149. The Fruit Troll

Contest Winner: Quercitron
Runner-Up: TWZRD

Spanky gasped as his broom approached the grounds of Mangeford Manor. He was so staggered that he missed his footing and landed face-first in a pile of uprooted shrubbery that had been gathered up for burning. His eyes gleamed with tears when he stood up, partly because of the pungent scent of the leaves. But only partly.

He looked around at a scene of devastation. Sir Lionel's beautiful, exotic gardens were no more. Instead there were heaps of earth and gravel, plowed up by large machines that now stood idle. One area had been paved with an interlocking pattern of bricks, and already several shiny, expensive automobiles stood on it. The wall surrounding the estate had been breached, and from the painted stakes and taut lengths of string that divided it up, it was evident the land was being subdivided.

Shaking his head, Spanky trudged round the back of the manor house, past windows whose glass had been replaced with wooden boards and "DANGER: KEEP OUT" signs. As he rounded the end of a heaping-full waste container, he spotted one wing that appeared intact. Only, where the garden shed had been, there was now a kidney-shaped swimming pool lined with shiny, pale-blue tile. Spanky gaped at it in shock and sadness.

Then a hand reached out of the water, followed by another. Two arms pulled the rest of a scrawny young man onto the edge of the pool. Spanky moved closer, watched by the stranger's slightly crossed eyes as he toweled himself dry. Neither man spoke until Spanky was within arm's reach, gazing down at the shorter man with his thin, wispy mustache, acne-scarred skin, sneering lips, lopsided nose, and mismatched eyes - brown on the left, gray on the right, each seemingly stuck staring in a different direction.

"You must be that Spankison chap," said the stranger, his face turned upward so that his eyes seemed to look at each of Spanky's ears, separately. "Father told me so much about you, I feel like I could pick your face out of a crowd."

"Father who?" Spanky growled suspiciously. After seeing the grounds, he could barely restrain his instinct to interrogate this wizard as a rogue suspect. "And who are you, anyway?"

"I'm Philip Niblet, of course," said the pied-eyed man. "Sir Lionel was my father."

Spanky choked back a harsh laugh. "That's ridiculous," he said. "I knew Sir Lionel's sons. I grew up with them. I went to Hogwarts with them. I was here when he buried them. They were both killed by the Death Eaters."

"Those were Lady Niblet's brats," Philip snapped, pulling a plush robe onto his narrow shoulders. "Happily for her, she did not know about her husband's affair with my Mum, the village apothecary. She went away before I was born." While he said this, Philip walked over to a well-stocked poolside bar and began mixing two drinks, without bothering to ask Spanky if he wanted one.

"Madam Gisela?" Spanky said, his eyes popping with surprise. "I remember when she packed up and left so suddenly..."

"Exactly," said Philip. "Now you know the whole story."

Spanky shifted to a new tack. "But why didn't you go to Hogwarts?"

Philip's face colored as he handed Spanky a drink with a paper umbrella in it. He sipped his own, with evident relish, before answering. "My Mum felt she had more to teach me than I could learn at that stuffy old place. Besides, questions would have been asked, and the answers would have embarrassed Sir Lionel. Since we relied on his support..."

"But this is absurd," cried Spanky, wincing from the flavor of the cocktail Philip had handed him. "I've been in Sir Lionel's confidence for over twenty years. I would have... Did you say he was your father?"

Philip stretched out in a chaise longue, nursing his drink thoughtfully while Spanky stood over him, glowering.

When he could stand it no longer, Spanky demanded, "What's happened to him, then?"

"No one knows, do they?" said Philip. "Hadn't you heard that he was missing? Some confidant you are."

"Missing!" Spanky snorted. "Since when?"

"Since Halloween at least. When the local wizarding families arrived for the annual ball in his grand gallery, they found the doors wide open and no one at home. There were no signs of struggle and nothing was missing...except Dad, of course." The man's repulsive lips twisted at the corners as he said this, as if he was fighting to suppress a smile. "The village magistrate officially declared him dead at the end of the year. What a shock that no one told you..."

"And I suppose you were Sir Lionel's sole heir," Spanky muttered, setting his dry glass on the bar with a brief shudder. His insides had gone ice-cold at the thought of his friend and mentor missing, perhaps in danger...perhaps dead...

Those narrow shoulders lifted in a shrug. "You didn't expect him to leave it all to you, did you? Well, I hate to say it, but it came at a good time for me. I have debts. This place is worth a good bit. Sad as it is to break it up so, I've had no choice but to sell it to a developer. I can afford to keep just this one little wing, but it will be enough."

"Whose are all the cars, then?" Spanky gestured around the corner of the house.

Fuzzy-lip gave him a slow look, then said, "You can't expect me to sit on all this wealth and not enjoy myself a bit, eh? Can't you let a body enjoy a few comforts...?"

"What does a wizard need with so many cars?"

The narrow face colored again, more deeply than before. "I'll beg you to stay out of my business. Unless, that is, you'd care to find out what's happening to my house-elves..."

"Sir Lionel's house-elves," Spanky corrected, his voice husky with controlled emotion.

