Contest winner: Rehannah
Runners-up: Dragonic and TWZRD
ABINGDON WIZARD UNLOCKS SECRET POWERS OF MUGGLES!
Bo Dwyer reports for Fascinating Fizzog!--the journal for enquiring mages, holding the Mirror of Pissog up to the magical world since 1777...
While the Unspeakables in the Department of Mysteries grapple with the first principles of what makes Muggle gadgetry work, one wizard, toiling in a damp, draughty clocktower in the ancient Thames town of Abingdon, claims to have cracked the case.
"It's a simple matter, really," says G. Fiddlewood Snordahl, of No. 8, Old Abbey Close, Abingdon, Berks. "One simply has to study a few thousand of the Muggles' arcane texts, discreetly observe their behavior eleven hours a day for 30 years or so, and devote every other waking moment to tinkering with their expired gadgets until it all comes together."
Snordahl, the son of Europe's leading bearded operatic soprano, the late Lynnie Jend of l'Opera du Freak fame, and her mentalist husband, Professor Hypnocrates Snordahl, was left a lame orphan on the doorstep of the Sisters of Intermittent Hostility at the age of six. He is still haunted by the memory of his parents' death, buried in an avalanche triggered by Madam Jend's high F in the aria O zittre nicht, mein lieber Sohn--a tragically pure note that also rang the death-knell of the Finsteraarhorn Outdoor Music Festival.
Traumatized by the act of singing, young Fiddlewood hid himself in the noisy clocktower whenever the Sisters began to chant their devotions. He became increasingly reclusive, developing his mesmeric powers (inherited from his father) to charm mice, pigeons, and cats into bringing him stolen bits of food and small objects left lying about the neighborhood. By the time his Hogwarts letter came, young Fiddlewood had begun his lifelong study of Muggle gewgaws.
"How did you get along at Hogwarts?" I asked him, as he showed me around his workshop one cold November day.
"Ack!" Snordahl croaked, stuffing his thumbs into his ears. "Ask it again, but with less singsong in your voice."
"How-did-you-do-at-Hogwarts?" I asked, all on one tone.
"Aargh!" Snordahl pulled his hair. "That's what they sound like when they're chanting Evensong!"
Finding this hard to believe, I nevertheless repeated my question in a harsh rasp that, after I continued using it for the rest of our interview, left me with a sore throat for a week.
"Ah, better!" Snordahl hissed. "Don't you remember me, then? We were in the same year."
"Really?" I grated. "It's been a long time, though. I reckon you can't remember everyone--"
"We were in the same house," Snordahl insisted gutturally.
"And so were plenty of other--"
"We slept in the same dormitory," added Snordahl. "There were only six of us. Don't you remember?"
Abashed, I began to make some noncomittal noises about how one loses touch with one's old--
"You don't remember when old Gungy turned all the furniture on his side of the room into sculpted butter, and we had to sleep two to a bed for the rest of the term? I was your bunkmate."
"Well, I'm quite sure that never--"
"To be sure, I mostly slept under the bed."
The penny dropped. "Oi!" I crowed. "That was you!"
"Easy with the tonality," Snordahl winced.
This is the part of the essay where I tell you what Snordahl was wearing. However, I seem to have burned that part of my notes by accident. Mentally as well as physically. Visit him sometime, and you will most likely do the same.
Meanwhile, the floodgates of memory had opened. How could I forget little Woody Snordahl? Well, to be honest, forgetting him was easy. I don't recall hearing him say five words in all the years we studied together. He always seemed to be comfortably, gratefully outside my angle of view. I find, on exploring the matter further, that he spent several weeks living in a closet on the Third Floor, eating scraps left for him by the house-elves and tinkering with broken things the creatures hoarded, things the teachers and students had thrown away.
"The elves are very literal-minded," Snordahl revealed over a tea of sandwiches that savored of wet cardboard and biscuits that felt, in the mouth, like baked socks. "If you didn't tell them, directly and firmly, to get rid of something, they kept it in any of hundreds of secret stashes all over the castle. Most of it was never good for anything again, but the elves stripped off anything they could use and saved the rest forever. If you knew where they got the cloth bags for boiling suet pudding, you would never eat another Christmas dinner."
"What did you live on, then?" I asked, desperate to change the subject before he went into more detail.
"Sweets, mostly," said Snordahl. "The house-elves were mad keen on sweet wrappers, but--many people are surprised by this--they didn't care for the sweets themselves. Especially around Hogsmeade weekends, when students often left sweets lying openly around their beds, the housekeeping elves often came away with loads of shiny, colorful wrappers. They let me eat the sweets. Chocolate frogs and fizzing whizzbees especially. Those tended to upset a house-elf's stomach. Ever seen an elf yack?"
"Elf yak, you say?" I replied evasively. "I've heard of dwarf oxen, bred by the goblins to--"
At this point in our interview, the tower struck the hour--according to my magic quill--of four o'clock. In my memory, however, it seemed like at least eight, perhaps twelve. The next thing I clearly heard Snordahl say was, "Why don't you get up off the floor? It's filthy down there." It was, too.
"Why don't you show me your lovely experiments," I said, "and quickly, so I can leave you in peace before the next time the clock chimes?"
"That's the best question you've asked so far," growled Snordahl.
The first contraption he showed me looked like a cross between a walking stick and a set of bagpipes. It wheeled around on a heavy base, trailing a long thin tail with a metal fork at the end.
"Is this some type of medieval weapon?" I guessed. "Or perhaps a musical instrument? And who is this Hoover it belongs to?"
"It does stir up a right racket," Snordahl agreed, shivering. "I've observed through my telescope. I don't know yet why they do it, but Muggles like to run them up and down their floors. As far as I can tell, all they do is spread dirt around the room. But after many years of patient study, I have come to understand exactly how it works."
"Do tell."
"Muggles have many, many devices with the same type of forked tail. My researches have convinced me that these tails are a diabolical device for summoning, and harnessing, the power of lightning. This power, in turn, is used to summon and trap and tiny whirlwind."
Snordahl brightened at my gasp of shock. "Yes, old son, it's quite true. Those Muggles aren't as innocent as we thought. It started with an American fellow named, er, Benjamin Francis. Went out in a storm and invoked the powers of the air. Somehow he confined some of them in a talisman, like a brass key, and the Muggles have built every one of their inventions since then on the same dark magic!"
I asked if I could see proof of this, but Snordahl claimed that the machine would not work in the presence of wizardry. So, dear reader, you will have to make up your own mind!
"What is this?" I asked, as Snordahl led me to a boxy device that had several leathery tails curling out of it.
"Would you believe me," Snordahl purred mysteriously, "if I told you this little box holds an entire printing press inside?"
"No," I said without hesitation.
"One day soon," said Snordahl, with a twitch of irritation, "one day soon I will be ready to prove it to you. For now, all I can suggest is that you use my telescope to spy on that window across the square. The people over there use one just like it, every day. Somehow they feed their thoughts into it--"
"Like into a Pensieve?"
"Exactly! The energy goes through one of these tubes and into this necromancer's box, which instantly - and I mean instantly! - spits out sheets of paper that would have taken the Daily Prophet's typesetting spells at least five minutes to set up. Of course, the pictures don't move..."
We share a shudder at this latest example of the proverbial Muggle weirdness.
"Soon," Snordahl claimed, with an air of grandiosity, "soon I will have perfected a device enabling me to connect a wand to one of these tubes. Then I will be able to transfer my thoughts into the, as it were, printer's devil. You'll see."
I smiled indulgently and assured him that I would, indeed, see.
"But if you want to see ironclad proof that the Muggles are performing evil magic to conceal the source of their powers"--Snordahl handed me his telescope. "Go to that window. She's always in the square at about this time. Look for the woman facing north--the other north--and fiddling with a makeup mirror. See her?"
I saw her.
"Now push in on the mirror..."
I almost dropped the telescope out the window.
"Easy, there..."
"Where are those letters and words coming from?"
"Some of them, she puts there by the mystical movements of her fingers," Snordahl explained knowingly. "Some of them just appear by themselves...as if someone, or something, is answering her..."
"Oh, protect us!" I moaned.
"She isn't the only adept at such arts. I have seen dozens of people, in this square alone, dabbling in the smae powers."
"What are they playing at?" I squeak. "I mean, surely, Muggles don't have enough experience to control such... such..."
"But wait," said Snordahl. "You haven't heard the worst. Do you know what they call the little messages that come to them on their magic mirrors?"
I trembled, waiting for Snordahl to tell me. And when he did, I kept trembling.
"Tweets," he said, cruelly relishing my horror.
"Oh, no!"
"Oh, yes!" Snordahl pointed accusingly at the pleasantly-dressed, nice-seeming young woman in the square below. "Can you imagine what they must have done to the poor owls?"
While it wouldn't be responsible to speculate on that question, there is little else we can do. Nothing else that happened in our interview could be worth reporting after this, this utterly astounding discovery. We must await confirmation, or (one hopes) clarification, from the Ministry of Magic. Until then, this is Bo Dwyer urging every witch and wizard in Britain to be on alert against the rising threat of Muggles dabbling in dark powers. Owl your district RMB supervisor, your local member of the Wizengamot, or any aurors you may know, and urge them to look into this promptly!
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR TMQ #169 +++
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 long-lost character would be most fun to bring back? (A) Madrigal, the finishing-school hag. (B) Madam Solfeggia, the lady who uses music to hold back her werewolf transformation. (C) Otis, Spanky's old school chum. (D) The "illustrated wizard" with all the moving tattoos. (E) ____ (write-in candidate).
CONTEST: Propose a feat of sheer magic for a master of disguise like Joe Albuquerque.
Showing posts with label Bo Dwyer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bo Dwyer. Show all posts
Monday, November 9, 2009
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
152. The Whispering Cloak
Contest winner: greyniffler
Runner-up: Rehannah
"Don't touch it! Everyone, back away carefully..."
In the infirmary at Isola Indietro, a clutch of teachers stopped squabbling and warily widened the gap between their feet and the crushed remnants of the falcon figurine. Two students remained on hospital beds, one of them staring fearfully over the edge of his sick-berth, the other lying still under a sheet. A portly, middle-aged man peeked around the edge of a nearby screen, giving free rein to his Quick Quotes Quill while, behind him, a younger man with a large, smoking camera jostled for a view. Only Ilona remained close to the fragments.
She pointed her wand at a small, gleaming object among the shards of hard-baked clay. As the wand tip lifted, so did the little bright thing, rising up off the floor until it hovered in front of Ilona's face, an arm's reach away.
Into the hush came a quick, stifled gasp. No one looked round to see who had done it. Everyone in the room felt the same way. For hundreds of years, the falcon figurine had been reckoned indestructible. But now it had shattered into hundreds of pieces. Who would have guessed that among them would be something like this?
It was made of smooth, clear crystal. It seemed to glow with a faint, inner light; or perhaps that was the effect of torchlight reflecting off countless tiny, glittering specks suspended within it. If it had any color at all, one might have called it golden; but again, that may have come from the torches. A weight of silence seemed to press down upon all who looked at it. If it was part of a statue, the whole must have been a marvel to behold. Though this small bit, by itself, might have looked ridiculous when made of any other material, no one grinned as the faculty, student, and guests realized what the object was shaped like. In sparkly crystal they beheld a perfectly formed, life-sized, human index finger.
"If that's a piece of a statue," whispered the Tummetot headmaster, "the whole must have been priceless beyond imagination."
"Don't be thick, Sandstad," his opposite number from Iphinassa barked. "We would know if there had ever been such a statue. No, this finger is what it is."
"But what is it?" breathed Isola Indietro's Quidditch instructor.
"It was one of a matched pair," Ilona replied.
"How do you know that?" Professor Sandstad snorted.
"Look there," said Ilona, gesturing with her free hand while holding the levitating finger at wandpoint. The others looked down and spotted tiny, gleaming fragments of crystal among the remains of the stone falcon.
"That could be anything," scoffed the Iphinassa head. "All the king's horses and all the king's men..."
"Bit small for all that, don't you think?" the lurking journalist blurted. Everyone but Ilona jerked around at the sound of his voice. Flushed with embarrassment, Bo Dwyer stepped out of his hiding place with his hands above his head. A moment later he reached back and yanked his photographer into view. "Sorry," he said. "Couldn't help but overhear..." He was careful to position his and his assistant's bodies so that the others did not see his Quick Quotes Quill scribbling on a roll of parchment.
Ilona threw him a tight smile and chirped, "Mr. Dwyer, how kind of you to join us!"
"There's a ring down there," said the less dead of the two students, who had continued to scrutinize the debris on the floor while the others argued. It was impossible to mistake what he said, because of his richly rolling r. Nevertheless, the Tummetot headmaster said, "A what?"
Ilona rolled her eyes, as if to say, Not another ring!
"Well spotted, Aris," said the Iphinassa head as he lunged forward to pick up the ring.
"Don't!" was all Ilona had time to say, but it made no difference. The Greek wizard came up holding the ring between his fingers, showing no signs of harm.
"That," Professor Sandstad said scathingly, "was brilliant even for you, Chiron."
"Thank you. Here's a surprise for you," the Iphinassa head said, squinting at the object in his hand. "The ring seems to be made of some type of hide, folded in on itself..."
"Like parchment?" Bo Dwyer suggested.
The Greek professor nodded. "Exactly." He began delicately prising the layers of parchment apart.
Ilona wanted to cover her eyes, sure that the man in front of her was about to be struck by a curse. Instead, she kept studying the fragments on the floor until she spotted what looked like a sliver of crystal fingernail. This confirmed her guess that there had originally been two fingers inside the figurine.
"Can you read it?" asked the teacher from Isola Indietro.
Chiron squinted at the unrolled slip of parchment, first with one eye, then with the other. Then he shook his head. "It is - how do you say? - all Greek to me."
Sandstad snatched the parchment from him, gave a disgusted noise, and handed it to the Italian witch, who also shook her head.
Ilona allowed herself a peek at the parchment, and was so surprised to see words written in her native Romanian that she forgot to keep the crystal finger levitating. Typically, Chiron lunged and caught it in time to stop it shattering on the floor.
"One of these days, you're going to regret that habit," Sandstad sneered.
Chiron gaped at him. "What did you say?"
"It wasn't a threat," the Tummetot head replied, exasperated. "I only meant that you shouldn't rush to touch things that may be..."
"I can't hear a word," Chiron interrupted. "Great Hecate! I can't hear my own voice! Help! I've been cursed!" His voice rising to a wail, he let the finger fall out of his hand. This time Ilona caught it with a ready levitation spell.
"Oh, that was close," said Bo Dwyer.
"Say again?" said the Greek wizard, his expression changing.
"You're a right twit, aren't you?" the journalist added.
"I heard that!" said Chiron. "I'm not deaf, you know! Wait... I'm not deaf! Hee hee!"
"Not cursed, then," mused the Italian Quidditch teacher.
"No," said Ilona. "The parchment explains that the fingers are given as ear-stoppers against a time when it becomes perilous to hear the words of men."
"Apparently," Sandstad observed, "One is enough."
"That is odd, though," said Ilona. "The instructions say you need one for each ear. Clearly, you needn't actually stick them in your ears..."
"Oh, but I've been deaf on the left side since I was a boy," Chiron said cheerfully. "Had a bit of an accident with my father's wand when I was too little to have my own."
"I see how well it taught you not to handle things you don't understand," Sandstad muttered.
"Just think," marveled the boy in the hospital bed, "how many centuries the Maltese have revered this stone bird, and all along it was just waiting for the right time to break open..."
"And reveal ear-stopping fingers," said Professor Sandstad, looking disgusted. "What a waste of time!"
Ilona, meanwhile, had plucked the finger out of the air. She looked at the others and said, "I can still hear you, but only out of my right ear."
"Hold it in your wand hand," the Italian witch suggested.
