OK, so I'm late - but it's still the 9th across the Atlantic, right?
So I can still wish a_t_rain a very happy birthday indeed!
Three years ago, now, I was procrastinating on the internet as only graduate students who have a dissertation to write can, and thought I'd look into this 'fan fiction' of which I'd heard a (Buffy tVS fan) friend speak. My memory may not be completely accurate, and I may have erased a few frightful examples from my brain, but chance certainly had it that a_t_rain's Happy Birthday, Mr Dark Lord was one of the first things I read. And I thought: this is really funny! this is really moving! this is really good! - reactions that have been repeated many times since, when reading her work. And thence, in a roundabout way, to attempting to write stuff myself, and LJ - both of which I am very pleased to have in my life.
/shameless fan-girling.
Or nearly. Because I ::cough, shuffle:: have been writing something, and thought I might as well post the first bit here as a kind of thank you. I was trying to write a different story a couple of weeks ago, but it turned out too terribly depressing for words. Then at the weekend I got inspired by dolorous_ett's great Hogwarts Alumni Magazine(there's obviously something wrong with me, writing all this fanfic of fanfic...) and something not quite as depressing started to appear. Do other people's places of education have institutions like my one does - a place which probably does an important job, really, but manages to put my back up with every communication due to its blatant attempt to manipulate former students' affection for the place for the purpose of extracting money from them? The idea seemed to fit oddly well into the First War...
The Hogwarts Development Office
The Hogwarts Development Office was, at the time of which we speak, in only its third year of existence, and housed in rooms at the heart of old wizarding London, in an elegant building next to Aspley’s Club. The rooms were fitted to a standard of comfort only to be expected of an institution whose titular head was Horace Slughorn and whose de facto controller, the editor of the annual Hogwarts Alumni Magazine, was a Slughorn protégé. The walls were oak-panelled and hung with fine prints and paintings of Hogwarts in years gone by, the editions of Which Witch?, Slingshot’s Quidditch Almanack, Nature’s Nobility, and other such essential works of reference standing on the shelves had been bound beautifully (by Quintus ‘Quarto’ Bodkin, Fellow of the British Wizarding Society of Bookmen and old member of the Slug Club), and decanters of sherry, claret, and Kennaquhair malt stood always within easy reach of any poor over-worked soul who might have need of them.
A cynic might have observed that, for most of the year, little in the way of work actually went on there. Though the editor took a keen interest in the affairs of the office and wrote large portions of the magazine himself, under his own and various assumed names, he had many other pressing concerns, and the articles, book reviews, obituaries and so on which issued from his quill were usually composed elsewhere. The deputy editor came in a little more frequently, to keep the editor informed of what was going on there, but he still could not be said with truth to be a regular occupant. As for the two assistant editors, they seemed to feel that their inclusion of their names on the team was more of a privilege than a responsibility, and that their duties could best be fulfilled by carrying on their lives exactly as usual - which hectic whirl of society activity allowed little time for gainful employment. “Slugger” himself, even though often on the office’s doorstep when in London, as an Aspley’s stalwart, would only drift in if he knew there would be someone of interest there to be an audience for his reminiscences, which he delivered from one of the wingbacked chairs by the decanters, nibbling on the candied pineapple kept there, and sighing nostalgically as he leafed through letters received from old students. So on an average day, there was no-one in the Development Office but a second cousin of the deputy editor, doggedly sifting through correspondence, noting down births, marriages, captures of Manifold Erumpents and deaths, and conscientiously recording contributions to the Special Fund.
The one exception to this state of affairs came towards the end of July, when the magazine reached its final stages of preparation for publication. O.W.L. and N.E.W.T results were in, the list of those who would be invited to attend the school in September had been handed in to the office by the Deputy Head, and for once, at the editor’s insistence, it was all hands on deck for a week of late night sessions of page setting, last minute space filling and proof-reading spells before everything was sent off to be copied by teams of house elves at Sancey’s Speedy Scriptorium. It was for this reason alone that, in the small hours between the last night of July and the first day of August, Hilliard Pucey, assistant editor and wizard of fashion, was to be found sitting at the desk Marcia Flint usually occupied, flicking listlessly through the most recently delivered post and feeling most aggrieved that he was the only member of the senior staff in attendance.
“I see that Weasley woman has had another brat.” he remarked. “How many is that, now? Eight? Nine? And it was born in March, so Merlin knows why they’ve only just got round to letting us know the joyful tidings. As if we weren’t snowed under as it was… And surprise surprise, it’s another redhead. Ugly little thing.”
