#in fact she got almost ridiculously aristocratic education.

[sovamurka]

it was so funny and interesting to learn that I'm the lowest (i.e. poorest) kind of ✨интеллигенция✨ because I'm a teacher's daughter

[avantegarda]

The Jury Is Out

When the coronavirus comes to town, why then lads, I stay up late and write bits from my novel from the POV of another character. It’s a writing exercise, I say. 

Meet György Király: The World’s Grouchiest Dad

György Király was a man of not only solid but quick judgement, and once he’d come to a conclusion about someone he was nearly always correct. Hadn’t he known within two weeks of meeting Anna Lázár that she was the wife for him? Hadn’t he said, back in ‘52, that young Ben Arany from down the street was a no-good young fool—only two months before the boy was arrested for picking pockets? And hadn’t he been able to tell straightaway that Professor Strobel, the fellow from that Austrian music school, would immediately recognize young Andras’ talent?

No indeed, there wasn’t a soul on Szerdahelyi Street who was a better judge of character than György. Which was why there could be no doubt that the disapproval he felt towards his future daughter-in-law was entirely justified.

 Certainly, the girl had a certain appeal; Marta was a fine-looking young woman in that soft powdered aristocratic way. Nice eyes, good posture, and what the old ladies would call child-bearing hips. It was understandable that Andras was attracted to her—but good God, marrying her? It beggared belief. Pretty she might have been, but Marta didn’t know how to do anything useful. 

Over the two days since Andras had first brought her home, in fact, György had been compiling a mental list of things Marta had apparently never learned how to do. These included:

Speaking Hungarian (what had those fancy governesses of hers taught her? French? When did French ever do anyone any good?)

Cooking (Ilka, bless her, had tried to help, but Marta burned herself so frequently it seemed likely she would lose a finger)

Cleaning (how was it possible that a twenty-one-year-old woman, even a countess, had gone her entire life without using a duster?)

There were plenty more, an almost astonishing amount. Had he written in down György was certain the list would have taken up an entire newspaper. One could put Marta on a shelf and dust her every Sunday and she’d be about as useful as she was now.

But of course there wasn’t any good in talking to Andras about these problems. The boy was utterly smitten, a blind man could see that. He looked at Marta with the same level of passion he usually reserved for that violin of his, never let go of her hand for more than a few minutes. And the girls, usually a reasonable lot, weren’t much help either. Having a glamorous, aristocratic future sister-in-law seemed to have turned all their heads to the point where they couldn’t see what a mistake this whole affair was.

When György had, in the past, contemplated Andras falling in love with someone who wasn’t Clara (ridiculous business, giving a fiddle a name), he’d always hoped it would be someone like Andras’ late mother. What better wife could a man have asked for than Anna Király? Practical, hardworking, good to the children...not to mention a damned handsome woman. It hadn’t been any hardship to have four children with her, no sir. Bit of a relief, really, that Andras had gotten the hair and the height from Anna’s side of the family. Not that György cared much about his own looks, but it was obvious that Anna had been the better-looking of the two of them. 

He’d loved her, he really had. György wasn’t a man much given to sentimentality, but the twenty years he’d spent with that woman had been the happiest years of his life.

Andras deserved someone like that. Someone with backbone, with common sense. Someone who would stick with him through the hard times. Not some frivolous snob of an heiress who’d likely run back to her fancy relatives the minute she had to sweep a floor by herself.

There were two days until the wedding now. And, wrong as he knew it was, György couldn’t resist sending up a prayer that something would happen to stop it.

Voices in the hallway outside the flat brought György back to the present—none of the neighbors, as they were speaking German. Andras and Marta, then, probably back from inspecting their new flat. At least once they got their own home he wouldn’t have to try and make conversation with Marta every day, or watch Andras making sheep’s eyes at her. 

What were they talking about out there, anyway? It couldn’t have been anything good. As the footsteps in the hall grew closer György could detect in Andras’ voice a frantic note that could only mean he was slipping into one of his panicky spells.

He’d always been like that, not that the boy could help it. On the night before he’d left for music school Andras had been up nearly the whole night plagued by nerves, pale as a ghost, barely able to speak. György and Anna had sat with him for hours at the kitchen table, neither of them entirely sure what to do, but both determined to make their son smile again. He’d been so frightened, the poor lad, so convinced that he was letting down the family if he left.

It was a damn unpleasant sensation, seeing his boy like that. Especially as there was so little he could do to fix it. 

György had never learned much German (what was the point, really?), but he could still make out bits and pieces of the conversation going on in the hall. Andras, his voice tight and strained with worry, was saying something involving the words job and opera. No surprise there, those opera company folks had been decent to Andras. A situation like that was a hard loss.

Was this an argument he was overhearing, then? After all, the silly toff had cost Andras the job in the first place, and perhaps she had never properly apologized. Those rich Austrians never took a hint of responsibility for all the trouble they caused; why should this one be any different?

But Marta, when she spoke, did not sound argumentative. Her voice was gentle, almost soothing, and György could just about make out the words Vienna and love.

She sounded like Anna. 

Though György’s heart rebelled against the very thought of anyone being compared to his beloved wife, the way that girl was talking to Andras was just the way Anna had at times like this. Even more shocking, it seemed to work; Andras’ reply, after a pause, was considerably calmer.

When Andras and Marta entered the flat, György experienced a familiar flash of annoyance. Intellectually he knew that Marta had almost no possessions of her own, that she’d left everything behind when she’d fled England, but seeing her wearing one of Anna’s old dresses—a dark green one that was too long and too tight across the chest and altogether wrong on her—felt like a slap in the face. 

Marta’s wide red mouth curved into a hopeful smile, and she dropped into an elegant curtsy. “Szia, Mr. Király.” 

Once György had emitted a vague noise of greeting in reply, Marta nodded, kissed Andras on the cheek, and then—finally—retreated to the girls’ bedroom.

“So,” said György as the door closed behind her. “You and your fancy woman have a nice chat?”

