Log in

No account? Create an account
I speak 2 customrs customrs' speak 2 me calendar about s2c Speaker's Corner Previously on s2c Previously on s2c Next Next
Crossover ficlet: Harry Potter and the Veiled Professor - Words in the Heroes' Tongue
I have a variable-sword. I urge calm.
Crossover ficlet: Harry Potter and the Veiled Professor
I has committed Potterfic! It’s not a fandom that appeals to me, as you may know, but I was reading a BtVS/HP crossover at ‘Twisting the Hellmouth’ and suddenly an idea struck me. This is a BG2/HP crossover within the same ‘Tabula Avatar’ AU as my previous story Professional Relationship (in which Bhodi and Doyle become private detectives in Los Angeles) and is absolutely not to be considered canon for TA. For amusement only. It does not attempt to answer the great mystery of the Harry Potter stories, which is; "Why is the Hogwarts Express pulled by a Collet-designed GWR locomotive that is painted in LMS livery?"

Summary; Instead of fighting to the death against Randy and Joan’s posse Bodhi’s crew leaves Sunnydale. Bodhi goes to Los Angeles (see above) and Tanova goes to – Hogwarts! Rowling’s timeline for the Potter!Verse has been drastically altered to fit my purposes and this takes place during Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. PG, exactly 1,000 words.

Harry Potter and the Veiled Professor

It was universally agreed by the pupils at Hogwarts that Dolores Umbridge was the worst Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher in all of recorded history. Even the utterly useless Gilderoy Lockhart had been better. Some of the students, especially Harry Potter and his clique, were considering forming their own unofficial private group to study in their free time.

And then, suddenly, things changed.

One evening there was a new teacher at dinner; Professor Tanova, a dark-haired young woman, whose face was obscured behind a semi-transparent veil. Dumbledore announced that she had come to Hogwarts from Calimshan. No-one had heard of the place but those students with some knowledge of the Muggle world speculated, based on the name and the veil, that she was from one of the Islamic former Soviet republics like Kazakhstan or Uzbekistan. They assumed, at first, that she would simply be the assistant to one of the existing teachers.

The next evening, however, Dumbledore announced that there would be some changes to the curriculum and the staffing. Dolores Umbridge, under the terms of Educational Decree Number Twenty-Three, was to become the High Inquisitor for Hogwarts. Her position as Defence Against the Dark Arts instructor, after a short recess for lesson preparations, would be filled by Professor Tanova.

The students quailed at the ‘High Inquisitor’ title. It sounded extremely ominous. In practice it turned out to be completely innocuous. Umbridge's duties appeared to consist of lurking in dark corners, cackling insanely, and eating spiders and flies. She issued no edicts and rarely even spoke comprehensibly. Occasionally she babbled about ‘the blood is the life’. She avoided most of the teachers other than Tanova, over whom she fawned obsequiously, and she addressed Tanova in humble tones as ‘Mistress’.

When the lessons restarted, a few days later, the Fifth Years made their way to the classroom with a mixture of interest and trepidation. The new teacher was remarkably physically attractive, exotic, and had been polite and non-threatening in her interactions with pupils outside of class. On the other hand Tanova apparently had turned Professor Umbridge’s brain into tapioca pudding, her dark eyes seemed to hold a cold and calculating expression even when the lips under her veil appeared to be smiling, and the house elves quaked and fell silent in her presence. Even the castle ghosts avoided her.

“Welcome to Defence Against the Dark Arts,” she greeted the class, in a sultry voice with an accent that held a hint of the Middle East. “Not that you have any really dark arts in this wor- …country,” she added. “Your so-called Unforgivable Curses don’t impress me much and your wizards’ counter-spells are, frankly, pathetic.”

Draco Malfoy’s upper lip curled into a sneer. “I suppose they can do better where you come from?”