“I think he’s sweet,” Marcia said. But she did so only under her breath, and her back was turned as she poured Hilliard a drink, so her comment went unnoticed.
“Speaking of brats…” He started searching through a pile of proofs, taking little care to keep them in order. Marcia hesitated, but took the chance offered when he sipped appreciatively at the drink to reach over and find what he was looking for.
“The page is all set. It’ll be the first one in the Births section. The Parkinsons’ little girl is next, here.”
Hilliard ignored Pansy Parkinson, the frills and flounces of whose pink frock failed completely to detract from the hardness of her thunderous scowl, and held the page Marcia had found for him out. “Looks like a little white rat, doesn’t he? Funny to think Lucius must have been just the same.”
This time, Marcia made no noise of disagreement, merely taking the page and putting it back in order with the rest. Beneath the pile, she found a sheet of parchment covered in an acidic green ink and slid it towards Hilliard.
“There’s another letter from that Rita Skeeter, threatening all sorts of things. Exposure, disgrace…”
Hilliard yawned. “Oh, leave it for our esteemed editor, when he finally decides to put in an appearance. He seems to enjoy crossing swords with her, for some reason.”
“You don’t think she means it?”
“Skeeter’s just furious because she thought the Development Office and the magazine would be an ideal showcase for her ‘talents’ and Slughorn wasn’t having any of it. Dreadful woman - never could stand her. If we can get it past Dumbledore, what does she think she’s going to be able to prove against us?” Hilliard yawned again. “Run to Aspley’s and see if you can get the elves to bring round a little something to eat, there’s a good girl. I need an early breakfast.”
Marcia, who still looked worried, hovered at his shoulder uncertainly, but his attention was now fixed upon the Headmaster’s introductory letter, which he had been attempting to prepare for the opening page of the magazine before getting distracted by the post, and after a brief while she slipped away on her errand. Hilliard’s Check Spell was not coping very well with Dumbledore’s script, nor with the references to mountaineering that inexplicably peppered the text. Thin threads of green and red light danced around words and between lines, apparently at random. He could almost see the old man now, smiling at him with that damnable twinkle in his eyes. Thoroughly irritated, he was glad when he heard the door creak open, and looked up as Vere Jugson, his fellow assistant editor, appeared.
“What’s kept you? I’ve been slaving away all night by myself.”
Vere took a few unsteady steps into the room. “We’re finished,” he said.
Part Two
Three years ago, now, I was procrastinating on the internet as only graduate students who have a dissertation to write can, and thought I'd look into this 'fan fiction' of which I'd heard a (Buffy tVS fan) friend speak. My memory may not be completely accurate, and I may have erased a few frightful examples from my brain, but chance certainly had it that a_t_rain's Happy Birthday, Mr Dark Lord was one of the first things I read. And I thought: this is really funny! this is really moving! this is really good! - reactions that have been repeated many times since, when reading her work. And thence, in a roundabout way, to attempting to write stuff myself, and LJ - both of which I am very pleased to have in my life.
/shameless fan-girling.
Or nearly. Because I ::cough, shuffle:: have been writing something, and thought I might as well post the first bit here as a kind of thank you. I was trying to write a different story a couple of weeks ago, but it turned out too terribly depressing for words. Then at the weekend I got inspired by dolorous_ett's great Hogwarts Alumni Magazine(there's obviously something wrong with me, writing all this fanfic of fanfic...) and something not quite as depressing started to appear. Do other people's places of education have institutions like my one does - a place which probably does an important job, really, but manages to put my back up with every communication due to its blatant attempt to manipulate former students' affection for the place for the purpose of extracting money from them? The idea seemed to fit oddly well into the First War...
The Hogwarts Development Office
The Hogwarts Development Office was, at the time of which we speak, in only its third year of existence, and housed in rooms at the heart of old wizarding London, in an elegant building next to Aspley’s Club. The rooms were fitted to a standard of comfort only to be expected of an institution whose titular head was Horace Slughorn and whose de facto controller, the editor of the annual Hogwarts Alumni Magazine, was a Slughorn protégé. The walls were oak-panelled and hung with fine prints and paintings of Hogwarts in years gone by, the editions of Which Witch?, Slingshot’s Quidditch Almanack, Nature’s Nobility, and other such essential works of reference standing on the shelves had been bound beautifully (by Quintus ‘Quarto’ Bodkin, Fellow of the British Wizarding Society of Bookmen and old member of the Slug Club), and decanters of sherry, claret, and Kennaquhair malt stood always within easy reach of any poor over-worked soul who might have need of them.
