Tutoring = Hell!

Tutoring = Hell!

Filia Lunae

               

It all started as a regular day. Several long, excruciating hours of babble from old, boring adults that normal people like to call professors. (Which I find to be quite comical.) Chatting with friends, writing a little, reading a lot. Just an average day in life of an average witch, going to an average school (sort of). Right?

                Wrong. Very, very wrong.

                This day, may it be marked in time forever as December 13, was the day I, Lisa Turpin, had to tutor.

                I know what you’re thinking. ‘Tutoring?’ you say. ‘What’s so bad about tutoring?’ I’m sure you think that just about any competent person, especially Ravenclaw prefect, could handle a mere couple of hours tutoring a few peers, who either were forced to come by their teachers, or just needed help cramming for a History of Magic test or something.

                Again, you’re very wrong.

                I knew that things wouldn’t go quite as smoothly as I’d hoped when I realized that there were ten people and only one tutor, myself, seeing as my partner had neglected to show up. (My decision to strangle him, however, was made a little later on.) But I, with narrow-minded determination, walked over to one of the tables, dropped my books, and announced that all those present should, at this time, take out all their study materials and wait for me to come around.

                “Why should we wait for you?” one kid with spiky hair asked.

“Because I’m going to be your tutor. My name is Lisa Turpin, by the way.”

“Oh.”

                All was silent for a moment, so I assumed that things were going well, and began moving about, making sure that nobody needed help. I was doing this, rather idly, really, for some time, until Spiky-hair raised his hand.

“Professor Turpin,” he called.

“Er, I’m not really a teacher, just one of your peers. No need for formalities.”

“Oh…er, what’s a peer?”

“Someone of equal age, and/or maturity.”

“Oh… er, what’s fomralities?” Dear God! I thought exasperatedly. He can’t even say it right!

“Nothing, nothing, don’t worry about it. So, what did you need help with?”

“Help?” Oh, please, spare me!

“Yes, help. I assume you called me over because you needed help. Right?”

“I called you over?” < Sob, sob. > Why, oh why do these Muggle-borns have to get high just before they study?

“Yes, you did.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever, Trippin.”

“Turpin.”

“Yeah.”

                So now are you starting to see what I mean? And it gets worse. Oh yes, much worse.

“Turpin?” This came from two girls in a corner.

“Yes?”

“Hey, do you know who wrote the national anthem?”

“Henry Carey,” I rattled off immediately. I mean, who didn’t know that? Their eyes widened in awe (or shock) momentarily, then they glanced at each other quickly and smiled.

“Hey, could you come here for a second?”

“Okay.”

                So I walked over calmly, prepared to offer a little piece of wisdom to some confused, yet semi-normal human beings. When I arrived at their table, they pulled out a sheet of paper from under their books.

“Hey could you do us a favor and… ah… help us… find the answers to some of these?”

                I looked the sheet over quickly, and saw exactly one hundred questions, with nearly all the answers below, formatted for multiple choice, scrawled in red ink. Now, this was insulting. I may be something of… an overactive academic… (for lack of other, ruder terms) but I know what cheating is. And this obviously was the answer key for a test, stolen from a staff room or something, which I think definitely qualifies as a cheat sheet.

                Well, it did help that I could recognize the Muggle Studies professor’s handwriting since I had willingly graded so many of his papers, and while I was in his classroom chatting after class he said that he seemed to have misplaced his incomplete answer key to the next test…. But that’s not the point here! The point is, they were asking me to fill out the incomplete answers to this cheat sheet of theirs, thinking that I was soooo gullible, and that I would merrily comply. Well, it wasn’t going to work.

“I’m sorry, I can’t help you out there,” I said calmly, feigning ignorance.

“No, you don’t understand, we need this.”

“No, you don’t understand, I can’t help you.”

“Why?”

“Because… because I’m not sure what your book might say about some of these questions. Take for instance, the first Muggles to achieve flight. Some Muggle Studies books credit Joseph-Michel and Jacques-Etienne Montgolfier for inventing the hot air balloon, whereas others credit the Wright Brothers for inventing the airplane, while still others say…”

“We get it. Thanks, bye!”

                I turned and strode over to my own little table, pretending not to see them roll their eyes behind my back. Despite it all though, I grinned, for my plan had worked. Rule #547 of the Unspoken Terms of the Unofficial Tutors’ Guild: When all else fails, bore the pants off of ‘em!

                All was well for a short time (too short, in my opinion), and then another incompetent student presented himself. With a heavy sigh and not a glance at who the Tosser-of-the-Hour was, I walked over to where his voice had come from, and sat down next to him. Still without looking at the person himself, I listened to him jabber incomprehensibly about goblin rebellions. When I finally caught the gist of what he was saying, I decided to lay my eyes on the poor, misguided fool who didn’t understand why the names of all the goblins were so strange.

                The poor, misguided fool was Roger Davies, Ravenclaw Quidditch captain.

                Normally, I would’ve disregarded the fact that this young god was wanted by every single female Ravenclaw between the ages of eleven and eighteen, and incredibly attractive. I would even have disregarded the fact that he was sitting so close to me that I could feel the body heat emanating from his sweating thighs on my own.

                But nooooo, NOW is when the full effects of puberty decided to kick in.

