Contest Winner: TWZRD
Runner-Up: Joe
Harvey found himself in the Great Hall at Hogwarts, standing just below the dais where the head table belonged. Instead of the house tables, rows of chairs filled the room, with an aisle down the center carpeted by a strip of avocado-green taffeta. The chairs closest to the aisle were decorated with nosegays of shockingly ugly flowers, most of them either venomous or redolent of spoiled meat.
What, Harvey wondered, had he gotten himself into? And why couldn't he remember how he came to be here...? He looked at himself, and around himself, in a desperate quest to remember.
The dais was covered in a tasteless weave that looked almost like burlap embroidered with twine. The designs featured flowers even more garishly ugly than the ones that decorated the chairs. The staff table had been removed, replaced by a hideously decorated lectern under a gazebo-like awning. A wizard Harvey vaguely recalled as a member of the Wizengamot smiled down at him from under a mantel that appeared to have been stitched out of a yak's pelt. Harvey tried not to look lost as he checked out his own attire (dress robes) and the audience waiting in the chairs. The cream of wizarding society sat on one side, and a collection of crones and hags on the other. Each side watched the other with some mixture of disgust, fear, and resentment.
Are they waiting for me to make a speech? Harvey wondered. Or am I about to be presented with some type of award...?
He shifted on his feet nervously. Someone coughed. A few people on the wizarding side of the aisle smiled at him. One or two of the crones glared at him. Most people who showed any signs of impatience, did so by looking round at the doors at the back of the hall. They didn't seem to be waiting for Harvey to say or do anything.
The more Harvey studied the people in the chairs, the more he was convinced that something truly life-changing was about to come through those doors. He wished with all his might that he could remember what he was waiting for. As more time passed, he looked for other things to hold his attention, so that he wouldn't have to think about his feelings of dread and anticipation.
There, in the sixth row, he recognized the chap from his year who had been caught stealing other students' school books and selling them to a squib porter at Hogsmeade Station. Harvey remembered it because he was on the student committee that had tried to restore the confiscated books to their rightful owners. The ownership of some of them had proven too mysterious for their sleuthing skills, such as the creepy "Half Blood Prince" one Harvey had voted to burn. He was outvoted, though, and the unclaimed books were all tucked into cupboards in the classrooms where their subject was taught, in the hope that their owners would come searching for them....
Harvey sighed. As nothing continued to happen, he reflected on how his passion for student safety had mellowed during the years since he was a student in these halls. He himself had put four thankless children through Hogwarts. He understood the hope that some wizarding parents cherished that their dear little ones might come home with one or two less limbs and an attitude more receptive to parental advice. During his years on the Hogwarts Parent Council, he had seen six motions to raze the Forbidden Forest outvoted by wide margins, on the grounds that rule-breaking and inability to mind one's own were genetic traits that could do with a bit of weeding out. In other words, most Hogwarts parents seemed to agree that, without at least a small chance their children might never come home, there would be no fun in sending them away to school.
The Board of Governors (which Harvey had chaired three years in a row) had also held, for as long as anyone could remember, that nothing teaches a healthy respect for the dangers of potion-making, transfiguration spells, magical beasts and plants, and the dark arts than the occasional mishap such as having one's finger bitten off by a venomous tentacula, or being trapped in the Haunted Airing Cupboard for a month or two. And if the student in question dies, what then? The lesson would be learned by others!
Harvey nodded grimly as he recalled the incident that had brought him over to this point of view -- the little blighter who just wouldn't wouldn't turn down the dare to say "Widdershins" three times while looking into the Mirror of Noitcepsorter -- the one in the fifth-floor hallway that usually showed what one looked like from behind. After whispering the key word for the third time, the boy began to squeal. To this day, no one knew whether he squealed out of excitement to see the back of his head (in the mirror) turning, so that at last his face looked back at him, or whether it was from pain as his body twisted around, from the neck down, to face the direction opposite to his head.
The case was incurable. To this day, the lad (now a young man working in the back room of an apothecary shop in Dublin) had to look backward while walking forward. And Harvey, who no longer had to deal with his younger son's inability to resist a dare and his third wife's habit of throwing hysterics over the tiniest things, was eternally grateful to the Mirror of Noitcesporter.
Harvey was prodded out of his contemplations by a sudden onslaught of nerve-shredding noise. A ghostly orchestra, all armed with musical saws, had started playing a tune that remotely resembled Isaiah Thwackem's well-known processional piece, "The Ear-Trumpet Involuntary in C-Double-Sharp." Harvey reckoned that if this went on for much longer, a lot of the folks in this room would soon be in the market for ear-trumpets of their own.
The doors at the far end flew open with a rafters-shaking crash. The first to make their dramatic entry was a couple, walking promenade-fashion with the female's hand on the wizard's arm. The wizard, Harvey noticed with interest as they moved closer, was himself -- another one of himself, that is -- and the female in question was a simpering hag, got up in a flouncy dress of tangerine-tinted twill. She also sported a shapeless, lacy hat and a completely unnecessary parasol, which rested open on her free arm and, consequently, caught in the hair and clothing of the person nearest the aisle in each row.
By the time Harvey noted all this, two more similar couples had joined the procession. All of the men were Harvey. All of the females were hags. Different hags, each a startlingly original variation on the theme of ugliness trying, with little success and less taste, to appear beautiful. Six, seven... nine... eleven of couples marched in, one after the other, stepping more or less in time with Thwackem's Involuntary. As they reached the foot of the dais, the couples parted, the hags to form a line in front of their side of the audience, the Harveys to line up to Harvey's left.
Harvey's heart sank as he began to realize what this event was, and the role he was fated to play in it.
And now it sank even further when the musical-saw orchestra changed its tune. As they played the opening bars of Pachyderm's "Bombardment and Dissociative Fugue," a hairy, muscular leg thrust itself out of the shadows beyond the great doors, its foot clad in a shoe Harvey could have worn as a helmet. A high-heeled shoe. With training wheels.
The rest of the leg followed, accompanied by the other of the pair and the rest of a very lumpy, spotty, snaggle-toothed hag. She blushed. She giggled. She blew kisses to Harvey over the top of her toadstool bouquet. Her hair had been teased into a massive structure, reinforced with bits of wood and bone and elaborately knotted pieces of mismatched string. Her dress was a suffocating mass of yellowy-white lace, gauze, satin, bleached and felted human hair, and albino leather. Nevertheless, it revealed too much -- things that made Harvey shudder to think about his wedding night. How had he gotten himself into this? Could he still get out of it, considering present company, without getting smashed to a jelly? Where was his wand? Perhaps he could at least put his own eyes out...
Harvey's horror grew as he realized that he could do or say nothing to stop the ceremony. Compelled by a force he didn't understand -- though it certainly didn't feel like an Imperius curse -- he took the bride's hand on his arm and faced the smiling justice of the Wizengamot. Help me, he screamed, but only in his mind. The justice's opening patter ended too quickly. Harvey didn't seem able to make a single sound, except when asked if he was willing to take Madrigal (so that was her name!) as his awfully wedded spouse; and then his mouth disloyally formed the words, "I will." The vows were even worse. Apparently Madrigal had written the vows for both of them, and Harvey was horrified to hear the things he promised her. My soul WHAT? ...What's this about my internal organs? ...Bathe WHERE? ...Oh, stars, no! Not the troll-bone tea service!...
The exchange of rings was most unpleasant, given how filthy and clammy Madrigal's hands were. Harvey thought his despair could grow no deeper until the bride threw back her veil. Until then he hadn't realized she was wearing one. Seeing her for the first time in all her glory, Harvey felt his innards recoil with a start. Her puckering lips protruded, wriggling and making a flesh-crawling sound like two balloons being rubbed together. Worst of all, he couldn't stop himself from leaning in for their first kiss as husband and wife...
Harvey screamed in his sleep. Madrigal smiled a smile of blissful satisfaction as she sat on his chest, cross-legged, knitting a tasseled cosy for the knob in the center of the headboard.
The house-elf named Dinty appeared beside the bed with a pop, bearing a glass of mulled milk on a tray in answer to his master's summoning cry of anguish. The elf's eyes bulged at the sight of the hag riding his master.
"I will, thank you," Madrigal said with gravelly daintiness. "None for himself, I'm afraid." She threw back the toddy in one dash, tossed the glass into the hearth with a crash, and belched richly. "A little less milk next time," she reflected critically. "Let's say, one third as much. Make up the balance with firewhisky. Keep the rest the same. All right?"
The house-elf gulped, nodded, and disappeared.
Harvey groaned. Madrigal giggled.
"Is he gone?" said a painting of a young wizard with his body facing the opposite way to his head, a full-length portrait squeezed into the narrow wall-space between two sash windows.
Madrigal gave the painting a slightly disturbing wink.
The turned-around wizard stepped down out of his painting--or rather, Joe Albuquerque stepped down off the frame, where he had stood carefully balanced in front of the actual painting. For a moment, it looked as though a young wizard contemplated his own, exact image. Then Joe shook himself, pulled a robe over his head, and emerged as an exact double of Madrigal the hag -- though, naturally, with her head facing the right direction.
"Coo," said Madrigal. "It's like being in two places at once!"
"Something your victim knows a lot about," said the other Madrigal. "I'll take over here, in case that house-elf comes back. You move along down the corridor. You have a lot of Harveys to terrorize tonight. And remember, if you see this bauble" -- Madrigal 2 held up a gnarled little finger, wearing a replica of the Ring of Count Matthias -- "bring it directly to me. All right?"
The original Madrigal appeared to give these orders some consideration as she climbed off Harvey's chest.
"Is there a problem?" said Madrigal 2, taking her place.
Madrigal 1 looked confused. "I just don't know if..."
"Look at me," said Joe Albuquerque, his voice (like his face) almost indistinguishable from the hag's. "Don't you trust this face?"
After a split second of seemingly painful thought, Madrigal flashed a grin that almost stopped Joe's heart in his chest. "I suppose there's no point arguing with meself," she chortled; then she left the room with a merry wave.
Joe crossed his thick, hairy legs (or rather, Madrigal's) and tried to make himself comfortable on top of Harvey's chest. Still trapped in a nightmare, Harvey whimpered beneath him.
"Police work," Joe muttered.
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR TMQ #177 +++
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 deceased TMQ character should be found, miraculously or otherwise, to still be alive? (A) One of the Goode brothers (1-Zophar or 2-Zichri). (B) Silver Conkling. (C) Bette Noir. (D) Sid Shmedly. (E) ___________ (write-in candidate).
CONTEST: Propose a new magical spell to be used in the chapter after next.
Showing posts with label Hogwarts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hogwarts. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
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.
140. Persephone's Yak
Contest winner: Quercitron
"Dad, there's a yak under my bed."
"Very good, dear. Go back to bed."
"I said there's a yak under my bed!"
"I heard you. Since it's not on top of your bed, you should still fit. See you tomorrow."
"I can't sleep with a yak under me!"
"Persephone, yaks live at high altitudes and extreme cold. I'm sure he is no happier about this situation than you. Do I see him coming in here to complain?"
"Mum! Dad says I have to sleep with a yak!"
"Spanky, I'm sorry that I must do this, but..."
ZAP!
"Yow! What happened? Who's on fire?"
"You were, dear. I've put you out."
"Is that Persephone there? What do you want, girl?"
"I've already told you, there's a yak under my bed."
"Well, let's have a look at it, then. Let me lean on your shoulder. My whole leg is pins and needles."
(Long pause.)
"Persephone, there's a yak under your bed."
"I know, Dad."
"It's awfully big. How did it get there?"
"I don't know. I didn't do it!"
"I'm not saying you did, but...did you have a fight with that Tibetan kid at school?"
"What Tibetan kid? Stop kidding around, Dad. There's a yak in my room and I don't know why and the smell is incredible and I'm scared!"
"There, there, girl. Not to worry. I think it's dead."
"Eurgh! Daaaad!"
"Er, why don't you sleep next to Mum tonight? Dad'll have this sorted by first light."
PUFF!
"Desk of Agent Dalrymple, RMB. Oi, Caspar!"
"Agent on du-... Oh, it's you, Spankison. What gives?"
"A dead yak under my daughter's bed, that's what."
"Good! It's been a boring night till now."
"Happy to serve. I need the body transferred to forensic augury right away. Also, I could use your help tracing the spells that brought it here."
"Spellprinting in a witch's bedroom?"
"She's underage, and a good girl. There shouldn't be too many latents in the room. Oh -- and here's something that should give us a push in the right direction."
"What is it, then?"
"It's the knife sticking out of the yak's throat. It's the same design as my knife."
"But it isn't yours, I collect?"
"No, I've got mine right here in the pocket of my pajamas. It's not a common design, though. I knew the man who made them - long dead - custom-designed for fighting werewolves - "
"Ah, yes. Zichri Goode's 'Ounce of Prevention.'"
"The very same."
"It so happens I have an open case involving one of his knives. Hard to forget. Unknown male, mid-twenties, found naked with an Ounce of Prevention stuck in him. Might have been a werewolf, since the only wound on him was the deathblow. Rather the pound of cure, what?"
(Silence.)
"Well, I thought it was a good..."
"The crime scene wasn't a train?"
"No less than the Hogwarts Express. How did you know?"
"Get your team out here immediately. I have another call to make."
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE +++
You can help decide what happens next in The Magic Quill! First, go to the forums, or send Robbie feedback. Then, in 250 words or less, answer 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 closed.]
SURVEY: Persephone's yak is a message of some kind - but from whom? A) The person who committed the Murder on the Hogwarts Express (see Chapter 109). B) Someone who blames Spanky for the murder. C) Somebody who blames the RMB for not solving the murder. D) A werewolf or werewolves. E) ________ (write-in candidate).
CONTEST: Describe a magical use for music.
[Originally posted 7/23/08]
"Dad, there's a yak under my bed."
"Very good, dear. Go back to bed."
"I said there's a yak under my bed!"
"I heard you. Since it's not on top of your bed, you should still fit. See you tomorrow."
"I can't sleep with a yak under me!"
"Persephone, yaks live at high altitudes and extreme cold. I'm sure he is no happier about this situation than you. Do I see him coming in here to complain?"
"Mum! Dad says I have to sleep with a yak!"
"Spanky, I'm sorry that I must do this, but..."
ZAP!
"Yow! What happened? Who's on fire?"