Ilona switched the finger to her right hand and said, "Somebody say something."
"I have a poster of your Magymnastics team in my dormitory," the injured student told her. "Would you sign it for me?"
"Wasn't that a bit before your time?" said Ilona, blushing slightly. "Oh! Now I'm deaf on the right side!"
"You see?" cried Chiron, as if this proved something he had asserted. "With only one finger intact, it is only useful to someone who has been deafened in one ear."
"If you're suggesting that this object rightfully belongs to you," said Professor Sandstad, "then let me remind you that a great deal of study remains..."
"I suppose you think, somehow, that you're best qualified to be the first to study it," Chiron blustered back.
"If by 'best qualified' you mean cleverer than yourself, then yes," Sandstad retorted. "Besides, it was my student who took the falcon, and sacrificed his life for it. Therefore, it comes to Tummetot."
"Are you deaf in one ear?" Chiron challenged.
Sandstad shrugged. "I'll study it while wearing my whispering cloak. Every headmaster at Tummetot has worn it since the 18th century. I use it to remind me of appointments and to give me directions for the shortest route from one classroom to another. Unfortunately it also has a way of criticizing one's spellwork and potion ingredients, which can be very..."
"I have no interest in capes that whisper in people's ears," the Greek wizard spat. "The fact that I own an air-cooled T-shirt does not make me best qualified to judge an ice sculpting contest. Your fashionable wardrobe is not the question. The question is whether this artifact had better be examined by someone who has made a career in wizard archaeology - which is to say, me - or by someone who cannot even find his way around his own school without..."
"The finger is in my custody," Ilona said in a soft but firm tone that instantly quelled the two headmasters' loud argument. They glared at her rebelliously, but said nothing. The RMB had jurisdiction in this incident, after all.
Ilona collected the other fragments in a leather pouch, tucking it into one pocket of her robes and the finger into another. "Other agents will come round to interview all of you in the morning. I'll be flying to Malta tonight. But first, may I have a private room and a few moments with Mr. Dwyer and his associate?"
The journalist looked nonplussed. The headmasters turned away grumbling. The young man in the bed furrowed his brow, wondering if he was going to get that autograph after all. "This way," said the Italian witch, leading Ilona out of the infirmary with Bo Dwyer and his photographer in tow.
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR TMQ #154 +++
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 became of Sir Lionel Niblet? (A) He was kidnapped. (B) He survived a broom crash but was stranded in a remote, hard-to-reach part of the world. (C) He went into hiding. (D) He woke up in a strange place with no memory of who he was.
CONTEST: Describe a villainous way to use a specific magical creature.
Runner-up: Rehannah
"Don't touch it! Everyone, back away carefully..."
In the infirmary at Isola Indietro, a clutch of teachers stopped squabbling and warily widened the gap between their feet and the crushed remnants of the falcon figurine. Two students remained on hospital beds, one of them staring fearfully over the edge of his sick-berth, the other lying still under a sheet. A portly, middle-aged man peeked around the edge of a nearby screen, giving free rein to his Quick Quotes Quill while, behind him, a younger man with a large, smoking camera jostled for a view. Only Ilona remained close to the fragments.
She pointed her wand at a small, gleaming object among the shards of hard-baked clay. As the wand tip lifted, so did the little bright thing, rising up off the floor until it hovered in front of Ilona's face, an arm's reach away.
Into the hush came a quick, stifled gasp. No one looked round to see who had done it. Everyone in the room felt the same way. For hundreds of years, the falcon figurine had been reckoned indestructible. But now it had shattered into hundreds of pieces. Who would have guessed that among them would be something like this?
It was made of smooth, clear crystal. It seemed to glow with a faint, inner light; or perhaps that was the effect of torchlight reflecting off countless tiny, glittering specks suspended within it. If it had any color at all, one might have called it golden; but again, that may have come from the torches. A weight of silence seemed to press down upon all who looked at it. If it was part of a statue, the whole must have been a marvel to behold. Though this small bit, by itself, might have looked ridiculous when made of any other material, no one grinned as the faculty, student, and guests realized what the object was shaped like. In sparkly crystal they beheld a perfectly formed, life-sized, human index finger.
"If that's a piece of a statue," whispered the Tummetot headmaster, "the whole must have been priceless beyond imagination."
"Don't be thick, Sandstad," his opposite number from Iphinassa barked. "We would know if there had ever been such a statue. No, this finger is what it is."
"But what is it?" breathed Isola Indietro's Quidditch instructor.
"It was one of a matched pair," Ilona replied.
"How do you know that?" Professor Sandstad snorted.
"Look there," said Ilona, gesturing with her free hand while holding the levitating finger at wandpoint. The others looked down and spotted tiny, gleaming fragments of crystal among the remains of the stone falcon.
"That could be anything," scoffed the Iphinassa head. "All the king's horses and all the king's men..."
"Bit small for all that, don't you think?" the lurking journalist blurted. Everyone but Ilona jerked around at the sound of his voice. Flushed with embarrassment, Bo Dwyer stepped out of his hiding place with his hands above his head. A moment later he reached back and yanked his photographer into view. "Sorry," he said. "Couldn't help but overhear..." He was careful to position his and his assistant's bodies so that the others did not see his Quick Quotes Quill scribbling on a roll of parchment.
Ilona threw him a tight smile and chirped, "Mr. Dwyer, how kind of you to join us!"
"There's a ring down there," said the less dead of the two students, who had continued to scrutinize the debris on the floor while the others argued. It was impossible to mistake what he said, because of his richly rolling r. Nevertheless, the Tummetot headmaster said, "A what?"
Ilona rolled her eyes, as if to say, Not another ring!
"Well spotted, Aris," said the Iphinassa head as he lunged forward to pick up the ring.
"Don't!" was all Ilona had time to say, but it made no difference. The Greek wizard came up holding the ring between his fingers, showing no signs of harm.
"That," Professor Sandstad said scathingly, "was brilliant even for you, Chiron."
"Thank you. Here's a surprise for you," the Iphinassa head said, squinting at the object in his hand. "The ring seems to be made of some type of hide, folded in on itself..."
"Like parchment?" Bo Dwyer suggested.
The Greek professor nodded. "Exactly." He began delicately prising the layers of parchment apart.
Ilona wanted to cover her eyes, sure that the man in front of her was about to be struck by a curse. Instead, she kept studying the fragments on the floor until she spotted what looked like a sliver of crystal fingernail. This confirmed her guess that there had originally been two fingers inside the figurine.
"Can you read it?" asked the teacher from Isola Indietro.
Chiron squinted at the unrolled slip of parchment, first with one eye, then with the other. Then he shook his head. "It is - how do you say? - all Greek to me."
Sandstad snatched the parchment from him, gave a disgusted noise, and handed it to the Italian witch, who also shook her head.
Ilona allowed herself a peek at the parchment, and was so surprised to see words written in her native Romanian that she forgot to keep the crystal finger levitating. Typically, Chiron lunged and caught it in time to stop it shattering on the floor.
"One of these days, you're going to regret that habit," Sandstad sneered.
Chiron gaped at him. "What did you say?"
"It wasn't a threat," the Tummetot head replied, exasperated. "I only meant that you shouldn't rush to touch things that may be..."
"I can't hear a word," Chiron interrupted. "Great Hecate! I can't hear my own voice! Help! I've been cursed!" His voice rising to a wail, he let the finger fall out of his hand. This time Ilona caught it with a ready levitation spell.
"Oh, that was close," said Bo Dwyer.
"Say again?" said the Greek wizard, his expression changing.
"You're a right twit, aren't you?" the journalist added.
"I heard that!" said Chiron. "I'm not deaf, you know! Wait... I'm not deaf! Hee hee!"
"Not cursed, then," mused the Italian Quidditch teacher.
"No," said Ilona. "The parchment explains that the fingers are given as ear-stoppers against a time when it becomes perilous to hear the words of men."
"Apparently," Sandstad observed, "One is enough."
"That is odd, though," said Ilona. "The instructions say you need one for each ear. Clearly, you needn't actually stick them in your ears..."
"Oh, but I've been deaf on the left side since I was a boy," Chiron said cheerfully. "Had a bit of an accident with my father's wand when I was too little to have my own."
"I see how well it taught you not to handle things you don't understand," Sandstad muttered.
"Just think," marveled the boy in the hospital bed, "how many centuries the Maltese have revered this stone bird, and all along it was just waiting for the right time to break open..."
"And reveal ear-stopping fingers," said Professor Sandstad, looking disgusted. "What a waste of time!"
Ilona, meanwhile, had plucked the finger out of the air. She looked at the others and said, "I can still hear you, but only out of my right ear."
"Hold it in your wand hand," the Italian witch suggested.
Ilona switched the finger to her right hand and said, "Somebody say something."
"I have a poster of your Magymnastics team in my dormitory," the injured student told her. "Would you sign it for me?"
"Wasn't that a bit before your time?" said Ilona, blushing slightly. "Oh! Now I'm deaf on the right side!"
"You see?" cried Chiron, as if this proved something he had asserted. "With only one finger intact, it is only useful to someone who has been deafened in one ear."
"If you're suggesting that this object rightfully belongs to you," said Professor Sandstad, "then let me remind you that a great deal of study remains..."
"I suppose you think, somehow, that you're best qualified to be the first to study it," Chiron blustered back.
"If by 'best qualified' you mean cleverer than yourself, then yes," Sandstad retorted. "Besides, it was my student who took the falcon, and sacrificed his life for it. Therefore, it comes to Tummetot."
"Are you deaf in one ear?" Chiron challenged.
Sandstad shrugged. "I'll study it while wearing my whispering cloak. Every headmaster at Tummetot has worn it since the 18th century. I use it to remind me of appointments and to give me directions for the shortest route from one classroom to another. Unfortunately it also has a way of criticizing one's spellwork and potion ingredients, which can be very..."
"I have no interest in capes that whisper in people's ears," the Greek wizard spat. "The fact that I own an air-cooled T-shirt does not make me best qualified to judge an ice sculpting contest. Your fashionable wardrobe is not the question. The question is whether this artifact had better be examined by someone who has made a career in wizard archaeology - which is to say, me - or by someone who cannot even find his way around his own school without..."
"The finger is in my custody," Ilona said in a soft but firm tone that instantly quelled the two headmasters' loud argument. They glared at her rebelliously, but said nothing. The RMB had jurisdiction in this incident, after all.
Ilona collected the other fragments in a leather pouch, tucking it into one pocket of her robes and the finger into another. "Other agents will come round to interview all of you in the morning. I'll be flying to Malta tonight. But first, may I have a private room and a few moments with Mr. Dwyer and his associate?"
The journalist looked nonplussed. The headmasters turned away grumbling. The young man in the bed furrowed his brow, wondering if he was going to get that autograph after all. "This way," said the Italian witch, leading Ilona out of the infirmary with Bo Dwyer and his photographer in tow.
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR TMQ #154 +++
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 became of Sir Lionel Niblet? (A) He was kidnapped. (B) He survived a broom crash but was stranded in a remote, hard-to-reach part of the world. (C) He went into hiding. (D) He woke up in a strange place with no memory of who he was.
CONTEST: Describe a villainous way to use a specific magical creature.
Monday, January 12, 2009
147. The Hexischoleiad, Part 2
Contest winners: Everyone!
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!
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!
Saturday, December 27, 2008
145. The Hexischoleiad
Contest winners: Dragonic and Linda Carrig
SEVENTH HEXISCHOLEIAD ENDS IN SUCCESS...AND TRAGEDY
Only Two School Champions Killed -- A Record Low
Bo Dwyer reports exclusively for Broom & Wand...
Until this year, few British sport fans have followed the Hexischoleia Tournament, held every sixth year since 1972. This is not extraordinary, seeing that none of the six schools competing in the Hexischoleiad are in the U.K. What is extraordinary is the level of enthusiasm this year's tournament generated among British witches and wizards. Six schools, six champions, six challenges, six countries - and at every stage, a contingent of loyal supporters from our fair isle.
Our own Algernon Nutwicke, Interim Minister for Magical Games and Sports, offered me his explanation during the tense buildup to the Fifth Task: "Since the downfall of You-Know-Who, our lot have felt a weight lifted off them. There is a greater sense of freedom to travel, and a growing openness to foreign folk. Plus, after that Diggory chap bought it in the last Triwizard Tournament, there hasn't been much joy in the international sport line, if you follow me."
When I asked Mr. Nutwicke to place that last remark in the context of this year's spectacular Quidditch World Cup Final, he simply added: "Well, it was between Suriname and Burkina Faso, wasn't it?" If this sentiment is shared by many of his constituents, it makes the large number of British camp followers at this year's Hexischoleiad all the more extraordinary.
It is ironic that the Triwizard Tournament has only been held once since the 1960s, and is unlikely to come again for at least a few years. Why Ironic? This Nutwicke explained later, during the memorial service for Santa Ardilla's champion Pilar Lopez, whose mishap over the Gorge of Interminable Loneliness ended the Hexischoleiad's record streak of six consecutive tasks with no fatalities (counting the last two tasks of the 2002 Hexischoleiad). In an address to the mourners, Nutwicke explained how it was the Triwizard Tournament that inspired the six largest European schools of wizardry after Hogwarts, Durmstrang, and Beauxbatons to combine in their own interscholastic competition.
"Until the middle of the last century," stated Minister Nutwicke, "the heads of the Santa Ardilla, Isola Indietro, and Iphinassa schools of magic frequently petitioned the Triwizard Schools to be included in Europe's oldest interscholastic magical games. They argued that their schools deserved to participate because of their size and high reputation. But unfortunately, the enchantment on the Triwizard Cup was unalterable, having been established at a period when Hogwarts, Durmstrang, and Beauxbatons were the only large, coeducational, and residential schools of magic in Europe. Simply put, it was considered impossible at that time for any other schools to compete for the Triwizard Cup. Furthermore, after all three school champions perished two tournaments in a row, there were doubts that the Triwizard tradition would be continued at all. And so, in 1972, the first Hexischoleiad was held.
"The aforenamed Spanish, Italian, and Greek schools," Nutwicke continued, "were joined by representatives from Tummetot Academy, the Finsteraarhorn Fliegenschule, and Horzeltuin Hall. Together, the sixth schools have put forward some of the most exciting champions in the history of magical sport, achieving a glory made up of equal parts cunning and courage, glorious victory and noble sacrifice. And now, how touching - even, perhaps, ironic - to find graduates of the three Triwizard Schools gathered among us to honor the latest fallen hero of the Hexischoleia Tournament."
Pilar Lopez was not the last hero to fall, however. Considering the perils involved in all six tasks, it is remarkable that only two champions were lost this year.
The first task, hosted by Tummetot, required the six champions to defeat a troll in single combat. Iphinassa's Aris Palamas took an early lead using a maneuver he learned from Xenophilius Lovegood's unauthorized biography of Harry Potter (levitate club, drop on troll's head).
In the second task, Finsteraarhorn challenged the youngsters to rescue hostages from a mountain pass haunted by snow demons. Palamas tied with Horzeltuin's Saskia Troost by working together, using an avalanche as a diversion and sneaking up the pass while the yetis were rebuilding their tunnels.
Isola Indietro's champion Bruno Fenoglio narrowly survived an obstacle course designed by Horzeltuin's charms master, who seems to have a fondness for booby traps and sharp-edged projectiles. The best score in that round went to to Lopez, with Palamas taking second and maintaining his overall lead.
There was another close call in the fourth task, this time for Finsteraarhorn's Constant Malheur, whose string of bad luck took on gruesome dimensions when Santa Ardilla challenged the champions to find their way out of a maze of mirrors armed with transfiguration traps. Lopez achieved the best time, but her score was docked because she came out of the maze with asses' ears; first place then went to Tummetot's Gunnar Almkvist, who amazingly navigated the maze blindfolded.