A cynic might have observed that, for most of the year, little in the way of work actually went on there. Though the editor took a keen interest in the affairs of the office and wrote large portions of the magazine himself, under his own and various assumed names, he had many other pressing concerns, and the articles, book reviews, obituaries and so on which issued from his quill were usually composed elsewhere. The deputy editor came in a little more frequently, to keep the editor informed of what was going on there, but he still could not be said with truth to be a regular occupant. As for the two assistant editors, they seemed to feel that their inclusion of their names on the team was more of a privilege than a responsibility, and that their duties could best be fulfilled by carrying on their lives exactly as usual - which hectic whirl of society activity allowed little time for gainful employment. “Slugger” himself, even though often on the office’s doorstep when in London, as an Aspley’s stalwart, would only drift in if he knew there would be someone of interest there to be an audience for his reminiscences, which he delivered from one of the wingbacked chairs by the decanters, nibbling on the candied pineapple kept there, and sighing nostalgically as he leafed through letters received from old students. So on an average day, there was no-one in the Development Office but a second cousin of the deputy editor, doggedly sifting through correspondence, noting down births, marriages, captures of Manifold Erumpents and deaths, and conscientiously recording contributions to the Special Fund.
The one exception to this state of affairs came towards the end of July, when the magazine reached its final stages of preparation for publication. O.W.L. and N.E.W.T results were in, the list of those who would be invited to attend the school in September had been handed in to the office by the Deputy Head, and for once, at the editor’s insistence, it was all hands on deck for a week of late night sessions of page setting, last minute space filling and proof-reading spells before everything was sent off to be copied by teams of house elves at Sancey’s Speedy Scriptorium. It was for this reason alone that, in the small hours between the last night of July and the first day of August, Hilliard Pucey, assistant editor and wizard of fashion, was to be found sitting at the desk Marcia Flint usually occupied, flicking listlessly through the most recently delivered post and feeling most aggrieved that he was the only member of the senior staff in attendance.
“I see that Weasley woman has had another brat.” he remarked. “How many is that, now? Eight? Nine? And it was born in March, so Merlin knows why they’ve only just got round to letting us know the joyful tidings. As if we weren’t snowed under as it was… And surprise surprise, it’s another redhead. Ugly little thing.”
“I think he’s sweet,” Marcia said. But she did so only under her breath, and her back was turned as she poured Hilliard a drink, so her comment went unnoticed.
“Speaking of brats…” He started searching through a pile of proofs, taking little care to keep them in order. Marcia hesitated, but took the chance offered when he sipped appreciatively at the drink to reach over and find what he was looking for.
“The page is all set. It’ll be the first one in the Births section. The Parkinsons’ little girl is next, here.”
Hilliard ignored Pansy Parkinson, the frills and flounces of whose pink frock failed completely to detract from the hardness of her thunderous scowl, and held the page Marcia had found for him out. “Looks like a little white rat, doesn’t he? Funny to think Lucius must have been just the same.”
This time, Marcia made no noise of disagreement, merely taking the page and putting it back in order with the rest. Beneath the pile, she found a sheet of parchment covered in an acidic green ink and slid it towards Hilliard.
“There’s another letter from that Rita Skeeter, threatening all sorts of things. Exposure, disgrace…”
Hilliard yawned. “Oh, leave it for our esteemed editor, when he finally decides to put in an appearance. He seems to enjoy crossing swords with her, for some reason.”
“You don’t think she means it?”
“Skeeter’s just furious because she thought the Development Office and the magazine would be an ideal showcase for her ‘talents’ and Slughorn wasn’t having any of it. Dreadful woman - never could stand her. If we can get it past Dumbledore, what does she think she’s going to be able to prove against us?” Hilliard yawned again. “Run to Aspley’s and see if you can get the elves to bring round a little something to eat, there’s a good girl. I need an early breakfast.”
Marcia, who still looked worried, hovered at his shoulder uncertainly, but his attention was now fixed upon the Headmaster’s introductory letter, which he had been attempting to prepare for the opening page of the magazine before getting distracted by the post, and after a brief while she slipped away on her errand. Hilliard’s Check Spell was not coping very well with Dumbledore’s script, nor with the references to mountaineering that inexplicably peppered the text. Thin threads of green and red light danced around words and between lines, apparently at random. He could almost see the old man now, smiling at him with that damnable twinkle in his eyes. Thoroughly irritated, he was glad when he heard the door creak open, and looked up as Vere Jugson, his fellow assistant editor, appeared.
“What’s kept you? I’ve been slaving away all night by myself.”
Vere took a few unsteady steps into the room. “We’re finished,” he said.
Part Two