"You were, dear. I've put you out."
"Is that Persephone there? What do you want, girl?"
"I've already told you, there's a yak under my bed."
"Well, let's have a look at it, then. Let me lean on your shoulder. My whole leg is pins and needles."
(Long pause.)
"Persephone, there's a yak under your bed."
"I know, Dad."
"It's awfully big. How did it get there?"
"I don't know. I didn't do it!"
"I'm not saying you did, but...did you have a fight with that Tibetan kid at school?"
"What Tibetan kid? Stop kidding around, Dad. There's a yak in my room and I don't know why and the smell is incredible and I'm scared!"
"There, there, girl. Not to worry. I think it's dead."
"Eurgh! Daaaad!"
"Er, why don't you sleep next to Mum tonight? Dad'll have this sorted by first light."
PUFF!
"Desk of Agent Dalrymple, RMB. Oi, Caspar!"
"Agent on du-... Oh, it's you, Spankison. What gives?"
"A dead yak under my daughter's bed, that's what."
"Good! It's been a boring night till now."
"Happy to serve. I need the body transferred to forensic augury right away. Also, I could use your help tracing the spells that brought it here."
"Spellprinting in a witch's bedroom?"
"She's underage, and a good girl. There shouldn't be too many latents in the room. Oh -- and here's something that should give us a push in the right direction."
"What is it, then?"
"It's the knife sticking out of the yak's throat. It's the same design as my knife."
"But it isn't yours, I collect?"
"No, I've got mine right here in the pocket of my pajamas. It's not a common design, though. I knew the man who made them - long dead - custom-designed for fighting werewolves - "
"Ah, yes. Zichri Goode's 'Ounce of Prevention.'"
"The very same."
"It so happens I have an open case involving one of his knives. Hard to forget. Unknown male, mid-twenties, found naked with an Ounce of Prevention stuck in him. Might have been a werewolf, since the only wound on him was the deathblow. Rather the pound of cure, what?"
(Silence.)
"Well, I thought it was a good..."
"The crime scene wasn't a train?"
"No less than the Hogwarts Express. How did you know?"
"Get your team out here immediately. I have another call to make."
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE +++
You can help decide what happens next in The Magic Quill! First, go to the forums, or send Robbie feedback. Then, in 250 words or less, answer 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 closed.]
SURVEY: Persephone's yak is a message of some kind - but from whom? A) The person who committed the Murder on the Hogwarts Express (see Chapter 109). B) Someone who blames Spanky for the murder. C) Somebody who blames the RMB for not solving the murder. D) A werewolf or werewolves. E) ________ (write-in candidate).
CONTEST: Describe a magical use for music.
[Originally posted 7/23/08]
125. Ask Fran Sanders
Contest winner: Celairiel
Sadie looked up when the cell door opened, but it was only Agent Dalyrmple bringing in another prisoner. The new inmate was a frail, elderly man attired richly in the old Persian manner, with many layers of robes and high-heeled half-boots. He had proud, wizened features; long, gray-white hair; and pointed moustaches and goatee of a somewhat darker color. The moustaches quivered as the man continued an indignant speech that had begun before the door was opened:
"...papers to prove it!" the man complained.
"But magic carpets are not legal here," Dalrymple said patiently, "and therein lies the difficulty. In this jurisdiction, rugs are regarded as muggle artifacts, and so..."
"And what is this?" the old man exclaimed, having noticed Sadie sitting on the lower bunk of the double-decker bed. "A female cellmate? No, sir. That would be most unseemly."
For a split second, Dalrymple's face closed - few, besides Sadie, would have known that he was scrambling for an answer. Then he shrugged idly and said, as if he had planned this all along, "We reckoned you would approve of her modest nature. The veil, you know."
"Well, she does seem very demure," said the old man, uncertainly. Sadie suppressed a snort. "But all the same, such an arrangement would lay her virtue, and mine, open to any sort of question. There must be another cell."
"I'm very sorry, Mr. Jamasb," said the agent, looking rather tired than sorry. "Holding cells are at a premium these days, what with the downfall of You-Know-Who and the capture of so many of his followers. Even magic can't make the wheels of justice turn faster. The only other vacancy is with a troll named Marrowspurt the Bilesucker. I don't suppose you would prefer him as a cellmate?"
Jamasb faltered, looking sideways at Sadie.
"Any road, nobody here will think anything inappropriate happened between you and Sadie," Dalrymple said with a wry smile.
"Why-ever not?" the Persian wizard asked weakly.
"Because she can take care of herself," Sadie said in a rough voice, squeezing both fists so that the knuckled popped loudly.
Dalrymple patted the shocked Persian's shoulder. "Her hearing is in half an hour," he said. "You couldn't even get her veil off in that time. Then you'll have all this to yourself," he added with a sweeping gesture toward the cramped cell with its thin mattresses, its chipped washbasin, and its chamberpot under the bed.
While Jamasb was surveying this grim vista, the door snapped shut behind him. He turned quickly, and saw that Dalrymple had slipped away.
"Most improper," Jamasb muttered prudishly.
Sadie patted the edge of the bunk beside her. Reluctantly, Jamasb sat down, keeping his distance from her.
"You're not one of You Know Who's lot, I hope?" he ventured after several minutes of awkward silence.
"Would I tell you if I was?" she snapped. Then she coughed and said in a contrite voice - or perhaps just a froggy throat - "If you meant to ask why I'm here, it's just a small matter of redistributing the assets of some pinched Death Eaters. Nobody told me the RMB had a freeze on them. The assets, that is. Don't have a pipe up one of those sleeves, do you? Old Dal-Pimple took mine yesterday, and right now I'd give three toes off my left foot for a smoke."
"All I have up my sleeve is today's Daily Prophet," said Jamasb, pulling it out. "I'm afraid it's only the opinion section. I was using the rest of it to stop a hole in my carpet when I was arrested."
Sadie looked as sympathetic as it is possible to look from behind a thick veil. "Rotten punctures," she commiserated. "That might be my least favorite way to get nicked. And in my business, there are so many ways. Anyway, if I can get this paper burning, I might be able to inhale something..."
Her voice trailed off as something on the page caught her eye and she began to read.
Jamasb hummed to himself, arms crossed, looking as if the end of a half hour couldn't come soon enough.
"What's the opposite of singing?" Sadie asked after a few minutes of reading. "Ten letters, starts with an S, and it has a K five letters along."
"Speaking," said Jamasb.
"That sounds right, but it only has eight letters. Oh, look! This one has Fran Sanders in it. I forgot it was Tuesday."
"I do not understand you," Jamasb said, lifting his chin haughtily. "Who is Fran Sanders, and what does he have to do with Tuesday?"
"She is a seer who writes an advice column every Tuesday in the Prophet," Sadie explained, as if to someone very dull. "And she's better than the one in the Quibbler, wossname, Dear Mabby. Ask Fran a question and she nearly always gives the true answer, though it doesn't often make sense. Here, listen to this:
"'Dear Fran Sanders: For the past several weeks, I've had this odd piece of classical music running through my head. Can you tell me what it is? Signed, Humming in Havant. Dear Humming: It's the Capriol Suite by Peter Warlock.' What do you think of that?"
"It might be very impressive," Jamasb conceded, "if I was Humming in Havant and could say whether this witch's advice was correct."
"Well, that wasn't really a representative one. Here's another: 'Dear Fran Sanders: To be, or not to be? That is the question. Signed, Dithering in Denmark. Dear Dithering: I've given this matter a great deal of thought and, sorry, in your case the answer is: Not to be.' That's good, eh?"
"Yes, I'm very impressed," said the old Persian wizard, though he sounded more irritated than impressed.
"Here's the next one," Sadie said enthusiastically. "'Dear Fran Sanders: I've looked all over the house and I can't find my keys. Can you tell me where I've left them? Signed, Frustrated in Finsbury. Dear Frustrated: They fell out of your pocket over Charterhouse Street in Holborn at 2:38 a.m. last Wednesday. You should really seek help for your sleepflying problem. Riding a broomstick while asleep can be very dangerous.' That's good advice, right there."
"How many more of these letters are in there?" Jamasb asked pleadingly.
"Just one more," sighed Sadie. "It says: 'Dear Fran Sanders: I'm looking for a particular timepiece that was last seen in the possession of someone I know. Where will it be at eleven o'clock on the day your next column is published? Signed, Joseph of Albuquerque.'" Sadie frowned. "That's funny. I know someone with almost exactly that name."
"Really?" said the elderly wizard, with little evidence of genuine interest. "And what answer does this Fran Sanders woman give?"
"She says: 'Dear Joseph: At the time you mentioned, the timepiece you seek will be concealed in the undergarments of the person reading this column to you.'"
Sadie's put her hand over the upper part of her veil, about where her cellmate reckoned her forehead would be. "You're never..."
"I think you should give the timepiece to me," said Joe Albuqueque's voice, coming now out of Jamasb's throat. "And be quick about it. They'll be back to take you to your hearing in a few minutes, and who knows if there will be a chance after that."
"You don't think they'll send me..."
"It's not your chances I'm worried about," Joe said, his voice soft yet urgent. "This watch can undo some bad doings, but only while they can be undone."
"Bad things?" said Sadie, clinging possessively to her left armpit. "Like what?"
"Like a rainstorm of bad magic that could put Hogwarts out of business," said Joe. "And there might also be something bad happening right now to one of our friends."
"Harvey?" Sadie gasped. "Or Spanky?"
"Yes and yes, for all we know," said Joe. "Cough it up now."
Sadie obediently coughed into her hand, then showed it to Joe. It suddenly held a large, heavy watch, shining with precious metals, crystal, jewels, and delicate traceries around its many dials and hands. He took it carefully and secreted it up one of his many sleeves, along with the newspaper he had pulled from the same sleeve.
"I just want to know one thing," said Sadie.
"Snorkeling," said Joe.
By her silence and the blank look on her veil, Joe reckoned she was staring at him.
"The opposite of singing," he explained.
"How is snorkeling the opposite of singing?" Sadie begged to know.
Joe shrugged. "I reckon you inhale through your mouth and exhale through the nose."
"That wasn't what I was going to ask," she said, after another blank-veiled pause.
"Then ask it," said Joe.
"How did you know to come here and give me that newspaper at precisely eleven o'clock? I mean, if I hadn't read the Fran Sanders column to you at exactly that time, you wouldn't have known that I had the watch, and so..."
Before Sadie could complete her question, or Joe could answer it, the door opened and the bailiff came in, clearing his throat loudly. As the bailiff led Sadie away, the voice of an old Persian gentleman called after her: "You'll just have to ask Fran Sanders about that!"
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE +++
To help choose the direction of the next few chapters of The Magic Quill, visit the Discussion Forum, or send Robbie feedback. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest entry (or entries) Robbie likes best, will be featured in the chapter after next. [EDIT: This discussion is now closed.]
SURVEY: Which minor TMQ character deserves to star in the next chapter? (A) Tip Kensington-Smith. (B) Marmaduke Spankison. (C) Orion Oldmanson. (D) Signor Subito. (E) Your write-in candidate (see Chapter 99, "Who's Who," for some ideas).
Name and describe a new magical creature not described in Magical Beasts and Where to Find Them. Be sure to say what it looks like, its magical properties, its disposition (friendly, dangerous, reclusive, etc.), and what it eats.
[Originally posted 9/13/07(?)]
Sadie looked up when the cell door opened, but it was only Agent Dalyrmple bringing in another prisoner. The new inmate was a frail, elderly man attired richly in the old Persian manner, with many layers of robes and high-heeled half-boots. He had proud, wizened features; long, gray-white hair; and pointed moustaches and goatee of a somewhat darker color. The moustaches quivered as the man continued an indignant speech that had begun before the door was opened:
"...papers to prove it!" the man complained.
"But magic carpets are not legal here," Dalrymple said patiently, "and therein lies the difficulty. In this jurisdiction, rugs are regarded as muggle artifacts, and so..."
"And what is this?" the old man exclaimed, having noticed Sadie sitting on the lower bunk of the double-decker bed. "A female cellmate? No, sir. That would be most unseemly."
For a split second, Dalrymple's face closed - few, besides Sadie, would have known that he was scrambling for an answer. Then he shrugged idly and said, as if he had planned this all along, "We reckoned you would approve of her modest nature. The veil, you know."
"Well, she does seem very demure," said the old man, uncertainly. Sadie suppressed a snort. "But all the same, such an arrangement would lay her virtue, and mine, open to any sort of question. There must be another cell."
"I'm very sorry, Mr. Jamasb," said the agent, looking rather tired than sorry. "Holding cells are at a premium these days, what with the downfall of You-Know-Who and the capture of so many of his followers. Even magic can't make the wheels of justice turn faster. The only other vacancy is with a troll named Marrowspurt the Bilesucker. I don't suppose you would prefer him as a cellmate?"
Jamasb faltered, looking sideways at Sadie.
"Any road, nobody here will think anything inappropriate happened between you and Sadie," Dalrymple said with a wry smile.
"Why-ever not?" the Persian wizard asked weakly.
"Because she can take care of herself," Sadie said in a rough voice, squeezing both fists so that the knuckled popped loudly.
Dalrymple patted the shocked Persian's shoulder. "Her hearing is in half an hour," he said. "You couldn't even get her veil off in that time. Then you'll have all this to yourself," he added with a sweeping gesture toward the cramped cell with its thin mattresses, its chipped washbasin, and its chamberpot under the bed.
While Jamasb was surveying this grim vista, the door snapped shut behind him. He turned quickly, and saw that Dalrymple had slipped away.
"Most improper," Jamasb muttered prudishly.
Sadie patted the edge of the bunk beside her. Reluctantly, Jamasb sat down, keeping his distance from her.
"You're not one of You Know Who's lot, I hope?" he ventured after several minutes of awkward silence.
"Would I tell you if I was?" she snapped. Then she coughed and said in a contrite voice - or perhaps just a froggy throat - "If you meant to ask why I'm here, it's just a small matter of redistributing the assets of some pinched Death Eaters. Nobody told me the RMB had a freeze on them. The assets, that is. Don't have a pipe up one of those sleeves, do you? Old Dal-Pimple took mine yesterday, and right now I'd give three toes off my left foot for a smoke."
"All I have up my sleeve is today's Daily Prophet," said Jamasb, pulling it out. "I'm afraid it's only the opinion section. I was using the rest of it to stop a hole in my carpet when I was arrested."
