165. Verity Pilgrim

Contest winner: Dragonic

When they reached the top of the long, dark, spiral staircase, Merlin and Miss Pucey found themselves in a drab hallway floored in scuffed tile. Flickering jars of fluorescent fireflies hung from the ceiling, casting a sickly light over the framed prints that lined the yellowish walls on either hand. One of the prints was a moving, wizardly copy of Munch's The Scream, complete with a deafening bellow of anguish triggered by their arrival.

A little gray man looked up from behind the counter that barred their way forward. The room beyond the counter was featureless except for a small dumbwaiter, a pneumatic tube, and a pair of doors at the far end. One of the doors appeared solidly built and secured by numerous tough magical locks and bolts. The other looked like a battered screendoor held shut by a dainty hook.

Merlin took in all this in the time it took the little gray man to clear his throat twice and say, in an unsurprisingly reedy voice, "May I help you?"

"Yes," said Merlin. "We're here to break into il Comte's private vault. Is it the door on the left?"

"Hmmm," said the man, pressing a fingertip to his chin. "That would be form N.I.L.P.R.I.M., I believe."

"Your pardon?" said Merlin.

"Notice of Intent to Loot, Pillage, Redistribute, Invade, or Mooch." The little gray man conjured six rolls of parchment out of thin air and laid them, one by one, on the counter. "To be completed by each of you. In triplicate."

Merlin studied Miss Pucey's face for almost a minute, wondering how she controlled the urge to roll her eyes. Strangely, this exercise helped him avoid the same faux pas. Then he said, "May we take these forms with us? I promise to fill them out and post them back to you."

The little gray man appeared to consider this. "Hmmm. Will you be looting or pillaging today?"

"I'm sorry, I don't understand the distinction."

"Then no. You must fill out the forms in my presence."

"Wait, I've got it: pillaging."

"Are you sure?"

Merlin's fingers twitched. He really wanted to wrap them around his wand.

"Sorry," said the little gray man. "If you're not sure, you'll just have to..."

"I'm sure," said Merlin.

"I think not," said the little gray man. "Here are the ink and quills."

"What if I forced my way past you, regardless?"

"Hmmm. I believe that would require form R.A.S.H.B.U.M.P., a Request for Authorization to Subdue, Humiliate, Beat Up, or otherwise Molest my Person. I must warn you, however, that the criteria for approval are very strict, and the review process may take up to 10 business days."

"Who reviews these things?" Merlin asked, barely maintaining his indoor voice.

"I do, actually," said the little gray man, straightening his bow tie modestly. "But I do make an effort to consider every application with all the objectivity..."

"All right!" Merlin snapped. He dragged an inkwell, quill, and roll of parchment toward him. Miss Pucey, looking prim in her tight-lipped silence, began to fill out her forms.

A minute later, the parchment Merlin was writing on exploded. He glared at the little gray man through a coating of soot and the singed remains of his eyebrows.

"Tsk," said the little gray man, pronouncing the word as spelled. Then he handed Merlin a new roll of parchment to replace the one that had self-destructed. "I shouldn't have to warn you that it is useless to write false or misleading information on these forms."

"How can you expect a body to give his correct name and address," Merlin whinged, "when he's about to loot and pillage..."

"I'm sorry to interrupt," said the little gray man, "but my coffee break is coming up in fifteen minutes. If you haven't completed these forms by then, you will have to step outside and start over when I return."

Merlin almost exploded. "I've never heard anything so..."

Miss Pucey nudged him in the ribs. Her elbow was amazingly sharp. Muttering under his breath, Merlin subsided into a frenzy of scratching and scribbling.

"Five minutes," said the little gray man, when Merlin was only about halfway through his paperwork. The latter bit his tongue and scratched harder.

A minute later the little gray man began to review Miss Pucey's completed forms. "Pucey, eh?" He darted an appraising look at her evening dress. "Of the Bedfordshire Puceys, I take it? Such a fine wizarding..."