Andras sighed. “I wish you wouldn’t call her that, Pa. It’s very inaccurate. But I hope we didn’t disturb you.”

“No. But I did overhear a bit...not that I could understand much,” György admitted. “Sounded as though you were upset. You all right, son?”

“I am now,” said Andras, with a faint smile. “Merely making a fuss over nothing, as I always do.”

“Your old job in Vienna?”

“It was a good job,” Andras said wistfully. “They didn’t pay me much, I know, but it was a fine little company. And it suddenly hit me that...I might never see any of them again. And that hurt like hell.”

György grunted in sympathy. “And what did your future wife have to say about that?” 

Andras’ face softened into an unbearably soppy smile. “Marta always knows precisely what to say when I get like this. She told me that we’d go back to Vienna one day, even if just for a visit, and it was highly likely we’d be able to see all my old mates again. And then she informed me that her expensive education enables her to know with utmost precision that things are going to be all right, and even if they’re not entirely, we’ll still be together.” He looked at György almost pleadingly. “I know you don’t entirely trust her yet, Pa. But I hope it will comfort you to know that when I panic like that, there are two things that keep me sane: music, and Marta.”

György felt a hot spike of shame in his stomach. An unfamiliar sensation, to say the least. Had he, perhaps, been marginally mistaken in his original assessment of Marta? Her words certainly didn’t sound like those of a woman who planned to bolt.

Nor, he had to admit, did they sound like the words of someone who would make a terrible Király.

Time would tell, he supposed.

“Well!” he said at last, in as gruff a tone as he could manage. “At least the girl knows how to do something.”

When György Király judged someone’s character, his impressions were never wrong.

Except, apparently, when they were.

[hpdabbles]

So i just found your Hufflepuff Draco fic and it’s amazing!!! I love it so much!!! I really hope you continue it because it is truly marvelous to read!!!

Draco’s parents pull him out of Hogwarts for a few days to recover properly from his encounter with the troll. Not that he really needs to do so but his father won’t hear anything otherwise and the man has enough leverage in the Education Board to make it happen.

With a whirlwind of “fix your security before I fix you a new job Headmaster!” and dozen of papers to sign for his excused absents including having his professors agree to send him any missed work via owl, the Malfoys leave the castle well into the next day.

The Golden Trio plus the older Weasleys promise to send him owls as well. His father pulled a not-so face- like he’s bitting back a grimace- when he saw his visitors and his mother had tightened her jaw but neither said anything. 

Maybe it had something to do with the heavy stare Draco was directing at them all but daring them to oppose his acquaintances.

He’s then taken home, where they proceeded to pamper him near to death. He’s told to not worry about school, not worry about any social events and to pretty much take is nice and slow. The Hufflepuff is all but ordered to remain in bed as if though he would drop dead at any second. Draco would have enjoyed it a lot more if his parents weren’t hovering around every corner.

“Draco darling. Would you like the house elves to bring you more pillows? More blankets?” His mother asked as Draco stared at the actual nest of bedding built around him.  He had no idea they own these many pillows. 

“No mother it’s fine”

“Son. Don’t strain yourself walking downstairs. I will have a house-elf bring up your meals instead.”  His father said after seeing Draco in the hallway. He put a gentle but firm hand on his back to steer him into his bedroom once more.

“I thought eating upstairs was against the rules? Besides father I’m fine. I can walk down the stairs.”  

“Nonsense. You’re hurt.”

“Draco darling. What are you doing?” Narcissa asked

“Um reading my class assignments? I’ve missed three days already.”

“You should be resting not worrying about something as silly as class assignments! Now, come, it’s time for bed.”

“Mother it’s barely six in the afternoon!” Draco protested trying really hard not to pull his own hair out.

“A growing young wizard needs plenty of rest. Especially after such a traumatizing event.”

“I’m not traumatized!”

 What is wrong with them? They have never been this protective. The first time around the two had been more than thrilled to sign on to a madman campaigning for genocide and hadn’t batted an eye when he had join said madman at age sixteen.

No something else change. Something drastic, something that affects the family. Draco just couldn’t figure out what that was. 

He highly doubts his sorting resulted in this kind of behavior, in fact, he was all but sure it would have done the opposite effect. Since it’s the only thing he’s changed that could have influenced his parents - making conversation with his classmates and being a glorified babysitter at his boarding school shouldn’t have done anything to him-  he couldn’t see what had happened.

Another strange change is the number of letters he receives. Draco was many things but well-liked wasn’t one of them. Yet he found a pile of envelopes and packages stacked on his bedside table by Dobby. The majority are from the students he helped since arriving, the ones who had earned him the Nicest  First Year Wizard title, all wishing get wells and we miss yous, a few even coming with some candy and pictures. 

It made him feel sort of guilty. Draco didn’t remember half of their names not having clocked them as too important.

The oddest letters, however, are from various aristocratic pureblood families who have somehow gotten wind of his injuries and had sent him gifts along with proper wishing you will in these hard times cards. They were acting like Draco was terribly ill, which was a little mind blogging. He only got hit by a troll! A few broken bones and a bruised ego wasn’t something to worry them so much like this.

His parents didn’t want him returning to Hogwarts despite his injuries had healed well over and him almost missing a month and half of the classes. If this keeps up he wouldn’t need to go since the winter holidays would just send turn right back around. 

Draco was getting fed up with the babying, the new rules his parents had instilled to not “exhaust his body too much” and the diet they had put him on was nearly nothing but greens and milk.

Milk!

Draco didn’t even like milk! 

It was reaching ridiculous levels. A time-traveling man couldn't even go for a walk in his own garden with his peacocks without his parents' nervous fretting. Slowly but surely he was being confined in his room. 

Draco had hoped the various healers his parents had brought over the last few weeks to do “tests and examinations” would have told them to calm the hell down but instead each one only worried his parents more.

He has been to St. Mungo’s much more then he thinks any time in his life, all to do further tests. What were they looking for? Draco was perfectly healthy, and he really just wanted to get out of the mansion!