"What you will," said his host, holding up his glass. Spanky pointed his wand at it and it refilled. He added firewhisky to his own glass and threw away the paper umbrella. "We're running low on servants, anyway. The little pilferers can't have run away, so I'm at a loss. What do you think?"

"Maybe a shalynx moved indoors after you started tearing up the gardens," Spanky suggested.

"A what? I haven't heard..."

"One of those Hogwarts lessons your Mum didn't think you needed," Spanky said heavily. "Picture a panther, practically invisible, always blends into the scenery around it. Handy for controlling pests like gnomes and doxies, but once driven indoors, they can develop a taste for house-elves."

"I suppose that would explain the bloody tea-towel that turned up in the pantry this morning," said Philip, rolling his eyes. "How does one go about catching a what's-it..."

"Shalynx. One doesn't. One leaves the back door open and hopes that it leaves on its own, before it finishes off one's servants."

Philip looked exasperated. "Some help you are. Feel free to walk the grounds, anyway. Perhaps you'll see a lot that you like. There are some that have a nice view overlooking the village..."

"Actually, I need you to tell me everything you know about Sir Lionel's disappearance. I should have been informed sooner. There might still be something I can do..."

"I'm entirely at your disposal," said Philip, attempting (but failing) to meet Spanky's eyes with a smile that held equal parts sincerity and irony. "But since I've already told you everything I know, perhaps you'd do better to interrogate the elves, the neighbors, the magistrate, and so forth. Besides, I reckon there's another reason behind your visit."

"Can you direct me to the Himalayan Gardens and Preserve? I believe they've been added to the grounds since my last visit."

"It has been a while, hasn't it?" Philip said, his smile reverting to its natural sneer. "Well, I'm afraid Sir Lionel's little piece of heaven has been bulldozed. Beastly mountain kept having avalanches every other day. I couldn't afford to keep clearing up the snow. If I didn't know better, I would suspect it was a wowtain..."

"Pardon?"

Philip's eyes twinkled maliciously. "Didn't you hear about that at Hogwarts? Dirty great monster, the wowtain - mythical, of course - uses natural camouflage to disguise itself as a mountain. Frightfully ticklish, though..."

A house-elf approached, burdened with a tray full of fresh fruit and warm muffins. It must have weighed as much as the elf and half over again. "How considerate," said Spanky, plucking an apple off the tray. "Would you happen to have any records of the plants and animals that were removed from the wow-... er, mountain? Or perhaps a garden ledger?"

"Well, let's see..." Philip gazed thoughtfully in two different directions, while reaching toward a bunch of bananas. As he tugged at one of the bananas, Spanky yelled: "Look out!"

The banana turned out to be the long, curved, yellow claw of a giant troll that had somehow escaped everyone's notice while trailing around behind the heavily-laden house-elf. When Philip tugged on that claw, the troll screamed and pulled its claw free of the bunch of bananas.

"Good heavens," Philip cried breathlessly, tumbling out of his chaise longue while the troll pounded its chest in fury. "What is that?"

"It's a fruit troll," said Spanky. "I should have thought of it when you mentioned camouflage... It explains what's been eating your house-elves..."

The present house-elf gazed up at the fruit troll, frozen in fear as the huge beast looked around stupidly. It had teeth the size and color of Bartlett pears, eyes like persimmons, a nose like a drawstring bag full of apples, and cauliflower ears that stuck out at the sides of its canteloupe-shaped head. Its body was shaped like a gigantic pineapple with aubergine-like arms and legs and hairy red skin, like that of a poison sumac berry. It was terrifying to behold; and yet the beast had moved so slowly and matched its gait so well to that of its prey that, somehow, no one had noticed it until now.

The elf gave a tiny squeak of fear. The troll looked down and saw it standing between its horny, hairy feet.

"Move," Spanky urged the house-elf in a sharp whisper.

The house-elf did better than that. As a massive, banana-clawed hand lunged toward it, the house-elf disapparated with a loud pop! The fruit troll roared with anger, turning toward Philip, who was crawling crabwise toward the pool.

"Stun it!" Philip begged.

"It's skin is too thick," Spanky rasped, dancing around behind the blundering monstrosity with both wands drawn. "Nothing I do will affect it. You have to aim for its eyes..."

"I can't do magic!" Philip screamed, his face turning blotchy. "That's why you never saw me at school, all right? I'm a Squib!"

The troll took a step closer to Philip, who was about to find out whether trolls could swim. The scrawny squib threw himself into the pool and began stroking toward the far end.

"This is what comes of razing your father's orchard," Spanky remarked drily as he side-stepped down the edge of the pool opposite the furious fruit troll. "I don't know if you're worth saving, after what you've done to Sir Lionel's..."

The fruit troll reached across the water and made a grab toward Philip, who dove out of the way just in time.

Spanky decided he had to act fast, not so much because he cared about Philip's wellbeing as that he needed more information to help him find Sir Lionel. "Accio broom," he said, pointing his right wand toward the side of the house where he had left his broomstick. Meanwhile, he gave his left wand a series of flicks, causing bottles from the bar to smash themselves against the fruit-troll's head and shoulders.

The massive creature found this only mildly annoying, until a spark from Spanky's wand ignited the alcohol. Then it reared back from the pool, screaming and beating at its flaming skin.