By this time, a new 36-year safety record had been set. Yet, surprisingly, supporters continued to pour in from all parts of Europe, including one party of elderly sport hoodlums who had been banned from the Triwizard Tournament since the 1950s; several of them were deported after Lopez's fall into the Gorge, though it is unlikely that either their burning of Iphinassa's administration building (which was, after all, only a replica of Taureian temple of Artemis) or the stampede that followed it could have caused the second-place champion to miss her footing. It was the champions with their daring, dash, and dazzle that brought more attention to each successive task; but now that blood was spilled, the attendance at the sixth and final task was beyond all expectations.
"At the last moment we had to double the number of tiers in our Quidditch pitch," commented Isola Indietro's headmaster, the diminutive Professor Presto. "There still weren't enough seats to go around."
"They had more spectators than the World Cup Final," Minister Nutwicke agreed.
Going into the final task, the scores stood thus: In first place Palamas of Iphinassa with 312 points; runner-up Lopez of Santa Ardilla with 298 but no longer with us; Almkvist of Tummetot at third with 244; Troost of Horzeltuin in fourth with 228; Fenoglio of Isola Indietro in fifth with 225 points and a home-field advantage; and in last place, but effectively out of the running, Finsteraarhorn's Malheur with 176 points. Anyone but Malheur or, of course, Lopez had a chance to win, given that a full 100 points would be given to the winner of the task.
The rules of the task were simple. The winner would retrieve a life-sized falcon figurine hidden somewhere in the city -- yes, outside the gates of the school -- and bring it back, undamaged, without doing any magic in front of muggles. The figurine (on loan from Malta) had undisclosed magical properties and could be hidden indoors, outdoors, or even underwater. It would be, as Professor Presto called it, "the ultimate scavenger hunt." Anyone breaking one of the rules would be instantly disqualified. And the champions had 24 hours to finish the task.
I spoke with Fenoglio six hours into the task, after he was disqualified for levitating himself out of a canal. While members of the Italian Ministry for Magic modified the memories of a passing gondolier and his passengers, a soaked and shivering Fenoglio explained how he had tried to use his knowledge of local magic to his advantage. "I knew about a wizard who owns an entire, unplottable island in the city. I had heard that he kept falcons, so I reasoned that the figurine might be with Il Comte's birds. I had always heard bad things happened to kids who tried to sneak onto Il Comte's estate, but I assumed that was part of the challenge."
Fenoglio continued, "I've been studying to become an animagus, so I reckoned that would be the safest way to get across the grounds. I haven't passed the license test yet, so no one else in the tournament knew about it. It was kind of a secret weapon. Now the time finally came to use it."
Here I asked Fenoglio what animal he turns into. "A boa constrictor," he said. "Just like my mother's cousin, who gave me the idea. He got so good at it that he forgot how to turn back into a human. Last I heard of him he had escaped from a zoo somewhere."
"He must have been very convincing as a snake," I put in.
"My mother always said he was," said Fenoglio. "Don't tell her about this, all right? I don't think she would like it."
I promised to take the secret to my grave. Then, dear reader, young Fenoglio went on with his stunning tale. "It had gotten dark by the time I reached Il Comte's weathering yard. That's where they exercise the birds, you know. I went scaly and crept out of the woods, tasting the air to make sure nobody was around. All I sensed was bird, so I slithered toward the shed where they keep the mews. Getting in under the wall took a bit of work, but I finally did it and turned back into me. I conjured up a bit of cold fire and started searching the mews for a bird figurine. That's when it got interesting.
"One of the falcons wasn't hooded. When I looked in on it, it seemed to be trying to tell me something. I thought this was pretty unusual, so maybe it was the figurine with those mysterious powers old Presto mentioned. I had to pick a lock to let it out. Then it got really scary.
"The bird flew right at me, like it was going to chew my face off. I fell on the floor and shielded myself, but the sound of flapping wings stopped. Suddenly this man was standing there. He must have been an animagus too. He grabbed me and made me run away with him -- dragged me, almost -- all the way to the canal, where we got into trouble. Il Comte must have detected us somehow, because his golems were waiting for us -- yes, that's what I said, men made out of clay. I never thought I could run like that. If we hadn't found that boat we would have had to swim for it."
The Hexischoleiad champion and the strange man were pursued, now by wizards who had no qualms against shooting curses at them in front of muggles. They got separated when one well-aimed curse blasted their boat to splinters. What became of the other wizard, or who he was, is still unknown. The local authorities claim to have spoken with Il Comte and his staff, but no information has been forthcoming. But, understandably, other concerns have taken higher priority.
For even while I was interviewing one champion who had narrowly escaped with his life, another champion was killed while holding the falcon figurine.
...TO BE CONTINUED...
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR TMQ #147 +++
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: Who killed the Hexischoleiad champion? A) Il Comte di Bestemmia or his minions. B) Another school's champion. C) A magical creature linked to the falcon figurine. D) Somebody connected to the mystery of Penelope's Yak.
CONTEST: Invent an original and colorful "wizard swear" or magical insult that can be published on a family-oriented website.
SEVENTH HEXISCHOLEIAD ENDS IN SUCCESS...AND TRAGEDY
Only Two School Champions Killed -- A Record Low
Bo Dwyer reports exclusively for Broom & Wand...
Until this year, few British sport fans have followed the Hexischoleia Tournament, held every sixth year since 1972. This is not extraordinary, seeing that none of the six schools competing in the Hexischoleiad are in the U.K. What is extraordinary is the level of enthusiasm this year's tournament generated among British witches and wizards. Six schools, six champions, six challenges, six countries - and at every stage, a contingent of loyal supporters from our fair isle.
Our own Algernon Nutwicke, Interim Minister for Magical Games and Sports, offered me his explanation during the tense buildup to the Fifth Task: "Since the downfall of You-Know-Who, our lot have felt a weight lifted off them. There is a greater sense of freedom to travel, and a growing openness to foreign folk. Plus, after that Diggory chap bought it in the last Triwizard Tournament, there hasn't been much joy in the international sport line, if you follow me."
When I asked Mr. Nutwicke to place that last remark in the context of this year's spectacular Quidditch World Cup Final, he simply added: "Well, it was between Suriname and Burkina Faso, wasn't it?" If this sentiment is shared by many of his constituents, it makes the large number of British camp followers at this year's Hexischoleiad all the more extraordinary.
It is ironic that the Triwizard Tournament has only been held once since the 1960s, and is unlikely to come again for at least a few years. Why Ironic? This Nutwicke explained later, during the memorial service for Santa Ardilla's champion Pilar Lopez, whose mishap over the Gorge of Interminable Loneliness ended the Hexischoleiad's record streak of six consecutive tasks with no fatalities (counting the last two tasks of the 2002 Hexischoleiad). In an address to the mourners, Nutwicke explained how it was the Triwizard Tournament that inspired the six largest European schools of wizardry after Hogwarts, Durmstrang, and Beauxbatons to combine in their own interscholastic competition.
"Until the middle of the last century," stated Minister Nutwicke, "the heads of the Santa Ardilla, Isola Indietro, and Iphinassa schools of magic frequently petitioned the Triwizard Schools to be included in Europe's oldest interscholastic magical games. They argued that their schools deserved to participate because of their size and high reputation. But unfortunately, the enchantment on the Triwizard Cup was unalterable, having been established at a period when Hogwarts, Durmstrang, and Beauxbatons were the only large, coeducational, and residential schools of magic in Europe. Simply put, it was considered impossible at that time for any other schools to compete for the Triwizard Cup. Furthermore, after all three school champions perished two tournaments in a row, there were doubts that the Triwizard tradition would be continued at all. And so, in 1972, the first Hexischoleiad was held.
"The aforenamed Spanish, Italian, and Greek schools," Nutwicke continued, "were joined by representatives from Tummetot Academy, the Finsteraarhorn Fliegenschule, and Horzeltuin Hall. Together, the sixth schools have put forward some of the most exciting champions in the history of magical sport, achieving a glory made up of equal parts cunning and courage, glorious victory and noble sacrifice. And now, how touching - even, perhaps, ironic - to find graduates of the three Triwizard Schools gathered among us to honor the latest fallen hero of the Hexischoleia Tournament."
Pilar Lopez was not the last hero to fall, however. Considering the perils involved in all six tasks, it is remarkable that only two champions were lost this year.
The first task, hosted by Tummetot, required the six champions to defeat a troll in single combat. Iphinassa's Aris Palamas took an early lead using a maneuver he learned from Xenophilius Lovegood's unauthorized biography of Harry Potter (levitate club, drop on troll's head).
In the second task, Finsteraarhorn challenged the youngsters to rescue hostages from a mountain pass haunted by snow demons. Palamas tied with Horzeltuin's Saskia Troost by working together, using an avalanche as a diversion and sneaking up the pass while the yetis were rebuilding their tunnels.
Isola Indietro's champion Bruno Fenoglio narrowly survived an obstacle course designed by Horzeltuin's charms master, who seems to have a fondness for booby traps and sharp-edged projectiles. The best score in that round went to to Lopez, with Palamas taking second and maintaining his overall lead.
There was another close call in the fourth task, this time for Finsteraarhorn's Constant Malheur, whose string of bad luck took on gruesome dimensions when Santa Ardilla challenged the champions to find their way out of a maze of mirrors armed with transfiguration traps. Lopez achieved the best time, but her score was docked because she came out of the maze with asses' ears; first place then went to Tummetot's Gunnar Almkvist, who amazingly navigated the maze blindfolded.
By this time, a new 36-year safety record had been set. Yet, surprisingly, supporters continued to pour in from all parts of Europe, including one party of elderly sport hoodlums who had been banned from the Triwizard Tournament since the 1950s; several of them were deported after Lopez's fall into the Gorge, though it is unlikely that either their burning of Iphinassa's administration building (which was, after all, only a replica of Taureian temple of Artemis) or the stampede that followed it could have caused the second-place champion to miss her footing. It was the champions with their daring, dash, and dazzle that brought more attention to each successive task; but now that blood was spilled, the attendance at the sixth and final task was beyond all expectations.
"At the last moment we had to double the number of tiers in our Quidditch pitch," commented Isola Indietro's headmaster, the diminutive Professor Presto. "There still weren't enough seats to go around."
"They had more spectators than the World Cup Final," Minister Nutwicke agreed.
Going into the final task, the scores stood thus: In first place Palamas of Iphinassa with 312 points; runner-up Lopez of Santa Ardilla with 298 but no longer with us; Almkvist of Tummetot at third with 244; Troost of Horzeltuin in fourth with 228; Fenoglio of Isola Indietro in fifth with 225 points and a home-field advantage; and in last place, but effectively out of the running, Finsteraarhorn's Malheur with 176 points. Anyone but Malheur or, of course, Lopez had a chance to win, given that a full 100 points would be given to the winner of the task.
The rules of the task were simple. The winner would retrieve a life-sized falcon figurine hidden somewhere in the city -- yes, outside the gates of the school -- and bring it back, undamaged, without doing any magic in front of muggles. The figurine (on loan from Malta) had undisclosed magical properties and could be hidden indoors, outdoors, or even underwater. It would be, as Professor Presto called it, "the ultimate scavenger hunt." Anyone breaking one of the rules would be instantly disqualified. And the champions had 24 hours to finish the task.
I spoke with Fenoglio six hours into the task, after he was disqualified for levitating himself out of a canal. While members of the Italian Ministry for Magic modified the memories of a passing gondolier and his passengers, a soaked and shivering Fenoglio explained how he had tried to use his knowledge of local magic to his advantage. "I knew about a wizard who owns an entire, unplottable island in the city. I had heard that he kept falcons, so I reasoned that the figurine might be with Il Comte's birds. I had always heard bad things happened to kids who tried to sneak onto Il Comte's estate, but I assumed that was part of the challenge."
Fenoglio continued, "I've been studying to become an animagus, so I reckoned that would be the safest way to get across the grounds. I haven't passed the license test yet, so no one else in the tournament knew about it. It was kind of a secret weapon. Now the time finally came to use it."
Here I asked Fenoglio what animal he turns into. "A boa constrictor," he said. "Just like my mother's cousin, who gave me the idea. He got so good at it that he forgot how to turn back into a human. Last I heard of him he had escaped from a zoo somewhere."
"He must have been very convincing as a snake," I put in.
"My mother always said he was," said Fenoglio. "Don't tell her about this, all right? I don't think she would like it."
I promised to take the secret to my grave. Then, dear reader, young Fenoglio went on with his stunning tale. "It had gotten dark by the time I reached Il Comte's weathering yard. That's where they exercise the birds, you know. I went scaly and crept out of the woods, tasting the air to make sure nobody was around. All I sensed was bird, so I slithered toward the shed where they keep the mews. Getting in under the wall took a bit of work, but I finally did it and turned back into me. I conjured up a bit of cold fire and started searching the mews for a bird figurine. That's when it got interesting.
"One of the falcons wasn't hooded. When I looked in on it, it seemed to be trying to tell me something. I thought this was pretty unusual, so maybe it was the figurine with those mysterious powers old Presto mentioned. I had to pick a lock to let it out. Then it got really scary.
"The bird flew right at me, like it was going to chew my face off. I fell on the floor and shielded myself, but the sound of flapping wings stopped. Suddenly this man was standing there. He must have been an animagus too. He grabbed me and made me run away with him -- dragged me, almost -- all the way to the canal, where we got into trouble. Il Comte must have detected us somehow, because his golems were waiting for us -- yes, that's what I said, men made out of clay. I never thought I could run like that. If we hadn't found that boat we would have had to swim for it."
The Hexischoleiad champion and the strange man were pursued, now by wizards who had no qualms against shooting curses at them in front of muggles. They got separated when one well-aimed curse blasted their boat to splinters. What became of the other wizard, or who he was, is still unknown. The local authorities claim to have spoken with Il Comte and his staff, but no information has been forthcoming. But, understandably, other concerns have taken higher priority.
For even while I was interviewing one champion who had narrowly escaped with his life, another champion was killed while holding the falcon figurine.
...TO BE CONTINUED...
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR TMQ #147 +++
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: Who killed the Hexischoleiad champion? A) Il Comte di Bestemmia or his minions. B) Another school's champion. C) A magical creature linked to the falcon figurine. D) Somebody connected to the mystery of Penelope's Yak.
CONTEST: Invent an original and colorful "wizard swear" or magical insult that can be published on a family-oriented website.
118. Laughing Matter
Contest winner: rory86
PARAPHYSICIST ATTENDS WEDDING IN HOGSMEADE
Part 5 in a 7-part Special Report
Bo Dwyer, our top correspondent, continues the report of his week following Professor Algernon Swerve, the Magic theorist whose recent discovery of magically generated states of matter would have won him the Nobel Prize for Paraphysics, except there isn’t one.
During breakfast on Saturday, Dr. Swerve suddenly announced that he was going to a wedding in Hogsmeade. The invitation had come by owl that very morning, and it entitled him to bring one guest: me.
I soon understood that the wedding would be a newsworthy event in its own right. There are not many couples who choose to have their nuptials performed at the Hog’s Head pub. In fact, the last one on record was the marriage of Richard Pellamonter and Elizabeth Polkenhorne in April of 1565 or 1566 (depending on which set of records you go by), a day which saw dozens of Britain’s best wizards lose control of their magic due to a bowl of contaminated punch. This is why all the buildings in Hogsmeade had polka-dotted walls until 1611, and weddings within village boundaries were banned until 1865. When I first heard that Saturday’s wedding was to be the Hog’s Head’s first since 1566, I was moved by the progress and enlightenment of our wizarding community. Then I smelled and, rather later, saw the Hog’s Head and such notions were dashed. It was clearly the only place the couple could afford; which is too bad, because the proprietor should be the one who pays the rest of us to drink his swill.
At least the punch was unpolluted. After about one o’clock Sunday afternoon, at any rate, the buildings and streets of Hogsmeade seemed to be their usual color again.