Sadie looked as sympathetic as it is possible to look from behind a thick veil. "Rotten punctures," she commiserated. "That might be my least favorite way to get nicked. And in my business, there are so many ways. Anyway, if I can get this paper burning, I might be able to inhale something..."
Her voice trailed off as something on the page caught her eye and she began to read.
Jamasb hummed to himself, arms crossed, looking as if the end of a half hour couldn't come soon enough.
"What's the opposite of singing?" Sadie asked after a few minutes of reading. "Ten letters, starts with an S, and it has a K five letters along."
"Speaking," said Jamasb.
"That sounds right, but it only has eight letters. Oh, look! This one has Fran Sanders in it. I forgot it was Tuesday."
"I do not understand you," Jamasb said, lifting his chin haughtily. "Who is Fran Sanders, and what does he have to do with Tuesday?"
"She is a seer who writes an advice column every Tuesday in the Prophet," Sadie explained, as if to someone very dull. "And she's better than the one in the Quibbler, wossname, Dear Mabby. Ask Fran a question and she nearly always gives the true answer, though it doesn't often make sense. Here, listen to this:
"'Dear Fran Sanders: For the past several weeks, I've had this odd piece of classical music running through my head. Can you tell me what it is? Signed, Humming in Havant. Dear Humming: It's the Capriol Suite by Peter Warlock.' What do you think of that?"
"It might be very impressive," Jamasb conceded, "if I was Humming in Havant and could say whether this witch's advice was correct."
"Well, that wasn't really a representative one. Here's another: 'Dear Fran Sanders: To be, or not to be? That is the question. Signed, Dithering in Denmark. Dear Dithering: I've given this matter a great deal of thought and, sorry, in your case the answer is: Not to be.' That's good, eh?"
"Yes, I'm very impressed," said the old Persian wizard, though he sounded more irritated than impressed.
"Here's the next one," Sadie said enthusiastically. "'Dear Fran Sanders: I've looked all over the house and I can't find my keys. Can you tell me where I've left them? Signed, Frustrated in Finsbury. Dear Frustrated: They fell out of your pocket over Charterhouse Street in Holborn at 2:38 a.m. last Wednesday. You should really seek help for your sleepflying problem. Riding a broomstick while asleep can be very dangerous.' That's good advice, right there."
"How many more of these letters are in there?" Jamasb asked pleadingly.
"Just one more," sighed Sadie. "It says: 'Dear Fran Sanders: I'm looking for a particular timepiece that was last seen in the possession of someone I know. Where will it be at eleven o'clock on the day your next column is published? Signed, Joseph of Albuquerque.'" Sadie frowned. "That's funny. I know someone with almost exactly that name."
"Really?" said the elderly wizard, with little evidence of genuine interest. "And what answer does this Fran Sanders woman give?"
"She says: 'Dear Joseph: At the time you mentioned, the timepiece you seek will be concealed in the undergarments of the person reading this column to you.'"
Sadie's put her hand over the upper part of her veil, about where her cellmate reckoned her forehead would be. "You're never..."
"I think you should give the timepiece to me," said Joe Albuqueque's voice, coming now out of Jamasb's throat. "And be quick about it. They'll be back to take you to your hearing in a few minutes, and who knows if there will be a chance after that."
"You don't think they'll send me..."
"It's not your chances I'm worried about," Joe said, his voice soft yet urgent. "This watch can undo some bad doings, but only while they can be undone."
"Bad things?" said Sadie, clinging possessively to her left armpit. "Like what?"
"Like a rainstorm of bad magic that could put Hogwarts out of business," said Joe. "And there might also be something bad happening right now to one of our friends."
"Harvey?" Sadie gasped. "Or Spanky?"
"Yes and yes, for all we know," said Joe. "Cough it up now."
Sadie obediently coughed into her hand, then showed it to Joe. It suddenly held a large, heavy watch, shining with precious metals, crystal, jewels, and delicate traceries around its many dials and hands. He took it carefully and secreted it up one of his many sleeves, along with the newspaper he had pulled from the same sleeve.
"I just want to know one thing," said Sadie.
"Snorkeling," said Joe.
By her silence and the blank look on her veil, Joe reckoned she was staring at him.
"The opposite of singing," he explained.
"How is snorkeling the opposite of singing?" Sadie begged to know.
Joe shrugged. "I reckon you inhale through your mouth and exhale through the nose."
"That wasn't what I was going to ask," she said, after another blank-veiled pause.
"Then ask it," said Joe.
"How did you know to come here and give me that newspaper at precisely eleven o'clock? I mean, if I hadn't read the Fran Sanders column to you at exactly that time, you wouldn't have known that I had the watch, and so..."
Before Sadie could complete her question, or Joe could answer it, the door opened and the bailiff came in, clearing his throat loudly. As the bailiff led Sadie away, the voice of an old Persian gentleman called after her: "You'll just have to ask Fran Sanders about that!"
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE +++
To help choose the direction of the next few chapters of The Magic Quill, visit the Discussion Forum, or send Robbie feedback. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest entry (or entries) Robbie likes best, will be featured in the chapter after next. [EDIT: This discussion is now closed.]
SURVEY: Which minor TMQ character deserves to star in the next chapter? (A) Tip Kensington-Smith. (B) Marmaduke Spankison. (C) Orion Oldmanson. (D) Signor Subito. (E) Your write-in candidate (see Chapter 99, "Who's Who," for some ideas).
Name and describe a new magical creature not described in Magical Beasts and Where to Find Them. Be sure to say what it looks like, its magical properties, its disposition (friendly, dangerous, reclusive, etc.), and what it eats.
[Originally posted 9/13/07(?)]
123. The Care and Feeding of MIADs
Contest winner (tie): jatibbal and TWZRD
Honorable mention: ralucacoldea
It was raining in the Great Hall at Hogwarts.
This wasn't the kind of rain that students had often seen there over the thousand-year history of the school. It wasn't simply an illusion of rain, playing across the enchanted ceiling, resembling the weather outside. It was a good, honest, wet rain that drenched the floor cobbles, tables, and draperies, and caused the levitating candles to fizz and smoke. Joe Albuquerque would have suspected a leak, except the ceiling displayed a rare image of a bright, sunny day outside the castle. The effect of this sunlight shining through the rain was dazzling to the eyes.
Joe looked round at the caretaker, the headmistress, and the groundskeeper - he had already forgotten their names; the staff at schools other than his own never really interested him. The sour-looking caretaker fidgeted with his hands, keeping his eyes respectfully downcast. The half-giant groundskeeper stood at attention, which looked ridiculous given his unkempt hair and clothes. The headmistress simply looked impatient and disapproving. Joe sighed. He knew he shouldn't have worn his Prince of Wales disguise, but the only other one not being cleaned was his Pope outfit.
"This is a MIAD," he said finally. "No question."
"If you're telling us this is a Magic-Induced Atmospheric Disturbance," crabbed the headmistress, "we might have guessed that without retaining your services."
"Type 2," Joe added pointedly. The headmistress's jaw snapped shut. Joe continued: "There are three major categories of MIADs. Type 1 is the result of magical emissions mixing with ordinary rain. Everything it falls on develops magical side effects. It happens rarely, but when it does happen, it's a disaster for magical secrecy."
"But it also happens outdoors," the headmistress pointed out.
"Usually," Joe conceded mysteriously. "This, however, is Type 2, magical weather created by the residual ionization from a major magical battle, particularly one fought in an enclosed space."
"You said there were three types," the caretaker grumbled.
Joe shrugged. "Any MIAD that isn't Type 1 or Type 2 is classed as Atypical. For example, a rain of frogs, especially with bechamel sauce, would be an Atypical MIAD. Such things are generally caused by a large-scale magical accident."
"All right, Mr. Albuquerque," said the headmistress coldly. "You've narrowed this indoor rainfall down to a type of magical weather that happens indoors. How this is worth such a high fee remains to appear..."
"If you had listened," Joe said with royal brusqueness, "you would have noted more than the location of the weather. Each type of MIAD has a different cause, and therefore a different cure. The difference between accidental magic, magical pollution, and the fallout of a massive battle is very significant. The only cure for Type 1 and Atypical MIADs is to wait for them to end, then do a thorough cleanup and try to prevent them happening again. Type 2 is different. It can become a chronic problem, breaking out from time to time for centuries after the battle that caused it. It's like a ghost - not of a person, but of an event."
The headmistress looked crestfallen. "Then we shall have to close the school after all..."
"On the contrary," said Joe. "Something must be done to cancel out the residual ionization. There are two things that could work, but it's probably too late for one of them - taking all the wands that were used in the battle and subjecting them to Prior Incantato. This is something like erasing the last spell each combatant cast, and it would break up the energy pattern that holds the MIAD together."
"We'll never get all those wands together, headmistress," said the half-giant.
"No, too many of them were buried with their owners," the headmistress agreed, "or were destroyed when their owners were captured, or..."
Joe broke in with an air of royal prerogative. "I beg your pardon," he said, "but there is another option. I once saw a large, jeweled watch that was said to belong to the previous headmaster here. I noticed that one of the dials on the watch had a duckbilled platypus on it. I did a lot of work in the Southern Hemisphere, earlier in my career, and I happen to know that the platypus can absorb virtually any amount of magic without being effected."
"I think I see where this is going," said the half-giant, who, Joe realized, might be cleverer than he looked. "You mean to sacrifice a platypus to calm this storm, and I won't have it...er, that is to say, I wouldn't have it even if I did know where a platypus could be found..." The groundskeeper ended up nervously shuffling his feet.
Joe stared at him for a moment, then said, "I wasn't going to suggest anything like that. No platypus sacrifices will be necessary. If my guess is correct, we could use the platypus dial on Dumbledore's watch to absorb the residual magic from the Battle of Hogwarts. Headmistress, do you know what became of the watch?"
Now the old lady looked very distressed. "It hasn't been seen since Dumbledore's death," she said.
"Where was it last seen?" said Joe.
"Let's see..." The headmistress wrung her hands. "Dumbledore gave it to his brother...Someone stole it and got away on a thestramule...It was recaptured and returned...but it wasn't in the head's office when I took over, and it was never mentioned in Dumbledore's will. Do you know, the only time I saw that watch outside Dumbledore's office was when we went down to the station to see about that murder on the Hogwarts Express. Dumbledore kept taking it out and fiddling with it. Something about the way he held it made me afraid. But that was years ago..."
Joe's insides jumped, jumped again, and turned somersaults as he heard this speech. It brought back more than one memory...a certain afternoon outside the Bogley Squint Ward at St. Mungo's...the heroics of his friend Merlin, the deft fingers of Sadie, the mysterious behavior of Harvey...and the story of an unidentified corpse that somehow connected Spanky Spankison's hunt for a werewolf with Merlin's escape from Gringotts...Joe gulped as he realized one of his friends might be in possession of a very dangerous magical device.
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE +++
To help choose the direction of the next few chapters of The Magic Quill, visit the Discussion Forum, or send Robbie feedback. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest entry (or entries) Robbie likes best, will be featured in the chapter after next. [EDIT: This discussion is now closed.]
SURVEY: Which of Joe's friends has Dumbledore's watch now? (A) Spanky. (B) Sadie. (C) Merlin. (D) Harvey. (E) None of the above - just surprise us!
CONTEST: Describe Joe Albuquerque's next disguise.
[Originally posted 8/31/07]
Honorable mention: ralucacoldea
It was raining in the Great Hall at Hogwarts.
This wasn't the kind of rain that students had often seen there over the thousand-year history of the school. It wasn't simply an illusion of rain, playing across the enchanted ceiling, resembling the weather outside. It was a good, honest, wet rain that drenched the floor cobbles, tables, and draperies, and caused the levitating candles to fizz and smoke. Joe Albuquerque would have suspected a leak, except the ceiling displayed a rare image of a bright, sunny day outside the castle. The effect of this sunlight shining through the rain was dazzling to the eyes.
Joe looked round at the caretaker, the headmistress, and the groundskeeper - he had already forgotten their names; the staff at schools other than his own never really interested him. The sour-looking caretaker fidgeted with his hands, keeping his eyes respectfully downcast. The half-giant groundskeeper stood at attention, which looked ridiculous given his unkempt hair and clothes. The headmistress simply looked impatient and disapproving. Joe sighed. He knew he shouldn't have worn his Prince of Wales disguise, but the only other one not being cleaned was his Pope outfit.
"This is a MIAD," he said finally. "No question."
"If you're telling us this is a Magic-Induced Atmospheric Disturbance," crabbed the headmistress, "we might have guessed that without retaining your services."
"Type 2," Joe added pointedly. The headmistress's jaw snapped shut. Joe continued: "There are three major categories of MIADs. Type 1 is the result of magical emissions mixing with ordinary rain. Everything it falls on develops magical side effects. It happens rarely, but when it does happen, it's a disaster for magical secrecy."
"But it also happens outdoors," the headmistress pointed out.
"Usually," Joe conceded mysteriously. "This, however, is Type 2, magical weather created by the residual ionization from a major magical battle, particularly one fought in an enclosed space."
"You said there were three types," the caretaker grumbled.
Joe shrugged. "Any MIAD that isn't Type 1 or Type 2 is classed as Atypical. For example, a rain of frogs, especially with bechamel sauce, would be an Atypical MIAD. Such things are generally caused by a large-scale magical accident."
"All right, Mr. Albuquerque," said the headmistress coldly. "You've narrowed this indoor rainfall down to a type of magical weather that happens indoors. How this is worth such a high fee remains to appear..."
"If you had listened," Joe said with royal brusqueness, "you would have noted more than the location of the weather. Each type of MIAD has a different cause, and therefore a different cure. The difference between accidental magic, magical pollution, and the fallout of a massive battle is very significant. The only cure for Type 1 and Atypical MIADs is to wait for them to end, then do a thorough cleanup and try to prevent them happening again. Type 2 is different. It can become a chronic problem, breaking out from time to time for centuries after the battle that caused it. It's like a ghost - not of a person, but of an event."
The headmistress looked crestfallen. "Then we shall have to close the school after all..."
"On the contrary," said Joe. "Something must be done to cancel out the residual ionization. There are two things that could work, but it's probably too late for one of them - taking all the wands that were used in the battle and subjecting them to Prior Incantato. This is something like erasing the last spell each combatant cast, and it would break up the energy pattern that holds the MIAD together."