                So there I was, one moment in complete possession of my senses, the next utterly struck by the way one lock of Roger Davies’s golden hair fell into his huge, crystalline blue eyes. Let me tell you, it was a bit of a sensory overload. It felt like every sweat gland in my body decided that now was the time to empty itself of about a ton of water, my heart started beating the same way it would as if I was being chased by an entire pride of lions, and my hands were shaking so hard I’m sure that Roger must’ve thought that I was having a seizure.

                That is, of course, if he knew what a seizure was. Which, by the way, I think that he did.

“Er, are you all right?” Roger inquired softly.

“Huh? Oh, yes, yes, of course, I’m fine!” I hated my mouth for allowing those last two words to come out squeaky.

“Cool.” Roger flashed that lady-killer grin of his, the one that exposed every one of those gleaming teeth, and my stomach began to turn somersaults in excitement. Bad hormones! Bad, bad!

“So what do you not understand?”

“Well, I don’t know why those goblins’ names are so weird, like Boggle the Bearded-”

“Bodrod,” I automatically corrected.

“Oh. Anyway, the names are hard to remember, and I keep failing my tests.”

                 For a moment, I was actually impressed. The guy at least had a real, and quite normal, problem. Unlike Pothead over there, who didn’t even remember that he had called me over….

“Well, I know what can help. Since Remembrance Charms aren’t allowed, there are some Muggle tricks I picked up. For example, the scent of lavender, when picked up by your olfactory sensors - ” Quickly noticing the bewildered expression that flashed across his face when I used a ‘dictionary phrase,’ I recovered by saying, “I mean, nostrils - ” Aha! Now he got it! Uh-oh, wait, I caused him to smile. Bugger! “Anyway, it triggers memory. So, if you study with, say, a lavender scented candle nearby or something, if you have the scent of lavender near you, which I guess you could get by spritzing a tiny bit of your girlfriend’s perfume, when you’re taking the test, it’ll help you remember,” I finished, deciding to smile as well. Might as well fight fire with fire… sort of…

“Wow, that’s interesting. I think I read something about the way the mind remembers certain things, like colors and stuff.” Even though my brain was scoffing at how that must’ve been the only thing he’d ever remembered having read, my heart was melting as his face became thoughtful, and my body was practically hollering, “HE’S SO CUUUUUUTE WHEN HE THINKS!”

                “But, by the way, I don’t have a girlfriend.”

I once thought I had willpower. I once thought I was in control of what my mind and body ordered me to do. After all, I did get Sorted into Ravenclaw because of my intellect and strong-willed determination, right? And when I got accepted into Beauxbatons, the Academy that all my ancestors attended, starting with my great-great-great-grandparents, I refused. I refused a whole world of opportunities, including having a family friend as Headmistress of my school, just so I could go to Hogwarts. My mother said that I was going to be a disgrace to the family name. I fought ties that were holding me back, possibly even my destiny.

                But blast it all, I couldn’t resist the charms of a GOD FORSAKEN, MORTAL, TEENAGE BOY!

                THAT REALLY, REALLY, REALLY SUCKS!

                Anyway, moving on, I just snapped when I heard him say that. I smiled and kind of scooted in a bit closer. He smiled back, and we were just… smiling at each other for a while. I swear, those eyes were hypnotic! I was frozen right there, not able to do anything but relish in his cologne/post-Quidditch-practice smell, and stare into those eyes, the ones that were staring right back at me.

                The worst part is, I was enjoying it. A lot. Even that really snobby, intelligent part of me was swooning.

                And then, just when I was getting used to being infatuated with the same person that everybody else was infatuated with, something lobbed me over the head.

                A big, sticky, made-of-paper-and-spit something.

                So I turn around, ready to maul the little pitcher-in-training that thought he was so funny, and I spot Pothead and Spiky-hair laughing their little high heads off.

                I’m telling you, I was this close to blowing up the whole bloody library there and then. As a matter of fact, I still think they deserved it, and it would’ve have been quite simple. It would have been clean, easy, and very stress relieving. Not to mention it would shut that little voice in my head right up. It would’ve been shocked right out of existence…

                But then reality and common sense got in the way, and I realized that all of this tutoring nonsense was turning me into a little schizophrenic. So you know what I did? Well, I did what any normal, pissed off, hormonal teenage girl would do in a situation like that.

                I bribed the Weasley twins to… ah… frighten them a little.

                Actually, I didn’t, but I plan to do so later. What I really did was slap them rather hard, grab my books, and stroll out of the room with my head held high. It was quite a little show, really.

                So here I am now, just outside the library, writing in this little journal of mine, and dumping my misery onto the shoulders of a blissfully lifeless little sheet of paper. (Well, actually, five blissfully lifeless little sheets of paper, but you know what I mean.)

                And I think I’ve made a breakthrough discovery today, which might possibly change the world: tutoring is HELL!!!!!!

                But wait, someone’s coming out of the library. I’ll get back to you, little journal.

Twenty minutes later…

                Oh my. Oh dear. I think I’m hyperventilating. Breath in through my nose, out through my mouth. In through my nose, out through my mouth. In through my nose, out through my –

                AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH! I JUST CAN’T BELIEVE MY LUCK!!!!!

                Well, no time to write now, Madam Pince is giving me one of her unnerving stares.

                Let me just say one thing though: maybe tutoring isn’t such hell, after all.

                In through my nose, out through my mouth…

~*~*~