"Levicorpus," Spanky remarked as he mounted his broom. Philip rose sputtering out of the pool, left ankle first, and Spanky caught him around the waist as he zoomed over the pool, cleared the fruit-troll's flailing arms, and landed on the roof of the manor house.

"That's going to cost a fortune to clear up," Philip mourned as the troll rampaged around the pool, smashing barstools and tossing the entire bar into the water.

"What's going to cost you even more," said Spanky, "is setting Sir Lionel's property back the way it was - once I find him."

Philip darted a seething look at him. "Can't you leave well enough..."

He finished the sentence with Spanky's fist in his mouth.

"If I find out you had anything to do with this," said Spanky, shaking Philip by the front of his dripping robe, "I'll give you back to the troll."

"Pick on somebody who can do magic," Philip spat. "Think you're so entitled, don't you, you double-barreled, wand-waving..."

"I know your father," said Spanky, shaking him harder. "He wouldn't just walk away from his responsibilities. He wouldn't kill himself, he wouldn't let himself be taken without a fight... and he wouldn't approve of what you're doing with this place. Now let's you and me pay a visit to that magistrate..."

+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR NO. 151 +++

You can help decide what happens next in The Magic Quill! Simply leave a brief comment (up to 150 words) answering the following Survey and Contest. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest answer that Robbie likes best, will turn up in the chapter after next. [EDIT: This discussion is now closed.]

SURVEY: What gift from way back in Chapter 141 should Merlin use next? (A) Karl's survival satchel. (B) Jaan's point-the-way-out wand. (C) Some of Anatoly's defensive tattoos. (D) Another dose of Endora's Liquid Skill. (E) Harvey's inflatable wall. (F) Subito's Turbo Gum. (G) Boccachiusa's Peekaboo Kit.

CONTEST: Submit a clean, family-friendly "knock, knock" joke that has something to do with magic.

148. Between the Lines

Contest winner: greyniffler
Runner-up: Linda Carrig

MINISTRY OF MAGIC
Department of Magical Law Enforcement
Improper Use of Magic Office

Form IUM-21: Report of Belatedly Discovered Violation

REPORT BY: Lysippus Bean, junior apprentice obliviator

REPORT ON: Possible violation of Statute of Secrecy

DATE: Agnes Onslow (we're just friends)

LOCATION: Miss Onslow's art studio (she makes talking portraits).

SECURITY LEVEL: MoM Eyes-Only confidentiality, secured by spells to repel unauthorized Oi. You there. I need help readers.

DESCRIPTION OF VIOLATION (Attach additional rolls of parchment as needed): While waiting for my Aunt Eunice as she sat for a portrait, I started to browse through some books on Muggle painters and their weird, non-moving Hello? Is anyone there? I could use a bit of help getting out of here pictures. I was struck by some of the images, and after talking with Agnes and analyzing them a bit further, I have become convinced Look, if you could contact someone at the RMB, Blokebury on Rye office, have them tell Agent Spankison or Agent Dalrymple that I'm stuck in here. The name is Sadie that painters from our world have been mingling with Muggle painters, resulting in a horrifying breach of magical secrecy.

I found the strongest evidence of this in Degas' paintings of ballerinas - who, when viewed through spectrespecs, are revealed to be hags having a dance lesson. Though ordinarly Muggles would Well? Am I going to be rescued? be unable to penetrate the concealment charm on these canvases, the fact that Degas was allowed to witness such a spectacle must at least raise a concern. To be sure, this violation happened so long ago that nothing can be done about it. Yet I fear it may only be the tip of the iceberg.

My greatest worries focus on the artist René Magritte, who for some time shared his studio with one of our world's most All right, I suppose you're not doing anything to help me because you don't understand how I broke into this highly classified report. I confess! I'm a burglar! But I promise you, I was using my skills for good prolific painters, Vladimir Smazaniy. According to our archives, Smazaniy was permitted to study under Magritte on the condition that he did not reveal the existence of magic to his master. From Magritte's paintings, however, it is If you really must know (and apparently you must), I got in here through a door in Uncle or Aunt Leslie's house on chicken legs. Didn't know he or she was still alive? Now you do. HELP! evident that Smazaniy went back on his word. Magritte's paintings clearly show - from a muddled, Muggle perspective - that he was even familiar with the Ministry, owing to his frequent depiction of men wearing the style of suits and bowler hats then favored by our agents.

Perhaps Magritte was simply influenced by unintentional slips that he glimpsed from time to time, such as the You see, Il Comte had the big creep (or creepess) under some kind of extra-juice Imperius curse. I followed them to the oval room with all the well-dressed dummies in it, and slipped into a ball gown while they weren't looking. They thought I was one of the mannequins portrait behind the artist in the non-moving photo charm-linked above. I believe the painting in that photo to depict Smazaniy himself, or at least a flash-impression Magritte may have gotten when he momentarily caught Smazaniy using the vanishing cream he was known to use, particularly when painting unauthorized portraits.