"We'll never get all those wands together, headmistress," said the half-giant.
"No, too many of them were buried with their owners," the headmistress agreed, "or were destroyed when their owners were captured, or..."
Joe broke in with an air of royal prerogative. "I beg your pardon," he said, "but there is another option. I once saw a large, jeweled watch that was said to belong to the previous headmaster here. I noticed that one of the dials on the watch had a duckbilled platypus on it. I did a lot of work in the Southern Hemisphere, earlier in my career, and I happen to know that the platypus can absorb virtually any amount of magic without being effected."
"I think I see where this is going," said the half-giant, who, Joe realized, might be cleverer than he looked. "You mean to sacrifice a platypus to calm this storm, and I won't have it...er, that is to say, I wouldn't have it even if I did know where a platypus could be found..." The groundskeeper ended up nervously shuffling his feet.
Joe stared at him for a moment, then said, "I wasn't going to suggest anything like that. No platypus sacrifices will be necessary. If my guess is correct, we could use the platypus dial on Dumbledore's watch to absorb the residual magic from the Battle of Hogwarts. Headmistress, do you know what became of the watch?"
Now the old lady looked very distressed. "It hasn't been seen since Dumbledore's death," she said.
"Where was it last seen?" said Joe.
"Let's see..." The headmistress wrung her hands. "Dumbledore gave it to his brother...Someone stole it and got away on a thestramule...It was recaptured and returned...but it wasn't in the head's office when I took over, and it was never mentioned in Dumbledore's will. Do you know, the only time I saw that watch outside Dumbledore's office was when we went down to the station to see about that murder on the Hogwarts Express. Dumbledore kept taking it out and fiddling with it. Something about the way he held it made me afraid. But that was years ago..."
Joe's insides jumped, jumped again, and turned somersaults as he heard this speech. It brought back more than one memory...a certain afternoon outside the Bogley Squint Ward at St. Mungo's...the heroics of his friend Merlin, the deft fingers of Sadie, the mysterious behavior of Harvey...and the story of an unidentified corpse that somehow connected Spanky Spankison's hunt for a werewolf with Merlin's escape from Gringotts...Joe gulped as he realized one of his friends might be in possession of a very dangerous magical device.
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE +++
To help choose the direction of the next few chapters of The Magic Quill, visit the Discussion Forum, or send Robbie feedback. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest entry (or entries) Robbie likes best, will be featured in the chapter after next. [EDIT: This discussion is now closed.]
SURVEY: Which of Joe's friends has Dumbledore's watch now? (A) Spanky. (B) Sadie. (C) Merlin. (D) Harvey. (E) None of the above - just surprise us!
CONTEST: Describe Joe Albuquerque's next disguise.
[Originally posted 8/31/07]
122. Mr. Exion's Daughters
Contest winner: TWZRD
The first time Spanky woke up after the Battle of Hogwarts, he was in a lumpy bed, under a musty-smelling counterpane, in an unfamiliar room. At first he felt fine, but when he tried to lift his head an all but visible wall of pain and dizziness held him down. Then he tried to move his arm, and that hurt even more. It hurt to take more than a shallow breath. It hurt to speak.
He knew little more, for a while. Then, judging by the changing angle of light in the room, he found himself waking for longer periods between shorter and shorter naps. And he came to understand that most of his body was bandaged, his right arm and both legs in splints, and the hand that fed him and sponged his brow belonged to a woman he did not know. He could not turn his head, and she never seemed to lean quite directly over him, but even so, he found it strange how difficult it was to form a clear picture of her face. She never spoke, except to shush him if he tried to speak.
On what he reckoned to be the eighth day of his recovery, he noticed that the woman tending him had a different scent than the last time he had wakened. When he wasn’t wondering where his wife was, and whether his friends were alive – he had not seen them since Aberforth Dumbledore had burst into their private parlor at the Hog’s Head and pressed them into service for a great battle that was about to start, a battle Spanky little remembered – he pondered the possibility that there was more than one woman taking turns attending him, hovering at the edge of his vision.
The day finally came when Spanky felt strong enough to speak. Or, to be more precise, he felt ready to bear the consequences of doing so, though he knew they would be painful. As a spoon scraped the bottom of a bowl of broth near his head, he moistened his lips and said – how strange his raspy voice sounded! – “Where is this?”
The woman, who somehow smelled different from whoever had tended him either of the last two times, shushed him. But when he started to repeat his question, she put down the spoon and said, “You’re in one of the guest rooms at the Prickly Spindle.”
Spanky tried to shake his head, but the pain almost blinded him. “I don’t know it,” he croaked.
“It’s in Hogsmeade,” said the woman. “My father is the landlord. We’re not as well-known as the Three Broomsticks, but we do all right. Especially since the battle. Every room in the village is full. The battle, you know. And the burials, and the rebuilding, and a little skirmish here and there – the work has been nonstop. And of course, there are wounded, like you. Ones who aren’t well enough to be moved, that is. The Prickly Spindle has been more hospital than pub lately.”
The woman seemed friendly enough – or at least talkative – though she didn’t seem happy, at least toward the end of her speech.
“My wife,” Spanky croaked —
“Tell me your name and hers, and we’ll send for her. Perhaps she has been looking for you.”
Spanky had to breathe deeply for a minute before he could pronounce the two names. He thought: If Ilona were alive and well, she would have come looking for me. She would not have stopped looking until she had found me; and then, she would not have left my side. What could have happened to her?
The woman left the room. As soon as she had gone, Spanky’s distress grew until he had to throw up. A basin, hovering upside-down, darted over him and caught the sick, which somehow fell upward out of his mouth. When he was done, the basin flew away. While a piece of cloth wiped his lips, Spanky heard the sound of a window opening, a distant splattering sound, and someone yelling, “Oi! Who did that?” as the window slammed. A moment later Spanky noticed the basin, empty again, hovering near the foot of his bed.
The magical phenomena in the room provided enough distraction to keep Spanky’s mind off worrying about Ilona, until the woman came back – or perhaps a different woman, as she smelled different again. More like yesterday’s attendant.
“Still awake?” she asked. Her voice was similar to the other woman’s – sisters, perhaps?
“How many of you are there?” he asked, even more hoarsely than before.
The woman laughed, yet did not sound altogether happy. “There are three of us,” she said. “Three and father, but he hasn’t been in. He has a pub to run, you know.”
“What name?” Spanky rattled. The cloth daubed at his chin.
“Exion,” she said. “You can call me Ava, and my sisters are Connie and Nancy. We’ve been taking turns looking in on you. You’re the last one who hasn’t gone on...”
Spanky blanched. “The others died?”
Ava laughed – nervously, this time. “Of course not. They’re at St. Mungo’s by now. They were moved to London on the train, as soon as they could travel. One of them got well enough to go home by Floo Powder. But you had the worst injuries. It’s amazing that you survived at all.”
“What happened?”
“We’re not sure,” said Ava. “Whatever it was, it involved a bad bite, a kick of some kind, and maybe a spell that ricocheted into you. Your legs were beaten up, too; something may have fallen on you. Or maybe you fell on something. More than that, we don’t know. A centaur brought you here with some herbs that we were to feed to you in broth. He didn’t say where he found you, and he hasn’t come back.”
A sudden draft announced that the door was open; then the latch clicked, and Spanky’s peripheral vision saw a shadow appear on the other side of the bed. The one who had left a few moments ago spoke now: “We have sent a message to your wife by owl. Also, Nancy is inquiring at the ministry, to see if anyone has been asking about you.”
“Thank you,” Spanky managed to whisper, before sinking beneath a combination of anxiety, relief, and pain.
The next time he awoke, he smelled the third sister – Nancy – nearby. Before he opened his eyes, he tried to identify what it was about her smell that was so distinctive. He eventually decided it was a combination of mothballs and burnt toast, and maybe a bit of roasted pumpkin seeds tossed into the bargain. He opened his eyes and asked, “Have you heard from my wife?”
“Not yet,” she said. “The owl won’t have reached her yet, you see. Someone at the Ministry said she had gone to Romania with your children. Did you know they thought you were dead? Seems they identified some other poor bloke as you, and buried him with the others in the graveyard above Hogwarts.”
Spanky’s heart plummeted during this speech. The room spun round and round. He must have passed out, because the next moment all three sisters were gathered around him. They seemed to have just finished redressing his wounds.
“Not as much as all that,” the one named Connie (who smelled of herring and dill in a slightly rancid brine) said in a disgruntled voice.
“Still, more than we expected,” said Ava (garlic and glue, with just a tiny breath of fresh grass cuttings). “It would keep us going for a good while. And that’s ready money, which is more than we can say about this.”
“Right now, yes,” argued Connie. “But the sooner we finish this, the sooner it will make us rich.”
“But meanwhile, we’re on the verge of losing everything,” Ava replied, in a strained whisper so as not to wake Spanky (who, for some reason, had decided to pretend that he was still out cold).
“Don’t be so dramatic,” Nancy sniffed.
“Call it dramatics if you like,” Ava hissed. “I, for one, would breathe a lot easier if we had a bit more to get by on right now. I think it would be worth holding off the big breakthrough for just a few more...”
“But we would have to start the tests all over,” Connie pleaded, sounding close to tears. “We’re more than halfway now, I’m cerrtain of it. And it might be a long time before we find another perfect subject like this!”
“Maybe we have enough results already,” said Ava.
“But his power isn’t completely gone,” said Connie. “We can’t be sure until he’s had the full dose.”
“If only it didn’t take so long,” said Nancy.
“Well, it does,” barked Connie. “Too much of the venom at one time could kill him. Or if it didn’t, I don’t know what it would do to him, but I’ll wager sickles to scones it wouldn’t be good for the business.”
“I think we should ask father,” said Nancy.
“Yes,” said Ava. “She’s right.”
“Fine,” Connie snapped. “He’ll only say what I’ve been telling you.”
“He might say differently after examining the subject,” said Ava. “Besides, how likely is it that someone else is working on this? Who is going to steal a march on us, even if we do delay it?”
“It’s a risk,” Connie insisted.
“Yes, but a small one. I think the certainty of reward money now weighs pretty well against the small risk...”
“...of losing the fortune of a lifetime?” Connie scoffed. “After all this work? After coming so close?”
Spanky almost jumped when Ava put her hand on his forearm. It felt very cold, even when she squeezed. “What if it isn’t right to do this?”
“We’re not going into all that again,” said Connie, her voice getting softer as she stomped out of the room. The sisters’ footsteps drowned out anything else she had to say.
For the next few minutes Spanky lay alone, eyes still closed, trying not to tremble. What experiment were these witches doing on him? What venom were they putting in his soup? Did it have something to do with how weak he felt?
Footsteps approached – louder – more of them than before – among them, the tread of a larger, heavier person, approaching his bedside. Something squeaked, and a bright light was directed – evidently, through a lens – onto Spanky’s face. Hands prodded his flesh. Large, coarse thumbs peeled back his eyelids. Spanky made an effort to keep his eyes unfocused and still. The brightness of the light stung his eyes.
“You see, father?” said Ava’s voice. “You see it’s true. The venom works, just as you said it would.”
“It isn’t conclusive,” said the man, mercifully letting Spanky’s eyes fall shut again. “It hasn’t reached its full effect yet. His power could still return; there is no way to ensure otherwise, except by taking all of it.”
“But you can already...”
Connie interrupted, “We need to see how the full dose looks before we dare publish what we have found. To say nothing of selling it!”
“We have enough results to justify further tests,” Nancy suggested, taking a middle position. “Whether we do them on this fellow, or on another, is immaterial. It might even be better to test this on multiple subjects.”
“But we haven’t enough money to do that!” Connie shouted.
“We would, if we let this man go and collected the reward,” Ava fought back.
“But suppose, while they’re examining him at St. Mungo’s, someone twigs onto our little heterodox treatment,” Connie said. “They might stop us continuing our work. Or worse, they might try to reproduce it before we can complete our...”
“Thank you, Concupiscence,” said the man, who sounded old, ill-tempered, and corpulent. “That is enough. I appreciate your concern. However, Avarice also makes some excellent points. Clearly, the two of you will never agree, so there is no use in continuing to argue about it. I will have to decide this myself. Be so good as to leave me alone with him for a few minutes. And Malignancy, dear, bring me another bowl of broth. This stuff has gone cold. While I have never heard of platypus venom losing its potency in so short a time, I would hate to let the tiniest uncertainty spoil our data. Besides, he might not care to drink it cold.”
By now, Spanky was even colder than the broth. Platypus venom, the man had said. Even a small dose could incapacitate a man, through swelling and pain, for days or even weeks. And that was apart from whatever magical properties it might have. Spanky racked his brains for anything he might have heard about the uses of platypuses in magic.
The door closed firmly, and the man leaned over Spanky. It wasn’t that Spanky could see his shadow; no, that bright light shining on his face was still pouring pinkly through his eyelids. But the man’s bulk seemed to press down on one side of the mattress, and his faint odor of wet dog, gin, and sulfur grew stronger.
“You may as well open your eyes now,” said the man. “I am not as easily fooled as my three daughters.”
Spanky opened his eyes slowly, but could see nothing but pure light and just the faintest suggestion of a large shape to his left.
“Who are you?” he asked in a ghost of his usual voice.
“That depends on how well you can keep a secret,” said Mr. Exion. “I may be your new business partner; and if so, you and I will soon be very, very rich.
“Or,” the fat man continued, leaning even closer so that Spanky felt his warm breath on his face – breath that, surprisingly, emphasized the smell of sulfur rather than gin. “Or, I may be the last person to see you alive. I would prefer the former, however. What do you think?”
“I need more information,” said Spanky, a little louder now.
Mr. Exion laughed a rich, hearty, jiggly laugh that made Spanky think about blancmanges. The feeling of nausea returned.
“Very good,” he said. “As partners, we should keep no secrets from each other. But you know, I think Concupiscence was right. We really must finish our experiment before we restore you to your loved ones. You see, letting you go now, when you could grow your powers back, just wouldn’t do. How could I trust you, then, to honor your side of the partnership? Why, nothing could stop you from asking for a larger share, or causing all kinds of trouble for us.