"Entirely unrelated," Miss Pucey said shortly.

The little gray man's eyebrows climbed toward his scalp. "Really? Most coincidental..."

"My ancestors have been in Suffolk since the Magna Carta," said Miss Pucey. "Muggles as far back as I can trace them. Except for my mother, of course."

The little gray eyebrows dropped. Through narrow, pinched eyes the man behind the counter considered her again, then said: "I wonder which is worse - to suppose that a scion of a great wizardly bloodline would come to this, or..."

"I beg your pardon," Miss Pucey sniffed. Drawing herself up, she assumed a classic pose and began to recite:

That wizard over there says that witches need to be helped off of broomsticks, and not apparate alone, and get the best seat in the Knightbus. Nobody ever helps me off broomsticks, when I apparate, or or gives me a good spot anywhere! And ain't I a witch? Look at me! Look at my wand! I have cast spells, and stirred potions, and wizard could head me! And ain't I a witch? I can produce as many charms and enchant as many objects - when I'm given the chance - as any wizard - and endure all your prejudices as well! And ain't I a witch! I have borne sven children, and seen 'em all labelled as second-class for being born to a mudblood, and when I cried out the injustice, not even the Seers heard me! And ain't I a witch!

Merlin stared at her.

"What?" she snapped, noticing him.

"For bearing seven children, your figure has held up quite well."

Now she did roll her eyes. "Your education has been sadly neglected."

"Verity Pilgrim," said the gray little man, daubing sweat off his forehead with a sickly yellow handkerchief. "A most gifted orator, and a tireless advocate for Muggleborn rights." He refrained from adding that he hadn't heard such a blistering recitation since his own and his sisters' years under the forceful hand of their governess. He wondered whether there was a special place where such witches were trained...

Hands shaking, the little gray man vanished a corner of the counter and gestured to Merlin and Miss Pucey to walk through. "I'm afraid your paperwork was lost in a pneumatic mishap," he said. "How inconvenient! Ah, well. It's the screen door there, on the right. Yes, I'm sure. The strong door leads to a pit filled with sharpened erumpent horns, most disagreeable. Good luck now."

As the screen door banged behind them, Merlin realized that he was not as close to the end of the adventure as he had hoped.

He and Miss Pucey now stood at one end of a long glasshouse. At first the hot, moisture-heavy air was hard to breathe. Then, when his nostrils registered the odors of the plants before them, breathing became even harder. Sickeningly sweet perfumes mingled with the scents of rotting carrion. Rank, minerally, muddy tangs mixed with the pong of wet animal fur, unpalatable blends of spices, musty and moldy smells, and a faint whiff of poison.

There were no paths ahead of them. Only beds of flowers in every bright color, every strange shape, every threatening posture of stem and vine. Some of the plants seemed to breathe. Others turned to look at the witch and wizard who had just entered their growing space.

"Earned a N.E.W.T. in herbology, did you?" Merlin asked Miss Pucey.

She shook her head. "I'm allergic to dirt. That's why I became a governess."

Merlin paused to think about this, then gave up. "I got kicked out of herbology in my third year, after I tried to organize a bouncing bulb fight club. Some folks have no sense of humor about that sort of thing."

Judging by her harrumph, Miss Pucey was one of those folks.

"Any road," Merlin went on nervously, "these don't look like the kind of plants we had in the O.W.L. greenhouses. They seem more... advanced. Dangerous, maybe."

As if to underscore his point, one of the flowers ahead of them shot a barrage of razor-sharp seeds at a neighboring plant, whose creeping vines suddenly withdrew their grip from the first plant's roots. The stricken creepers writhed in agony while the leaves on their main stalk opened and closed, as if silently screaming. The ordeal ended when a third plant leaned over, wrapped its huge leaves around the gasping stalk, and snapped it off above the ground with a horrible wrench.