I am spell-linking several other examples of Magritte's work, which I feel should I was waiting to see what would happen when Il Comte stepped on the trick floorboard and got jinxed right out of the house, but before I could do anything, Uncle or Auntie's nephew charged into the room and suddenly, spells were blasting everywhere be studied and possibly removed from Muggle collections - though I realize the cost of eradicating them from all Muggle memory would be prohibitive at this point.

First, consider the painting Elective Infinities, which I believe is based on Magritte's garbled memory of a dragon Smazaniy was known to have kept as a pet. Agnes says baby dragon tears I grabbed the ring of Count Matthias right out of Il Comte's hand and ran for it. Suddenly all the blasting wands were pointed at me. I tried one door after another as I ran down the corridor are essential to the pigments used in moving paintings. If Magritte saw this, it is likely that he also witnessed Smazaniy painting wizard portraits. Further evidence of There was a door that led to some icy rock in outerspace. I could see Jupiter at close-range from there. I decided against going in this is in Magritte's painting The Difficult Crossing - note the painting of the ship in the background, virtually identical to a seascape Smazaniy sold to the Maritime Museum of Idaho in 1966.

Then there is Golconda, which (except for the Then there was a door that led to a desert, then a mountain peak, then a boat in the middle of the ocean. I was running out of time to find a place to hide fact that it appears frozen in time) could be mistaken for a wizartist's conception of the 1953 epidemic of spontaneous random apparition, one of the worst public-health disasters in the wizarding world's history. How did Magritte escape being obliviated after this incident, long enough to paint this picture? Again, we must assume Smazaniy had a hand in it.

The Happy Donor can easily be interpreted as Magritte's depiction of Smazaniy disapparating in front of him. The poor fellow Just as they were about to catch me up, I threw myself through the very next door without looking where it led to, and here I am must have thought himself mad. The Human Condition could appear as a cry for help by a Muggle painting master struggling to capture the magical techniques of his student; note how Magritte Well, that's over-simplifying. I feel like I've been through every book in Flourish and Blotts, and since I couldn't break into any RMB documents, this is the closest I could get. So will you send for Spanky now? seems to struggle with the distinction between a picture of a thing and the thing itself.

The Listening Room suggests that Smazaniy allowed Magritte to catch him engorging pieces of fruit, no doubt in his pursuit of ever higher Spanky? Is that you? degrees of detail in his series of still-lifes. Not to be Reproduced appears to show Smazaniy caught in the act of painting his self-portrait, using the special mirror he Oh, bother. They've followed me in here. Just pretend I'm not here borrowed from Hogsmeade hairdresser Flavia Snippens in 1937. On the Threshold of Liberty suggests some of Magritte's confusion, as he interpreted the moving pictures on the walls of Smazaniy's flat as a series of impossible windows leading to different places.

In The Son of Man, we see evidence that Magritte witnessed Smazaniy doing a hovering What the... Look out! They're shooting spells at me. In here! I reckon they're trying to erase me charm. No one who knew Smazaniy can fail to recognize his left eye, which is just visible behind the apple, or his left elbow, which accidentally got I could really stand to be rescued right now fixed on backward after he splinched himself in 1963. Time Transfixed clearly shows an apparition of the ghost train that inhabited Smazaniy's flat in Owch! I thimk ivy bean hett! Brussels, which happened to be built on the site of the Shrinking Train Disaster of 1911 - the reason none of the magical schools on the continent have anything like the Hogwarts Express today. And finally, in The Treachery of Images, we see the full extent of Eye geuss thay wur shutinge mispels at me the harm all these violations of wizarding secrecy wreaked on Magritte's mind. As early as 1928 - the year he took Smazaniy in as his pupil - he Aye wunder wut thyss iz gonig two due tu mi aftre igh git owt uv heer was already losing his conviction that what he saw was real.

It is too late to save Magritte from the mental damage resulting from Smazaniy's numerous indiscretions. However, I recommend Pleez sumbuddy dew summit suen that we take immediate steps to prevent any further harm from coming through these pictures. I urge that the Ministry consider using concealment charms, or at least negotiate with the respective ministries of the countries where each painting Thare cumin kant holed owt mutsh longur is held to have them removed from public view.

Yours respectfully,

L. Bean

+++ A LITTLE ANNOUNCEMENT +++

Since Chapter 150 will be a look back on the "third season" of The Magic Quill, there will not be a new "Double Challenge" this time. Instead, please enjoy another week to answer the Survey and Contest at the end of Chapter 147. Thanks for coming along for the ride! And please, let your friends know about TMQ's new lease on life. We can always use more reader input!

147. The Hexischoleiad, Part 2

Contest winners: Everyone!

DISCLAIMER: Due to a three-way tie in Chapter 145's Survey, the solution to our "whodunit" may seem quite preposterous. You can help future chapters work more smoothly. Simply take part in the Double Challenge at the end of this post!

Continuing his coverage of the Hexischoleiad Final, Bo Dwyer reports for Broomstick and Wand...

My interview with Bruno Fenoglio, disqualified from the final round of the late Hexischoleiad Tournament, was abruptly cut short by a screech from the catlike marsupial that rode everywhere on my photographer's shoulder. "Skreep!" it yowled. "You've got mail!"

"Did that thing just talk?" Fenoglio squeaked, looking pale as death.