“No, indeed! You really only have two choices. Continue your treatment, and become like the platypus: entirely, and eternally, immune to magic...or go cold-turkey, the operative word being cold. Is that enough information, or shall I leave you to think about it?”
There was a knock at the door. Mr. Exion called, “Come.”
Footsteps. Malignancy’s voice: “Here is that broth, father.”
“Excellent. Mr. Spankison was just about to tell me whether he wants it or not. He has been fully informed, too. It’s entirely his decision. So how say you, friend? Will you have some of this excellent broth?”
Of course, Spanky did.
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE +++
To help choose the direction of the next few chapters of The Magic Quill, visit the Discussion Forum, or send Robbie feedback. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest entry (or entries) Robbie likes best, will be featured in the chapter after next. [EDIT: This discussion is now closed.]
SURVEY: Which death in Deathly Hallows would be most likely to effect the characters in The Magic Quill?
CONTEST: Now that Voldemort has been finished off, magical crime will tend to be more local and small-time in nature. What kind of magical crime might a small, local ring of rogue wizards and witches get up to?
[Originally posted 8/4/07, soon after the release of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.]
The first time Spanky woke up after the Battle of Hogwarts, he was in a lumpy bed, under a musty-smelling counterpane, in an unfamiliar room. At first he felt fine, but when he tried to lift his head an all but visible wall of pain and dizziness held him down. Then he tried to move his arm, and that hurt even more. It hurt to take more than a shallow breath. It hurt to speak.
He knew little more, for a while. Then, judging by the changing angle of light in the room, he found himself waking for longer periods between shorter and shorter naps. And he came to understand that most of his body was bandaged, his right arm and both legs in splints, and the hand that fed him and sponged his brow belonged to a woman he did not know. He could not turn his head, and she never seemed to lean quite directly over him, but even so, he found it strange how difficult it was to form a clear picture of her face. She never spoke, except to shush him if he tried to speak.
On what he reckoned to be the eighth day of his recovery, he noticed that the woman tending him had a different scent than the last time he had wakened. When he wasn’t wondering where his wife was, and whether his friends were alive – he had not seen them since Aberforth Dumbledore had burst into their private parlor at the Hog’s Head and pressed them into service for a great battle that was about to start, a battle Spanky little remembered – he pondered the possibility that there was more than one woman taking turns attending him, hovering at the edge of his vision.
The day finally came when Spanky felt strong enough to speak. Or, to be more precise, he felt ready to bear the consequences of doing so, though he knew they would be painful. As a spoon scraped the bottom of a bowl of broth near his head, he moistened his lips and said – how strange his raspy voice sounded! – “Where is this?”
The woman, who somehow smelled different from whoever had tended him either of the last two times, shushed him. But when he started to repeat his question, she put down the spoon and said, “You’re in one of the guest rooms at the Prickly Spindle.”
Spanky tried to shake his head, but the pain almost blinded him. “I don’t know it,” he croaked.
“It’s in Hogsmeade,” said the woman. “My father is the landlord. We’re not as well-known as the Three Broomsticks, but we do all right. Especially since the battle. Every room in the village is full. The battle, you know. And the burials, and the rebuilding, and a little skirmish here and there – the work has been nonstop. And of course, there are wounded, like you. Ones who aren’t well enough to be moved, that is. The Prickly Spindle has been more hospital than pub lately.”
The woman seemed friendly enough – or at least talkative – though she didn’t seem happy, at least toward the end of her speech.
“My wife,” Spanky croaked —
“Tell me your name and hers, and we’ll send for her. Perhaps she has been looking for you.”
Spanky had to breathe deeply for a minute before he could pronounce the two names. He thought: If Ilona were alive and well, she would have come looking for me. She would not have stopped looking until she had found me; and then, she would not have left my side. What could have happened to her?
The woman left the room. As soon as she had gone, Spanky’s distress grew until he had to throw up. A basin, hovering upside-down, darted over him and caught the sick, which somehow fell upward out of his mouth. When he was done, the basin flew away. While a piece of cloth wiped his lips, Spanky heard the sound of a window opening, a distant splattering sound, and someone yelling, “Oi! Who did that?” as the window slammed. A moment later Spanky noticed the basin, empty again, hovering near the foot of his bed.
The magical phenomena in the room provided enough distraction to keep Spanky’s mind off worrying about Ilona, until the woman came back – or perhaps a different woman, as she smelled different again. More like yesterday’s attendant.
“Still awake?” she asked. Her voice was similar to the other woman’s – sisters, perhaps?
“How many of you are there?” he asked, even more hoarsely than before.
The woman laughed, yet did not sound altogether happy. “There are three of us,” she said. “Three and father, but he hasn’t been in. He has a pub to run, you know.”
“What name?” Spanky rattled. The cloth daubed at his chin.
“Exion,” she said. “You can call me Ava, and my sisters are Connie and Nancy. We’ve been taking turns looking in on you. You’re the last one who hasn’t gone on...”
Spanky blanched. “The others died?”
Ava laughed – nervously, this time. “Of course not. They’re at St. Mungo’s by now. They were moved to London on the train, as soon as they could travel. One of them got well enough to go home by Floo Powder. But you had the worst injuries. It’s amazing that you survived at all.”
“What happened?”
“We’re not sure,” said Ava. “Whatever it was, it involved a bad bite, a kick of some kind, and maybe a spell that ricocheted into you. Your legs were beaten up, too; something may have fallen on you. Or maybe you fell on something. More than that, we don’t know. A centaur brought you here with some herbs that we were to feed to you in broth. He didn’t say where he found you, and he hasn’t come back.”
A sudden draft announced that the door was open; then the latch clicked, and Spanky’s peripheral vision saw a shadow appear on the other side of the bed. The one who had left a few moments ago spoke now: “We have sent a message to your wife by owl. Also, Nancy is inquiring at the ministry, to see if anyone has been asking about you.”
“Thank you,” Spanky managed to whisper, before sinking beneath a combination of anxiety, relief, and pain.
The next time he awoke, he smelled the third sister – Nancy – nearby. Before he opened his eyes, he tried to identify what it was about her smell that was so distinctive. He eventually decided it was a combination of mothballs and burnt toast, and maybe a bit of roasted pumpkin seeds tossed into the bargain. He opened his eyes and asked, “Have you heard from my wife?”
“Not yet,” she said. “The owl won’t have reached her yet, you see. Someone at the Ministry said she had gone to Romania with your children. Did you know they thought you were dead? Seems they identified some other poor bloke as you, and buried him with the others in the graveyard above Hogwarts.”
Spanky’s heart plummeted during this speech. The room spun round and round. He must have passed out, because the next moment all three sisters were gathered around him. They seemed to have just finished redressing his wounds.
“Not as much as all that,” the one named Connie (who smelled of herring and dill in a slightly rancid brine) said in a disgruntled voice.
“Still, more than we expected,” said Ava (garlic and glue, with just a tiny breath of fresh grass cuttings). “It would keep us going for a good while. And that’s ready money, which is more than we can say about this.”
“Right now, yes,” argued Connie. “But the sooner we finish this, the sooner it will make us rich.”
“But meanwhile, we’re on the verge of losing everything,” Ava replied, in a strained whisper so as not to wake Spanky (who, for some reason, had decided to pretend that he was still out cold).
“Don’t be so dramatic,” Nancy sniffed.
“Call it dramatics if you like,” Ava hissed. “I, for one, would breathe a lot easier if we had a bit more to get by on right now. I think it would be worth holding off the big breakthrough for just a few more...”
“But we would have to start the tests all over,” Connie pleaded, sounding close to tears. “We’re more than halfway now, I’m cerrtain of it. And it might be a long time before we find another perfect subject like this!”
“Maybe we have enough results already,” said Ava.
“But his power isn’t completely gone,” said Connie. “We can’t be sure until he’s had the full dose.”
“If only it didn’t take so long,” said Nancy.
“Well, it does,” barked Connie. “Too much of the venom at one time could kill him. Or if it didn’t, I don’t know what it would do to him, but I’ll wager sickles to scones it wouldn’t be good for the business.”
“I think we should ask father,” said Nancy.
“Yes,” said Ava. “She’s right.”
“Fine,” Connie snapped. “He’ll only say what I’ve been telling you.”
“He might say differently after examining the subject,” said Ava. “Besides, how likely is it that someone else is working on this? Who is going to steal a march on us, even if we do delay it?”
“It’s a risk,” Connie insisted.
“Yes, but a small one. I think the certainty of reward money now weighs pretty well against the small risk...”
“...of losing the fortune of a lifetime?” Connie scoffed. “After all this work? After coming so close?”
Spanky almost jumped when Ava put her hand on his forearm. It felt very cold, even when she squeezed. “What if it isn’t right to do this?”
“We’re not going into all that again,” said Connie, her voice getting softer as she stomped out of the room. The sisters’ footsteps drowned out anything else she had to say.
For the next few minutes Spanky lay alone, eyes still closed, trying not to tremble. What experiment were these witches doing on him? What venom were they putting in his soup? Did it have something to do with how weak he felt?
Footsteps approached – louder – more of them than before – among them, the tread of a larger, heavier person, approaching his bedside. Something squeaked, and a bright light was directed – evidently, through a lens – onto Spanky’s face. Hands prodded his flesh. Large, coarse thumbs peeled back his eyelids. Spanky made an effort to keep his eyes unfocused and still. The brightness of the light stung his eyes.
“You see, father?” said Ava’s voice. “You see it’s true. The venom works, just as you said it would.”
“It isn’t conclusive,” said the man, mercifully letting Spanky’s eyes fall shut again. “It hasn’t reached its full effect yet. His power could still return; there is no way to ensure otherwise, except by taking all of it.”
“But you can already...”
Connie interrupted, “We need to see how the full dose looks before we dare publish what we have found. To say nothing of selling it!”
“We have enough results to justify further tests,” Nancy suggested, taking a middle position. “Whether we do them on this fellow, or on another, is immaterial. It might even be better to test this on multiple subjects.”
“But we haven’t enough money to do that!” Connie shouted.
“We would, if we let this man go and collected the reward,” Ava fought back.
“But suppose, while they’re examining him at St. Mungo’s, someone twigs onto our little heterodox treatment,” Connie said. “They might stop us continuing our work. Or worse, they might try to reproduce it before we can complete our...”
“Thank you, Concupiscence,” said the man, who sounded old, ill-tempered, and corpulent. “That is enough. I appreciate your concern. However, Avarice also makes some excellent points. Clearly, the two of you will never agree, so there is no use in continuing to argue about it. I will have to decide this myself. Be so good as to leave me alone with him for a few minutes. And Malignancy, dear, bring me another bowl of broth. This stuff has gone cold. While I have never heard of platypus venom losing its potency in so short a time, I would hate to let the tiniest uncertainty spoil our data. Besides, he might not care to drink it cold.”
By now, Spanky was even colder than the broth. Platypus venom, the man had said. Even a small dose could incapacitate a man, through swelling and pain, for days or even weeks. And that was apart from whatever magical properties it might have. Spanky racked his brains for anything he might have heard about the uses of platypuses in magic.
The door closed firmly, and the man leaned over Spanky. It wasn’t that Spanky could see his shadow; no, that bright light shining on his face was still pouring pinkly through his eyelids. But the man’s bulk seemed to press down on one side of the mattress, and his faint odor of wet dog, gin, and sulfur grew stronger.
“You may as well open your eyes now,” said the man. “I am not as easily fooled as my three daughters.”
Spanky opened his eyes slowly, but could see nothing but pure light and just the faintest suggestion of a large shape to his left.
“Who are you?” he asked in a ghost of his usual voice.
“That depends on how well you can keep a secret,” said Mr. Exion. “I may be your new business partner; and if so, you and I will soon be very, very rich.
“Or,” the fat man continued, leaning even closer so that Spanky felt his warm breath on his face – breath that, surprisingly, emphasized the smell of sulfur rather than gin. “Or, I may be the last person to see you alive. I would prefer the former, however. What do you think?”
“I need more information,” said Spanky, a little louder now.
Mr. Exion laughed a rich, hearty, jiggly laugh that made Spanky think about blancmanges. The feeling of nausea returned.
“Very good,” he said. “As partners, we should keep no secrets from each other. But you know, I think Concupiscence was right. We really must finish our experiment before we restore you to your loved ones. You see, letting you go now, when you could grow your powers back, just wouldn’t do. How could I trust you, then, to honor your side of the partnership? Why, nothing could stop you from asking for a larger share, or causing all kinds of trouble for us.
“No, indeed! You really only have two choices. Continue your treatment, and become like the platypus: entirely, and eternally, immune to magic...or go cold-turkey, the operative word being cold. Is that enough information, or shall I leave you to think about it?”
There was a knock at the door. Mr. Exion called, “Come.”
Footsteps. Malignancy’s voice: “Here is that broth, father.”
“Excellent. Mr. Spankison was just about to tell me whether he wants it or not. He has been fully informed, too. It’s entirely his decision. So how say you, friend? Will you have some of this excellent broth?”
Of course, Spanky did.
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE +++
To help choose the direction of the next few chapters of The Magic Quill, visit the Discussion Forum, or send Robbie feedback. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest entry (or entries) Robbie likes best, will be featured in the chapter after next. [EDIT: This discussion is now closed.]
SURVEY: Which death in Deathly Hallows would be most likely to effect the characters in The Magic Quill?
CONTEST: Now that Voldemort has been finished off, magical crime will tend to be more local and small-time in nature. What kind of magical crime might a small, local ring of rogue wizards and witches get up to?
[Originally posted 8/4/07, soon after the release of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.]
Friday, December 26, 2008
114. The Unusual Suspects
Contest winners: Dragonic, Linda Carrig, MsJunior84, voldemort_13, Celairiel, voldymortus, i6uuaq, and woot
Spanky’s tale continued...
“During the entire visit to Zophar Goode’s farm, Ilona hadn’t said a word. Other than a few moments when I thought Goode might attack me, when knowing that she was there to cover my back made me feel safer, I wondered whether it had been a good idea for her to come along. I decided the sights, the smells, the sad story of the place had effected her deeply. She didn’t speak until we got home.
“We were met at Sir Lionel’s gatehouse by Eglantine Conkling, the RMB agent I had left in charge. She had been at the Bureau since before I was born. Should have outranked me, but got demoted after the Prewetts were killed under her protection. Everyone at the Bureau called her ‘Silver’ because, twice in her career, she had destroyed a pack of rogue werewolves that was preying on Muggle villages. After the Prewett affair, the Daily Prophet gave her a new nickname.”