“Oh, definitely,” Tanova said. Her wand came out so quickly that no-one even saw her hand move. An instant later Draco had vanished. As the class cried out in surprise a little red squirrel emerged from under Draco’s desk, bounded across the floor, and then began to climb up the wall. When it was half-way up Tanova said “Dispel!” and suddenly Draco appeared in the squirrel’s place. He plummeted to the ground, landed with a thud, and clambered to his feet groaning.

“In future you will address me as ‘Professor Tanova’ or ‘Miss’,” Tanova said, sliding her wand back into a pocket in her sleeve, “or I might accept ‘Mistress’ if said in sufficiently grovelling tones. Do you understand me?”

A chorus of assent came from the class, most of the pupils addressing her as ‘Professor Tanova’, although those who had gone to Muggle schools before Hogwarts answered with “Yes, Miss.”

“Mister Malfoy?” Tanova demanded.

“Yes, Professor Tanova, I understand,” Draco replied, sounding thoroughly cowed.

“Then return to your seat,” Tanova ordered, “and we will resume the lesson.” Draco obeyed, rubbing his back with one hand, and sat down.

“Professor Dumbledore won’t allow me to teach you any of the deadlier spells in my repertoire, unfortunately,” Tanova lamented, “so you will have to do without things like Disintegrate, Feeblemind, Chain Lightning, and Abi-Dazim’s Horrid Wilting – for when you absolutely, positively, gotta kill every mother in the room.”

Hermione Granger and Dean Thomas laughed. No-one else did. Tanova rolled her eyes and continued.

“Consequently,” she said, “I’ll mainly be teaching you purely defensive spells. Mirror Image, True Sight, Minor Globe of Invulnerability, Stoneskin, Resist Fire, Feather Fall, and Expeditious Retreat. However, for some strange reason, Dumbledore insists that I start off by teaching you how to defend yourselves against vampires.”

Susan Bones put up her hand and, when Tanova acknowledged her with a nod, spoke. “Excuse me, Professor Tanova,” she said, “Professor Lockhart taught us about vampires in Second Year.”

Tanova laughed out loud. “Oh, yes, Dumbledore showed me what Lockhart wrote about vampires,” she said. “It’s not exactly a Volo’s Guide, is it? Ignore everything he told you unless you want to die quickly and painfully. No, the best way of defending yourself against a vampire is to offer her a job with a good salary, lots of benefits, and all the Death Eaters she can drink. I suppose that’s not really a practical option in your position, however, and so I’ll teach you a few… more violent methods. Staking, incineration, decapitation and so on. They are only to be used in self-defence, of course, as under Paragraph 12 of the Guidelines for the Treatment of Non-Wizard Part-Humans killing a vampire under any other circumstances is classed as murder. A wise and enlightened policy of which I most thoroughly approve.”

Ron Weasley bent forward, hiding his mouth from the teacher’s eyes, and muttered under his breath to Susan. “Told you Lockhart was a useless wanker,” he said.

Tanova raised her eyebrows. “I heard that, Weasley,” she snapped. “Five pints from Gryffindor!”

“Uh, Professor Tanova,” Harry Potter put in, “I think you mean ‘points’.”

“No,” said Tanova, unfastening her veil to reveal her gleaming fangs, “I really don’t.”

Tags: ,
Current Location: Hogwarts
Current Music: Queen, "It's A Kind of Magic"

6 comments or speak 2 me
ffutures From: ffutures Date: December 8th, 2010 08:18 am (UTC) (Link)
Killer last line! Like it!
speakr2customrs From: speakr2customrs Date: December 8th, 2010 08:20 am (UTC) (Link)
Thank you!

Oh, and thanks for the RPG stuff; it arrived during my work shifts and I haven't really looked at it properly yet. I'll do so shortly as I have some time off now.