By coincidence, the bride and groom were both people I had interviewed before. Erastus “Merlin” Sidwell made an unexpectedly strong showing (12th place) in an Iwixarod broom race some years ago, and he was quoted in my report of that race. His exact words were: “I prefer bundimun grease, myself.” And his intended, Miss Doreen Pinch (known as “Endora” to her friends) had guided my tour of the Bertie Botts Flavor Lab, where she was a taste-tester at the time. I remember her as a remarkable woman who was able to tell a great deal about me by smell alone. During the day I learned that Merlin now works as a “special consultant” — I’m not sure what that means — while Endora has moved up the career ladder to Senior Potion Designer. Bride and groom wore matching carnival masks, as a nod to Hog’s Head tradition (all the guests were furnished with masks as well).
I didn’t see very much of my subject that day, but I did encounter a surprising range of people considering the caliber of the establishment. I met a married couple of highly decorated RMB agents who were also once Owlympic medalists (I had interviewed them too), an American agent who specializes in quick-change disguises (I believe he was at least five of the people I shook hands with), and a dodgy looking couple covered in animated tattoos (which posed witty remarks to passersby, in ornate handwriting). I met a wandwright from Finland, an Austrian couple who run a survival school for wizards, a Ukrainian art-wizard (who, by the way his eyes lingered on the tattooed couple, must have been responsible for their body art), several Italian clown-wizards, and a couple of Durmstrang professors. A former member of Nasal Drip gave a solo musical performance that was at least as loud and obnoxious as anything his old band could do. A wizard rich enough to keep his name out of the paper stood near me through the whole song, stoically enduring it in order to keep an eye on his teenage son, who has enough mischief in him to make the name-out-of-paper thing more expensive every year. Sir Lionel Niblet and Dr. Miles O’Roughage were also on hand, holding a soft yet animated conversation in a corner throughout the wedding.
After the ceremony came a meal which I would rather not recall in detail; the punch helped in that respect. At the climax of the banquet, toasts were made and gifts were given to the newly wedded couple.
The RMB agents gave the Sidwells a stoppered flask of some blood-red potion which, they warned, was not to be unstoppered except in the gravest emergency, and only then when Mrs. Sidwell was wearing nose-plugs. It was difficult to follow the explanation of this potion, owing perhaps to some shared background between the agents and the Sidwells, but I gathered that the potion came from a variety of orchid bred by Sir Lionel, and was brewed by Dr. O’Roughage. “It smells like rotting flesh, and it evaporates instantly when struck a violent, physical blow,” they announced. “But until then, a few drops of it shield the wearer against all magic directed against a conscious, living person.”
The next noteworthy gift, following a set of wands, some gag gifts from the clowns, a flask of “eyedropper banquet,” chits for free body art, and similar items, was a large box delivered by two house-elves. I knew the elves at once. Their master, a portable-wall magnate, has been very reclusive lately, and I was curious to know what gift he might have sent to a wedding without appearing himself to give it. It turned out that the box was empty, but it came with a cryptic message which Merlin read aloud: “If this is empty when you receive it, don’t be distressed. My calculations have a wide margin for error. Keep the box, and look inside it now and again, until you find a token of my very personal affection and esteem for both of you. Eventually, the day will come when I will have put something in this box before it was going to be delivered.”
One of the last gifts was presented by Professor Swerve. The couple smiled politely as he handed them an ingot of some dull-brown metal. And this was where I was repaid for all my difficulty in following him at this wedding. As Merlin Sidwell hefted the heavy bar of not-very-precious-looking material, the paraphysicist explained:
“For your special day, and for all your days together, I give you the gift of laughter. As you know, I have spent the last two decades studying the effects of magic on molecules, atoms, and subatomic particles. Last year, I finally published my discoveries, including several new states of matter that can only exist under the influence of magic. This bar may seem to contain nothing but a blend of ordinary minerals. But I have charmed it into a state that I like to call ‘laughing matter.’ Whether there is a lot of it or a little; whether it is precious or common; whether solid, liquid, or gas, laughing matter is held together by the energy of pure joy. Touch it when you are angry or frustrated, and you will see the absurdity in your situation and your frown will become a chuckle. Touch it in a time of grief or pain, and you will suddenly remember the good things you still have to be happy about. Touch it when you are terrified and hopeless, and that which you dread may reveal desirable aspects. Touch it at a joyful time, like today, and you add to its stored energy, and to the good memories that will return to you at a time of need.
“Touch it together,” Professor Swerve continued, “and it fosters trust and contentment. Break it in half” – here Merlin effortlessly snapped the ingot in two, causing a stir throughout the pub – “when you cannot be together, and when you both hold it at the same time, you will feel closer to each other. Put the pieces back together” – Merlin did this – “and it sticks in one piece, as if you had never broken it. It also makes an excellent doorstop, for few things are as friendly as an open door; and, when used as a bookend, laughing matter causes nearby books to seem more entertaining the next time you open them. Tonight, I suggest that you tuck it under the...”
“What a lovely gift,” said Merlin, loudly interrupting the professor’s speech, while his bride reddened to the tip of her rather impressive nose.
After taking the Floo network back to Professor Swerve’s study, I told him how impressed I was with what he had said and done at the Sidwell wedding. He shrugged, smiling mysteriously, and said, “You don’t think I would really give such a priceless specimen – moreover, one that neither science nor magic has yet fully explained – to a couple of risk-takers like them? It would be murder. Or, worse, it would be a methodological blunder. I had forgotten to bring a gift, but I found a pile of those bricks out behind the Hog’s Head and checked to make sure there wasn’t anything dodgy about them before choosing one. I put a breaking-and-rejoining charm on it – a little trick on which I often dined out in my salad days. The rest of it was pure codswallop.”
Seeing my shocked expression, Professor Swerve laughed kindly and added, “I also applied a bit of magic in my speech. The magic of psychology. If those youngsters took me even a wee bit seriously, that brick will be a symbol to them, a symbol whose meaning they will pull out of themselves. I mean, really! To give them, actually give them, what I described would be meddling in things where I have no business. It is better this way.”
“So,” I asked, ashamed to notice a tone of childish disappointment in my own voice, “so is there no such thing as ‘laughing matter’ at all?”
“Oh, to be sure, there is! I’ve got some of it right here,” said Professor Swerve, getting up to fetch a waxy looking lump, encased in crystal, out of a locked cupboard. “And if they knew anything about it, they would thank me for not giving it them. Real ‘laughing matter’ is terrible, chaotic stuff; absolutely insane.”
He handed the crystal to me and I turned it over in my hands. “What does it do?” I asked.
“Oh! It is the stuff that moves things around when your back is turned. It hides your keys, causes your toilet to overflow, and stops nearby timepieces just when you are waiting for a certain hour to strike. I once observed a lump of ‘laughing matter’ to re-tune a piano so that, no matter what keys you played, the only thing you could get out of it was the ‘Tristan chord.’ Whenever you feel that someone, somewhere, must be laughing at you, you might have a bit of this stuff stuck to your shoe. With a brick of real laughing matter, the Sidwell’s marriage wouldn’t have lasted a week!
“Promise you won’t print any of this?” Professor Swerve added meekly.
“On my honor as a journalist,” I said, handing the crystal-encased lump back to him.
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR TMQ #120 +++
SURVEY: How does the angel-faced villain from TMQ #117 combine magic with golf? (A) He uses magic to create a self-maintaining, perfect golf course. (B) He uses magical plants, beasts, and other hazards to make his links the most difficult and dangerous course in the world. (C) He plays a wizarding variant of golf involving balls that go up but do not come down (unless played in that direction); players must be able to fly and, on occasion, play underwater. (D) He uses magic to enhance his performance in order to collect huge winnings on ordinary golf tours. (E) Other...
CONTEST: Describe a magical piece of jewelry and its properties.
Special thanks are due to the Cornwall County Council for inspiration provided by their Silly Names List [EDIT: Alas, this webpage no longer exists]. ANOTHER EDIT: What a pity that Blogger has a 200-character limit for labels. The list below should also include Algernon Swerve, Harvey, Dinty, Heidi Svendanna, Tatyana, and Owlympics.
[Originally posted 5/16/07]
PARAPHYSICIST ATTENDS WEDDING IN HOGSMEADE
Part 5 in a 7-part Special Report
Bo Dwyer, our top correspondent, continues the report of his week following Professor Algernon Swerve, the Magic theorist whose recent discovery of magically generated states of matter would have won him the Nobel Prize for Paraphysics, except there isn’t one.
During breakfast on Saturday, Dr. Swerve suddenly announced that he was going to a wedding in Hogsmeade. The invitation had come by owl that very morning, and it entitled him to bring one guest: me.
I soon understood that the wedding would be a newsworthy event in its own right. There are not many couples who choose to have their nuptials performed at the Hog’s Head pub. In fact, the last one on record was the marriage of Richard Pellamonter and Elizabeth Polkenhorne in April of 1565 or 1566 (depending on which set of records you go by), a day which saw dozens of Britain’s best wizards lose control of their magic due to a bowl of contaminated punch. This is why all the buildings in Hogsmeade had polka-dotted walls until 1611, and weddings within village boundaries were banned until 1865. When I first heard that Saturday’s wedding was to be the Hog’s Head’s first since 1566, I was moved by the progress and enlightenment of our wizarding community. Then I smelled and, rather later, saw the Hog’s Head and such notions were dashed. It was clearly the only place the couple could afford; which is too bad, because the proprietor should be the one who pays the rest of us to drink his swill.
At least the punch was unpolluted. After about one o’clock Sunday afternoon, at any rate, the buildings and streets of Hogsmeade seemed to be their usual color again.
By coincidence, the bride and groom were both people I had interviewed before. Erastus “Merlin” Sidwell made an unexpectedly strong showing (12th place) in an Iwixarod broom race some years ago, and he was quoted in my report of that race. His exact words were: “I prefer bundimun grease, myself.” And his intended, Miss Doreen Pinch (known as “Endora” to her friends) had guided my tour of the Bertie Botts Flavor Lab, where she was a taste-tester at the time. I remember her as a remarkable woman who was able to tell a great deal about me by smell alone. During the day I learned that Merlin now works as a “special consultant” — I’m not sure what that means — while Endora has moved up the career ladder to Senior Potion Designer. Bride and groom wore matching carnival masks, as a nod to Hog’s Head tradition (all the guests were furnished with masks as well).
I didn’t see very much of my subject that day, but I did encounter a surprising range of people considering the caliber of the establishment. I met a married couple of highly decorated RMB agents who were also once Owlympic medalists (I had interviewed them too), an American agent who specializes in quick-change disguises (I believe he was at least five of the people I shook hands with), and a dodgy looking couple covered in animated tattoos (which posed witty remarks to passersby, in ornate handwriting). I met a wandwright from Finland, an Austrian couple who run a survival school for wizards, a Ukrainian art-wizard (who, by the way his eyes lingered on the tattooed couple, must have been responsible for their body art), several Italian clown-wizards, and a couple of Durmstrang professors. A former member of Nasal Drip gave a solo musical performance that was at least as loud and obnoxious as anything his old band could do. A wizard rich enough to keep his name out of the paper stood near me through the whole song, stoically enduring it in order to keep an eye on his teenage son, who has enough mischief in him to make the name-out-of-paper thing more expensive every year. Sir Lionel Niblet and Dr. Miles O’Roughage were also on hand, holding a soft yet animated conversation in a corner throughout the wedding.
After the ceremony came a meal which I would rather not recall in detail; the punch helped in that respect. At the climax of the banquet, toasts were made and gifts were given to the newly wedded couple.
The RMB agents gave the Sidwells a stoppered flask of some blood-red potion which, they warned, was not to be unstoppered except in the gravest emergency, and only then when Mrs. Sidwell was wearing nose-plugs. It was difficult to follow the explanation of this potion, owing perhaps to some shared background between the agents and the Sidwells, but I gathered that the potion came from a variety of orchid bred by Sir Lionel, and was brewed by Dr. O’Roughage. “It smells like rotting flesh, and it evaporates instantly when struck a violent, physical blow,” they announced. “But until then, a few drops of it shield the wearer against all magic directed against a conscious, living person.”
The next noteworthy gift, following a set of wands, some gag gifts from the clowns, a flask of “eyedropper banquet,” chits for free body art, and similar items, was a large box delivered by two house-elves. I knew the elves at once. Their master, a portable-wall magnate, has been very reclusive lately, and I was curious to know what gift he might have sent to a wedding without appearing himself to give it. It turned out that the box was empty, but it came with a cryptic message which Merlin read aloud: “If this is empty when you receive it, don’t be distressed. My calculations have a wide margin for error. Keep the box, and look inside it now and again, until you find a token of my very personal affection and esteem for both of you. Eventually, the day will come when I will have put something in this box before it was going to be delivered.”
One of the last gifts was presented by Professor Swerve. The couple smiled politely as he handed them an ingot of some dull-brown metal. And this was where I was repaid for all my difficulty in following him at this wedding. As Merlin Sidwell hefted the heavy bar of not-very-precious-looking material, the paraphysicist explained:
“For your special day, and for all your days together, I give you the gift of laughter. As you know, I have spent the last two decades studying the effects of magic on molecules, atoms, and subatomic particles. Last year, I finally published my discoveries, including several new states of matter that can only exist under the influence of magic. This bar may seem to contain nothing but a blend of ordinary minerals. But I have charmed it into a state that I like to call ‘laughing matter.’ Whether there is a lot of it or a little; whether it is precious or common; whether solid, liquid, or gas, laughing matter is held together by the energy of pure joy. Touch it when you are angry or frustrated, and you will see the absurdity in your situation and your frown will become a chuckle. Touch it in a time of grief or pain, and you will suddenly remember the good things you still have to be happy about. Touch it when you are terrified and hopeless, and that which you dread may reveal desirable aspects. Touch it at a joyful time, like today, and you add to its stored energy, and to the good memories that will return to you at a time of need.
“Touch it together,” Professor Swerve continued, “and it fosters trust and contentment. Break it in half” – here Merlin effortlessly snapped the ingot in two, causing a stir throughout the pub – “when you cannot be together, and when you both hold it at the same time, you will feel closer to each other. Put the pieces back together” – Merlin did this – “and it sticks in one piece, as if you had never broken it. It also makes an excellent doorstop, for few things are as friendly as an open door; and, when used as a bookend, laughing matter causes nearby books to seem more entertaining the next time you open them. Tonight, I suggest that you tuck it under the...”
“What a lovely gift,” said Merlin, loudly interrupting the professor’s speech, while his bride reddened to the tip of her rather impressive nose.
After taking the Floo network back to Professor Swerve’s study, I told him how impressed I was with what he had said and done at the Sidwell wedding. He shrugged, smiling mysteriously, and said, “You don’t think I would really give such a priceless specimen – moreover, one that neither science nor magic has yet fully explained – to a couple of risk-takers like them? It would be murder. Or, worse, it would be a methodological blunder. I had forgotten to bring a gift, but I found a pile of those bricks out behind the Hog’s Head and checked to make sure there wasn’t anything dodgy about them before choosing one. I put a breaking-and-rejoining charm on it – a little trick on which I often dined out in my salad days. The rest of it was pure codswallop.”
Seeing my shocked expression, Professor Swerve laughed kindly and added, “I also applied a bit of magic in my speech. The magic of psychology. If those youngsters took me even a wee bit seriously, that brick will be a symbol to them, a symbol whose meaning they will pull out of themselves. I mean, really! To give them, actually give them, what I described would be meddling in things where I have no business. It is better this way.”
“So,” I asked, ashamed to notice a tone of childish disappointment in my own voice, “so is there no such thing as ‘laughing matter’ at all?”
“Oh, to be sure, there is! I’ve got some of it right here,” said Professor Swerve, getting up to fetch a waxy looking lump, encased in crystal, out of a locked cupboard. “And if they knew anything about it, they would thank me for not giving it them. Real ‘laughing matter’ is terrible, chaotic stuff; absolutely insane.”