“I remember,” Endora put in sadly. “Eglantine Bungling.”
“It could have happened to anybody,” said Spanky. “The Death Eaters lured her away on a fake emergency. When she came back, the house was half destroyed and there were dead bodies everywhere, the Prewetts among them. She took full responsibility, but frankly, it wouldn’t have happened if the RMB had followed James Potter’s advice about equipping agents with charmed mirrors, so they could talk directly, instantly, and securely with the office. By the time her owl got to the office asking for advice, and the return owl came saying ‘Stay where you are,’ she had already gone and left the Prewetts unprotected. The only positive thing about it is that three Death Eaters died in the attack.”
“Tough wizards, those Prewetts,” Merlin grunted. “Dangerous when cornered.”
“Yes,” said Spanky. “But Silver was pretty dangerous too. If she had been there, they might have lived. She spent the rest of her career looking for a chance to make up for her mistake. And against anyone’s expectations, this little garden-security assignment turned out to be her chance.
“When I reached the gatehouse, Silver gave me a roll of parchment, which I had been awaiting impatiently, and also a slip of parchment, which I had not been expecting at all. She had read the latter, so I really didn’t need to see it. ‘Sir Lionel’s compliments,’ Silver recited, ‘and he requests your company in the upstairs parlor. He has guests, very private guests, who must need your services.’
“'What kind of guests?' I asked, noting the impatience with which Ilona was staring at the scroll in my hand.
“'Three people,' said Silver. ‘Man, woman, and very small child. Can’t tell you more; they wore their hoods up and, I suspect, some kind of anonymity charm.’
“'Thank you,' I said, giving Silver’s shoulder a squeeze. ‘I’ll relieve you as soon as I see what Sir Lionel needs.’
“As soon as we were out of Silver’s line of sight, I handed the scroll over to Ilona. She murmured something about seeing me at the summerhouse and went off across the garden. I went in the back door of Niblet House, up the servants’ stairs – which was a bit tricky, because they were built for house-elves – and knocked on the darkwood, sliding-panel door of the parlor. I waited until Sir Lionel said, ‘Come,’ and opened the door.
“James and Lily Potter were seated near the fire, their cloaks draped over the back of the sofa. Lily was feeding little Harry, who had grown a lot since I had seen him last. In the back of my mind – and this shows the extent of my divination talent – I thought, ‘There’s a boy who’s going to be big and tall when he grows up!’ James jumped up and wrung my hand in both of his, while Lily remained seated but greeted me with her usual frank but friendly smile.
“‘Please excuse my exposure,’ she said, though she had a respectable blind-spot charm protecting her modesty. ‘For some reason, I just can’t bear to say no when Harry wants to eat. It’s almost as if he’s fattening himself up in preparation for something...’
“’Perhaps an Arctic ordeal,’ James suggested teasingly. ‘He’ll need the blubber to stay warm.’
“Lily rolled her eyes. Laughing eyes.
“’My mother always said children are born with the sight,’ Sir Lionel said chattily. ‘If they seem to know something you don’t, they probably do.’
“’We’ll want to start buying warm clothes for him, then,’ James kidded, tugging playfully on the baby’s foot.
“’First, you’ll need a warm place to stay,’ said Sir Lionel. ‘And after your narrow escape this evening, it had better not be anywhere as public as this house. I keep a safehouse not very far from here. It’s my little secret, protected by a Fidelius Charm. It has only been used twice before, and only by people in whom I place complete confidence. So I trust you will be safe there. Mr. Spankison will go ahead of you to make sure it is safe, to light the fires, and so forth. Here are the directions.’
“Sir Lionel handed me a slip of parchment containing directions to the house in the woods that I had only been able to see from the inside. Now, suddenly, it appeared to my mind’s eye – where it stood, what it looked like, and its present condition.
“’Er,’ I said, clearing my throat nervously. ‘Sir Lionel, I’m afraid this won’t do.’
“’You astonish me,’ said Sir Lionel, looking at me with suspicion for the first time in my life. It hurt me deeply to see such a look on the face of my kindest benefactor – indeed, my godfather.
“’I’ve been in this house,’ I said, watching Sir Lionel’s face darken with wrath. ‘I can’t explain how I got into it, because I couldn’t see it until I was inside, but...well, I’m afraid both the secret and the house are busted.’
“’Impossible,’ said Sir Lionel, bluffly.
“’That’s where I dueled with Sid Shmedly,’ I added. ‘It was in my report...only, I couldn’t give the location of the house, because I never had a clear impression of how I got there.’
“’You never mentioned that the house was protected by a Fidelius charm,’ Sir Lionel accused.
“’I wasn’t certain of that,’ I said. ‘I really didn’t know what was going on.’
“Sir Lionel stood up and paced. My stomach tied itself in knots; I hated having him displeased with me.
“’All we need is safe passage back to Godric’s Hollow,’ James said. ‘We’ll be fine once we’re under our own roof. Nothing short of the raising of Atlantis could break those wards.’
“’I myself am powerless to help you,’ said Sir Lionel, still pacing. ‘But my friend here has some influence with the Rogue Magic Bureau. He may even have the authority to send a detachment of agents to guard you on your way. I shouldn’t wonder that, whether he has the authority or no, he can manage it somehow.’
“Stung by Sir Lionel’s remark, I politely asked to be excused so I could ask for volunteers. ‘I will lead them myself,’ I added.
“’No, you have important work here this evening,’ said Sir Lionel. ‘Have your people meet the Potters at the gatehouse in forty-five minutes. I will instruct the house-elves to hitch the Abraxans to the carriage. The Potters will ride inside; your people will ride on top. They do not need to know whom they are guarding.’
“’Understood,’ I said, and left.
“The house-elves were already leading a pair of winged horses down the drive, hitched to a closed carriage, by the time I had my team assembled at the gatehouse. Silver insisted on leading the team. The other three agents were youngsters just out of training; I had only known them for a few weeks. I finished giving them some pointers while half a dozen house-elves formed a pyramid so that the driver, an elderly she-elf named Mitsy, could climb up to her seat. I shivered to think of Mitsy having to fly that carriage through the chill night air, wearing nothing but a tea towel belted around her waist with a frayed piece of string.
“I finished giving the younger agents some last-minute dueling tips, then ordered them up onto the carriage while another house-elf guided two cloaked figures down the drive. The sleeping baby looked like no more than a bundle of clothes in the shorter figure’s arms, as the stooping house-elves formed steps up to the carriage with their backs. Instead of stepping on them, James lifted Lily into the carriage, then hopped in after her and closed the door. The windows were shut, the curtains drawn, and as a final touch I placed a Disillusionment Charm over the whole kit. The horses pulled the carriage out of the drive, flapped their wings, and ascended into the sky in an indistinct blur, which I could only follow with my eyes because I knew where to look. Then they were gone.
“Back inside the house, Sir Lionel showed me his copy of the roll of parchment that had come for me earlier. ‘Old Slughorn has finally responded to your questions about your duel with Shmedly,’ he said. ‘A tale I find even more fascinating, now that its setting has been more clearly explained. We are left with still more questions...’
“’Such as, How did Shmedly get into a house whose location only you could reveal?’
“’If you are suggesting,’ Sir Lionel started, then bit his tongue and started again: ‘He isn’t the only one whose...’ He faltered again.
“’I’ve never heard you trip over your tongue before now,’ I said.
“’I’ve never wondered whether I could trust you before now,’ he replied.
“I must not have done a very good job of hiding the pain this answer gave me. He had the look of a man who was trying to work himself up to an apology, but having little luck breaking the habits of a lifetime. While he struggled, I quietly suggested that I should read my own copy of Slughorn’s letter and discuss it with him in the morning. He agreed, and I went down to the summerhouse.
“Ilona was seething when I got there. ‘The name-dropping old gasbag finally deigns to answer your letter,’ she muttered, pacing the very narrow strip of floor between the bed and the old iron stove, ‘though of course he addresses Sir Lionel instead of you, and every time he mentions you in the letter it’s “the RMB agent.” He seems to have forgotten the autographed photo he begged off you when you went to the Owlympics. Or the dinner party he threw in your honor when you were promoted after the Penguarts affair. Or the crate of licorice wands you sent to him after you signed that endorsement deal.’
“’He was the one who set up that deal,’ I said, wistfully remembering my moment of fame and popularity, when wizarding children all over the country had been admonished to ‘Be a Double-Barreled Wizard with Licorice Wands!’ I added, ‘His connections, you know, with past alumni of the Slug Club. And you mustn’t forget that, since a certain genie’s curse drove me insane with the compulsion to search for you, I haven’t been quite the blue-eyed boy I was then. Forced leave of absence, forfeited medals, and so on. I’ve been persona non grata.’
“’I’d like to take a cheese grater to his fat, oily nose,’ Ilona fumed. ‘Non grata wouldn’t seem so bad. Good people don’t forget their friends.’
“’All right,’ I said soothingly, patting a spot on the corner of the bed, next to where I was sitting. ‘All right, so Slughorn isn’t good people. But he isn’t bad people, so let’s see what he says, eh?’
“Ilona threw herself backward on the bed, covering her eyes with one arm and extending the other toward me. I took the scroll from her and read it aloud. It said:
“’That wasn’t worth the wait,’ I said cheerfully. ‘The man doesn’t have a clue what we’re dealing with. None of those potions could have been what Shmedly used.’
“’He did make one good point,’ Ilona allowed. ‘That potion wasn’t necessarily connected with Shmedly’s spellproofness. It may have been meant for Sir Lionel.’
“’Yes,’ I agreed. ‘And maybe Shmedly’s old romance -- remember Jonquil? -- is still hanging around him. Maybe she’s hidden by a genie’s curse, and helping him fight his duels.’
“Ilona finally broke out of her sulk enough to laugh. ‘That’s just crazy enough to be true,’ she hooted.
“’It would be poetic justice,’ I chortled.
“I forget what we said next,” Spanky lied. “The next thing you’ll want to know about, happened the next morning....”
+++
To help choose the direction of the next few chapters of The Magic Quill, visit the Discussion Forum, or send Robbie feedback. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest entry (or entries) Robbie likes best, will be featured in the chapter after next. [EDIT: This discussion is now closed.]
SURVEY: Does Shmedly have any werewolf blood in his ancestry?
CONTEST: Describe an article of clothing with unusual, magical properties.
[Originally posted 3/8/07]
Spanky’s tale continued...
“During the entire visit to Zophar Goode’s farm, Ilona hadn’t said a word. Other than a few moments when I thought Goode might attack me, when knowing that she was there to cover my back made me feel safer, I wondered whether it had been a good idea for her to come along. I decided the sights, the smells, the sad story of the place had effected her deeply. She didn’t speak until we got home.
“We were met at Sir Lionel’s gatehouse by Eglantine Conkling, the RMB agent I had left in charge. She had been at the Bureau since before I was born. Should have outranked me, but got demoted after the Prewetts were killed under her protection. Everyone at the Bureau called her ‘Silver’ because, twice in her career, she had destroyed a pack of rogue werewolves that was preying on Muggle villages. After the Prewett affair, the Daily Prophet gave her a new nickname.”
“I remember,” Endora put in sadly. “Eglantine Bungling.”
“It could have happened to anybody,” said Spanky. “The Death Eaters lured her away on a fake emergency. When she came back, the house was half destroyed and there were dead bodies everywhere, the Prewetts among them. She took full responsibility, but frankly, it wouldn’t have happened if the RMB had followed James Potter’s advice about equipping agents with charmed mirrors, so they could talk directly, instantly, and securely with the office. By the time her owl got to the office asking for advice, and the return owl came saying ‘Stay where you are,’ she had already gone and left the Prewetts unprotected. The only positive thing about it is that three Death Eaters died in the attack.”
“Tough wizards, those Prewetts,” Merlin grunted. “Dangerous when cornered.”
“Yes,” said Spanky. “But Silver was pretty dangerous too. If she had been there, they might have lived. She spent the rest of her career looking for a chance to make up for her mistake. And against anyone’s expectations, this little garden-security assignment turned out to be her chance.
“When I reached the gatehouse, Silver gave me a roll of parchment, which I had been awaiting impatiently, and also a slip of parchment, which I had not been expecting at all. She had read the latter, so I really didn’t need to see it. ‘Sir Lionel’s compliments,’ Silver recited, ‘and he requests your company in the upstairs parlor. He has guests, very private guests, who must need your services.’
“'What kind of guests?' I asked, noting the impatience with which Ilona was staring at the scroll in my hand.
“'Three people,' said Silver. ‘Man, woman, and very small child. Can’t tell you more; they wore their hoods up and, I suspect, some kind of anonymity charm.’
“'Thank you,' I said, giving Silver’s shoulder a squeeze. ‘I’ll relieve you as soon as I see what Sir Lionel needs.’
“As soon as we were out of Silver’s line of sight, I handed the scroll over to Ilona. She murmured something about seeing me at the summerhouse and went off across the garden. I went in the back door of Niblet House, up the servants’ stairs – which was a bit tricky, because they were built for house-elves – and knocked on the darkwood, sliding-panel door of the parlor. I waited until Sir Lionel said, ‘Come,’ and opened the door.
“James and Lily Potter were seated near the fire, their cloaks draped over the back of the sofa. Lily was feeding little Harry, who had grown a lot since I had seen him last. In the back of my mind – and this shows the extent of my divination talent – I thought, ‘There’s a boy who’s going to be big and tall when he grows up!’ James jumped up and wrung my hand in both of his, while Lily remained seated but greeted me with her usual frank but friendly smile.
“‘Please excuse my exposure,’ she said, though she had a respectable blind-spot charm protecting her modesty. ‘For some reason, I just can’t bear to say no when Harry wants to eat. It’s almost as if he’s fattening himself up in preparation for something...’
“’Perhaps an Arctic ordeal,’ James suggested teasingly. ‘He’ll need the blubber to stay warm.’
“Lily rolled her eyes. Laughing eyes.
“’My mother always said children are born with the sight,’ Sir Lionel said chattily. ‘If they seem to know something you don’t, they probably do.’
“’We’ll want to start buying warm clothes for him, then,’ James kidded, tugging playfully on the baby’s foot.