"No worries, mate," said my photographer, whose name I forget. "This is only my PDQ."

Fenoglio squinted at the odd creature. "What is a PDQ?"

"Parchment Delivery Quoll," said What's-His-Name, drawing a tiny scroll out of the animal's pouch. "And this is an IMP."

The boy shuddered under his towel, showering me with drops of water from his still-wet hair, and stammered, "Th-they come in all sh-shapes, I reckon."

"No, not that kind of imp, ye muggle's squib! I-M-P, as in Irruptive Memorandum Parchment. It's going to replace owls, you'll see; just as soon as these little blighters come back from the brink of extinction..."

"Rodney," I groaned, "would you please shut up and pass me the IMP?"

"My name is..."

"Whatever."

As soon as I unrolled the slip of parchment, the words "Thundering thestrals!" burst out of my mouth.

"What is it?" Fenoglio gasped, stretching his neck to read over my shoulder.

"That's just a random-exclamation spell," Wossname explained knowledgeably. "They put them on all IMPs, to draw attention and maybe prompt bystanders to..."

"Hopping hippogriffs!" Fenoglio blurted.

"You see?" said the photographer. "It's a sales gimmick. Right clever, if you..."

"Cheezit, Felix," I muttered. "Pack up your gear. We have to get to the Palazzo di San Nazario. Something's happening. Look."

The photographer took the parchment, muttering something about slaving for fourteen years and still not being called by one's right -- then he interrupted himself with a shout of "Salem's nooses! This is big!"

I tousled Fenoglio's head, said, "Tough luck, kid," and grabbing my photographer's elbow grunted, "Let's go, Ralph." He disapparated immediately, and pulled me after him.

We came out in a crowded square surrounded on all sides by high, blind walls. On one side of the square, a group of younger witches and wizards stood with lit wands raised above their heads, chanting loudly and levitating bedsheets with slogans painted on them in color-changing, marquee-sized letters. Closer to where we apparated was a somewhat less cramped collection of journalists and bystanders, many of them wearing armbands in a variety of national colors.

"Well done, Roger," I muttered acidly, picking my dripping feet out of the ankle-deep water of the fountain in the center of the square.

"It was the only place open enough to apparate into," Wossname muttered back.

Everyone was facing a dais at one end of the square, where a plump, sweaty, nervous wizard was even now clearing his magically-amplified throat toward the tip of his wand. The chanting and clamor gradually subsided. I climbed up onto the wall of the fountain and found that I could easily see over everyone's heads that way. My photographer set up his tripod beside me.

I grinned at him. "As I said, Gustav, well done!"

"Thank you for your continued patience," the perspiring wizard announced, his quavering voice echoing off the blank wall opposite. "Be assured, we are expecting Il Comte to arrive at any moment. We apologize for the delay. While we wait, p-perhaps I could take a few questions from the front five or six rows..."

Dozens of hands clawed at the air above the press corps' heads.

"You, there," said the plump wizard. "The witch with the duck on her head."

"Is it true," screeched the witch in question, "that Don Maledicto intends to announce his candidacy to be the next Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards?"

"I'm afraid I can't speak to that," said the gentleman at the rostrum, tugging on his collar. "Next -- let's say, the bloke with the bone in his nose."

"I represent Shamans For Justice. As you know, it is very difficult to make a living in our specialty without revealing the existence of magic to the muggles. We would like..."

"Excuse me," the emcee cut in, "but, my goodness, are you a real witch doctor?"

"I do hold a doctorate from the University of Timbuktu, though I prefer the term 'wizard practitioner.' Anyroad, we want to ask Il Comte to pledge that, if elected Supreme Mugwump, he would work toward the repeal of the Statue of Secrecy, so that..."

"I'm sure he will take that into consideration," said the announcer. "If, that is... and I can neither confirm or deny..."

"Excuse me," piped a piercing voice, coming from the front rank of the young protesters. Whoever it was, he must have been far enough along in his magical studies to know his way around a Sonorus charm. "I know we're too young to vote in this election, but you must hear us. After all, we are going to inherit the magical world you leave behind."

"Oh, dear." The plump wizard mopped his brow with a limp handkerchief. "All right, son, we'll hear you. But make it..."

"Everyone knows Don Maledicto is the darkest wizard this side of the Adriatic," piped the same boyish voice. "What do you think he's going to do - turn over a new leaf the day after he's elected? You don't need a long white beard to know which way Il Comte will steer the world. He'll dial everything back to before Dumbledore came into office."

At the mention of Dumbledore's name, many of the youngsters began to chant again. This took a few moments to die down before the youthful speaker continued: "We're concerned about our environment. Magical creatures are dying out. Dragons are going the way of the dinosaurs. Giants, unicorns, and four-leaf clovers are racing each other to be the next magical species to go extinct. Every year there is less room for us to be ourselves, to do magic without being seen. Something has to be done before it's too late, before our world shrinks to the vanishing point!"

"I don't hear you making any suggestions," the announcer gloated.

