Just to tide you all over until the 31st...
We were about halfway through the sandwich course when a gypsy
scarecrow with coke-bottle glasses staggered into the Great
Hall through one of the side doors. She paused there, swaying,
and held up one scrawny hand as though she were about to bless us
all. "I know," she said in a hollow, wobbly tone, "that I am
late for our repast, but I have been communing with the great
*BEYOND*!"
Next to me, Snape hissed, "Oh, dear bloody *Merlin*."
"Good to see you finally join us, Sybill," Flitwick piped up.
"How was your morning?" Ah. So this was the Divination teacher.
And I'd thought Irma Pince was embracing a stereotype -- Sybill
Trelawney looked like she'd robbed a New Age store at wandpoint
and worn all her ill-gotten gains out the door.
Where some of the other witches at the table were slender, she
was outright gawky and stick-thin. Coupled with a fright-wig
shock of dishwater-colored hair, it made her look like nothing so
much as an animated ragmop in a robe and shawl, complete with two
large cartoon eyes in the form of the immense, thick glasses she
wore. All she needed was a tie-dyed muu-muu, and she'd've been a
dead ringer for just about every crystal dweeb I'd ever met who
thought enough cheap jewelry, smoky quartz and perfumed candles
would give them psionic metagifts.
On the other side of the Headmaster, Professor McGonagall
muttered something that either because of its low volume or its
extreme Scottishness (or both) was unintelligble. Whatever it
was, though, it certainly didn't sound complimentary.
"My morning?" Sybill swayed a bit more, her hands drifting
around her like drunken butterflies on silken tethers. "My
morning has revealed secrets -- *great* secrets! -- to me!
Concepts *far* beyond the comprehension of mere mortals!"
To my right, Professor Sinistra sniffed derisively but didn't say
anything. To my left, Professor Snape was busy turning his fork
into an origami sculpture. For my part, I suppressed the urge to
chuckle at her theatrics, instead murmuring, "Drama queen much?"
That earned me a startled glance from Snape, who quickly looked
away again while emitting a strangled cough that *just* might
have been a single, stifled laugh.
*So there *is* a human being in there somewhere,* I thought.
"Please do take your seat, Sybill," Headmaster Dumbledore
invited, although his jovial tones sound just a *little* bit
strained. "We have not yet finished."
Cut short before she could launch into another speech, Professor
Trelawney blinked, then straightened up. "Of course," she said
in softer, less overblown tones. She then drifted unevenly up
the stairs of the dais and to her seat. There she noticed me for
the first time, stopped cold, and stared wide-eyed. As she stood
there, trembling violently and emitting a faint scent of sherry,
I looked up at her and (against my better judgment) stuck out my
hand.
"Doug Sangnoir," I said. "New professor of Defense. Delighted
to meet you." Which I wasn't, not really, not after seeing her
entrance, but I'd never *say* that. I have *some* tact.
Not a lot, but *some*. Even Hexe says so. However reluctantly.
-- Bob
---------
Then the horns kicked in...
...and my shoes began to squeak.
We were about halfway through the sandwich course when a gypsy
scarecrow with coke-bottle glasses staggered into the Great
Hall through one of the side doors. She paused there, swaying,
and held up one scrawny hand as though she were about to bless us
all. "I know," she said in a hollow, wobbly tone, "that I am
late for our repast, but I have been communing with the great
*BEYOND*!"
Next to me, Snape hissed, "Oh, dear bloody *Merlin*."
"Good to see you finally join us, Sybill," Flitwick piped up.
"How was your morning?" Ah. So this was the Divination teacher.
And I'd thought Irma Pince was embracing a stereotype -- Sybill
Trelawney looked like she'd robbed a New Age store at wandpoint
and worn all her ill-gotten gains out the door.
Where some of the other witches at the table were slender, she
was outright gawky and stick-thin. Coupled with a fright-wig
shock of dishwater-colored hair, it made her look like nothing so
much as an animated ragmop in a robe and shawl, complete with two
large cartoon eyes in the form of the immense, thick glasses she
wore. All she needed was a tie-dyed muu-muu, and she'd've been a
dead ringer for just about every crystal dweeb I'd ever met who
thought enough cheap jewelry, smoky quartz and perfumed candles
would give them psionic metagifts.
On the other side of the Headmaster, Professor McGonagall
muttered something that either because of its low volume or its
extreme Scottishness (or both) was unintelligble. Whatever it
was, though, it certainly didn't sound complimentary.
"My morning?" Sybill swayed a bit more, her hands drifting
around her like drunken butterflies on silken tethers. "My
morning has revealed secrets -- *great* secrets! -- to me!
Concepts *far* beyond the comprehension of mere mortals!"
To my right, Professor Sinistra sniffed derisively but didn't say
anything. To my left, Professor Snape was busy turning his fork
into an origami sculpture. For my part, I suppressed the urge to
chuckle at her theatrics, instead murmuring, "Drama queen much?"
That earned me a startled glance from Snape, who quickly looked
away again while emitting a strangled cough that *just* might
have been a single, stifled laugh.
*So there *is* a human being in there somewhere,* I thought.
"Please do take your seat, Sybill," Headmaster Dumbledore
invited, although his jovial tones sound just a *little* bit
strained. "We have not yet finished."
Cut short before she could launch into another speech, Professor
Trelawney blinked, then straightened up. "Of course," she said
in softer, less overblown tones. She then drifted unevenly up
the stairs of the dais and to her seat. There she noticed me for
the first time, stopped cold, and stared wide-eyed. As she stood
there, trembling violently and emitting a faint scent of sherry,
I looked up at her and (against my better judgment) stuck out my
hand.
"Doug Sangnoir," I said. "New professor of Defense. Delighted
to meet you." Which I wasn't, not really, not after seeing her
entrance, but I'd never *say* that. I have *some* tact.
Not a lot, but *some*. Even Hexe says so. However reluctantly.
-- Bob
---------
Then the horns kicked in...
...and my shoes began to squeak.