“’First, you’ll need a warm place to stay,’ said Sir Lionel. ‘And after your narrow escape this evening, it had better not be anywhere as public as this house. I keep a safehouse not very far from here. It’s my little secret, protected by a Fidelius Charm. It has only been used twice before, and only by people in whom I place complete confidence. So I trust you will be safe there. Mr. Spankison will go ahead of you to make sure it is safe, to light the fires, and so forth. Here are the directions.’
“Sir Lionel handed me a slip of parchment containing directions to the house in the woods that I had only been able to see from the inside. Now, suddenly, it appeared to my mind’s eye – where it stood, what it looked like, and its present condition.
“’Er,’ I said, clearing my throat nervously. ‘Sir Lionel, I’m afraid this won’t do.’
“’You astonish me,’ said Sir Lionel, looking at me with suspicion for the first time in my life. It hurt me deeply to see such a look on the face of my kindest benefactor – indeed, my godfather.
“’I’ve been in this house,’ I said, watching Sir Lionel’s face darken with wrath. ‘I can’t explain how I got into it, because I couldn’t see it until I was inside, but...well, I’m afraid both the secret and the house are busted.’
“’Impossible,’ said Sir Lionel, bluffly.
“’That’s where I dueled with Sid Shmedly,’ I added. ‘It was in my report...only, I couldn’t give the location of the house, because I never had a clear impression of how I got there.’
“’You never mentioned that the house was protected by a Fidelius charm,’ Sir Lionel accused.
“’I wasn’t certain of that,’ I said. ‘I really didn’t know what was going on.’
“Sir Lionel stood up and paced. My stomach tied itself in knots; I hated having him displeased with me.
“’All we need is safe passage back to Godric’s Hollow,’ James said. ‘We’ll be fine once we’re under our own roof. Nothing short of the raising of Atlantis could break those wards.’
“’I myself am powerless to help you,’ said Sir Lionel, still pacing. ‘But my friend here has some influence with the Rogue Magic Bureau. He may even have the authority to send a detachment of agents to guard you on your way. I shouldn’t wonder that, whether he has the authority or no, he can manage it somehow.’
“Stung by Sir Lionel’s remark, I politely asked to be excused so I could ask for volunteers. ‘I will lead them myself,’ I added.
“’No, you have important work here this evening,’ said Sir Lionel. ‘Have your people meet the Potters at the gatehouse in forty-five minutes. I will instruct the house-elves to hitch the Abraxans to the carriage. The Potters will ride inside; your people will ride on top. They do not need to know whom they are guarding.’
“’Understood,’ I said, and left.
“The house-elves were already leading a pair of winged horses down the drive, hitched to a closed carriage, by the time I had my team assembled at the gatehouse. Silver insisted on leading the team. The other three agents were youngsters just out of training; I had only known them for a few weeks. I finished giving them some pointers while half a dozen house-elves formed a pyramid so that the driver, an elderly she-elf named Mitsy, could climb up to her seat. I shivered to think of Mitsy having to fly that carriage through the chill night air, wearing nothing but a tea towel belted around her waist with a frayed piece of string.
“I finished giving the younger agents some last-minute dueling tips, then ordered them up onto the carriage while another house-elf guided two cloaked figures down the drive. The sleeping baby looked like no more than a bundle of clothes in the shorter figure’s arms, as the stooping house-elves formed steps up to the carriage with their backs. Instead of stepping on them, James lifted Lily into the carriage, then hopped in after her and closed the door. The windows were shut, the curtains drawn, and as a final touch I placed a Disillusionment Charm over the whole kit. The horses pulled the carriage out of the drive, flapped their wings, and ascended into the sky in an indistinct blur, which I could only follow with my eyes because I knew where to look. Then they were gone.
“Back inside the house, Sir Lionel showed me his copy of the roll of parchment that had come for me earlier. ‘Old Slughorn has finally responded to your questions about your duel with Shmedly,’ he said. ‘A tale I find even more fascinating, now that its setting has been more clearly explained. We are left with still more questions...’
“’Such as, How did Shmedly get into a house whose location only you could reveal?’
“’If you are suggesting,’ Sir Lionel started, then bit his tongue and started again: ‘He isn’t the only one whose...’ He faltered again.
“’I’ve never heard you trip over your tongue before now,’ I said.
“’I’ve never wondered whether I could trust you before now,’ he replied.
“I must not have done a very good job of hiding the pain this answer gave me. He had the look of a man who was trying to work himself up to an apology, but having little luck breaking the habits of a lifetime. While he struggled, I quietly suggested that I should read my own copy of Slughorn’s letter and discuss it with him in the morning. He agreed, and I went down to the summerhouse.
“Ilona was seething when I got there. ‘The name-dropping old gasbag finally deigns to answer your letter,’ she muttered, pacing the very narrow strip of floor between the bed and the old iron stove, ‘though of course he addresses Sir Lionel instead of you, and every time he mentions you in the letter it’s “the RMB agent.” He seems to have forgotten the autographed photo he begged off you when you went to the Owlympics. Or the dinner party he threw in your honor when you were promoted after the Penguarts affair. Or the crate of licorice wands you sent to him after you signed that endorsement deal.’
“’He was the one who set up that deal,’ I said, wistfully remembering my moment of fame and popularity, when wizarding children all over the country had been admonished to ‘Be a Double-Barreled Wizard with Licorice Wands!’ I added, ‘His connections, you know, with past alumni of the Slug Club. And you mustn’t forget that, since a certain genie’s curse drove me insane with the compulsion to search for you, I haven’t been quite the blue-eyed boy I was then. Forced leave of absence, forfeited medals, and so on. I’ve been persona non grata.’
“’I’d like to take a cheese grater to his fat, oily nose,’ Ilona fumed. ‘Non grata wouldn’t seem so bad. Good people don’t forget their friends.’
“’All right,’ I said soothingly, patting a spot on the corner of the bed, next to where I was sitting. ‘All right, so Slughorn isn’t good people. But he isn’t bad people, so let’s see what he says, eh?’
“Ilona threw herself backward on the bed, covering her eyes with one arm and extending the other toward me. I took the scroll from her and read it aloud. It said:
Your Honor,"'That isn’t it,’ I grumbled. ‘When that table hit him in the windstorm, you could see that it hurt.’ Ilona waved me onward. I went back to the letter."
I have researched the types of potions that might meet the description that the RMB agent gave, and that might have the effect of making Mr. Shmedly immune to the agent’s allegedly accurate spellcasting. Before I get to my findings, though, I feel compelled to express my shock and regret at the choices Mr. Shmedly has made. At one point I was convinced that he had a promising career ahead of him. I assure you that I have no ties with Mr. Shmedly or his family at present.
And now more bad news. There are actually several different potions that could potentially be involved here; or perhaps a combination of potions, a tricky and dangerous art in itself.
First, there is the Achilles Unguent, generally a reddish-brown, oily mixture that, when rubbed into the skin, makes the body impenetrable for several hours. The Achilles Unguent has been known to guard against spears, rocks, swords, arrows, and such things, but I have never heard of it being tested against spells.
Another possibility is that the potion wasn’t actually protecting Mr. Shmedly, so much as impeding the RMB agent. For example, some vampires prepare a blood-red, fizzy concoction that I like to call Draculessence. Poured into, say, a town well, it causes conflict and disorder, which I am told the vampires find entertaining. I’m not sure I can support the rumors that they use this potion to “separate weak animals from the herd,” as it were. But sadly, there has been very little impartial scholarship on the subject of undead potionlore. Could not the agent have been, perhaps, confused and weakened by the potion that seemingly spilled on him?“’You weren’t,’ Ilona assured me as I continued reading."
Perhaps the RMB agent’s recollections were inaccurate. If so, and if the potion was actually dark brown instead of red, it might have been Liquid Armor. This was allegedly invented by Merlin the Hirsute as a metal-polish, to provide added hardness to the armor of certain knights he favored. The recipe was preserved in the 13th-century manuscript of Reverential Sneed, and I seem to recall Mr. Shmedly quoting from Sneed in one of his N.E.W.T.-level papers. According to Sneed, Liquid Armor can be applied to any material, including cloth, to make it as hard as steel. The advantage of adding this to steel armor was to make thinner, lighter armor just as strong as the heavy stuff.“I stopped reading at that point and stuffed the parchment into the stove. I enjoyed watching it burn.
Similar to Liquid Armor in its effect, but bright blue in color, is the concentrate of Shieldberry Juice. However, it definitely doesn’t provide protection against spells; it only protects the drinker from physical trauma. However, when mixed with an iron-rich vitamin supplement, it turns a dark, reddish-purple and causes an unusual side effect, discovered by the unfortunate Milo the Magnetic. If Mr. Shmedly has been taking this mixture, he may be more mineral than man by now. The only things that can hurt him, in that event, are powerful magnets and blast furnaces. So Mr. Shmedly’s claim that “vitamins” were responsible for his invulnerabilty may have been truthful.
One must also consider the gruesome possibility that the phial contained giant blood. It is difficult to say what would happen to a wizard who received infusions of giant blood. If he survived, it might make him impervious to spells. However, it might also destroy his ability to do magic. It might also account for the sickly, if not dead and rotting, odor that surrounded Mr. Shmedly. This could seriously compromise his health. Or, perhaps worse, it could make him smell like a giant.
None of these concoctions are known to scream when spilled. However, the scream may have come from the flask itself. Some of my potion-making equipment has been ensorcelled to tell me when a potion is ready, or when an ingredient has turned bad. There are days when my pantry is so full of mutterings that I can’t concentrate.
Please also consider the likelihood that the potion was not, in fact, connected with Mr. Shmedly’s alleged invulnerability. The building, or the room, may have been shielded by a defensive spell that would dampen the effects of any magic directed against the caster. The RMB agent may have been battling a very clever illusion.
There are even stories of certain wizards “slaving” their magic to another user, a type sorcerer who feeds off the magical power of others to become more powerful. If Mr. Shmedly has done this, I should be very concerned for him. He will have only a very limited amount of magic at his disposal, and using too much of it may result in loss of all powers or even shorten his life. However, one does hear occasionally of a witch or wizard who donated his or her powers to another, of their own free will, usually motivated by a fanatical belief in a “cause” represented by the receiving wizard, but occasionally given in exchange for certain gifts...such as invulnerability.
Lastly, far be it from me to question the reliability of the RMB agent involved, but when you consider certain gaps in his story, combined with spots on the agent’s record...
“’That wasn’t worth the wait,’ I said cheerfully. ‘The man doesn’t have a clue what we’re dealing with. None of those potions could have been what Shmedly used.’
“’He did make one good point,’ Ilona allowed. ‘That potion wasn’t necessarily connected with Shmedly’s spellproofness. It may have been meant for Sir Lionel.’
“’Yes,’ I agreed. ‘And maybe Shmedly’s old romance -- remember Jonquil? -- is still hanging around him. Maybe she’s hidden by a genie’s curse, and helping him fight his duels.’
“Ilona finally broke out of her sulk enough to laugh. ‘That’s just crazy enough to be true,’ she hooted.
“’It would be poetic justice,’ I chortled.
“I forget what we said next,” Spanky lied. “The next thing you’ll want to know about, happened the next morning....”
+++
To help choose the direction of the next few chapters of The Magic Quill, visit the Discussion Forum, or send Robbie feedback. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest entry (or entries) Robbie likes best, will be featured in the chapter after next. [EDIT: This discussion is now closed.]
SURVEY: Does Shmedly have any werewolf blood in his ancestry?
CONTEST: Describe an article of clothing with unusual, magical properties.
[Originally posted 3/8/07]
107. The Ossuaries
Contest winners: Potterpig, Norman Greene, zanaboo, jatibbal, Linda Carrig, rory86, Dragonic, _houdini, and Elizabeth
“So we went back downstream again. We had to find a way through that wall; that was our best chance. But after trying quite a few ideas that didn’t work, and having many arguments, each worse than the last, it began to look as if our group would break up and go separate ways. It was Rigel who finally saved us. We had landed him on one of the side-tunnels, where he had toddled off by himself...”
The silvery head of Merlin sank back into the Pensieve as the faces round the parlor table watched. Harvey pulled a handkerchief off his face (leaving it covered with another handkerchief, as per his custom at the Hog’s Head), and draped it over the Pensieve. The handkerchief fell flat against the table as the Pensieve vanished.
Sadie puffed on her pipe. Spanky used his great silver knife to carve a twist of lemon. Endora sipped at a smoking goblet. Joe Albuquerque continued to buff his nails, resplendent in his current disguise as a vivacious blonde in a knee-length skirt and a fuzzy pink pullover. All eyes were on Merlin.
Merlin sighed, torn between relief and wistfulness. “So it’s back to business as usual, then.”
“For now,” said Harvey. “Even though we’ve used your information to plan and execute our strike upon Gringotts, parts of your story remain untold. We burn with curiosity as to how one man could do the impossible not once, but twice. So you simply must tell us the rest of the tale of your first escape from Gringotts. Is everyone agreed?”
A chorus of “Certainly!” and “Not half!” or such expressions came from the corners of the table, where the original members of Harvey’s circle had finally reunited after many wild excursions.
“So then,” said Harvey, “after you abandoned the attempt to escape by the underground river, what happened next?”
“Well,” said Merlin, after pausing for a deep breath and an even deeper drink from his goblet, “I followed Rigel down the passage from the boat landing, and the others followed me. After several twists and turns, ups and downs, we suddenly came to a great vaulted chamber all done up in polished marble and gold flake. Set on pedestals all through the place, and in recesses in the walls, were small chests.
“We were just about to start prying the lids off some of the chests when Slavik screamed at us in four languages to stop. He knew exactly where we were somehow – scholarly chap, was Slavik. The chests didn’t contain magical items or even gold. They were ossuaries, said Slavik. The final resting places of the bones of dead goblins – and very important goblins too. I would rather not imagine what kind of curses would have come out if we had opened one of those chests.
“Each ossuary was made of smooth, polished stone, carved with glyphs and runes in some archaic dialect of Gobbledygook, and adorned at one end with a relief of a goblin’s head. Even in life they weren’t the handsomest or friendliest faces, and now in death they seemed to look out at us in baleful judgment, or perhaps a kind of chilling irony. The whole atmosphere of the room seemed to grow colder and creepier the more I looked around. I couldn’t help thinking that we were in a tomb – and wondering if it was going to be our tomb. There didn’t seem to be any way out but the way we had come, and we were out of options.