He handed the crystal to me and I turned it over in my hands. “What does it do?” I asked.
“Oh! It is the stuff that moves things around when your back is turned. It hides your keys, causes your toilet to overflow, and stops nearby timepieces just when you are waiting for a certain hour to strike. I once observed a lump of ‘laughing matter’ to re-tune a piano so that, no matter what keys you played, the only thing you could get out of it was the ‘Tristan chord.’ Whenever you feel that someone, somewhere, must be laughing at you, you might have a bit of this stuff stuck to your shoe. With a brick of real laughing matter, the Sidwell’s marriage wouldn’t have lasted a week!
“Promise you won’t print any of this?” Professor Swerve added meekly.
“On my honor as a journalist,” I said, handing the crystal-encased lump back to him.
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR TMQ #120 +++
SURVEY: How does the angel-faced villain from TMQ #117 combine magic with golf? (A) He uses magic to create a self-maintaining, perfect golf course. (B) He uses magical plants, beasts, and other hazards to make his links the most difficult and dangerous course in the world. (C) He plays a wizarding variant of golf involving balls that go up but do not come down (unless played in that direction); players must be able to fly and, on occasion, play underwater. (D) He uses magic to enhance his performance in order to collect huge winnings on ordinary golf tours. (E) Other...
CONTEST: Describe a magical piece of jewelry and its properties.
Special thanks are due to the Cornwall County Council for inspiration provided by their Silly Names List [EDIT: Alas, this webpage no longer exists]. ANOTHER EDIT: What a pity that Blogger has a 200-character limit for labels. The list below should also include Algernon Swerve, Harvey, Dinty, Heidi Svendanna, Tatyana, and Owlympics.
[Originally posted 5/16/07]
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
79. A Break for Bestsellers
Contest Winners: Lightshade, R_shackleford, silvaStorm, Angela Scarlett, hpwestham13, TWZRD, eagleanimagus, AmyLynn91403, & Linda Carrig
Sporting memoirs mixed with do-it-yourself guides in this week’s Nonfiction List--writes Daily Prophet book review editor Cicero Pica.--A tell-all exposé of the professional Quidditch league, a popular look at myths about Muggles, and a photo-essay about the most exotic, protected species of birds in the world were among the variety of subjects treated in the Top Ten Bestsellers.
Treated, indeed. Entering the list at number ten was Aurelius Conkling’s Sniffly Nifflers: What to do when your niffler’s nose is stuffed (Orkney: Divining Rod Press). Written in an engaging style for lay readers, the book appeals to everyone who finds nifflers cuddly and cute – but even more so to those who need their nifflers in top, treasure-sniffing shape. And in these difficult days, that goes for more than just Gringotts curse breakers! Conkling has painstakingly researched most of the diseases that can impair a niffler’s sense of smell, including dirt allergies and iron-disulfide dependency. A must-buy for anyone interested in the care of magical creatures!
Falling two places to number nine was Broomstick Splinters, the controversial memoir of long-time Ballycastle Bats seeker Herbert “the Hawk” Houlighan (London: Snidely & Foxment). But sales are expected to pick up again, following this week’s news that Houlighan was admitted to St. Mungo’s after opening an anonymous letter containing a one-off, attack-the-reader curse. Ministry wizards are tight-lipped, but a source in Houlighan’s family confirmed that anyone named in Broomstick Splinters may be a suspect. For a complete review, see page 5 of the current Magic Folk supplement.
Holding steady at number eight: Mystifying Muggles, an up-to-date guide on how to avoid attracting the notice of Muggles as you live and work magic in their neighborhood (Oxford: Merlin College Press). Authors Cecil Lee-Stuff and Donna B. Endicott candidly evaluate the successes and failures of each technique in an exhaustive study of our concealment from the Muggle world. Then they describe new challenges to the secrecy of our world, and the most recent techniques that have been developed to meet those challenges – including some they have invented and tested themselves! No book could be more timely, and not merely for those who are charged with keeping our world secret and safe. Every wizarding family should take warning, and encouragement, from what this book has to say about baffling orbiting Muggle devices, radar, and so many other modern Muggle gadgets.
Not to be confused with the previous title, Muggle Myths enters the Nonfiction List at number seven (Edinburgh: Muggle Studies Institute). J. Balthasar Drooble, general editor, heads an impressive list of scholars who contributed to this book, with a critical look at all the fictions you have ever heard about Muggles, and a few amazing facts besides! Do they really cut people open in Muggle hospitals? Do their flying machines and moving pictures work by enslaving countless harmless fairies? Do they use kites with keys tied to them to make eckeltricity? And have they really been to the moon and back? You won’t know for sure until you read this astounding book!
Cole Slaughter follows up his 2002 bestseller, Spell Safari, with another foray into exotic magical traditions in Famous Wizards of North America (Land’s End: Snickerdoodle Ltd). Both scholarly and completely approachable, Slaughter’s profiles of 46 noteworthy witches, warlocks, mages, and shamans enters this week’s list at number six. This reviewer is particularly impressed by the chapter on Black Elk, which should be read in every history-of-magic classroom. Even some Muggles might be interested in getting hold of this book, especially for what it has to say about Eisenhower. But the real surprise is the evidence Slaughter has uncovered about Massachusetts witch-trial maven Cotton Mather!
In Wee Wizards and the Mozart Effect (Crewkerne: Chick & Egg), entering the list at number five, Dr. Betelgeuse Spork becomes only the fourth author to make it onto a Daily Prophet bestseller list over 80 times, and in 8 different decades to boot. Still the most trusted advisor on parenting magic, Spork is best known for his epochal studies of magical child development, titled What Are Little Witches Made Of? and He Had a Bezoar Up His Nose. Now he sets out to correct the gross information lately put about by the Muggle child-development experts, particularly regarding the spells certain renegade wizards cast through music composed for a Muggle audience. Though the judgment of modern wizarding society would condemn Mozart, Beethoven, and Bach to a cell in Azkaban, Spork makes (as always) an even-handed judgment and concludes that their music could, indeed, be used to enrich the magical potential of tiny tots, newbies, and even unborn witches and wizards.
Dropping from the number one spot to fourth on the list was So You’ve Been Cursed by Jasper “Jinx” Jenkins, founder of MMMF (Mending Magical Mishaps Foundation) of Strunkhaven, which also published the book. With chapters on counter-jinxes, potions and spells to relieve symptoms, and support groups to help you deal with long-lasting hex effects, this is another book for which the time is ripe. Unfortunately, the market was flooded with look-alike books that are printed on cursed paper with poisoned ink, and a whole batch of the books had to be recalled when the printer discovered that someone had slightly tampered with the text to make some of the cures into curses. Nevertheless, Jenkins is a name to watch, as he has his finger on what today’s readers desperately want.
Down from second to third on the list is Glissandra Smith-Smith-Johnson-Smith’s glittery, glossy Weddings for Witches (Frillborough: Tuxedo Breakfast, Ltd). The latest fashions in bridal attire are exhaustively depicted in a multitude of see-from-all-sides posed pictures, including plus-size, minus-size, bridesmaid-uglifying, and bride-de-uglifying dresses, hair styles, facial treatments, accessories, and pages and pages of charms and potions for catching Mr. Right and making the big day perfect. The only drawback is that, at twenty galleons per copy, it is a big investment for a book that will be outdated at least by the time next year’s bridal guide comes out. The real value of this book lies in all the personal experience brought to it by the author, who has herself been married eleven times at this writing (and whose full list of hyphenated, married names includes at least two more Smiths).
Rising to number two from a slow start last week at number 14 is a coffee-table-quality book, with text by Lyman Twerp and full-sound, 360-degree-motion photos by Seymour Entwistle: Magical Birds of the Azores (Dungarvan: Be Kind To Your Fine Feathered Friends, Ltd). Rare, glorious creatures they are, and they have been studied and filmed in loving detail, right down to their social habits, family structure, and digestive problems. Such a variety of seldom-seen, yet (fortunately) magically protected species can be found nowhere outside the Really Unplottable Bird Sanctuary off the coast of Idaho. Folks who keep this book on their coffee table had better hide it from visitors if they don’t want them to stay for very long!
And finally, joining the list at number one is the name-dropping, tale-telling potboiler, I Did It Diagonally by Tom Lekkeketel, with co-author Bo Dwyer (London: Broom and Wand Books). Tom, as we all know, is the proprietor of the Leaky Cauldron, and as such he has come into intimate personal contact with nearly every wizard of consequence alive today, to say nothing of those who are of no consequence or no longer living. Which member of the International Federation of Warlocks required a soft-boiled swan’s egg at three o’clock in the morning? Which Wizarding Wireless star trashed his room after his first album earned a million galleons? Which Hogwarts professor staged a Gringotts break-in from a room in the Leaky Cauldron? What did Harry Potter order for supper while staying there for the summer? And which high ranking members of the Ministry left without paying their bill? The answers to all your questions, and many more, are inside. Chances are, you know someone who is mentioned in this book, if you aren’t mentioned yourself. So it’s no wonder the copies are flying off the shelves!
Be sure to check the list next week, following the release of Rigel Oldmanson’s Growing Up Twice (Warwick: Anonymous Press), in which the est- (continued on page 17...)
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR #81 +++
To send Robbie your personal feedback or original ideas, visit the Feedback Form [EDIT: Rather, leave a Comment]. To vote in the Survey and Contest to determine what happens in the Chapter-After-Next, visit the Discussion Forum [EDIT: This discussion is closed].
The SURVEY: Two questions this time. (1) Is Sadie a chick or a dude? and (2) Is it time yet for the other characters to find this out for sure?
The CONTEST: Describe a magical being, creature, or plant that lives in water.
The Survey Answer that gets the most votes, and the Contest entry that Robbie likes the most, will be featured in Magic Quill #81. So be sure to visit our Discussion Thread – and if you aren’t a member of COS Forums, join today!
[Originally posted 1/27/06]
Sporting memoirs mixed with do-it-yourself guides in this week’s Nonfiction List--writes Daily Prophet book review editor Cicero Pica.--A tell-all exposé of the professional Quidditch league, a popular look at myths about Muggles, and a photo-essay about the most exotic, protected species of birds in the world were among the variety of subjects treated in the Top Ten Bestsellers.
Treated, indeed. Entering the list at number ten was Aurelius Conkling’s Sniffly Nifflers: What to do when your niffler’s nose is stuffed (Orkney: Divining Rod Press). Written in an engaging style for lay readers, the book appeals to everyone who finds nifflers cuddly and cute – but even more so to those who need their nifflers in top, treasure-sniffing shape. And in these difficult days, that goes for more than just Gringotts curse breakers! Conkling has painstakingly researched most of the diseases that can impair a niffler’s sense of smell, including dirt allergies and iron-disulfide dependency. A must-buy for anyone interested in the care of magical creatures!
Falling two places to number nine was Broomstick Splinters, the controversial memoir of long-time Ballycastle Bats seeker Herbert “the Hawk” Houlighan (London: Snidely & Foxment). But sales are expected to pick up again, following this week’s news that Houlighan was admitted to St. Mungo’s after opening an anonymous letter containing a one-off, attack-the-reader curse. Ministry wizards are tight-lipped, but a source in Houlighan’s family confirmed that anyone named in Broomstick Splinters may be a suspect. For a complete review, see page 5 of the current Magic Folk supplement.
Holding steady at number eight: Mystifying Muggles, an up-to-date guide on how to avoid attracting the notice of Muggles as you live and work magic in their neighborhood (Oxford: Merlin College Press). Authors Cecil Lee-Stuff and Donna B. Endicott candidly evaluate the successes and failures of each technique in an exhaustive study of our concealment from the Muggle world. Then they describe new challenges to the secrecy of our world, and the most recent techniques that have been developed to meet those challenges – including some they have invented and tested themselves! No book could be more timely, and not merely for those who are charged with keeping our world secret and safe. Every wizarding family should take warning, and encouragement, from what this book has to say about baffling orbiting Muggle devices, radar, and so many other modern Muggle gadgets.
Not to be confused with the previous title, Muggle Myths enters the Nonfiction List at number seven (Edinburgh: Muggle Studies Institute). J. Balthasar Drooble, general editor, heads an impressive list of scholars who contributed to this book, with a critical look at all the fictions you have ever heard about Muggles, and a few amazing facts besides! Do they really cut people open in Muggle hospitals? Do their flying machines and moving pictures work by enslaving countless harmless fairies? Do they use kites with keys tied to them to make eckeltricity? And have they really been to the moon and back? You won’t know for sure until you read this astounding book!
Cole Slaughter follows up his 2002 bestseller, Spell Safari, with another foray into exotic magical traditions in Famous Wizards of North America (Land’s End: Snickerdoodle Ltd). Both scholarly and completely approachable, Slaughter’s profiles of 46 noteworthy witches, warlocks, mages, and shamans enters this week’s list at number six. This reviewer is particularly impressed by the chapter on Black Elk, which should be read in every history-of-magic classroom. Even some Muggles might be interested in getting hold of this book, especially for what it has to say about Eisenhower. But the real surprise is the evidence Slaughter has uncovered about Massachusetts witch-trial maven Cotton Mather!
In Wee Wizards and the Mozart Effect (Crewkerne: Chick & Egg), entering the list at number five, Dr. Betelgeuse Spork becomes only the fourth author to make it onto a Daily Prophet bestseller list over 80 times, and in 8 different decades to boot. Still the most trusted advisor on parenting magic, Spork is best known for his epochal studies of magical child development, titled What Are Little Witches Made Of? and He Had a Bezoar Up His Nose. Now he sets out to correct the gross information lately put about by the Muggle child-development experts, particularly regarding the spells certain renegade wizards cast through music composed for a Muggle audience. Though the judgment of modern wizarding society would condemn Mozart, Beethoven, and Bach to a cell in Azkaban, Spork makes (as always) an even-handed judgment and concludes that their music could, indeed, be used to enrich the magical potential of tiny tots, newbies, and even unborn witches and wizards.
Dropping from the number one spot to fourth on the list was So You’ve Been Cursed by Jasper “Jinx” Jenkins, founder of MMMF (Mending Magical Mishaps Foundation) of Strunkhaven, which also published the book. With chapters on counter-jinxes, potions and spells to relieve symptoms, and support groups to help you deal with long-lasting hex effects, this is another book for which the time is ripe. Unfortunately, the market was flooded with look-alike books that are printed on cursed paper with poisoned ink, and a whole batch of the books had to be recalled when the printer discovered that someone had slightly tampered with the text to make some of the cures into curses. Nevertheless, Jenkins is a name to watch, as he has his finger on what today’s readers desperately want.
Down from second to third on the list is Glissandra Smith-Smith-Johnson-Smith’s glittery, glossy Weddings for Witches (Frillborough: Tuxedo Breakfast, Ltd). The latest fashions in bridal attire are exhaustively depicted in a multitude of see-from-all-sides posed pictures, including plus-size, minus-size, bridesmaid-uglifying, and bride-de-uglifying dresses, hair styles, facial treatments, accessories, and pages and pages of charms and potions for catching Mr. Right and making the big day perfect. The only drawback is that, at twenty galleons per copy, it is a big investment for a book that will be outdated at least by the time next year’s bridal guide comes out. The real value of this book lies in all the personal experience brought to it by the author, who has herself been married eleven times at this writing (and whose full list of hyphenated, married names includes at least two more Smiths).
Rising to number two from a slow start last week at number 14 is a coffee-table-quality book, with text by Lyman Twerp and full-sound, 360-degree-motion photos by Seymour Entwistle: Magical Birds of the Azores (Dungarvan: Be Kind To Your Fine Feathered Friends, Ltd). Rare, glorious creatures they are, and they have been studied and filmed in loving detail, right down to their social habits, family structure, and digestive problems. Such a variety of seldom-seen, yet (fortunately) magically protected species can be found nowhere outside the Really Unplottable Bird Sanctuary off the coast of Idaho. Folks who keep this book on their coffee table had better hide it from visitors if they don’t want them to stay for very long!