Miss Pucey shuddered. "Not maybe," she said. "Definitely dangerous."

Merlin looked round. Behind them, where the screen door had been, there was now a solid sheet of glass. There was nothing to see on the other side of the glass except brilliant light, diffused across the moisture that coated the inside of the glass. He turned back to view the plant with the prehensile leaves, which were now bashing pieces of its vegetable victim against the ground.

"All right, then. There's nothing for it." He rummaged in his survival satchel, then brought out a small bottle corked with a glass ball. "Second of four doses," he said gravely, imagining his wife's concerned eyes as he regarded her specially-formulated potion.

"What is it?" asked Miss Pucey.

"Liquid Skill," said Merlin. "I reckon I could use one day with a green thumb, like Miles O'Roughage. Otherwise, we won't know where to step, what these plants could do to us."

Miss Pucey nodded, adding: "Or how to get across this hothouse alive and well."

Merlin hesitated before breaking the cap off the bottle. He couldn't help but remember what had happened after the first dose, when he had become an animagus and almost didn't change back into his human form in time. There didn't seem to be any such danger in this situation. But then again, none of the dangers he had faced so far had been expected.

"Here's to herbology," he toasted. Then he drained the vial.

+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR TMQ #167 +++

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.

SURVEY: What is your favorite variety of Honeydukes sweets?

CONTEST: Describe something you can do with modern (muggle) technology, and how a wizard or witch might interpret it. Remember to make it brief and entertaining.

164. The Pocket Elephant

Contest winner: cv675

Spanky's jaw dropped. Beside him, Ilona stiffened. Behind them, Endora gasped. Sadie growled. Sir Lionel said, "Er."

Harvey faced them from the end of a blind alley in the fast-growing yew maze Sadie had planted (seeds courtesy of her friend Miles O'Roughage). Not just one Harvey, nor even both of him. Three Harveys confronted them. But that wasn't what made Spanky gape. It was partly the menacing way each Harvey's wand was pointed at them. And, partly, it was the third Harvey's outstretched hand.

"Give me the ring," he said coolly.

"Was this your racket all along?" Spanky asked.

"Don't let's have a fuss," said Harvey 1. "It's only a wee bauble. You'll come to no harm."

"What do you want with it?" Ilona demanded.

"How will I use it, you mean?" said Harvey 2. "Would you believe me if I said that I would never use it?"

"Indeed," added Harvey 3, "that I would make sure nobody ever used it again?"

Ilona looked at Spanky. Spanky turned toward Harvey again and said, "No."

"He," Sadie shouted, then corrected herself: "They must be working with Il Comte and Lee Shore. How else..."

"...would I be here when you were expecting them?" Harvey 3 shrugged. "I'm afraid I can't answer all your burning questions."

"At least," added Harvey 2, "not at present. Please to hand over the ring."

"You've really gone through time's mangle, haven't you?" Sir Lionel's voice carried an undertone of laughter. "You've messed things up properly. I wonder what you think absolute power over other people can do to sort out your, er..."

"Problem?" said Harvey 1. "I see no problem. I've seen the end of the world. I've seen its beginning. If older and wiser heads had been in charge..."

"...and, well," said Harvey 2 with an immodest air of modesty, "I'm as old and wise as they come..."

"...a lot of things might have turned out differently." Harvey 3 nodded. "Better."

"You're mad," Endora said shakily. "You can't go about history changing things. You of all people would know, if you hand't changed yourself..."

"Don't be ridiculous," scoffed Harvey 2. "I'm the same as ever."

"Haven't you noticed," Sadie said venomously, "you ought to be saying 'we,' not 'I'?"

Harvey looked at each other, then back at the prisoners who had been his friends. "I'm sorry?" Harvey 1 said. "Am I missing something?"

"Only that there are three of you," Sadie yelled.

Harvey looked around themself again. For a moment, he seemed bewildered. At that moment, Spanky struck.

