Olive was obsessed with JK Rowling’s Harry Potter,
Hermione was her nom de plume, she wrote it on her jotter.
She wore a cloak each day to school and made up lots of spells,
Mixing potions, drawing runes and causing noxious smells.
Her teachers wished she’d spend her time on more traditional lessons,
Instead she practised alchemy and incantation sessions.
Her classmates found her rather weird and left her well alone,
She wrote her essays with a quill and didn’t own a phone!
Olive claimed telepathy was cheaper and far better,
But failing that she’d use an owl to send her friends a letter.
The fact she never mastered even one successful spell,
Didn’t worry Olive who was sure she would excel.
She persevered day and night to learn about dark arts,
Her pin-up was Professor Snape, she’d memorised the parts
Of all the films which dealt with curses dangerous and grim,
Or scenes where Harry used his wand (she had a crush on him)!
‘Expelliamus’ shouted Olive, using wands she’d made
From chopsticks, straws and sticks she’d whittled with a razor blade.
Olive’s fascination with such supernatural things
As dragons, trolls and magic charms and mushroom fairy rings,
Led her to collect a huge repository of clutter,
All strewn across her bedroom floor, it made her parents mutter
That Hogwarts pupils wouldn’t live in such an awful mess,
So Olive said she’d tidy up (though under some duress).
In truth the girl was lazy when it came to doing chores,
She never washed up, folded socks or hoovered any floors.
Not only that, but like so many children of her age,
She didn’t ask to borrow things which caused parental rage.
And if that wasn’t bad enough when items were returned,
Quite often they were broken, bent or sometimes even burned!
Olive had been banned from taking things without permission,
She moaned and sulked and railed against this unfair imposition.
But one day when alone she snapped her most beloved wand,
A piece of bamboo cane of which the girl was very fond.
So with her father’s bunch of keys, she went into his shed,
And standing on a box of tiles, she reached above her head.
There hanging on the wall was every sort of useful tool,
A hammer, saw and screwdriver, a four-foot metal rule.
Then dangling by a tenon saw she found the perfect thing,
A pointy piece of metal with a handle wrapped in string.
Unbeknownst to Olive what she’d taken was an awl,
A tool for punching leather which would soon be her downfall.
Brandishing her wand aloft she shouted ‘Voldemort!’
“I’ve come to stop your fiendish plans which I alone can thwart!”
She dodged and parried with her wand while straddling a broom,
Pretending she was flying as she ran into her room.
But as she burst in through the door she tripped upon a shoe
And fell headlong onto her awl, which ran the girl right through.
A death by misadventure was the coroner’s conclusion,
Brought about by loss of blood and damaging contusions.
No magic spells or mandrake roots could bring the poor girl back,
Not Dumbledore, McGonegall or even Sirius Black.
If only Olive Tippleswitch had tidied up her room,
She’d be alive and learning to play Quidditch on a broom.