And finally, joining the list at number one is the name-dropping, tale-telling potboiler, I Did It Diagonally by Tom Lekkeketel, with co-author Bo Dwyer (London: Broom and Wand Books). Tom, as we all know, is the proprietor of the Leaky Cauldron, and as such he has come into intimate personal contact with nearly every wizard of consequence alive today, to say nothing of those who are of no consequence or no longer living. Which member of the International Federation of Warlocks required a soft-boiled swan’s egg at three o’clock in the morning? Which Wizarding Wireless star trashed his room after his first album earned a million galleons? Which Hogwarts professor staged a Gringotts break-in from a room in the Leaky Cauldron? What did Harry Potter order for supper while staying there for the summer? And which high ranking members of the Ministry left without paying their bill? The answers to all your questions, and many more, are inside. Chances are, you know someone who is mentioned in this book, if you aren’t mentioned yourself. So it’s no wonder the copies are flying off the shelves!
Be sure to check the list next week, following the release of Rigel Oldmanson’s Growing Up Twice (Warwick: Anonymous Press), in which the est- (continued on page 17...)
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR #81 +++
To send Robbie your personal feedback or original ideas, visit the Feedback Form [EDIT: Rather, leave a Comment]. To vote in the Survey and Contest to determine what happens in the Chapter-After-Next, visit the Discussion Forum [EDIT: This discussion is closed].
The SURVEY: Two questions this time. (1) Is Sadie a chick or a dude? and (2) Is it time yet for the other characters to find this out for sure?
The CONTEST: Describe a magical being, creature, or plant that lives in water.
The Survey Answer that gets the most votes, and the Contest entry that Robbie likes the most, will be featured in Magic Quill #81. So be sure to visit our Discussion Thread – and if you aren’t a member of COS Forums, join today!
[Originally posted 1/27/06]
69. Concept Brooms
The best part of the most popular wizarding event in Britain may be one that most of us missed--writes Bo Dwyer for a Broomstick and Wand special issue on wizarding transportation.
All the big broom makers, and a surprising number of small ones, came together last week for the annual Hogsmeade Broom Show. Both pristine, classic models and next year’s hottest new designs were unveiled. Cleansweeps, Oakshafts, Nimbus, Firebolt—all were out in force. The historic Tingletoe Dance Hall and the adjacent Circled Square were stunned by the heat and congestion of the dealers, saleswizards, buyers, and just-plain-gawkers who came from as far away as Dijon and Göteborg.
But in a little-frequented courtyard behind the Mad Hatter Inn was a very special part of the Broom Show that draws only a few, very dedicated enthusiasts every year. In that comparative stillness, one could get a once-only peek at this year’s most daring designs, destined never to be produced for the retail market. Among the rejected prototypes, specially-commissioned one-of-a-kinds, and just-for-larks oddities, this correspondent discovered some "concept brooms" whose time may have come:
THE “EAT-MY-LINT” IN-LINE CLOTHES-BRUSHES from the makers of the Shooting Star – Rather like having miniature brooms strapped to your feet, the “Eat-My-Lint” experience is a thrill-ride and a fitness craze wrapped up in a shoebox. It takes a bit of grace and poise to stay upright with these little wonders racing along under you. Not recommended for wizards with a history of pulled groins, it comes with an optional “Sta-Uprite” helmet, impact-repellant knee and elbow pads, and the most comfortable one-size-fits-all spell since Mrs. Shrubsole’s Murtlap-Frond Slippers. I may not be much at divination, but I foresee a big market for signs permitting “No In-Line Clothes-Brushes On Premises.”
THE “LOVERS’ LEAP” TANDEM BROOM from Bristledown & Co. – one bundle of twigs, attached at the end of a forked broomstick. This model is perfect for the couple that can’t stand to be separated even for a moment. Perhaps wisely, it is available only on terms of a thirty-day lease. What puts the Lovers’ Leap shaft and tip above earlier tandem models is the special protocol of steering charms that only allows liftoff after both riders have agreed on who gets to steer. This can only be overridden in the event of an emergency (though the salesman wasn’t quite clear about what ratio of “pulse increase” to “resistance to anti-accident charms” constitutes an emergency). This should solve the problem one still occasionally sees with tandem brooms juddering from side to side under the force of its riders’ conflicting wills. On the other hand, one can also ride this model solo. With the optional picnic blanket that can be stretched across the gap between the twin shafts, one can even recline comfortably while the Lovers’ Leap purrs through the air.
THE “SUK-E-LUX 26” FAUX-ECLECTIC SKY SWEEPER from Noover & Yorick – ideal for the Muggle-artifact enthusiast in everyone’s family, not to mention the “plus size” specimen who can cause even the stoutest cushioning charm to go flat. Available in standard and bagless models, the Suk-E-Lux 26 trades in the usual unidirectional twigs for a rotating spiral of short bristles and a roaring jet of compressed air. The seat gracefully accomodates the widest bottom, and the model with the bag provides a very embraceable cushion for the timid wizard or witch who are simply too nervous to entrust themselves to invisible forcefields. The cleverest feature is a coil of rubberized cable which acts as a mana collector, constantly recharging those noisy rotors. Plus, in a pinch it can be uncoiled and used to lasso wild hippogriffs and the like. Tally-ho and so on. The only drawback is that the mana collectors only work effectively within a few miles of a concentration of wizardly activity; beyond that radius, a sudden and disastrous loss of power can result.
THE “SQUEAK STREAK 8” from Wet Wipe Enterprises of Bermuda (still a center of concentrated wizarding manufacture, as it has been since a British royal wizard’s fabled exile there in the ninth century) – the latest in a long line of improvements on their original model, which was better known by its popular epithet, the “Crash Splash 0.” This time it really seems those Bermudan wizards have done it, producing a flying window-scrubber with a long enough range to cross the Atlantic non-stop. Attempts to get across the South Pacific are still not recommended, though the sponge side of the scrubber head does inflate into a very luxurious and well-stocked liferaft. It’s the squeegee side that is likely to cause thrills and spills, as it cuts through moisture so efficiently that it can literally slice a cloud in half. As long as you keep wringing out the sponge side, you shouldn’t have the problem that caused the Squeak Streak 6 to be recalled, though the manufacturers have thoughtfully included a Last Will and Testament in the registration form.
THE “SHIVER SLIVER 1,” also from Wet Wipe Enterprises – an attempt to branch out in an unexpected new direction. For wizards who regularly need to fly over a polar ice-cap, here is a long-handled ice scraper / snow-brush that slices right through snow, sleet, freezing rain, and bone-chilling haze. While the wintery elements do their tree-snapping, icy worst, the rider snuggles inside a cozy envelope of warmth that, amazingly, does not thaw any of its surroundings. The hollow shaft pulls apart and snaps back together in different configurations, including a shovel attachment (for flying in extra-heavy snow) and a silver ice-pick with a Yeti-nose-hair core (for performing spells at temperatures below ideal specifications for a regular wand). However, it is already clear that the Shiver Sliver will have to go through several more models before it is quite ready for northern exposure. Clearly, the Bermudan wizards did not anticipate everything that an Arctic or Antarctic flyover might involve. For example, the beverage spout produces iced pumpkin juice, but NOT hot chocolate. I suggest waiting till at least Shiver Sliver 5 before buying!
And finally...THE “GOLDEN SHEAVES” SKY RAKE from Bambi Greene & Sons’ Wizarding Agricultural Applications – a small but growing firm now producing a line of products that are only sold to wizarding farmers whose lands are still surrounded by concealing hedges. By taking low passes over a field (with the proper attachment on the brush end), this sky rake can plough, cultivate, sow, de-pest, harvest, and even clean and separate most crops – though cereals are clearly a specialty. From the people who created the first waterless, windless, self-turning mill-wheel; the self-picking, ripe-berries-only bucket; and the cream-separating, butter-churning, cheese-curing dairy bucket, comes this amazing new flying farm implement that will save a vast number of costly “straight from the stalk to the barn” spells, while also giving young farm-wizards an outlet for the passion for intense boredom that afflicts many wizards at a certain awkward age. After a few passes over the Back 40 on the Golden Sheaves, they’ll never say, “I want to grow up to be a Muggle” again!
If you happen to be in the Hogsmeade area at Broom Show time next year, don’t miss this exhibit of broom novelties. Rumor has it that the Firebolt people are working on a no-bristle concept for next year’s show. Not to be outdone, the Nimbus folks are said to be planning a non-stick entry! Who wouldn’t like to see that?
All the big broom makers, and a surprising number of small ones, came together last week for the annual Hogsmeade Broom Show. Both pristine, classic models and next year’s hottest new designs were unveiled. Cleansweeps, Oakshafts, Nimbus, Firebolt—all were out in force. The historic Tingletoe Dance Hall and the adjacent Circled Square were stunned by the heat and congestion of the dealers, saleswizards, buyers, and just-plain-gawkers who came from as far away as Dijon and Göteborg.
But in a little-frequented courtyard behind the Mad Hatter Inn was a very special part of the Broom Show that draws only a few, very dedicated enthusiasts every year. In that comparative stillness, one could get a once-only peek at this year’s most daring designs, destined never to be produced for the retail market. Among the rejected prototypes, specially-commissioned one-of-a-kinds, and just-for-larks oddities, this correspondent discovered some "concept brooms" whose time may have come:
THE “EAT-MY-LINT” IN-LINE CLOTHES-BRUSHES from the makers of the Shooting Star – Rather like having miniature brooms strapped to your feet, the “Eat-My-Lint” experience is a thrill-ride and a fitness craze wrapped up in a shoebox. It takes a bit of grace and poise to stay upright with these little wonders racing along under you. Not recommended for wizards with a history of pulled groins, it comes with an optional “Sta-Uprite” helmet, impact-repellant knee and elbow pads, and the most comfortable one-size-fits-all spell since Mrs. Shrubsole’s Murtlap-Frond Slippers. I may not be much at divination, but I foresee a big market for signs permitting “No In-Line Clothes-Brushes On Premises.”
THE “LOVERS’ LEAP” TANDEM BROOM from Bristledown & Co. – one bundle of twigs, attached at the end of a forked broomstick. This model is perfect for the couple that can’t stand to be separated even for a moment. Perhaps wisely, it is available only on terms of a thirty-day lease. What puts the Lovers’ Leap shaft and tip above earlier tandem models is the special protocol of steering charms that only allows liftoff after both riders have agreed on who gets to steer. This can only be overridden in the event of an emergency (though the salesman wasn’t quite clear about what ratio of “pulse increase” to “resistance to anti-accident charms” constitutes an emergency). This should solve the problem one still occasionally sees with tandem brooms juddering from side to side under the force of its riders’ conflicting wills. On the other hand, one can also ride this model solo. With the optional picnic blanket that can be stretched across the gap between the twin shafts, one can even recline comfortably while the Lovers’ Leap purrs through the air.
THE “SUK-E-LUX 26” FAUX-ECLECTIC SKY SWEEPER from Noover & Yorick – ideal for the Muggle-artifact enthusiast in everyone’s family, not to mention the “plus size” specimen who can cause even the stoutest cushioning charm to go flat. Available in standard and bagless models, the Suk-E-Lux 26 trades in the usual unidirectional twigs for a rotating spiral of short bristles and a roaring jet of compressed air. The seat gracefully accomodates the widest bottom, and the model with the bag provides a very embraceable cushion for the timid wizard or witch who are simply too nervous to entrust themselves to invisible forcefields. The cleverest feature is a coil of rubberized cable which acts as a mana collector, constantly recharging those noisy rotors. Plus, in a pinch it can be uncoiled and used to lasso wild hippogriffs and the like. Tally-ho and so on. The only drawback is that the mana collectors only work effectively within a few miles of a concentration of wizardly activity; beyond that radius, a sudden and disastrous loss of power can result.
THE “SQUEAK STREAK 8” from Wet Wipe Enterprises of Bermuda (still a center of concentrated wizarding manufacture, as it has been since a British royal wizard’s fabled exile there in the ninth century) – the latest in a long line of improvements on their original model, which was better known by its popular epithet, the “Crash Splash 0.” This time it really seems those Bermudan wizards have done it, producing a flying window-scrubber with a long enough range to cross the Atlantic non-stop. Attempts to get across the South Pacific are still not recommended, though the sponge side of the scrubber head does inflate into a very luxurious and well-stocked liferaft. It’s the squeegee side that is likely to cause thrills and spills, as it cuts through moisture so efficiently that it can literally slice a cloud in half. As long as you keep wringing out the sponge side, you shouldn’t have the problem that caused the Squeak Streak 6 to be recalled, though the manufacturers have thoughtfully included a Last Will and Testament in the registration form.
THE “SHIVER SLIVER 1,” also from Wet Wipe Enterprises – an attempt to branch out in an unexpected new direction. For wizards who regularly need to fly over a polar ice-cap, here is a long-handled ice scraper / snow-brush that slices right through snow, sleet, freezing rain, and bone-chilling haze. While the wintery elements do their tree-snapping, icy worst, the rider snuggles inside a cozy envelope of warmth that, amazingly, does not thaw any of its surroundings. The hollow shaft pulls apart and snaps back together in different configurations, including a shovel attachment (for flying in extra-heavy snow) and a silver ice-pick with a Yeti-nose-hair core (for performing spells at temperatures below ideal specifications for a regular wand). However, it is already clear that the Shiver Sliver will have to go through several more models before it is quite ready for northern exposure. Clearly, the Bermudan wizards did not anticipate everything that an Arctic or Antarctic flyover might involve. For example, the beverage spout produces iced pumpkin juice, but NOT hot chocolate. I suggest waiting till at least Shiver Sliver 5 before buying!
And finally...THE “GOLDEN SHEAVES” SKY RAKE from Bambi Greene & Sons’ Wizarding Agricultural Applications – a small but growing firm now producing a line of products that are only sold to wizarding farmers whose lands are still surrounded by concealing hedges. By taking low passes over a field (with the proper attachment on the brush end), this sky rake can plough, cultivate, sow, de-pest, harvest, and even clean and separate most crops – though cereals are clearly a specialty. From the people who created the first waterless, windless, self-turning mill-wheel; the self-picking, ripe-berries-only bucket; and the cream-separating, butter-churning, cheese-curing dairy bucket, comes this amazing new flying farm implement that will save a vast number of costly “straight from the stalk to the barn” spells, while also giving young farm-wizards an outlet for the passion for intense boredom that afflicts many wizards at a certain awkward age. After a few passes over the Back 40 on the Golden Sheaves, they’ll never say, “I want to grow up to be a Muggle” again!
If you happen to be in the Hogsmeade area at Broom Show time next year, don’t miss this exhibit of broom novelties. Rumor has it that the Firebolt people are working on a no-bristle concept for next year’s show. Not to be outdone, the Nimbus folks are said to be planning a non-stick entry! Who wouldn’t like to see that?
Bo Dwyer lives in Dorset with his wife Harriet and a collection of vintage brooms. He is a senior correspondent for Broomstick and Wand, and the author of several books, including Why I Never Leave Home Without Spell-O-Tape.[Originally posted 10/30/05]
Monday, December 22, 2008
61. A Chat with Ed, Ned, and Tip
BO: Testing, testing. Excellent! This is Bo Dwyer, feature writer for Broomstick and Wand. Welcome to my new program on the Wizarding Wireless Network, where anything at all could happen, but it would have to happen pretty #### fast to get past the ######## censor! But let’s get to the point. Today I have an exciting program for you! Back under one roof again for the first time in, oh, months and months, it’s Nasal Drip! Yes, folks, it’s none other than the edgy, angry musical trio whose last album was actually a collection of solo tracks by each member of the band, strung together—
NED: By a court order, actually.