Edited at 2010-12-08 08:21 am (UTC)
ffutures From: ffutures Date: December 8th, 2010 12:25 pm (UTC) (Link)
I've a feeling you may have had some of them before when you gave me that power supply, but there's at least one thing you won't have seen.
daiseechain From: daiseechain Date: December 8th, 2010 11:12 am (UTC) (Link)
Like the last line.
speakr2customrs From: speakr2customrs Date: December 8th, 2010 11:16 am (UTC) (Link)
Thank you!
Matthew Borin From: Matthew Borin Date: December 8th, 2010 01:10 pm (UTC) (Link)

Saw this today, thought you might enjoy. (NSFW)

I am a writer, and I will finish the shit that I started.

I will not whine. I will not blubber. I will not make mewling whimpering cryface pissypants boo-hoo noises. I will not sing lamentations to my weakness.

My confidence is hard and unyielding. Like a kidney stone lodged in the ureter of a stegosaurus.

These are my adult pants. The diapers have burned away in the fires of my phoenix-esque rising.

I will burn down the forest. As the conflagration rages, all my excuses shall come scurrying forth like syphilitic rats whose backs smolder with the smoky scent of my coming victory. When my excuses bound, shrieking and squealing, toward my feet, I shall use my mighty wordhammer to squash them all, ‘asploding each like a sausage stuffed with self-deception and disillusionment.

This book is not the boss of my shit.

These characters dance when I tell them to dance. They leap, cackle, fuck and punch because I jolly well told them to and if they don’t do as I say I will have them nibbled to death by marmots.

This plot is knotted tight in the configuration I demand. With it I shall tie a noose, and with that noose I shall hang my fears and uncertainties by the neck until they void their bowels and their legs quit kickin’.

These words march in the order I choose. They are my little bitches, cobbled together of letters and made to carry heavy notions and lofty ideas and character motivations and bad-ass non-stop mad ninja action. In this way they are like ants, carrying more than they should rightfully be able to carry.

They can even be forced into sentences that no one has ever written before. “Betty Scarpetti can take pictures with her robotic hoo-hah, and those pictures will steal your dreams and sell them to goblins working the Secret Carnival down in the parking lot of the Piggly Wiggly.” See? Nobody has ever written that before. Every word journey is a Journey West. I am Lewis, and I am Clark. I am not the Donner Party.

I recognize that writing a novel is hard. And I don’t give a lemur’s left foot. I don’t give a good goddamn. I don’t give two shits in a wicker basket. The best things in life are hard. Like hunting pterodactyls. Like getting married. Like climbing a mountain and building a ladder to the moon. Like raising children. Like raising robotic children. Like making a golem who will build a robot who will raise your robot children.

I am like a crazy mountain goat, clambering to heights no man should go.

I can almost see the top now. The pinnacle awaits.

This book is almost complete. But challenges shall dog my every step.

My hamstrings might snap like high-tension cables and take out one of my eyes. My back may bend and bow until my scoliosis allows me to pleasure myself with my mouth. My knee caps might shoot off, striking a Yeti in the eye which makes him really mad and so he comes over and tears both of my arms off and beats me about the head and neck with my own gore-spewing limbs. My mind may crumble under the assault, driven to the very precipice of sanity, staring down into the deepest yawning yawping abyss and as the Yeti howls and my synapses fire I will smell the scent of funeral flowers wafting up from that abyss and I will find it peaceful and comfortable and will realize how easy it would be to just pivot my hips just-so and go tumbling down into that satisfying darkness, the darkness of ease, the darkness of acquiescence, the milk-livered niddering darkness of sweet sweet cowardice.

But I will do no such thing.

I will soldier on.

I will grab one of my severed arms in my teeth.

I will flail my neck around until I slug the Yeti in his Yeti balls with one of my own dismembered limbs, and I will watch as he cries, “MROOOOOooooo!” and pirouettes into the chasm of shadow, clutching his junk.

I will reattach my arms with the duct tape I wisely brought from home.

I will hammer my spine straight with a rock I found on the ground.

I will sally forth until I have this book by the balls and by the throat.

I am the Commander of these words.

I am the King of this story.

I am the God of this place.

I am a writer, and I will finish the shit that I started.
6 comments or speak 2 me