Luckily daily letters with Potter were keeping his cabin fever down. The boy never failed to send him a letter each morning about the previous day and things he missed, surprising very well detail and good storytelling in his writing for someone his age.

Then one day, exactly two weeks before Chrismas - he was going to fail his first year. He was totally going to be the first Malfoy to be held back in the first year!- that a specialist healer arrived. 

He waved his wand over Draco, doing some quick spells before stepping out with his parents into the hall. There were a few muffled voices, a sound that he thought meant one of his parents were crying, most likely his mother before all three came back in. 

Both his parents were sporting watery eyes but only his mother allowed them to silently roll down her face. 

The Hufflepuff took one look at them before decided he could finish reading his newest stacks of owls another time.

Putting down Potter’s letter, which was describing how he somehow weaseled his way into the Quidditch team again, he gave the other adults his full attention. How that was possible without him being there to taunt the boy into flying after Longbottom’s remembrall made his head spin even if Potter gave the reason. It was ironic that one of Longbottom’s own house members took to throwing his little toy around. Poor kid couldn’t catch a break, could he?

“Mr. Malfoy, we need to tell you something very important.” The Healer, Springmist, started looking both gentle and professional. His mother went around the bed to hold his hand which greatly alarmed him.  

“Okay? What is it?” He asked when the room decided into a somber silence.

“Mr. Malfoy. Have you recently notice that your magic has been acting differently?” Springmist ask.

“No, sir I haven’t. Why?”

His father made a small choking noise and when Draco turns to look at him the other man quickly wipes away some stray tears before offering his startled son a wet smile.

“Nothing at all? No pain, or fatigue when casting spells? Have you experienced any hardship in moving about? Any trouble breathing, seeing, or hearing? ” Healer Springmist quickly regains his attention even if he just wants to ask his father what in the world was wrong.  

“No, sir. I already said this before. I feel fine.”  A bit of irritation leaked into his voice but he was sick and tired of the same questions being asked of him by so many Healers already.  “The troll barely even touched me.”

“Yes. It barely did. You were quite brave to help defend your friends like.”  Draco does not like the slightly patronizing way Springmist said that. Talking down to him as if though he is a child- oh wait.  “But it’s my professional advice that you never ever do something like that again. Your body can’t handle it.”

“I’m certainly not going to make a habit of fighting trolls sir. I do want to live, you know.”

At that, his mother let out one pain gasp. She gave his hand a squeeze but shook her head when Draco raised a quibble brow at her. His father came to his other side, bringing the startled Hufflepuff into a tight one arm hug. The man was never one to show such open emotions, at least not without a trusted company but he didn’t seem to want to remove his nose from Draco’s hair nor lessen his strong grip.

This springs his mother to join the hug and together they squeeze him between them, choking on sobs. Over the smell of expensive perfume and warm limbs, Draco sends the Healer a desperate look.  What in the world is happening!?

The Healer’s face clouded over in sorrow briefly before he took a deep breath and then he drops the strongest stunner on Draco’s head. Holding out a piece of parchment he says in a perfectly gentle tone. “Mr. Malfoy I’m terribly sorry to say this, but you have tested positive for MDC.”

“What?”

“MDC stands for Magical Decaying Core. It happens when someone core suddenly starts producing too much magic or not enough and begins to rot away at the body.” Springmist continues “It’s a slow process and there are treatments to help control-”

He is cut off by Draco getting out of his parents’ hold to rip the parchment put of his hands desperately. The boy’s eyes run over the words quickly, only half understanding the various results and healer notes but almost all of them agree that his magic production had jump drastically. The first stages of MDC.

But this can’t be! Draco hadn’t had it before, nor was there a history of it in his family. At least not the Malfoy side, he wasn’t so sure about the Blacks. Still, MDC wasn’t a laughing matter, it was one of the most painful ways a wizard could go.

It trapped the person in their own decaying body, robbing them of their ability to breathe on their own, or taking some of the senses like sight or hearing. Treatments was available but it only delayed the inevitable. Once someone had MDC they on average only had five years left, three if one didn’t count the last two which robbed the person of basic body functions. 

Was this a side effect of the ritual? Was that why no one attempted to time travel even though the secret was store away in Black Forrbbin Family Vault? 

Dammit, Potter what did you do to me!?

“Draco darling?” His mother says watching him with sad eyes as he read over the Healers report again and again. He could barely hear her over the ringing in his eyes. MDC. They thought he had MDC? 

Suddenly his eyes fell on a chart. Next to it, there were numbers that indicated the healthy amount of wizards of different ages should be showing. 

It graphed his magic production, and Draco felt a crashing wave of relief when he realizes the date his magic started to act differently. September 1st. The first spike.

The day he arrived. He was producing the magic of a full-grown adult but not because of MDC. Oh, thank Merlin!

He wobbled in place the ripples of relief still effecting his body but his father was quick to hold him up, one large warm hand on his tiny back and the other on his arm.  “Draco? Son? Do you need to lay down?”

“No. No. I’m fine! Really look! My magic only change on September first! That’s the day I went on the Hogwarts Express!” He breathes looking up at them happily. 

Springmist looked slightly heartbroken for him. “I’m afraid starting magical classes don’t cause this much of a-”

“No. I meant it’s the day I time traveled! I’m fine! Perfectly fine. Well despite being stuck in this body but trust me, I’m perfectly healthy!”  He gushes momentarily forgetting he shouldn’t have told them this. He’s not thinking too clearly, because he just avoided one to worst ways to go and he thinks he deserves spilling a secret like this in his emotional state.

 It’s not like Draco wanted to stay alive per-say but he didn’t want to go out painfully either. 

“Oh, Draco.” His mother whispers hugging him to her chest. She’s crying loudly again and even his father is sobbing openly. Healer Springmist is polite to not comment but he seems heartbroken completely now “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Darling, my little boy, I’m so sorry”

“Mother it’s okay. I’m fine!”