"Petrificus totalis," he muttered with a flick of his right wand. "Incarcerous," he added quickly, waving his left wand. Ilona's voice cut across his, hissing: "Expelliarmus!"

None of these spells had any effect. Harvey looked back at them with a mildly surprised expression on his three faces. Surprised and hurt.

"I say," he said.

The five wizards at bay immediately began pelting him with jinxes. None of them found their target. Sizzling jets of light zoomed toward Harvey's chests, then dissipated as if nothing was there. They didn't seem to be hitting a shield.

"Come, Rumbo," said Harvey 2, tugging on a leash that snaked around his legs.

An elephant walked into view from behind Harvey 2's legs, where it seemed to have been hiding. It was about the size of a well-fed beagle, and it had a wand gripped in its curling trunk.

"Meet my friend Rumbo," said Harvey 1. "Once, when I had a lot of time on my hands - say, eighty years or so - I trained him to remember jinxes and their counterspells."

Harvey 3 added, "He's very good to have with one when one is surrounded by hair-trigger witches and wizards."

"Only look how he's shrunk," said Harvey 2 sadly. "Unfortunate side effect, it always happens. He was the size of a standard schnauzer a few minutes ago."

"Eventually the poor chap will grow so small, I won't be able to care for him," said Harvey 1.

"Alas," said Harvey 3, "it's the price we have to pay..."

"We?" Sadie challenged.

Harvey 3 blinked at her. "Yes, of course," he said. "Rumbo and I."

Sadie stared back. "You've lost your marbles, mate."

Harvey 2 and 3 simply smiled. Harvey 1 cheerfully said, "Right. Now, the ring. Unless any of you is harboring a pocket elephant, I would urge you to give it up promptly."

Spanky opened his mouth to ask a question, but Harvey 2 answered it first: "I've still got a few spells Rumbo hasn't seen."

When no one moved for a long beat, Harvey 3 anxiously added: "They'll hurt. A lot."

Sadie shook with fury as she stepped forward, clutching the ring in her fist.

"That's better," said Harvey 3.

+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR TMQ #166 +++

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.

SURVEY: Harvey is working (A) on his own. (B) for Bobs the Reality Wizard. (C) for il Comte. (D) for Uncle or Aunt Leslie. (E) for ______ (write-in candidate).

CONTEST: Describe a magical machine and what it does. The more whimsical, the better!

163. The Golden Cap

Contest winner: Sir Read-a-Lot

All the ghosts in Venice were rioting. Head Quidditch hooligans, every one of them. Il Comte di Bestemmia winced at the sound of massed wailing, moaning, and rattling of chains. The walls of his compound dripped ectoplasm as ghostly apparitions of severed body parts were hurled at them like pieces of rotting fruit. It was giving him a splitting headache.

"Ombra," the wizard called weakly, shuddering as an army of ghosts marched below his window playing musical saws. "Fetch my manual of exorcism, if you please."

A simpering house-elf ran out of the room. While il Comte waited for his return, something went crash in the garden. He hurried, muttering, to a window on another side of the room. The beastly ghosts were getting into his greenhouse now! Il Comte wrung his hands, thinking about some extremely rare plants that might not recover from the cold, clammy touch of these unquiet spirits. "What is taking that elf so long?" he wondered aloud.

All his attention was focused on the lagoon side of his private island, from which more ghosts were still rising from the sickly fog over the water. So il Comte did not notice a separate disturbance developing on the canal side. In a small square just opposite il Comte's jetty, Rigel was encircled by five burly figures cloaked in heavy furs. He turned round and round in a defensive posture while rummaging in his parallel-universe pocket locker. His assailants seemed content, for the moment, to wait and see what interesting weapon he would come up with.

Rigel's fingers closed around something. He pulled it out with a triumphant "Ha!" The defiant gleam in his eyes changed to dull grimness when he saw what he held. It was a rubber chicken.