"Not electing Don Maledicto would be a start!" the youth bellowed. His supporters cheered. "Did you know that studies show the magical world's shrinkage accelerates when dark wizards are at large? Did you know that every pay-per-spell and ready-brew potion sold at Vold-Mart kills more fairies than all the kneazles in Europe combined? Did you seriously think mooncalf flatulence was causing the hole in the earth's thaumatic field? We have to reduce the cloven hoofprint of the wizarding world, before..."

"Now, that's enough," shouted the sweaty wizard. He looked highly flustered. "Let's all settle down now. Il Comte will be here presently."

At that moment, however, someone else appeared on the dais. Below me, many people in the crowd craned their heads to see the tiny headmaster of Isola Indietro, who prevailed on the speaker to give him a leg up onto the podium. Standing on what appeared to be the manuscript of Il Comte's planned speech, the short wizard pointed his wand at his own throat and said, in a surprisingly deep baritone voice that resonated throughout the palazzo: "I regret to inform you that Signore Maledicto will not be available this evening. There has been a tragedy. The final task of the Hexischoleiad Tournament has ended without a winner. My heartfelt condolences go out to the family and friends of Gunnar Almkvist..."

"Irving, you idiot," I spat at my photographer. "You brought us to the wrong story."

"For the umpty-eleventh time," he spat back, "my name is..."

"I know what it is, you grass-eating, walnut-sniffing... never mind, Clint. If we move quickly, we may still make it to the infirmary at Isola Indietro before the witnesses stop making unguarded comments. Hurry, now!"

Once again, I side-along apparated with Herbert(?), this time appearing on respectable, dry ground, in a familiar old corner of the school's sick berth, from which we had eavesdropped on many a quidditch game post-mortem while some player or other recovered from a bludger to the head. This time, we overheard this...

MALE VOICE 1 (in singsong, Nordic tones): There is no such thing as a wereyak.

MALE VOICE 2 (younger, in a heavily trilled, rolling accent): I'm telling you what I saw. I wish it had been a dream. But it was real.

FEMALE VOICE 1 (a local witch whose hoarse voice I recognized as that of the Isola Indietro magical sport teacher): The boy's story is consistent with the marks on the victim's body.

MALE VOICE 1: But this is absurd! Have you drunk too many of your own potions? No one has ever described such a thing. How does this Palamas boy even know what a yak looks like?

MALE VOICE 3 (older, but in the same accent as Male 2): I assure you, Aris is one of the most widely traveled wizards his age. And he has a special understanding where beasts are concerned...

MALE VOICE 1: To be sure, he seems to have a special aptitude for everything!

MALE VOICE 3: Now, Sandstad, you must calm down. It is understandable that you feel frustrated. Your student would have won this tournament, had he survived this task.

MALE VOICE 1: And instead, your well-traveled little favorite walks away with the laurel, by default. And he just happens to witness - if his ludicrous account is to be credited...

MALE VOICE 2 (shouting): How dare you! Look at my leg, my face! Would I do these things to myself? Would I do such a thing to my friend? You know nothing about me!

MALE VOICE 3 (some foreign mumbo-jumbo in a soothing tone of voice).

FEMALE VOICE 1: Well, at any rate, whatever attacked these boys will have the carabinieri on its trail - the wizarding ones especially. And if it is true that this wereyak is one of Il Comte's henchmen, they will have fled together. For the moment, it seems, our city is well rid of them.

FEMALE VOICE 2 (another voice I immediately recognized from our interview together, when she was on the Romanian Owlympic team): Rest assured, the Rogue Magic Bureau takes Mr. Palamas's account very seriously. My people will search for Il Comte, and when we find him we will hold him accountable for this.

MALE VOICE 1: But what could he possibly want with this crude, cracked, worn-out old eagle?

MALE VOICE 3: Cracked? What are you talking about? The falcon figurine is made out of solid thingummium, that stuff you can't even cut with a diamond. It can't be melted, sanded, or forged - nobody knows how it was made - isn't that why the Maltese are so wild about it?

MALE VOICE 1: Well, look at it. There's a crack right here.

MALE VOICE 3: Give it here.

MALE VOICE 1: I beg your - look out -

[Loud crash]

FEMALE VOICE 1: Well, there's a surprise.

MALE VOICE 3: What is that among the fragments? See how it catches...?

FEMALE VOICE 2 (abruptly): Don't touch it! Everyone, back away carefully...

+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR TMQ #149 +++

You can help decide what happens next in The Magic Quill! Simply leave a brief comment (up to 150 words) answering the following Survey and Contest. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest answer that Robbie likes best, will turn up in the chapter after next. [EDIT: This discussion is now closed.]

SURVEY: When we last heard from Spanky, he was having doubts about his old friend Lionel Niblet. When he goes back to Mangeford, Spanky finds that Sir Lionel has been: (A) put under an Imperius Curse; (B) replaced by a polyjuice-swilling imposter; (C) quietly missing for some time, and his estate is now controlled by an icky heir; (D) living a life of crime on the sly.

CONTEST: Describe an extremely rare (i.e., totally invented) creature that uses camouflage to disguise itself as something else. The more absurd the disguise, the better!