“Son, my dragon, I understand this is hard to accept.” Father starts joining their hug, chocking on his words as the Healer tells them he’ll go outside to give the family a few minutes. No one really pays attention when he slips into the hallway. “We’ll get through this together I swear it.”

They don’t believe him!?  

“Guys really I’m a time traveler! I’m actually twenty-five! I was working on my Magic History Thesis paper for my Spell Creation and Study degree before I came here.  Harry Potter sent me back!”

“Harry Potter?” His father says. He looks over at the pile of letters that all have Potter’s terrible penmanship but delightful stories rested. His father’s blue eyes, nothing like the silver Draco and his mother sported look down at him, searching his face for something and seeming to break what was left of the man’s heart after finding it.  “We can invite Potter here for the summer, love. I- I want you to experience whatever you can while you have time”

“What?”

“Lucius!” 

“I meant time in Hogwarts Narcissa!”

His mother presses her lips tight together but she nods eagerly when Draco looks at her with wild eyes. “You’re father’s right darling. We can invite that nice handsome young man over. If it will make you happy.”

“Mother what-?”

“In fact, we can send him an invitation for him to spend the Winter Holidays here! We’ll set up some nice mistletoes too.” She says with forced cheer. It’s painful to watch. And what does she mean mistletoes!?

“A splendid idea Narcissa. I’ll have the finest mistletoes shipped in at once.” Father is quick to say then he wipes some tears away as he attempts a smile. “We’ll make you look irresistible when he arrives. That boy won’t know what hit him.”

Wait. Wait. Were they trying to hook him up with Potter!? EEEEEW.

“Mother, Father,  seriously I’m a time-traveler! And I don’t like Potter that way!”

“We’ll get through this together son.”

“You’re not listening to me!”

[wherestoriescomefrom]

sorry to bother but i remember reading something about you writing a paper on how happiness is weaponized in hp and i was wondering if you had any links? i'd love to read that

Shit, anon! I lost this ask entirely because I thought my tumblr glitched or you deleted it!! Don’t worry though, I’ll do my best to answer it and I hope you find out that I answered it. I’m really unsure about the notification system on tumblr currently. 

So unfortunately, the paper you are talking about was never published because it was one of my earliest papers as an undergrad student, so it requires a lot of cleaning up before its anywhere close to publishable. If you would really like to read it, you can dm me privately, and I don’t mind emailing it at all. It wasn’t specifically about weaponised happiness, but rather the role of laughter in talking truth to power. The title of the paper is “MischiefManaged: The Interaction of Humour and Fantasy in Harry Potter.” 

I’m going to take out some of the arguments I had originally written, so you can have a sense of the paper and the overarching thesis. I’ll also attach my bibliography under a Read More link. Anytime you see a line break, assume that I’m quoting from a different part of the paper! 

“The regulation and order of theDursleys is a method of exercising control over Harry. Their sense of normalcycomes from having avoided this complex other world and from making sure Harrynever finds it. Hogwarts becomes a welcome world, one of mess and magic,disorder and laughter, where Harry finds himself through the contrasts.             

Hogwarts becomes Harry’s escape – “frombeing the oppressed and ignored, Harry becomes the often feted cynosure. Frombeing alone, he gains the huge new family of the school and the domestic familyof the Weasleys, with whose children he becomes friends. From being without apurpose, his life is given structure and meaning.” (Manlove 186)             

The world of Hogwarts is analternative – a carnival of belonging and acceptance. The normal rules do notoperate here, and Harry often notes this. The mirror image to life with theDursleys is in life with the Weasleys, a motif that repeats itself both in anemotional acceptance and a physical difference. For instance: 

Lifeat The Burrow was as different as possible from life in Privet Drive. TheDursleys liked everything neat and ordered; the Weasleys’ house burst with thestrange and unexpected. Harry got a shock the first time he looked in themirror over the kitchen mantelpiece and it shouted, ‘Tuck your shirt in,scruffy!’ The ghoul in the attic howled and dropped pipes whenever he feltthings were getting too quiet, and small explosions from Fred and George’sbedroom were considered perfectly normal. What Harry found most unusual aboutlife at Ron’s, however, wasn’t the talking mirror or the clanking ghoul: it wasthe fact that everybody there seemed to like him. (Rowling, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets 23)

Themad world of Hogwarts gives Harry the language to rebel against the Dursleys.Magic becomes a liberating force, and, interestingly, we find this languagetranslated into humour. One of the first instances of the Dursleys being unableto bully Harry is in Hagrid’s arrival. Hagrid’s response to Vernon Dursley’sattempts to control the situation are simple – giving Dudley Dursley a pig’stail. This comical image is meant to invoke laughter in us, and seems to teachHarry as well. Harry’s first active act of rebellion against the Dursleysoccurs in Harry Potter and the Prisonerof Azkaban, where Harry blows his Aunt Marge up. Images of comic releaseare used alongside magic for both the young audiences, and the larger politicalpoint being made about translating the language of resistance. Magic existsbetween gaps of reality and unreality; interacting with humour allows it tobecome a powerful statement against overpowering authority.” 

“By creating this identity, thearistocratic ‘Purebloods’ ensure a binary between the two identities. Bylocating this identity within a body, a target is created, and the way theauthority interacts with this body determines the nature of this body. It isthis very body that is later punished. This identity itself is constructed:there is no definite way of being able to trace a bloodline back to itssources, and as the ‘trimmed’ portions of the Black family tree demonstrate,almost all the so-called ‘Pureblood’[1] families have a certainamount of ‘Muggle Blood’ mixed in. However, they very naming of the blood status is what allows the society to assumethere are differentiations. 

Thenaming itself gives authority figures like Dolores Umbridge the legal authorityto ‘cleanse’ the Wizarding society. Nomenclature is crucial in the creation ofa shared enemy – similar to the innocuous ‘Mudblood,’ Voldemort’s regime in theMinistry of Magic brings out similar chilling identifications. Emily AsherPerrin analyses that Harry is termed an “Undesirable” (Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows 190) – once again, aninnocuous term, once stripped of the political connotations. Therefore, thesocietal situation created by the very existence of the term ‘Mudblood’ is whatallows a Voldemort, and, more importantly, an Umbridge.

