What is your weapon of choice?
Occasionally my mind drifts to memories of one of the trials I agreed to endure in order to prove my loyalty to Dumbledore when I first came to him with my arm and my soul both dark as pitch. He told me that it was standard procedure for all new professors, but I suspect he may have paid a bit more attention to my results, after the Ministry psychologists interviewed me.
Sometimes I remember the questions they asked, and wonder if any of my answers have changed. Am I more mad now than I was then, or less? Not that I trust their assessment of my mental stability in any case - they were obviously crackpots. What possible purpose could have existed behind those idiotic questions?
"What is your weapon of choice?"
I had stared at him for a moment, as if waiting for the punchline. "Is that a serious inquiry?" I asked, narrowing my eyes at him. "You do realize that I'm a wizard, right? What do you think my weapon of choice is, a toothpick?"
I saw him jotting something down on the parchment in front of him. The letters formed the word "toothpick" in large, loopy script.
"My wand, you moron!" I bellowed. In fact, after the two hours I had been sitting in that chair answering his stupid questions - my dream career, indeed - I rather wished I could use my weapon of choice.
My eyes darted to where he began to scribble again. "Anger management problems," he wrote. "Poor impulse control."
I grunted and sank farther into my chair.
Sometimes I remember the questions they asked, and wonder if any of my answers have changed. Am I more mad now than I was then, or less? Not that I trust their assessment of my mental stability in any case - they were obviously crackpots. What possible purpose could have existed behind those idiotic questions?
"What is your weapon of choice?"
I had stared at him for a moment, as if waiting for the punchline. "Is that a serious inquiry?" I asked, narrowing my eyes at him. "You do realize that I'm a wizard, right? What do you think my weapon of choice is, a toothpick?"
I saw him jotting something down on the parchment in front of him. The letters formed the word "toothpick" in large, loopy script.
"My wand, you moron!" I bellowed. In fact, after the two hours I had been sitting in that chair answering his stupid questions - my dream career, indeed - I rather wished I could use my weapon of choice.
My eyes darted to where he began to scribble again. "Anger management problems," he wrote. "Poor impulse control."
I grunted and sank farther into my chair.