-tasting stuff on earth. It's hard enough to get it down under normal circumstances, and it doesn't help when Severus keeps making comments like that right after I've taken a sip. I'm sure he does it on purpose.

"My teenage fan club?" I said, blotting up the potion I had just spat across the desk. "No, that was last year. You're thinking of Gilderoy Lockhart. I don't have a teenage fan club."

"Oh? Then why did I have to confiscate a love note from another one of your lust-crazed groupies this morning? Miss Bulstrode, if you must know. Nauseating behavior, in a man of your age."

This time I managed to swallow before choking. "What behavior? I assure you, I haven't given Millicent any reason to think I return her, er, affections," I said. (I reflected that her affections seemed likely to take the form of a swift punch in the nose if spurned, and wondered how I would explain matters to the headmaster if I were obliged to defend myself.)

"Don't play innocent," he said. "Do I have underage girls hanging on my every word and giggling? Does Binns? Does Hvarthulf? You must be doing something to encourage them."

Thorgood Hvarthulf teaches Ancient Runes. He is one hundred and seven, has not shaved or cut his hair in fifty years, and sleeps in a tree. I pointed out that while these are all fine qualities on their own, when combined in one person they tend to discourage all but the most deranged lust-crazed groupies. So does being dead. (So does being Severus, added a small wicked voice in the back of my head, but naturally I refrained from saying this aloud.)

He didn't seem impressed with my analysis. "I'll be keeping my eye on you, Lupin. Pervert," he said through his teeth as he left the office.

The trouble with Severus is that while his taunts always put the worst possible spin on other people's motivations, they contain just enough truth to disturb one's peace of mind. I recalled several small incidents from the last few months and came to an alarming conclusion. I had a teenage fan club.

A quick glance at the mirror reassured me that I was still very ordinary-looking. How had I become so popular with the twelve-to-sixteen-year-old set? What did they see in a shabbily dressed, prematurely greying Defence Against the Dark Arts professor? And sweet Merlin, why couldn't this have happened to me twenty years ago?

It all started when I happened to mention to the second-year Ravenclaws that I'd been on a scientific expedition to Dalmatia once, and asked them if they could name any Dark creatures that lived in Dalmatia.

A little blonde-haired girl with her wand stuck behind one ear raised her hand and said in a dreamy voice, "There's the Cross-Eyed or Herbaceous Aberflooie, but my daddy says it isn't really a Dark creature, just misunderstood."

The other students started snorting derisively and rolling their eyes, so I interrupted class for a short lesson on politeness and respect. I don't know how deep an impression it made on the rest of them, but the blonde girl didn't take her eyes off of me for the rest of the class period.

I didn't think much of it when she invited herself into my office, gave me an oddly penetrating stare and remarked that her daddy was very interested in werewolf rights, and proceeded to discuss her theories about the Cross-Eyed or Herbaceous Aberflooie, the Crumple-Horned Snorkack, and the rest of them. It didn't even faze me when she started dropping by for tea every afternoon. The child was lonely and motherless, and she was charming company once you got used to her. I started keeping biscuits as well as tea in the office, and began to think of myself as a sort of unlikely substitute mum.

It was not until just before Christmas, when one of the house-elves presented me with a set of cufflinks that appeared to have been crafted out of butterbeer caps, that I began to suspect her feelings toward me were not entirely daughterly.

At least they didn't seem to be motherly, which is more than I can say for Susan Bones. She turned up in my office a few days after the full moon, bearing a goblet of something greenish and murky-looking. "Hello, Professor," she said shyly. "Are you feeling any better?"

"Yes, much better. Thanks for asking."

"Professor Snape was just teaching us how to make a Strengthening Potion. I thought you'd better have some."

Did I say Wolfsbane was the vilest-tasting stuff on earth? I meant the second vilest. I sipped the potion heroically and took a surreptitious look around the office, trying to decide which of my potted plants seemed most in need of strengthening. "Much appreciated, Susan. That was very thoughtful of you."

She beamed. "Is there anything else I can bring you?"

Yes, dear, said the small wicked voice, your Auntie Amelia.

"No, I don't think so, thanks."

This scene was repeated several times over the next few days with various female students. After spending half an afternoon trying to extract my books from the tendrils of the smallest potted plant, which seemed to have been strengthened with a vengeance, I decided it was time for a word with Severus. "Er, you didn't happen to suggest to any of your third-years that I might be in need of a Strengthening Potion?"

"Certainly not," he said, regarding me through narrowed eyes. "They came to that on their own. I consider it disgusting."

"Yes, it is," I said feelingly. "You haven't thought of teaching them anything about flavorings? I was thinking a little cinnamon or vanilla might improve it..."

"Flavorings?" He waved a hand around the dungeons. "Does this look like a culinary school?"

"Well, no, I suppose most culinary schools aren't this well stocked with eye of newt."

"There's your answer. No."

And then there was a certain sixth-year who shall remain nameless. Many students in N.E.W.T.-level classes request extra tutoring in the evenings, so I didn't suspect that she had ulterior motives when she asked me to meet her in an empty classroom - or even when she said, her eyes round and innocent, "My wand seems to have gone all funny. D'you think I could have a go with yours, just to make sure it's working properly?"

"Well, a wizard's wand is a fairly personal item," I explained. "Most of them don't work so well when other people handle them."

"Oh, in my experience they do," she said, placing a hand on my thigh and gazing at me in an unmistakably suggestive manner.

Sixteen-year-old girls didn't behave that way when I was at school. Did they? Why had I never encountered any?

"Er'm," I said, jumping away before she could expand her experience any further. "I just remembered that Professor McGonagall is very adept at this particular spell. Perhaps you should get her to tutor you instead."

If I had any lingering doubts about the existence of my teenage fan club, they were erased on the fourteenth of February when I received a startling number of Valentines, one of which serenaded me with a song called "His Hair is as Brown as Freshly-Mixed Mud." (As I said earlier, I have not been favored with the sort of looks that inspire great poetry.) Hagrid and Filius found this hilarious and kept composing additional verses, most of them extremely rude, but to do them credit, once they figured out that I was genuinely embarrassed, they left me alone in the staff room to have a cup of tea in peace. I was interrupted by a very small house-elf carrying a very large stack of envelopes.

"Sir must excuse Pippy," she said, "but is sir Professor Lupin?"

"No," I said quickly. "Certainly not. Hardly even know the man."

"Please, does sir know where Pippy might find him? This is Pippy's first time out of the kitchens, and Pippy is very anxious to please, but she is not knowing any of the professors by sight."

I looked at the house-elf and the valentines. They were the singing kind. It was too perfect. And, of course, completely immature, irresponsible and unprofessional. No. I wasn't going to give in to temptation.

Come on, Moony, said the small wicked voice, which on this occasion sounded remarkably like James Potter's. You're the last man standing. Do it for all of us.

"He's the black-haired one with the hooked nose," I said. "If you hurry, you might be able to catch him in the Potions classroom right before class begins."

Pippy scurried away in the direction of the dungeons, and I wandered off to my own classroom humming "His Hair is as Brown as Freshly-Mixed Mud" and feeling, upon reflection, not even slightly guilty. Holidays are supposed to be about generosity and giving, aren't they? Since I had been blessed with a teenage fan club, it seemed only right to share the benefits with my less fortunate colleague.