The segregation of identities occursbetween racially different creatures, as well. The most touted example for thiswould be the treatment of the Houselves. Once again, common place, everydaynames and objects are used to define their identity. Wizards have the privilegeof defining their relationship with Houselves, and lack of education ensuresthat they will never find a framework outside this definition to operate in.”

“Thelanguage Harry learns to assert his identity against the Dursleys is intimatelysimilar to the language that the youngsters of Harry’s communities have tolearn to assert their identities against legally sanctioned authority figures.Harry’s wit and sarcasm against figures who hold power over them is a commontrope within the Dursley household; the threshold is crossed when he uses thesame language to speak to figures like Severus Snape and Dolores Umbridge:

‘Whodo you imagine wants to attack children like yourselves?’ enquired ProfessorUmbridge in a horribly honeyed voice.

‘Hmm,let’s think ...’ said Harry in a mock thoughtful voice. ‘Maybe ... LordVoldemort?’

Rongasped; Lavender Brown uttered a little scream; Neville slipped sideways offhis stool. Professor Umbridge, however, did not flinch. She was staring atHarry with a grimly satisfied expression on her face. (Rowling, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix 213 - 214)

 ‘Doyou remember me telling you we are practising non-verbal spells, Potter?’

‘Yes,’said Harry stiffly.

‘Yessir.’

‘There’sno need to call me “sir”, Professor.’ (Rowling, Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince 138 - 139)

 Wedo not necessarily see Harry directing sarcasm and wit towards teachers beforethis – Professor Umbridge breaks this barrier, and we see Harry rebellingagainst the corrupted undercurrent of the world he loves so well. His responseto this corruption is similar to his response towards the Dursleys, accessing alanguage of ridicule and mockery to make his point.

The effect this has is manifold: themethod to critique authority becomes humour. By belittling Umbridge’s ideas,Harry is able to expose how hollow they are. This method also helps to establisha sense of community: since humour is a function of a shared set of values, wesee its use as a tool of rebellion a way to unite a voiceless minority. NevilleLongbottom articulates this himself, when he points out “It helps when peoplestand up to them, it gives everyone hope. I used to notice that when you didit, Harry.” (Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows 432) Oppression and restrictions are battledby communities, communities willing to laugh at the ones who create theseoppressive structures.”

“The schoolwide campaign of pranksagainst Umbridge is instigated by them [Harry and Friends], used by them to undermine herauthority, to make her rules seem worthless and arbitrary. Their act oftransgression has interesting consequences, for the community that they aretrying to bring together. “Now you mention it,’ said Hermione happily, ‘d’youknow ... I think I’m feeling a bit ... rebellious,” (Rowling, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix 533) becomes a sentimentthat gives the language of rebellion to the students of Hogwarts, many of whomhave not faced ideology in operation before Umbridge. In fact, expressinghumour in the face of oppression seems to erase “signs of fear” from Fred’scountenance. The creation of the Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes is what allowsstudents to access this sense of power over Umbridge, and it is usedeffectively against her over and over again.

The similarities between Umbridge’sregime and Voldemort’s regime are uncanny. As a foreshadowing, Harry’sexperience with Umbridge teaches him how to articulate himself againstVoldemort’s claims to power. When Harry attempts to infiltrate the Ministryduring the rule of Voldemort, hidden under the political façade of PiusThickness, once again, the products developed by Fred and George Weasley. DecoyDetonators, Extendable Ears, Skiving Snackboxes, and other pranks are used toinfiltrate a serious political institution, and used effectively. The Weasley’sWizard Wheezes becomes a rallying cry for humour even during the time whenVoldemort is at large, without the legal sanction of the Ministry. “U No Poo” (Rowling, Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince 91)is a masterminded subversion of the Voldemort’s attempt to construct hisidentity as something larger-than-life. Voldemort uses names to terrify peopleinto submission. By making his very name inaccessible, he makes his identityuntouchable, inconceivable and fearsome. The prank created by Fred and Georgeis extremely clever in the way it recaptures this space, reducing Voldemort’sunspeakable terror into something that everyone can access withoutapprehension.” 

Foof!! That Went long. Hope it answered your questions, Anon, and I’m including the bibliography. Mind, if I was writing this paper again, that bibliography is going to be much longer, so if you want more reading material, let me know!!! 

Works Cited

Bakhtin, Mikhail. “Introduction.” Rabelais and His World. Indiana UP, 1984. 1 - 59. E-book.

Barrat, Bethany. “Azkaban: Discipline, Punishment, and Human Rights.” The Politics of Harry Potter. Palgrave Macmillian, 2012. 85 - 95. E-book.

Barrat, Bethany. “‘By Order of the Hogwarts High Inquisitor’: Basis of Authority.” The Politics of Harry Potter. Palgrave Macmillian, 2012. 85 - 95. E-book.

Barrat, Bethany. “Purebloods and Mudbloods: Race, Species, Power.” The Politics of Harry Potter. Palgrave Macmillian, 2012. 59 - 85. E-book.

Barrat, Bethany. “The DA (Dumbledore's Army): Resistance From Below.” The Politics of Harry Potter. Palgrave Macmillian, 2012. 85 - 95. E-book.

Foucault, Michel. “The Body of the Condemned.” Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. Vintage Books, 1995. 3 - 32. E-book.

Manlove, Colin. “Frightened of the Dark: The 1990s.” From Alice to Harry Potter: Children's Fantasy in England. 2003. 169 – 193. E-book.

Mendlesohn, Farah. “Crowning the King: Constructing Authority in Harry Potter.” The Ivory Tower and Harry Potter: Perspectives on a Literary Phenomenon, ed Lana A Whited. University of Missouri Press, 2002. E-book.

Perrin, Emily Asher. “The Harry Potter Reread: The Deathly Hallows, Chapters 13 and 14.” 26 February 2016. Tor.com. Website.

