From the desk of Professor Severus Snape, Potions master at Hogwarts School
of Witchcraft and Wizardry
RE: REQUEST FOR DEFENCE AGAINST THE DARK ARTS POSITION
To Whom It May Concern:
This letter is in compliance with your last response, detailing the entry down into the caverns under the school, in order to retrieve the Purple Zoowalash.
I have, per your idiot request, entered down into the caverns, and am now making my way to the center of this dank network of tunnels and. . . well. . . dirt.
It's very dark down here. Very, very dark. I am not enjoying this one bit. It makes me sick at heart to think that I should suffer this kind of injustice simply to attain the job position I deserve. It also makes me wish I was a muggle, because muggles often have flashlights and let's face it, flashlights are a vast improvement over the glowing tip of a piece of stick.
Often, I am distracted from my long journey by the sound of faint scuttlings, off to either side of me in the tunnels leading away from the main cavern. The noises seem almost inhuman and grotesque, like flannel running around of its own accord. I don't know why that bothers me, as I live and work in a school where everything talks, including the toilets.
Note to self: Do I actually LIVE at Hogwarts, or do I go home for the summer, like muggle teachers do? Do I live with my parents, or do I have an apartment by myself? Must find these things out when I get back.
Back to the flannel sounds. I do not worry about their source, as I am a renowned master of the Dark Arts and other forms of self-protection. Unlike that feather-boa-brained idiot Lockhart, whose only power was the ability to nance a man to death with barrettes.
Did I just hear more flannel?
. . .
I think that wasn't flannel that time. It sounded more like squeaky hinges. God, it's dark in here. At any rate, I shall be in the cavern of the Zoowalash within a matter of days, and when I return to the upper levels of the school, I expect a big party. And I'm not talking the kind of half-rate shindig we threw for Lupin's "Happy Fifteenth Anniversary of Being Dirt Poor" party. I want a nice decorator, maybe a live band and some decent food. No take-out or homemade dishes, I want a caterer who will provide only the best, and none of that chinese junk people are always leaving in the staff fridge. . . with that. . . that egg drop stuff I freakin' HATE. . .
. . .
OK, that was definitely a hinge squeak.
Kinda Spooked Now,
Severus Snape
P.S. Please send more biore strips with next owl. Also more individually wrapped cheese slices and this month's Vanity Fair. And a flashlight.
RE: REQUEST FOR DEFENCE AGAINST THE DARK ARTS POSITION
To Whom It May Concern:
This letter is in compliance with your last response, detailing the entry down into the caverns under the school, in order to retrieve the Purple Zoowalash.
I have, per your idiot request, entered down into the caverns, and am now making my way to the center of this dank network of tunnels and. . . well. . . dirt.
It's very dark down here. Very, very dark. I am not enjoying this one bit. It makes me sick at heart to think that I should suffer this kind of injustice simply to attain the job position I deserve. It also makes me wish I was a muggle, because muggles often have flashlights and let's face it, flashlights are a vast improvement over the glowing tip of a piece of stick.
Often, I am distracted from my long journey by the sound of faint scuttlings, off to either side of me in the tunnels leading away from the main cavern. The noises seem almost inhuman and grotesque, like flannel running around of its own accord. I don't know why that bothers me, as I live and work in a school where everything talks, including the toilets.
Note to self: Do I actually LIVE at Hogwarts, or do I go home for the summer, like muggle teachers do? Do I live with my parents, or do I have an apartment by myself? Must find these things out when I get back.
Back to the flannel sounds. I do not worry about their source, as I am a renowned master of the Dark Arts and other forms of self-protection. Unlike that feather-boa-brained idiot Lockhart, whose only power was the ability to nance a man to death with barrettes.
Did I just hear more flannel?
. . .
I think that wasn't flannel that time. It sounded more like squeaky hinges. God, it's dark in here. At any rate, I shall be in the cavern of the Zoowalash within a matter of days, and when I return to the upper levels of the school, I expect a big party. And I'm not talking the kind of half-rate shindig we threw for Lupin's "Happy Fifteenth Anniversary of Being Dirt Poor" party. I want a nice decorator, maybe a live band and some decent food. No take-out or homemade dishes, I want a caterer who will provide only the best, and none of that chinese junk people are always leaving in the staff fridge. . . with that. . . that egg drop stuff I freakin' HATE. . .
. . .
OK, that was definitely a hinge squeak.
Kinda Spooked Now,
Severus Snape
P.S. Please send more biore strips with next owl. Also more individually wrapped cheese slices and this month's Vanity Fair. And a flashlight.