146. The Merhags

Contest winner: TWZRD

Scarcely had Rigel handed both brooms to the parking valet and offered his arm to his date when a Wizarding Wireless presenter shoved a wand in his face. He squinted as a hovering lens focused the light of a blazing candelabra on his face. Evidently he was expected to speak into the wand-tip. "Er," he hemmed. "Say again?" he hawed.

"I said," the presenter said with quite as much grin but half the sincerity, "Isn't this your first public appearance since suddenly arriving at adulthood?"

"I suppose so," Rigel said sourly. "I mean, I've been an adult before, so..."

"And who is your lovely date?"

"Er," Rigel stammered, glancing at the woman beside him. "Th-this is Lucretia Pucey. She's actually my..."

"Miss Pucey, now that you're dating one of wizarding London's most eligible bachelors, how does it feel to know that he's already been through his second childhood?"

The woman on Rigel's arm blushed and covered her mouth. "I really can't say," she mumbled.

"We're not dating," Rigel said forcefully. "Miss Pucey is my governess."

The presenter tittered naughtily. "Well, be that as it may, you're all grown up now, aren't you? With a gown like that, you can tell she doesn't let a little thing like unemployment get her down."

Rigel gestured toward the shabby theatre, whose entrance the presenter was effectively blocking. "If you don't mind..."

"Actually, our listeners would love to hear your thoughts on tonight's show."

"I haven't seen it yet," Rigel said pointedly.

"But surely, you have some idea what you're about to see. It isn't everyday a society bad-boy turns up, after being presumed dead for a dozen years, sporting an attractive young witch on his arm..."

"Look," Rigel snapped. "I've been friends with the choreographer since I was a kid. The first time, that is. He played in some of the first games of Head Quidditch."

"Ah, so it's your personal connection to Bob Fossil that draws you to this opening-night."

"A good stick, old Bob is," Rigel agreed gruffly.

"Would you say he is growing creatively?"

"I suppose so. This is what, his third musical? No one thought dancing skeletons doing a jazz revue would amount to anything, but when they saw Deadhead..."

"That's exactly who saw it," the presenter said archly. "No one."

"Yes, but that's not taking ghosts into account. Deadhead did quite well in the unquiet-dead community. Which is really, you know, Bob's target audience."

"Don't I know it," the presenter said through clenched teeth, glancing up and down the quiet street in search of any other warm bodies to interview. "I've never seen such a quiet premiere. It's like a graveyard."

"Actually, it is a graveyard," Miss Pucey pointed out. "The Kidney Street Theatre hasn't had a live audience since it was hit by a German shell in 1940, during a sold-out performance of Sickle Serenade."

"It has the largest ectoplasmic acting company in Britain," Rigel added. "There isn't another troupe in the world that could mount a production of How to Succeed in the Afterlife Without Really Dying."

"You should know, shouldn't you?" purred the presenter, cupping her hand over her ear. "Isn't it true, Rigel, that you were the executive producer of that show?"

"I would really like to go inside," said Rigel.

"Are you also backing tonight's production of The Shroud Game?"

Rigel bristled. "I'll have you know that ghosts are perfectly capable of..." He winced, put his hand to the silver-backed diamond stud attached to his earlobe. Then he pulled his hand away as if burned. "Excuse me a moment."

"Sure," cooed the presenter. "May I ask Miss Pucey where she picked up that sensational...?"

"Oh, the blazing billywigs," Rigel cried out in a strangled voice, desperate to control his urge to swear on live wireless. "Not now!"

The young woman at his side looked concerned, saying, "Master O, is something wrong?" Then, just as she reached out to touch his arm, he disappeared with a sickening pop -- and dragged her after him.

They landed on a damp, gritty, stone floor. Rigel might have kept his footing if Miss Pucey hadn't barreled into him, sending them both rolling through a shallow puddle that ruined their evening clothes.

"I've seen better landings," said a gruff voice.

Rigel sat up and glared at Merlin. "And I've seen better places to land."

Merlin helped the governess to her feet. She seemed surprisingly unruffled, considering her confusing journey and her uncomfortable new surroundings. "This is unexpected," she said, gazing directly at Merlin with an uplifted chin.

"I beg your pardon for interrupting what seems to have been a big night," said Merlin, while Rigel looked around at the damp slabs of stone that surrounded them on all sides. They were in a chilly room, slightly larger than the public room at the Hog's Head, with a ceiling so high that the light from Merlin's wand-tip barely reached it. In the center of the floor was a staircase leading down to a pool of black, still water, eight or ten steps below floor level.

"Crikes, the smell," said Rigel, covering his mouth and nose with one hand, while favoring his singed earlobe with the other. "Like a fishy sewer. It has to be Venice."

"Venice is actually some distance above us," Merlin said casually.

"And that's the only way out of here?" Rigel tilted his head toward the steps, the pool.

"I'm afraid so."

"What about these walls? The ceiling? Surely Il Comte must have a secret way into his -- I don't know -- boat slip? Besides, that helm the goblins gave him isn't fond of water."

"This isn't part of Il Comte's estate," Merlin murmured, quietly filing away the information Rigel had unwittingly provided.

"Then why the devil did you come here? What did you think you would find? And why can't you just leave the way you came in?"

"Because," said Merlin, "the ones who brought me here are waiting outside."