Westman, Karin. “Spectres of Thatcherism: Contemporary British Culture in JK Rowling's Harry Potter Series.” The Ivory Tower and Harry Potter: Perspectives on a Literary Phenomenon, ed Lana A Whited. University of Missouri Press, 2002. E-book.

Whited, Lana A, M Katherine Grimes. “What Would Harry Do: JK Rowling and Lawrence Kohlberg's Theories of Moral Development.” The Ivory Tower and Harry Potter: Perspectives on a Literary Phenomenon, ed Lana A Whited. University of Missouri Press, 2002. 182 - 211. E-book.

[ellanainthetardis]

Episode 2 starts today! I hope you will enjoy it

[ff] or [ao3]

Episode 2: The Art Of Stealing Hearts

1.

Haymitch hated teaching.

It wasn’t the first time the Council forged degrees and recommendations for him to be hired at a school as a History teacher and, mostly, he could do the job alright. History went surprisingly hand in hand with the study of demonology and it wasn’t like the standards at Seam High were really demanding to begin with. But, oh, how he hated having to deal with hormonal teenagers all day long… Sure, it allowed him to keep an eye on Katniss and to be close at hands if his Slayer needed him. But it was also a pain.

The thing he really hated about teaching though? Even more than the teenagers and the endless drama? The paperwork that schools required from time to time.

He liked Plutarch Heavensbee well enough. He was a nice guy if a little smug for someone who had ended up at the head of a school with the highest rate of suspicious disappearances in the country… He didn’t like, however, how obsessed the man was with written reports, forms and memos. Everything that happened in his teachers’ classrooms, Plutarch had to know about. You wanted to send a kid to detention? You had to fill two forms detailing the incident that had led to the punishment as well as the reasons you felt it necessary to assign detention. It was such a pain that most of the teachers had renounced giving out detentions at all.

Except, Marvel Quaid had gone and tossed a water balloon at Glimmer Rambin in the middle of third period the other day – because she had been wearing a ridiculously short white dress and boys that age were obsessed with girls and, to add insult to injury, the water balloon in question had turned out to be a condom – and he had had no other choice but to give out detention. And a lecture.

Fuck, but he hated his job.  

Plutarch had been on his case about him not having filled the proper paperwork for days at this point and it was starting to become more irritating to have to listen to the Principal’s gentle chiding than it would have been to fill the form.

So he had filled the form.

He grumbled under his breath about stupid boys full of hormones and zero brain cells all the way to the Principal’s office and glared at all the kids who dared stumble into his path. More than one shouted a greeting. For whatever reason, through no fault of his own, most of his students seemed to like him. Maybe because he had a policy that he didn’t really care what they were up to in his classroom as long as they didn’t bother him – it didn’t matter at all to him if they were listening to him rattling out random dates and facts, most days he selected a documentary on the computer and let the machine do the job for him.

The secretary’s office – the antechamber to Plutarch’s office because the man liked to pretend he was a Secretary of State and not a school Principal – was just as busy as usual and the new assistant – a fancy title that was probably more fashionable than plain old secretary – didn’t seem to know what to prioritize.

Haymitch settled for leaning against the wall next to the Biology teacher and wait his turn. He answered Felindra Tigris’s greeting with a smile and a polite nod. She was pretty in an odd sort of way, with red hair that made him think of a lion’s mane and eyes you couldn’t help but stare back at. She was a flirt too and Haymitch tended to flirt back simply because it had been a long time since he had gotten laid and he was starting to feel the urge to scratch that particular itch.

They exchanged recent stories about students while they waited for the secretary to finish tearing whoever she was talking to on the phone to shreds. Haymitch had forgotten her name. She had only been there for a little over a week, the previous assistant had become vampire snacks and she had just been replaced. There was a lot of turnover on the staff front. But, then again, it was the Seam. Teachers had already had a limited lifespan when he had been in school. The proximity of the Hellmouth wasn’t helping.

Whatever her name was, she was attractive. She had curves but he had never minded that and he was certainly enjoying the low cut shirt she was wearing. The silver flowers tattooed on her left cheek were a little shocking at first but he had seen worse fashion statements in his time.

Hell, there had been that time in his youth when mullets had been in fashion and he had fancied himself a rebel…

“Is Plutarch in?” he asked hopefully the moment she placed the phone back on its cradle. “I’ve got those detention forms for him…”

“Principal Heavensbee is with the new Art teacher. Leave them with me.” the woman sighed, her lips pursed. She almost glared at the slightly crumpled sheets of paper he placed on the corner of her desk. “I have never seen so much paperwork anywhere else I worked at. I will end up buried under papers.”

“Send an sos and I’ll come rescue you.” he half-joked, half-offered. Yeah, he really was feeling that itch. “Sorry, I forgot your name.”

“Fulvia.” she answered with a bright smile. “Fulvia Cardew…” She glanced at the paper. “Mr Abernathy.”

“Haymitch.” He grinned.

“And what do you teach, Haymitch?” she asked, tilting her head to the side. Given that she was sitting at her desk and he was standing up, it gave him a very nice view down her…

“History.” Felindra cut in, sounding both amused and a little vexed. Next thing he knew, the Biology teacher was standing right next to him and was running her hand down his arm. He lost all interest in Fulvia because, really, when push came to shove, Felindra Tigris just had that little something that made him… “If you are finished, Haymitch… I hate to chase you but I do have some request forms to fill for more lab rats and you know Plutarch always wants those in triplicate…”

“Triplicate!” Fulvia gasped.

Haymitch wisely decided to retreat before he could be swept into the paperwork of hell. He buried his hands in his pockets as he briskly walked back to his classroom, his mind busy contemplating the prospects of taking some remedial Biology lessons… There was a new spring to his steps and he was whistling a little, he nodded back to the students who greeted him, feeling in a much better mood than ten minutes earlier. Being free of paperwork was good.