Before he could recover from this disappointment, the first of his opponents charged. Rigel flourished the chicken in its face before stepping aside. The wind of the giant's passage caused the young wizard's robes and hair to flutter. A flapping hem of the attacker's fur cloak slapped against Rigel's calf.

For a moment the five cloaked men stamped and pawed. Then the one most directly behind Rigel charged. He felt rather than heard its approach, felt it in the ground vibrating underfoot. He turned and smacked it in the face with the broad side of the chicken. When a third opponent came at him, Rigel stuck out his foot and tripped him. The fellow went stumbling out of the circle.

"It's a lucky thing the bad guys always attack one by one," Rigel mused aloud. Then he added, "Whoops," as four massive figures closed on him at once. He crouched down and rolled through their legs, laughing at the sound of their bodies colliding and the brief bout of shoving and cuffing that followed it.

Now Rigel was outside the circle. He turned to face a line of five gigantic men. No, not men... yaks.

"Yikes," Rigel squeaked. He started backing away, digging once more in his pocket.

The next thing he pulled out was a golden cap. The Golden Cap, rather. Rigel allowed himself a half-second's distraction as he recalled purchasing it at Jude the Insecure's "From Out of This World" outfitter. He racked his brains, trying to remember whether he had used it twice or three times...

The yaks took a step toward him. Rigel was not keen on turning his back on them. Did yaks have an instinct to chase anything that ran from them, he wondered? He walked backwards, faster, risking a glance over his shoulder as he turned the cap round and round in his hands.

"Well, there's nothing for it," he told himself when his back bumped wall. He tugged the cap onto his head. The yaks were a dozen meters away now. Standing on his left foot, Rigel chanted: "Ep-pe, pep-pe, kak-ke!" Seven meters and closing. Shifting to his right foot, he intoned: "Hil-lo, hol-lo, hel-lo!" Three meters! On both feet now, Rigel screamed: "Ziz-zy, zuz-zy, zik!"

The nearest wereyak was so close by now that Rigel could smell its breath. It reeked of rancid butter, fermented tea, damp fur, and a sweet, gassy, grassy scent. Slobber dangled from the creature's lips. Its nose was damp with yak bogies.

"I'm only going to say this once," said Rigel warningly. The wereyaks stopped. Swallowing with an audible gulp, he added: "Surrender now, and it will go easier for you."

The yak in front of him snorted. Foul-smelling snot splattered the front of Rigel's robes.

"All right then," Rigel said in a shaky but grim voice. "Give these dirty beasts a bath, boys!"

The air was suddenly filled with the flapping of wings, screeches and howling laughter. The already shadowy corner of the square darkened even more as the space overhead filled with a squadron of diving, grasping creatures.

Winged monkeys.

The yaks turned and bellowed. Rigel edged toward a nearby alley, barely wide enough for his thin shoulders, and darted away from the ensuing melee.

Moments later, he found himself on the edge of the canal. Il Comte's private jetty stood but a stone's throw away. It might as well have been miles, with the waters in between infested with merpeople who served that cruel master. In the distance, he could see flashes of light as the ghosts, at his instigation, continued their riot. It seemed they were trying to burn down il Comte's gatehouse, using ghostly torches that burned only on their own, insubstantial plane. He sighed and shook his head, then began digging around in his pocket again. There had to be something to get him across the water...

+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR TMQ #165 +++

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.

SURVEY: Which Hogwarts subject includes a lesson that will soon save the lives of Merlin and Miss Pucey?

CONTEST: Rewrite a portion of a famous speech, from either history or literature, to make it apply to the magical world of Harry Potter. (Examples: Hamlet's soliloquy, Patrick Henry's "liberty or death" speech, the Gettysburg Address, Mary Schmich's "Wear Sunscreen" speech, etc.) Use your imagination! Entries will be judged on the basis of entertainment value.