BO: Yes, I believe that all three of you sued the studio to keep your songs in separate solo albums, but the studio claimed that they would have gone bankrupt trying to sell such things.
TIP: Well, yeh, bu’ vey ‘ad no righ’ makin’ out as we wuz a band, divvey?
BO: I’m not sure what you just said, but it certainly does seem that being on the same side of a legal process, for once, rather brought the three of you together again.
ED: Anyway, it was our worst-selling album ever. A record. Went “lead” in two days flat.
BO: That’s a piece of history none of us will forget! Er. Hem. So, at least it was cheaper to produce than your previous album, which, as I recall, the studio had to sync together by magic from separately recorded tracks, because...
TIP: Cuz we ‘ad a restrainin’ order on each ovver, like.
NED: Not that I’m addressing the gent, but you can remind ‘im for me that it was us as ‘ad a restrainin’ order on ‘im, since that little incident with the flamin’ broomstick...
BO: Truly, your relationship with each other is a model for all the angry youth in the wizarding world. Now, help me please, to get your names straight for once. You’re...
NED: Ned Smith, an’ this is Tip Smith, and this ‘ere is Ed Smith.
BO: All of you are Edward Smith, then?
NED: I dunno abou’ them, but I am. Are they really? Cor! How do you like tha’? An’ no relation or anythin’!
ED: My surname is spelled with an “I,” not a “Y.”
TIP: And mine isn’t, is it?
NED: That’s what I’m sayin’. Who knew?
TIP: Lot of name copiers, you are.
ED: You would say that, bein’ the youngest!
TIP: We’ll, you’re old enough to know better, then.
NED: I wasn’t when me parents had me christened!
TIP: There you go, always havin’ an excuse.
BO: Now hold on. You’ve been together, so to speak, for how long?
ED: Seven years.
BO: And you just now found out each others' names?
ED: We have pet names for each other, see.
NED: Yeh, that one’s ######## and he’s #####-####.
ED: Don’ forget, you’re the great ### ####### of ##########.
NED: You know, if you would pronounce it right, they wouldn’t have to censor it.
ED: Who says I don’t pronounce it right?
NED: Why, you...
BO: Gentlemen! Gentlemen! And you, too, sir! Compose yourselves. We still have an interview to conduct. All right, then, where’s the next page of my...ah. So, er, Tip, what role does each of you play in this band?
TIP: Well, I’m the drummer, like, an’ Ned there plays percussion, and Ed more or less bangs on things.
BO: I see.
NED: Ed is banned from buying or possessing a guitar in most counties now.
BO: Does he smash such a lot of them?
NED: Well, not smash them, as such. But when he’s had a few too many...
TIP: He just got out of a program for billywig abuse, you know...
NED: He puts unbreakable charms on them, sometimes, and bashes away at the walls and floor regardless...
TIP: One time he used a pneuma’ic drill on a Fender.
NED: And that one screaming hex in Henchurch really brought the house down...
BO: Well, Ed, have you nothing to say to this?
ED: Not to be smug, Bo, bu’ the nigh’ we played in Bunghampton did set a record for the highes’ incidence of Silencio, Quietus, and Muffliato spells within a square mile in one nigh’.
TIP: The Daily Prophet referred to our second Farewell Tour as “auditory suicide.”
BO: Oh. Right. On to the next question. This one’s for Ed. What inspired you to put aside a future in magical methods of music performance, and to make do with mostly Muggle means?
ED: Blimey, you would have to ask such a sticky one, wouldn’ you? It’s like this, though. None of us go’ any O.W.L.s. We had to leave Hogwarts after our fifth year...
TIP: Actually, it was me seventh.
ED: What I meant to say is, after our O.W.L. year.
NED: I think what Ed is sayin’, Bo, is that we wuz all impressed by the powers music had in common wiv magic...the power to alter people’s feelin’s, to make the sun seem brighter, the night seem darker...
TIP: Fish seem wetter...
NED: The power to change the way time flows, and to express truths that canno’ be put into words, like.
ED: But above all, we went into music for the witches, the potions, and the galleons.
TIP: Or in your case, the knuts, mutts, and...
BO: WHERE’S OUR CENSOR when you need him!? All right, one last question! And this one’s for Ned. If there was one song, on any of your albums, that you could go back and write all over again, which would it be?
NED: Well, I had a great time writin’ “I Won’t Curse You Till the Sun Comes Up...”
ED: You muttonhead, that’s not what he meant.
BO: Well, it hardly matters now. What made that song so much fun to write?
NED: Well, there was this ####, who we met in Perth that one time they gave us the key to the city before our gig in Liverpool, only the key was a portkey, and the city it was a portkey to was in Australia...and anyway, this #### was there when we landed, and she said to me, ###, why don’t we ###### these ####### and go down to the ##### and get us some ######, #### and ###########? Well, ####, mate, I wasn’ abou’ to turn down an offer like that. But the next day...
BO: Actually, now that I hear a bit of it, I’m with Ed. Let’s see how he answers the question.
ED: What song would I write over from scratch? It would have to be “Look What Fell Out of the Stupid Tree.”
BO: Really?
ED: Really. If I had realized, back then, that I was writing one of the best-selling songs in the history of Cauldron Punk, I would have been a little more careful with the lyrics, you see.
BO: What was wrong with them? Didn’t they rhyme?
TIP: Rhyme was the only thing they did. How many different words did you use in that song?
ED: About fourteen, I think.
NED: Eighteen, if you count spelling variations as separate words.
TIP: I’ll tell you why it was so successful, Bo.
ED: Hey! Not one more word!
TIP: There’s a bowel-loosening incantation worked into that song.
ED: You shut it! I swear, if that big man outside the door hadn’t taken my wand...
TIP: An’ doctors prescribe listenin’ to it to their patients as have fallen afoul of U-No-Poo and such.
NED: Ed always found it so liberating...we only dared to sing it right before the intermission...
ED: But the words are so stupid, they drive me crazy! I could have done much better now.
TIP: Your spelling has improved, but your spell-work hasn’t.
ED: Oi! Tha’ wuz personal, tha’ wuz!
NED: Listen to him, he’s starting to sound like Tip.
TIP: He’s what? Hark, who’s talking, Mr. “They Won’t Believe We’re a Punk Band if We Don’t Sound East End...”
NED: Sound East End? Ha! I’ve never heard such a load of fakery since I...
BO: Well, that’s about all the time we have for...hey, put that table down. Ouch! What did you do that for? Help!
ED: You ##### fool, Ned, that’s not how you do it. See all the little pieces? You’re supposed to put an unbreakable charm on it first, THEN...
BO: Ow! Ow!!! HELP!
VOICE: Stupefy! Impedimenta!
NED: #######!
TIP: Look out, you ####! You almost ####### my...!
VOICE: Stupefy! Expelliarmus! Petrificus Totalis!
TIP: Ow! You ###### of a ###!
VOICE: Stupefy!
BO: Groan.
VOICE: Oops. Well, folks, this is your censor, reminding you to tune in next week for another installment of The Magic Quill! And please, don’t be a ####--send Robbie your idea for what should happen next!
[Originally posted 8/5/05]
NED: By a court order, actually.
BO: Yes, I believe that all three of you sued the studio to keep your songs in separate solo albums, but the studio claimed that they would have gone bankrupt trying to sell such things.
TIP: Well, yeh, bu’ vey ‘ad no righ’ makin’ out as we wuz a band, divvey?
BO: I’m not sure what you just said, but it certainly does seem that being on the same side of a legal process, for once, rather brought the three of you together again.
ED: Anyway, it was our worst-selling album ever. A record. Went “lead” in two days flat.
BO: That’s a piece of history none of us will forget! Er. Hem. So, at least it was cheaper to produce than your previous album, which, as I recall, the studio had to sync together by magic from separately recorded tracks, because...
TIP: Cuz we ‘ad a restrainin’ order on each ovver, like.
NED: Not that I’m addressing the gent, but you can remind ‘im for me that it was us as ‘ad a restrainin’ order on ‘im, since that little incident with the flamin’ broomstick...
BO: Truly, your relationship with each other is a model for all the angry youth in the wizarding world. Now, help me please, to get your names straight for once. You’re...
NED: Ned Smith, an’ this is Tip Smith, and this ‘ere is Ed Smith.
BO: All of you are Edward Smith, then?
NED: I dunno abou’ them, but I am. Are they really? Cor! How do you like tha’? An’ no relation or anythin’!
ED: My surname is spelled with an “I,” not a “Y.”
TIP: And mine isn’t, is it?
NED: That’s what I’m sayin’. Who knew?
TIP: Lot of name copiers, you are.
ED: You would say that, bein’ the youngest!
TIP: We’ll, you’re old enough to know better, then.
NED: I wasn’t when me parents had me christened!
TIP: There you go, always havin’ an excuse.
BO: Now hold on. You’ve been together, so to speak, for how long?
ED: Seven years.
BO: And you just now found out each others' names?
ED: We have pet names for each other, see.
NED: Yeh, that one’s ######## and he’s #####-####.
ED: Don’ forget, you’re the great ### ####### of ##########.
NED: You know, if you would pronounce it right, they wouldn’t have to censor it.
ED: Who says I don’t pronounce it right?
NED: Why, you...
BO: Gentlemen! Gentlemen! And you, too, sir! Compose yourselves. We still have an interview to conduct. All right, then, where’s the next page of my...ah. So, er, Tip, what role does each of you play in this band?
TIP: Well, I’m the drummer, like, an’ Ned there plays percussion, and Ed more or less bangs on things.
BO: I see.
NED: Ed is banned from buying or possessing a guitar in most counties now.
BO: Does he smash such a lot of them?
NED: Well, not smash them, as such. But when he’s had a few too many...
TIP: He just got out of a program for billywig abuse, you know...
NED: He puts unbreakable charms on them, sometimes, and bashes away at the walls and floor regardless...
TIP: One time he used a pneuma’ic drill on a Fender.
NED: And that one screaming hex in Henchurch really brought the house down...
BO: Well, Ed, have you nothing to say to this?
ED: Not to be smug, Bo, bu’ the nigh’ we played in Bunghampton did set a record for the highes’ incidence of Silencio, Quietus, and Muffliato spells within a square mile in one nigh’.
TIP: The Daily Prophet referred to our second Farewell Tour as “auditory suicide.”
BO: Oh. Right. On to the next question. This one’s for Ed. What inspired you to put aside a future in magical methods of music performance, and to make do with mostly Muggle means?
ED: Blimey, you would have to ask such a sticky one, wouldn’ you? It’s like this, though. None of us go’ any O.W.L.s. We had to leave Hogwarts after our fifth year...
TIP: Actually, it was me seventh.
ED: What I meant to say is, after our O.W.L. year.
NED: I think what Ed is sayin’, Bo, is that we wuz all impressed by the powers music had in common wiv magic...the power to alter people’s feelin’s, to make the sun seem brighter, the night seem darker...
TIP: Fish seem wetter...
NED: The power to change the way time flows, and to express truths that canno’ be put into words, like.
ED: But above all, we went into music for the witches, the potions, and the galleons.
TIP: Or in your case, the knuts, mutts, and...
BO: WHERE’S OUR CENSOR when you need him!? All right, one last question! And this one’s for Ned. If there was one song, on any of your albums, that you could go back and write all over again, which would it be?
NED: Well, I had a great time writin’ “I Won’t Curse You Till the Sun Comes Up...”
ED: You muttonhead, that’s not what he meant.
BO: Well, it hardly matters now. What made that song so much fun to write?
NED: Well, there was this ####, who we met in Perth that one time they gave us the key to the city before our gig in Liverpool, only the key was a portkey, and the city it was a portkey to was in Australia...and anyway, this #### was there when we landed, and she said to me, ###, why don’t we ###### these ####### and go down to the ##### and get us some ######, #### and ###########? Well, ####, mate, I wasn’ abou’ to turn down an offer like that. But the next day...
BO: Actually, now that I hear a bit of it, I’m with Ed. Let’s see how he answers the question.
ED: What song would I write over from scratch? It would have to be “Look What Fell Out of the Stupid Tree.”
BO: Really?
ED: Really. If I had realized, back then, that I was writing one of the best-selling songs in the history of Cauldron Punk, I would have been a little more careful with the lyrics, you see.
BO: What was wrong with them? Didn’t they rhyme?
TIP: Rhyme was the only thing they did. How many different words did you use in that song?
ED: About fourteen, I think.
NED: Eighteen, if you count spelling variations as separate words.
TIP: I’ll tell you why it was so successful, Bo.
ED: Hey! Not one more word!
TIP: There’s a bowel-loosening incantation worked into that song.
ED: You shut it! I swear, if that big man outside the door hadn’t taken my wand...
TIP: An’ doctors prescribe listenin’ to it to their patients as have fallen afoul of U-No-Poo and such.
NED: Ed always found it so liberating...we only dared to sing it right before the intermission...
ED: But the words are so stupid, they drive me crazy! I could have done much better now.
TIP: Your spelling has improved, but your spell-work hasn’t.
ED: Oi! Tha’ wuz personal, tha’ wuz!
NED: Listen to him, he’s starting to sound like Tip.
TIP: He’s what? Hark, who’s talking, Mr. “They Won’t Believe We’re a Punk Band if We Don’t Sound East End...”
NED: Sound East End? Ha! I’ve never heard such a load of fakery since I...
BO: Well, that’s about all the time we have for...hey, put that table down. Ouch! What did you do that for? Help!
ED: You ##### fool, Ned, that’s not how you do it. See all the little pieces? You’re supposed to put an unbreakable charm on it first, THEN...
BO: Ow! Ow!!! HELP!
VOICE: Stupefy! Impedimenta!
NED: #######!
TIP: Look out, you ####! You almost ####### my...!
VOICE: Stupefy! Expelliarmus! Petrificus Totalis!
TIP: Ow! You ###### of a ###!
VOICE: Stupefy!
BO: Groan.
VOICE: Oops. Well, folks, this is your censor, reminding you to tune in next week for another installment of The Magic Quill! And please, don’t be a ####--send Robbie your idea for what should happen next!
[Originally posted 8/5/05]
Friday, December 19, 2008
24. The Interview
Concepts contributed by: Bexy & Dave
"Well, since you’ve seen my face now, I might as well show you this," said Spanky, pulling a dog-eared magazine out of his cloak. It was a very old issue of Broom and Wand, with the caption "Who Will Laugh Last?" and a picture of two angry young wizards brandishing wands at each other. One of them was Spanky. The other was...
"Hey, I know him," Merlin exclaimed. "Why, he’s--"
"Shmedly," said Spanky. "I don’t care what name you know him by. That name is not spoken around me. I’ve even altered the text of this interview so that I don’t have to hear it. I would rather hear the entire Three-Sickle Opera sung to the words ‘Lord Voldemort.’ So let’s just keep calling him Shmedly, right?"
The others murmured agreement as Spanky flipped the well-thumbed pages to the interview. "This was done between our Team duel and the final of the Freestyle event. Even though our side was clearly ahead of Romania in the Galleon race, they had beaten us a couple of times and, as you can see, the press was aware that we were closely matched and bitter rivals. So this sporting journal decided to do a double interview, and our team coach decided it was a good idea. Ah! Here it is. Touch your wand-tips there."
Five wand-tips emerged from various robes and invisibility cloaks and touched a little blank square beneath the headline of the interview. All at once, the wizards and witches around the parlor table found themselves in a dingy little office furnished with three stools. They gathered around, watching the two young duelers glowering at each other from either side of a bald, barrel-chested man whose Quick Quotes Quill was scribbling away.
"Wow," said Endora. "I forgot they used to do this pop-up kind of thing, before the duty on mnemonic ink went--"
"Shush!" warned Sadie. "They’re about to begin!"