“Are you drunk?” Katniss mocked with a lifted eyebrow when they crossed paths as she was headed to her Math class. Old Woof was impatiently waving the latecomers into his classroom, snatching baseball caps off heads as they went, and Haymitch was suddenly very happy to have a period off. Another hour he didn’t have to deal with idiots was a good hour.

“If only.” he snorted, shoving her toward the classroom. She tossed him a glare but he knew he hadn’t hurt her, for one: superstrength; for another: nobody could have guessed she had half-burned to death a mere two weeks earlier. “Go get an education.”

He had work of his own to do.

He left the door of his classroom open behind him simply because it would spare him the effort of having to stand up and open it for his next class, and settled behind his desk. Then he pulled out the now crumpled sketch of Cashmere’s face they didn’t need anymore – because when a woman tried to kill you, you tended not to forget her face so easily – and a couple of Watcher journals. There were thousands of them and so far he hadn’t been very lucky. He hadn’t found a mention of Cashmere or who the ‘others’ who were supposed to follow her into town could be and he hadn’t, either, figured out how they were planning on freeing the worst vampire Haymitch had ever had the displeasure to meet from his hell prison.

He skimmed through the life of a Slayer who had lived in the beginning of the sixties, growing a little frustrated by the long and not so fruitful search. He had been on it for two weeks already and he was starting to wonder if focusing on the Slayers from the last century was a good idea after all. It had seemed like a logical choice. If she had been older than one hundred years old, chances were he would have heard of Cashmere before… Vampires who lived that long tended to get famous for slaughter or attempts at triggering an apocalypse or two. There were exceptions though of course…

He was contemplating fishing his flask out of his desk for a small gulp when there was a quick joyful knock on the doorframe of his classroom. And then he remembered why he liked to keep his door shut.

He looked up and winced not too welcomingly at Plutarch. But then his eyes glided behind the principal and to her and the gibe he had been about to blurt out remained stuck in his throat. The woman was beautiful in a way nobody had any business being beautiful.

She was tall – although that might have to do with the towering heels she was perched on – she was wearing a dove grey high-waist pencil skirt that only showed off the shape and length of her legs, her white blouse had some pink frills that might have looked more ridiculous if she hadn’t possessed a regal bearing… His eyes lingered on the legs and stopped on her breasts – not much there but just enough to be appealing – traveled up her slender neck and to her face where an amused smile stretched her red-painted lips. Confidence was written on every of her slightly aristocratic features and he decided she was one of those women who knew the effect they had on other people and had no qualm playing with it. Her blond hair looked curly but it was tamed in a professional if a little fancy bun and her eyes, when he finally met them, were so very blue he faltered for a second.

She was beautiful, there was no other term for it. So beautiful, she chased any idea of Remedial Biology right out of his head.

What had Fulvia said? That Plutarch was with a new teacher? He couldn’t remember what the stranger was supposed to teach but he was pretty sure he was going to develop a sudden interest for the subject.

“Morning, Haymitch.” Plutarch greeted with his usual exuberance. A positive attitude was apparently important when you were trying to run a school. “I’m sorry to disturb you but I was wondering about those forms…”

“Just dropped them off on your secretary’s desk.” he grumbled, not even fighting the urge to roll his eyes.

“Assistant.” he corrected, stepping into the classroom, the woman right behind him. “Very good. Very good. Oh, where are my manners!”  He gestured at the woman who stepped forward with a bright smile that made his stomach clench. “Meet Miss Trinket, our new Art teacher. I was just giving her the tour. Effie, this is Haymitch Abernathy, our History teacher.”

“Nice to meet you.” she politely offered. He shook the hand she outstretched but didn’t release it at once. There was something about the way she talked, the rhythm… She wasn’t from around there, that was for sure. Her amusement seemed to increase for some reason. “May I have my hand back?”

He let go of her hand without hurrying, tilting his head to the side to study her better. “British?”

Hastily concealed surprise flashed on her face. She looked a little put out. “Most people are not able to tell.”

And, suddenly, he lost all interest. Suspicion was rising its ugly head and her looks weren’t enough to make him ignore it. Coincidences were possible, of course. But a British woman getting hired at a school in the backend of the country when the Council was so reluctant to take his calls lately? Not likely.

Besides, she looked like a poster child for a Watcher. Wealthy, full of herself and entitled. He was ready to bet she came from a long line of Watchers too, that was kind of a family business after all, handed down from fathers to sons – or in some cases, although it was rare, daughters. He was the exception to the rule, brought into the job by fate, life and the woman who had raised him to become one.

“Really?” he snorted. “With that posh accent, seems obvious to me.”

She narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips, any trace of amusement gone. “Perhaps my accent is posh but you are lacking in the manners department.”

“So sorry, your highness…” he mocked. “You want me to bow?”

“Miss Trinket comes straight from London, Haymitch.” Plutarch cut in with a diplomatic tone but a chiding look for him. “Her references are impressive. We were lucky to find her.”

“I’m sure…” he sneered. “And what brings such a catch to our little town? Let me guess… You’ve got a taste for the wildlife… We do have a nice collection of strange animals in the Seam.”

She didn’t so much as blink, her face remained neutral. At least, she had a good poker face. That, or he was entirely wrong and she wasn’t at all there to spy on him.

But they had sent Finnick last time and he knew Coin only trusted him as far as she could toss him. A part of him had been waiting for the Council to make a move ever since he had called in to report suspicious activities around the Hellmouth.

“My family lives in the States and I have been away from them too long.” she replied. If it was a lie, he couldn’t detect it.

“And where do they live exactly?” he insisted.

“Los Angeles.” she answered with obvious reluctance. Probably because she had no business settling down in a town in rural Virginia if her parents were on the opposite coast. And she knew she was caught.

He smirked in triumph. “Either you’re not very good at geography or you got lost.”

“I happen to like the country.” she huffed with a small glare before turning to the Principal with a miffed expression on her face. “I do apologize, Principal Heavensbee, I thought you were the one conducting job interviews in this school. It was also my understanding that I was already hired.”