Rigel looked down into the dark water. He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw something move below the surface. "Merfolk?" he guessed. Merlin nodded. "What is this place, then? A prison? What did you do? Did you violate their territory? Did you poach in their waters?"

"Oh, nothing like that," said Merlin. "And anyway, this isn't a prison."

Rigel stared at him. He and Miss Pucey stared at each other. They both looked at Merlin again with eyes full of dread and curiosity.

Merlin pointed his wand at the corner behind him, where several barrels were stacked in front of a shelf full of filthy cans and jars. Hanging from the ceiling were the gutted carcasses of two drowned dogs, a stiff fox, a partially eaten goat, and several large fish.

"It's a larder," Miss Pucey whispered.

"But merpeople wouldn't eat us," Rigel protested furiously. "We're people. They're practically people too. It would almost be cannibalism!"

"Most merpeople wouldn't eat us," Merlin agreed. "But I've discovered an interesting fact that I don't remember reading in Newt Scamander's bestiary. Wherever there are people, you see -- people of any kind -- there is also a small percentage of magical people."

Rigel's brow wrinkled as he tried to follow Merlin's line of thought. "You mean... there are merwitches?"

"Exactly. And wherever one finds witches, one also finds a number -- a much smaller number, to be sure -- of hags."

Rigel looked like he wanted to be sick. "So it's merhags, then."

"Once we've ripened a bit," Merlin went on ruthlessly, "we'll be the most popular main course on their menu."

"We've got to get out of here," Rigel said as if he meant, You've got to get me out.

"That's why I needed you," said Merlin. He bowed to Miss Pucey and added, "Your presence is a nice bonus."

"What do you need me for?" Rigel shouted. "Go on. Escape. Swim past the bloody merhags, then. I would only hold you back."

"It isn't the merhags that scare me," said Merlin. "I already have a defense against their teeth and claws. Only, I've found out something else about this place. Another way out, maybe. Or maybe better: a way in to someplace I never expected to find. It's just that, I won't have time to check it out if the merhags come back for me.

"So what I need is a diversion. I need you to try to escape. The merhags will chase you, thinking you're me. They've never been good at telling one air-breather from another. While you lead them away from here, I'll have time..."

"You must be mad," Rigel screamed.

"Barking," Merlin agreed, holding out a smooth stone that dangled on a leather thong.

Miss Pucey looked from one wizard to the other, hiding her thoughts behind her composed face, as if calmly waiting to see what happened next. At last, with an inarticulate snarl, Rigel snatched the ironskin stone out of Merlin's grasp.

Miss Pucey smirked with her back turned to him as her former escort peeled off his dress robes and prepared to enter the dark water. He paused on the third step to tie his wand to his forearm with one shoelace. His skin looked green, possibly due to light from Merlin's wand reflected off the water. "You'll be all right, the two of you?"

"I'll see to it," said Merlin.

Miss Pucey drew her own wand and said, with the primness proper to a highly effective governess to any hell-raising young wizard, "We both will see to it." And her tone of voice made certain no one would dream of contradicting her.

"I'll keep the merhags busy as long as I can," said Rigel. "After that, I'll be at the Gritti Palace, waiting for you or a sign from you. Don't keep me waiting long."

Merlin looked appraisingly at Miss Pucey, who had begun to throw items out of her handbag -- two brass candlesticks, a crowbar, and a coil of strong rope already lay at her feet, and just now she was plucking out a pair of greasy work-boots. He nodded. "We won't."

+++ A FEW ANNOUNCEMENTS +++

From the "Credit Where Due" Dept.: Let's give a big hand to my Dad, Cuda, for designing the new headline for this blog. Doesn't it look great?

Another round of applause goes to Andrew Sims for offering to continue publishing TMQ on MuggleNet. Andrew becomes the fourth editor to grapple with this heroic task.

I am so glad to continue this column's affiliation with MuggleNet. Nevertheless, Andrew and I have agreed that The Magic Quill blog will also continue. This means that, even though TMQ will continue to appear on MuggleNet, there will no longer be a Chamber of Secrets forum thread for each new chapter. Instead, the blog comments will be the place to answer your weekly Double Challenge. Hopefully the bugs in the comment system have been worked out.

We (the quill and I) still need your creative contributions! Please visit soon and often, and help decide what happens next in The Magic Quill. The more readers who participate in each week's Survey and Contest, the more exciting the results will be. You might also consider signing up to follow this blog!

+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR TMQ #148 +++

Simply leave a brief comment (up to 150 words) answering the following Survey and Contest. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest answer that Robbie likes best, will turn up in the chapter after next. [EDIT: This discussion is now closed.]

SURVEY: When we last left Sadie, she was witnessing a horrible duel between Il Comte and Uncle or Aunt Leslie. What happens when Chat Noir gets involved? (A) He tries to defend Leslie and wins. (B) He dries to defend Leslie and is defeated. (C) He switches sides and joins Il Comte. (D) He goes in for himself and runs off with the ring of Count Matthias. (E) We don't find out what he does, because in the commotion Sadie gets away with the ring.

CONTEST: Describe a famous painting or photograph which, with a few alterations, might reveal an "untold story" relating to the magical world.