INTERVIEWER: Testing, testing. Excellent. This is Bo Dwyer, feature writer for Broom and Wand, covering the Hogsmeade Owlympics. With me today are Spanky Spankison, four-time Galleon-winning captain of the English duelling team, and his sometime schoolmate and Romanian opposite-number, Sid Shmedly. Throughout the duelling events so far, the wizarding world has been riveted by the obviously fierce competition between your teams--especially between the two of you. I wonder, Sid, is this a personal thing, or is it purely a sporting rivalry?
SHMEDLY: Oh dear me, no, there’s nothing personal about it at all. In fact, Spanky and I are dear old compatriots. Aren’t we, Old Spank?
"I always hated that man," whispered Merlin, confidentially, as the interviewer put the same question to young Spanky.
"Shmedly?" said Harvey. "I suppose that’s natural. Though he is a smashing good whist player."
SPANKISON: Well, actually, Bo, we loathe...
SHMEDLY: We loathe having to face each other with our wands drawn. It’s always been this way, but we seem fated to be at opposite ends of a major duel. But having a worthy opponent, one who is so nearly your equal in almost every aspect of the game, is what makes competition so rewarding...
The present-day Spanky ground his teeth almost as loudly as the image of his younger self.
DWYER: I understand that, in spite of your avowed mutual friendship, you come from very different personal and political backgrounds. Mr. Spankison, is it true that you are Muggleborn?
SPANKISON: Actually, Bo--not that I think it matters one bit--I’m a halfblood. My father, you see, was an Animagus who did some dangerous work in the Forties against the Dark Lord of that time. He was the head of an anti-Grindelwald cell in the Bavarian Alps (this was shortly after my mother conceived me), and he was helping witches and wizards escape Grindelwald’s followers. Apparently Grindelwald got wise and conjured a huge blizzard that buried their whole village under yards of snow. Everyone would have perished, trapped for weeks in a snowed-under ski lodge, had not Dad turned into a dormouse and burrowed his way out of the snowdrift. Then he scurried for help and somehow got it, but he must have run into some other dark workings of Grindelwald’s, because he was never able to convert into a man again. He was sent home in a cigar box, and my mother took care of him for the rest of his life; but she herself was a Muggle and could not do much to support my older sisters and me. So she sent me to live in Mangeford with my Aunt Violet, my father’s sister, who was a squib and married to the owner of the local alehouse, known as the Dog Biscuit. I washed dishes for them and took magic lessons from the landlord, Lionel Nib--
SHMEDLY (yawning): I daresay, I love hearing about your sordid personal history, my dear Spankimus Maximus, but chiefly at bedtime. Suffice it to say that your heritage is as patchy as a calico cat, and you could draw up your wizarding pedigree on a cigarette paper, which would then be all the more suitable to roll up, daub with saliva, and ignite.
DWYER: Oho! Listen to the man! What a delicious example of the--I’m sure--friendly ribbing that keeps your competitive natures on edge. What do you say to that, Spankster?
SPANKISON: I’m sure I don’t know, Blow--I beg your pardon--Bo. It’s only that I sincerely do not understand what difference a wizard’s pedigree makes. I believe I and my teammates are proving that wizards of mixed or even non-magical heritage can perfom just as well as--
SHMEDLY: I wonder what my dear friend thinks the word "prove" means. As I understand the word, it involves the slow, patient, exhaustive application of an impartial research method on both a focus group (say, for example, wizards) as well as a control group--such as Muggles. This is precisely what the wizarding race has been doing, through centuries of refining and proving the wizarding bloodline, while mavericks and sports like this--
SPANKISON: Bloodline, shmoodline! Did you hear yourself say the words wizarding race? What about the human race, Sid? Aren’t you a member of that?
SHMEDLY: But you see, Spanky, for a Muggle that term means something quite different from what it means to a wizard. For a Muggle, there is nothing else for a person to be; you’re either a human being or you’re no being at all. So there is nothing in particular to inspire his loyalty to mankind, nothing to measure himself against. For a wizard, it is different. A wizard coexists with other beings, like goblins and centaurs and so forth, so a wizard has a stake in maintaining the superiority of his order of beings. And therefore it is in wizardkind, not in mankind, that I take my place with pride.
SPANKY: But why do you hate Muggles so much, Sid? They’re human too, aren’t they? What did they ever do to you?
SHMEDLY: It’s not so much what they’ve done as what they haven’t done, and cannot do. I sometimes wonder whether Muggles are people at all.
DWYER: Now wait just a moment, Sid. I’ll have you know--
SHMEDLY: Yes, yes, yes, let’s take it as already said. It’s not that I’m angry at Muggles, or what have you. None of their feeble witch hunts or witch trials or witch burnings ever harmed a true wizard. They’re like ants running around on the anthill, building and feeding and conspiring and conquering and murdering each other, all unaware of the wide world outside of the anthill. The real world is unknown to them; perhaps it is they who are not real.
SPANKY: You make it sound so sophisticated, but all it boils down to is senseless hatred and a blind sense of your own superiority!
SHMEDLY: There’s nothing blind about it. Muggles are the ones who are blind. Or rather, our world strives to keep them in the dark, to keep them unaware of our existence. Why should it be so? Why should we not work our magics in the open, in full view of all? Why should we hide from them? They cannot harm us, but we can harm them. They should hide from us!
SPANKY (surging to his feet): Those are the words of a dark wizard!
DWYER (flustered): Well, this has been an interesting avenue of discussion, but let’s get back to the upcoming Freestyle final...
SHMEDLY (calm, scornful): Spanky, Spanky, Spanky! You are so stuck in the past, afraid of the future. Why should true beings hide their nature, while mere talking animals go about their dumb-show? Why should we protect their delicate sense of reality? Why shouldn’t we step forth boldly and show ourselves to be what we are? Why shouldn’t Muggles learn to adjust to the reality that there is magic in the world, and the right destiny of mankind is to be ruled by magic?
SPANKY (spitting with fury): Right? You dare to speak of right?
DWYER (very loudly): So, Mr. Spankison, since your less-than-stellar showing in the Freestyle event at Nationals, what have you done to strengthen your routine?
SHMEDLY: Yes, right! How many Muggles did you tread on in order to hoist yourself onto that high horse? I happen to know another heartwarming anecdote from your adolescence, Spankison. I happen to know about that Muggle sweetheart in Mangeford, to whom you gave a salamander on Bonfire Night. What became of that poor girl? I wonder, did her family rebuild their hovel after it burnt down, or did they move as far away from your dear Mr. Niblet’s lands as they could?
SPANKY (pulling out both wands): I’ll take you right here, you smug b--
"Silencio!" cried Harvey. The escalating mayhem went on in silence while the older Shmedly stood, stoop-shouldered, in the corner. "I think that will do nicely. Shall we go back to our cozy little parlor and wash this bitter memory down with a nice drink?"
Spanky nodded wearily, waved his wand, and the scene disappeared. Two invisible figures, one veiled, one masked and one hooded sighed deeply, and picked up their still-steaming goblets.
"Well, I take it your Freestyle match was something to remember," said Sadie, sardonically.
"That, if I remember well," said Harvey, "is the understatement of the night. May I warm up your drinks, chaps?"
[Originally posted 10/15/04]
"Well, since you’ve seen my face now, I might as well show you this," said Spanky, pulling a dog-eared magazine out of his cloak. It was a very old issue of Broom and Wand, with the caption "Who Will Laugh Last?" and a picture of two angry young wizards brandishing wands at each other. One of them was Spanky. The other was...
"Hey, I know him," Merlin exclaimed. "Why, he’s--"
"Shmedly," said Spanky. "I don’t care what name you know him by. That name is not spoken around me. I’ve even altered the text of this interview so that I don’t have to hear it. I would rather hear the entire Three-Sickle Opera sung to the words ‘Lord Voldemort.’ So let’s just keep calling him Shmedly, right?"
The others murmured agreement as Spanky flipped the well-thumbed pages to the interview. "This was done between our Team duel and the final of the Freestyle event. Even though our side was clearly ahead of Romania in the Galleon race, they had beaten us a couple of times and, as you can see, the press was aware that we were closely matched and bitter rivals. So this sporting journal decided to do a double interview, and our team coach decided it was a good idea. Ah! Here it is. Touch your wand-tips there."
Five wand-tips emerged from various robes and invisibility cloaks and touched a little blank square beneath the headline of the interview. All at once, the wizards and witches around the parlor table found themselves in a dingy little office furnished with three stools. They gathered around, watching the two young duelers glowering at each other from either side of a bald, barrel-chested man whose Quick Quotes Quill was scribbling away.
"Wow," said Endora. "I forgot they used to do this pop-up kind of thing, before the duty on mnemonic ink went--"
"Shush!" warned Sadie. "They’re about to begin!"
INTERVIEWER: Testing, testing. Excellent. This is Bo Dwyer, feature writer for Broom and Wand, covering the Hogsmeade Owlympics. With me today are Spanky Spankison, four-time Galleon-winning captain of the English duelling team, and his sometime schoolmate and Romanian opposite-number, Sid Shmedly. Throughout the duelling events so far, the wizarding world has been riveted by the obviously fierce competition between your teams--especially between the two of you. I wonder, Sid, is this a personal thing, or is it purely a sporting rivalry?
SHMEDLY: Oh dear me, no, there’s nothing personal about it at all. In fact, Spanky and I are dear old compatriots. Aren’t we, Old Spank?
"I always hated that man," whispered Merlin, confidentially, as the interviewer put the same question to young Spanky.
"Shmedly?" said Harvey. "I suppose that’s natural. Though he is a smashing good whist player."
SPANKISON: Well, actually, Bo, we loathe...
SHMEDLY: We loathe having to face each other with our wands drawn. It’s always been this way, but we seem fated to be at opposite ends of a major duel. But having a worthy opponent, one who is so nearly your equal in almost every aspect of the game, is what makes competition so rewarding...
The present-day Spanky ground his teeth almost as loudly as the image of his younger self.
DWYER: I understand that, in spite of your avowed mutual friendship, you come from very different personal and political backgrounds. Mr. Spankison, is it true that you are Muggleborn?
SPANKISON: Actually, Bo--not that I think it matters one bit--I’m a halfblood. My father, you see, was an Animagus who did some dangerous work in the Forties against the Dark Lord of that time. He was the head of an anti-Grindelwald cell in the Bavarian Alps (this was shortly after my mother conceived me), and he was helping witches and wizards escape Grindelwald’s followers. Apparently Grindelwald got wise and conjured a huge blizzard that buried their whole village under yards of snow. Everyone would have perished, trapped for weeks in a snowed-under ski lodge, had not Dad turned into a dormouse and burrowed his way out of the snowdrift. Then he scurried for help and somehow got it, but he must have run into some other dark workings of Grindelwald’s, because he was never able to convert into a man again. He was sent home in a cigar box, and my mother took care of him for the rest of his life; but she herself was a Muggle and could not do much to support my older sisters and me. So she sent me to live in Mangeford with my Aunt Violet, my father’s sister, who was a squib and married to the owner of the local alehouse, known as the Dog Biscuit. I washed dishes for them and took magic lessons from the landlord, Lionel Nib--
SHMEDLY (yawning): I daresay, I love hearing about your sordid personal history, my dear Spankimus Maximus, but chiefly at bedtime. Suffice it to say that your heritage is as patchy as a calico cat, and you could draw up your wizarding pedigree on a cigarette paper, which would then be all the more suitable to roll up, daub with saliva, and ignite.
DWYER: Oho! Listen to the man! What a delicious example of the--I’m sure--friendly ribbing that keeps your competitive natures on edge. What do you say to that, Spankster?
SPANKISON: I’m sure I don’t know, Blow--I beg your pardon--Bo. It’s only that I sincerely do not understand what difference a wizard’s pedigree makes. I believe I and my teammates are proving that wizards of mixed or even non-magical heritage can perfom just as well as--
SHMEDLY: I wonder what my dear friend thinks the word "prove" means. As I understand the word, it involves the slow, patient, exhaustive application of an impartial research method on both a focus group (say, for example, wizards) as well as a control group--such as Muggles. This is precisely what the wizarding race has been doing, through centuries of refining and proving the wizarding bloodline, while mavericks and sports like this--
SPANKISON: Bloodline, shmoodline! Did you hear yourself say the words wizarding race? What about the human race, Sid? Aren’t you a member of that?
SHMEDLY: But you see, Spanky, for a Muggle that term means something quite different from what it means to a wizard. For a Muggle, there is nothing else for a person to be; you’re either a human being or you’re no being at all. So there is nothing in particular to inspire his loyalty to mankind, nothing to measure himself against. For a wizard, it is different. A wizard coexists with other beings, like goblins and centaurs and so forth, so a wizard has a stake in maintaining the superiority of his order of beings. And therefore it is in wizardkind, not in mankind, that I take my place with pride.
SPANKY: But why do you hate Muggles so much, Sid? They’re human too, aren’t they? What did they ever do to you?
SHMEDLY: It’s not so much what they’ve done as what they haven’t done, and cannot do. I sometimes wonder whether Muggles are people at all.
DWYER: Now wait just a moment, Sid. I’ll have you know--
SHMEDLY: Yes, yes, yes, let’s take it as already said. It’s not that I’m angry at Muggles, or what have you. None of their feeble witch hunts or witch trials or witch burnings ever harmed a true wizard. They’re like ants running around on the anthill, building and feeding and conspiring and conquering and murdering each other, all unaware of the wide world outside of the anthill. The real world is unknown to them; perhaps it is they who are not real.
SPANKY: You make it sound so sophisticated, but all it boils down to is senseless hatred and a blind sense of your own superiority!
SHMEDLY: There’s nothing blind about it. Muggles are the ones who are blind. Or rather, our world strives to keep them in the dark, to keep them unaware of our existence. Why should it be so? Why should we not work our magics in the open, in full view of all? Why should we hide from them? They cannot harm us, but we can harm them. They should hide from us!
SPANKY (surging to his feet): Those are the words of a dark wizard!
DWYER (flustered): Well, this has been an interesting avenue of discussion, but let’s get back to the upcoming Freestyle final...
SHMEDLY (calm, scornful): Spanky, Spanky, Spanky! You are so stuck in the past, afraid of the future. Why should true beings hide their nature, while mere talking animals go about their dumb-show? Why should we protect their delicate sense of reality? Why shouldn’t we step forth boldly and show ourselves to be what we are? Why shouldn’t Muggles learn to adjust to the reality that there is magic in the world, and the right destiny of mankind is to be ruled by magic?
SPANKY (spitting with fury): Right? You dare to speak of right?
DWYER (very loudly): So, Mr. Spankison, since your less-than-stellar showing in the Freestyle event at Nationals, what have you done to strengthen your routine?
SHMEDLY: Yes, right! How many Muggles did you tread on in order to hoist yourself onto that high horse? I happen to know another heartwarming anecdote from your adolescence, Spankison. I happen to know about that Muggle sweetheart in Mangeford, to whom you gave a salamander on Bonfire Night. What became of that poor girl? I wonder, did her family rebuild their hovel after it burnt down, or did they move as far away from your dear Mr. Niblet’s lands as they could?
SPANKY (pulling out both wands): I’ll take you right here, you smug b--
"Silencio!" cried Harvey. The escalating mayhem went on in silence while the older Shmedly stood, stoop-shouldered, in the corner. "I think that will do nicely. Shall we go back to our cozy little parlor and wash this bitter memory down with a nice drink?"
Spanky nodded wearily, waved his wand, and the scene disappeared. Two invisible figures, one veiled, one masked and one hooded sighed deeply, and picked up their still-steaming goblets.
"Well, I take it your Freestyle match was something to remember," said Sadie, sardonically.
"That, if I remember well," said Harvey, "is the understatement of the night. May I warm up your drinks, chaps?"
[Originally posted 10/15/04]
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