Plutarch laughed a fake laugh as if her joke was hilarious.

It wasn’t.

“Isn’t she charming?”  he asked Haymitch in a warning tone. “I am sure you two will be the best of friends in no time at all. You have so much in common. Haymitch is a new addition to our school too…”

“The rate you’re losing your staff, I’m one of the oldest by now.” Haymitch commented, still studying her in a way that was neither polite nor as disinterested as he wanted it to be.

“And he did a lot of traveling, not unlike you. Didn’t you, Haymitch?” Plutarch insisted, ignoring his intervention. “Effie was just telling me she has been pretty much everywhere around the globe. Haymitch was quite the globetrotter himself before he settled down here.”

“Were you, now?” the woman hummed with utter lack of interest. Then, her gaze fell on Cashmere’s portrait and Haymitch quickly thrust it between the pages of his book and snapped that shut. Her eyes lingered on the leather bound journal. “You should be careful with those old books. They look precious.”

“Don’t you worry about these books.” He scowled. “They’re in the right hands.”

She lifted her eyebrows. “I doubt books that look that ancient have any business laying unattended in a high school classroom. They should be in a library handled with care. And special gloves. But I am sure you know better than I do, of course.”

She wasn’t wrong there but he certainly wasn’t going to admit it. If his mother’s Watcher could see what he was doing with those journals, she would have his hide.

“You’re a book expert on top of being an Art teacher?” he challenged. Was she even trying to keep her cover?

“You will find I am an expert in many things, Mr Abernathy.” she retorted with a grin that, while being perfectly innocent, somehow managed to convey that the meaning behind her words was not.

He felt himself smirk. Not entirely on purpose. And he didn’t avert his eyes because he wouldn’t look away first. If she wanted to make this difficult, he would be happy to oblige.

Plutarch muffled a cough into his fist.

She let her gaze linger a second longer before turning toward the Principal, just long enough to let him know he hadn’t won anything but that the match had to be postponed for now. “Perhaps we could continue our tour? I am fairly sure I do not need to be so well acquainted with Mr Abernathy’s classroom.”

“Of course, of course.” Plutarch approved, gesturing at her to precede him outside. He stopped halfway to the door though and turned back to Haymitch, prompting the woman to do the same. “While I’ve got you here and before I forget… Gale Hawthorne has been camping in my office again… Is there absolutely no way you could convince Miss Everdeen to get back on the archery team?”

Haymitch really didn’t want to discuss his Slayer in front of a potential Council spy.  

“I’ve told you before, she’s focusing on other things right now.” he dismissed.

“Her family situation isn’t ideal, of course.” Plutarch sighed. “I suppose as long as she stays out of trouble… It is just… Gale claims she is working for you after school?”

He frowned. “So what?”

He was acutely aware that Trinket was studying her manicure while pretending not to listen in the very attitude of someone who was obviously eavesdropping.

“Well, he made it sound… He seems to be worried you are… Somehow… Abusing your position.” Plutarch awkwardly winced. “I set him straight, of course. But maybe…”

“I ain’t gonna kick the girl out just ‘cause a kid can’t handle rejection.” he warned before the man could even finish that thought. “I ain’t just her teacher or some stranger to her, I’m a family friend. I came back here to take care of her, I explained that to you. And even if that wasn’t a thing.. She’s just a  kid. You really think I would…”

“No. I do not.” Plutarch cut him off firmly. “Like I said, I set him straight. I know you have been helping them out and, to be honest, it’s good to see Katniss not looking like she just escaped some prison camp… She’s obviously fed, she hasn’t been arrested yet and she has even made friends lately. On my end, there is no problem, I am happy to see it work out so well. But rumors are pesky things and…”

“I don’t care much for rumors.” he spat.

“Even so.” the man sighed. “Perhaps, you could encourage her to have a chat with her friend? Clear the air.” He glanced at Trinket and made a face. “I apologize, this was a matter we should have discussed in my office. I would not want you to get ideas, Effie. Katniss is a young troubled girl Haymitch has taken under his wing. There is absolutely nothing untoward going on but you know teenagers…”

“My kid ain’t troubled.” he growled while the woman was making polite no-no noises.

“I do not care much for that label either.” she remarked. “I am sure she is a lovely young lady.”

He almost chuckled at the look Katniss would have if anyone ever called her a lady to her face.

“She’s a good kid.” he answered, in a softer tone. And she would be a great Slayer given the chance. She had the drive to survive. But that would be easier if the Watcher Council didn’t meddle.

Trinket smiled at him. “I cannot wait to meet her.”

He spent a long time after Plutarch had ushered her away wondering if that had been genuine or if it had been a threat.

[aardstark]

7 facts about your childhood?

1. Grew up in the mountains alone with Inés most of childhood. She taught me to hunt, to sharpen my claws, and all that hatchling stuff. As a human child she taught me to plant my food, which roots and herbs were safe to eat, and how to haggle and trade.

2. After the mountains we went back and rejoined civilized society as aristocrats, with those wealthy criollos from after the independence. Life there was... annoying as shit, had to mind my manners and do all that fancy proper lady shit that I wasn’t used to.

3. I managed to make some friends along the way, kids of other wealthy people, sometimes we would meet when there was some fancy banquet or dinner and we would bet on who could steal the coolest trinket from the house.

4. There was always someone at my house, Inés knew a shitton of people and it was ridiculous. There was always a dinner, always a banquet, always some dragon or vampire or old weird creature lurking around.

5. I started climbing roofs when I was a little older and often disappeared for hours at a time, Inés... didn’t love it.

6. I received an education worthy of a very wealthy male heir from those times, nowadays most of that knowledge has been rendered useless.

7. Although the house almost felt like a haunted house at times with all the supers coming and going, we never did speak much about being dragons. Inés told me about how she found me but she refused to tell me more about myself, and she never did give me permission to travel and figure out where I came from. It was... weird. As a kid I always asked her why my scales were golden and hers were green, but she always got pissed and told me to keep quiet.