“I sat down on a bare pedestal, facing a corner of the room that didn’t have many ossuaries in it, and began composing a speech in my mind – conceding defeat, and accepting our doom then and there. Slavik and the clowns went around the room, prodding the walls and the floor for signs of a secret passage. The other Durmstrang lads huddled near the entrance, too unnerved to come in any farther. With a corner of my eye, out of habit, I kept a watch on young Rigel as he skipped around, pausing now and then to run his fingers over a stone goblin’s face.
“I said before that he toddled, but now that I think of it, he had grown a good bit past toddling, and was rather at the stage where they never stop asking questions. Only now he wasn’t asking anything. If I hadn’t been so busy preparing a grim summation, I would have wondered what he was up to. As it turns out, Rigel was remembering things he had learned in his first childhood by listening – actually listening! – to Professor Binns in History of Magic.
“'Crookchin,' he said, very insistently. I realized that he had said it five or six times while I wasn’t listening. He came over to me and tugged on my sleeve until I followed him round the opposite end of a particularly ornate ossuary. He pointed at the face carved in relief in the stone. ‘Crookchin,’ he repeated again.
“'That’s lovely,' I said in a patient voice, and patted his head. As far as I knew, he was describing the goblin’s facial features, or making up names for the carved heads. ‘Yes, Crookchin indeed,’ I said indulgently. ‘I seem to recall he was involved in that scandal about spinning straw into gold.’
“'Don’t be stupid,' piped Rigel. ‘Crookchin was a pioneer in the dragon-spotting school of treasure gathering. Thanks to his reforms, Gringotts achieved solvency for the first time since the Goblin Rebellion of 1438.’
“'Oh,' I said. It was becoming one of those increasingly frequent, bemusing moments when the old, grown-up Rigel seemed to be speaking through his new, tiny self. ‘Well, that’s nice to know,’ I added, recovering my self-possession. ‘Why don’t you take a look around, and when you’re done, you can tell me all about...’
“'This one over here is Hangnail the Putrid,' Rigel cut in, dragging me over to another ossuary. ‘His attempt to levy a tax on wizards’ and witches’ use of magic resulted in a boycott that lasted until Hangnail was killed by a falling piano. They say it wasn’t an accident.’
“’Whoever they are, they’re probably right,’ I said.
“’It didn’t happen soon enough to stop 8,500 goblins going bankrupt. They had to go into slavery, like house-elves. Over here is Vaultpawl the Sticky, who ended the goblin slave trade in 1765 by paying off all the owners. He ended up falling into a vat of molten silver and being struck into coins. Definitely not an accident; a disgruntled stockholder was seen giving him a push...’
“’Look, Rigel,’ I said, ‘This is all terribly interesting, but just now I have to think about something. Can we continue this history lesson another time?’
“He ignored me – or rather, he tightened his grip on my sleeve and forced me to view the graven image of Winzebind, who was celebrated for his charity work – for instance, he donated huge piles of gold for building St. Roz’s Parish Church in Leicester Square, the one that famously disappeared when its Secret Keeper absconded, as well as Our Lady of the Levitating Pulpit in Diagon Alley. His stockholders loved him because the donations were deductible from the Reparation Payments the Wizengamot demanded after the biting-knuts incident of 1511.
“I had only the vaguest notion of Professor Binns having talked about this stuff when I was at Hogwarts. Rigel rattled it all off as if it was his most vivid memory, and his enthusiasm was infectious. Instead of thinking about giving up and dying, I followed him around the tomb. He showed me the ossuary of Kreakjoint, who instituted the tradition of eating roasted niffler on the Sundays in Lent; Mokosh, Fachtna, and Cascrak, the far-sighted estate goblins who bought loads of land surrounded by hedges, which the bank sold generations later when we wizards ran out of well-hidden places to live; Bloodknot and Boulderfist, whose security measures in the 12th century resulted in the capture of Robin Steele, the last wizard to carry off a successful series of Gringotts burglaries.
“Finally we came to the ossuary of the conjoined twin goblins, Scythefinger and Screwfoot, who designed many of the miles of confusing tunnels, ghastly chambers, and deadly traps we had already been through. Their ossuary was bigger and more elaborate than most of the others. It actually showed the goblin brothers from head to toe, one of them with a twisted foot, the other with a long curved finger pointing out of the stone. Rigel reached out and gingerly touched the stone finger – and it moved.
“’Look out,’ I said, but he touched it again – pulled it downward, even – and without even a whisper of sound, the large ossuary slid sideways and revealed a set of stairs, lit by torches that suddenly flaired up.
“’Hey! Over here!’ I yelled, and the clowns and Durmstrang lads came running. ‘There’s a way out of here!’
“’But vhere does it lead?’ Karl asked, holding Slavik back from rushing down the stairs.
“’There is only one way to find out,’ said Don Pagliai. ‘We must go down these steps.’
“’But that is insanity,’ said Karl. ‘Haffen’t ve fallen into enough traps to learn not to...’
“’Scythefinger and Screwfoot were architects,’ Rigel yelled, so as to drown out any other discussion. He had been doing a great deal of this sort of thing, lately. ‘This must be how they got in and out while they were building this place.’
“’Nonsense,’ scoffed Karl. ‘They could have used the river, at least until that invisible wall was put up.’
“’They may have done that with the materials and the workers,’ Don Pagliai reasoned. ‘But surely, there had to be a quicker way in and out, while all this was being built?’
“’Let’s go down it,’ Slavik said restlessly.
“’Let’s stay,’ said Karl.
“’We’ll die here,’ said Don Pagliai.
“’Ve can go back to the vand tree preserve,’ said Karl.
“’I don’t want to live in a bloody bird sanctuary!’ Rigel screamed, and after kicking as many shins as he could reach, he took advantage of the lot of us being doubled over in pain and ran down the steps.”
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE +++
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].
SURVEY: Do some wizards and witches get any formal education after Hogwarts? If so, where? (A) Trade school or on-the-job training only. (B) A magical college tucked away in a major university. (C) Mainly private research. (D) Other—please describe.
CONTEST: Describe a way a wizarding parent might discipline a naughty, wizarding child.
The Survey answer that gets the most votes, and the Contest entry that Robbie likes the most, will be featured in Magic Quill #109. So be sure to visit our Discussion Thread – and if you aren’t a member of COS Forums, join today!
[Originally posted 11/12/06]
“So we went back downstream again. We had to find a way through that wall; that was our best chance. But after trying quite a few ideas that didn’t work, and having many arguments, each worse than the last, it began to look as if our group would break up and go separate ways. It was Rigel who finally saved us. We had landed him on one of the side-tunnels, where he had toddled off by himself...”
The silvery head of Merlin sank back into the Pensieve as the faces round the parlor table watched. Harvey pulled a handkerchief off his face (leaving it covered with another handkerchief, as per his custom at the Hog’s Head), and draped it over the Pensieve. The handkerchief fell flat against the table as the Pensieve vanished.
Sadie puffed on her pipe. Spanky used his great silver knife to carve a twist of lemon. Endora sipped at a smoking goblet. Joe Albuquerque continued to buff his nails, resplendent in his current disguise as a vivacious blonde in a knee-length skirt and a fuzzy pink pullover. All eyes were on Merlin.
Merlin sighed, torn between relief and wistfulness. “So it’s back to business as usual, then.”
“For now,” said Harvey. “Even though we’ve used your information to plan and execute our strike upon Gringotts, parts of your story remain untold. We burn with curiosity as to how one man could do the impossible not once, but twice. So you simply must tell us the rest of the tale of your first escape from Gringotts. Is everyone agreed?”
A chorus of “Certainly!” and “Not half!” or such expressions came from the corners of the table, where the original members of Harvey’s circle had finally reunited after many wild excursions.
“So then,” said Harvey, “after you abandoned the attempt to escape by the underground river, what happened next?”
“Well,” said Merlin, after pausing for a deep breath and an even deeper drink from his goblet, “I followed Rigel down the passage from the boat landing, and the others followed me. After several twists and turns, ups and downs, we suddenly came to a great vaulted chamber all done up in polished marble and gold flake. Set on pedestals all through the place, and in recesses in the walls, were small chests.
“We were just about to start prying the lids off some of the chests when Slavik screamed at us in four languages to stop. He knew exactly where we were somehow – scholarly chap, was Slavik. The chests didn’t contain magical items or even gold. They were ossuaries, said Slavik. The final resting places of the bones of dead goblins – and very important goblins too. I would rather not imagine what kind of curses would have come out if we had opened one of those chests.
“Each ossuary was made of smooth, polished stone, carved with glyphs and runes in some archaic dialect of Gobbledygook, and adorned at one end with a relief of a goblin’s head. Even in life they weren’t the handsomest or friendliest faces, and now in death they seemed to look out at us in baleful judgment, or perhaps a kind of chilling irony. The whole atmosphere of the room seemed to grow colder and creepier the more I looked around. I couldn’t help thinking that we were in a tomb – and wondering if it was going to be our tomb. There didn’t seem to be any way out but the way we had come, and we were out of options.
“I sat down on a bare pedestal, facing a corner of the room that didn’t have many ossuaries in it, and began composing a speech in my mind – conceding defeat, and accepting our doom then and there. Slavik and the clowns went around the room, prodding the walls and the floor for signs of a secret passage. The other Durmstrang lads huddled near the entrance, too unnerved to come in any farther. With a corner of my eye, out of habit, I kept a watch on young Rigel as he skipped around, pausing now and then to run his fingers over a stone goblin’s face.
“I said before that he toddled, but now that I think of it, he had grown a good bit past toddling, and was rather at the stage where they never stop asking questions. Only now he wasn’t asking anything. If I hadn’t been so busy preparing a grim summation, I would have wondered what he was up to. As it turns out, Rigel was remembering things he had learned in his first childhood by listening – actually listening! – to Professor Binns in History of Magic.
“'Crookchin,' he said, very insistently. I realized that he had said it five or six times while I wasn’t listening. He came over to me and tugged on my sleeve until I followed him round the opposite end of a particularly ornate ossuary. He pointed at the face carved in relief in the stone. ‘Crookchin,’ he repeated again.
“'That’s lovely,' I said in a patient voice, and patted his head. As far as I knew, he was describing the goblin’s facial features, or making up names for the carved heads. ‘Yes, Crookchin indeed,’ I said indulgently. ‘I seem to recall he was involved in that scandal about spinning straw into gold.’
“'Don’t be stupid,' piped Rigel. ‘Crookchin was a pioneer in the dragon-spotting school of treasure gathering. Thanks to his reforms, Gringotts achieved solvency for the first time since the Goblin Rebellion of 1438.’
“'Oh,' I said. It was becoming one of those increasingly frequent, bemusing moments when the old, grown-up Rigel seemed to be speaking through his new, tiny self. ‘Well, that’s nice to know,’ I added, recovering my self-possession. ‘Why don’t you take a look around, and when you’re done, you can tell me all about...’
“'This one over here is Hangnail the Putrid,' Rigel cut in, dragging me over to another ossuary. ‘His attempt to levy a tax on wizards’ and witches’ use of magic resulted in a boycott that lasted until Hangnail was killed by a falling piano. They say it wasn’t an accident.’
“’Whoever they are, they’re probably right,’ I said.
“’It didn’t happen soon enough to stop 8,500 goblins going bankrupt. They had to go into slavery, like house-elves. Over here is Vaultpawl the Sticky, who ended the goblin slave trade in 1765 by paying off all the owners. He ended up falling into a vat of molten silver and being struck into coins. Definitely not an accident; a disgruntled stockholder was seen giving him a push...’
“’Look, Rigel,’ I said, ‘This is all terribly interesting, but just now I have to think about something. Can we continue this history lesson another time?’
“He ignored me – or rather, he tightened his grip on my sleeve and forced me to view the graven image of Winzebind, who was celebrated for his charity work – for instance, he donated huge piles of gold for building St. Roz’s Parish Church in Leicester Square, the one that famously disappeared when its Secret Keeper absconded, as well as Our Lady of the Levitating Pulpit in Diagon Alley. His stockholders loved him because the donations were deductible from the Reparation Payments the Wizengamot demanded after the biting-knuts incident of 1511.
“I had only the vaguest notion of Professor Binns having talked about this stuff when I was at Hogwarts. Rigel rattled it all off as if it was his most vivid memory, and his enthusiasm was infectious. Instead of thinking about giving up and dying, I followed him around the tomb. He showed me the ossuary of Kreakjoint, who instituted the tradition of eating roasted niffler on the Sundays in Lent; Mokosh, Fachtna, and Cascrak, the far-sighted estate goblins who bought loads of land surrounded by hedges, which the bank sold generations later when we wizards ran out of well-hidden places to live; Bloodknot and Boulderfist, whose security measures in the 12th century resulted in the capture of Robin Steele, the last wizard to carry off a successful series of Gringotts burglaries.
“Finally we came to the ossuary of the conjoined twin goblins, Scythefinger and Screwfoot, who designed many of the miles of confusing tunnels, ghastly chambers, and deadly traps we had already been through. Their ossuary was bigger and more elaborate than most of the others. It actually showed the goblin brothers from head to toe, one of them with a twisted foot, the other with a long curved finger pointing out of the stone. Rigel reached out and gingerly touched the stone finger – and it moved.
“’Look out,’ I said, but he touched it again – pulled it downward, even – and without even a whisper of sound, the large ossuary slid sideways and revealed a set of stairs, lit by torches that suddenly flaired up.
“’Hey! Over here!’ I yelled, and the clowns and Durmstrang lads came running. ‘There’s a way out of here!’
“’But vhere does it lead?’ Karl asked, holding Slavik back from rushing down the stairs.
“’There is only one way to find out,’ said Don Pagliai. ‘We must go down these steps.’
“’But that is insanity,’ said Karl. ‘Haffen’t ve fallen into enough traps to learn not to...’
“’Scythefinger and Screwfoot were architects,’ Rigel yelled, so as to drown out any other discussion. He had been doing a great deal of this sort of thing, lately. ‘This must be how they got in and out while they were building this place.’
“’Nonsense,’ scoffed Karl. ‘They could have used the river, at least until that invisible wall was put up.’
“’They may have done that with the materials and the workers,’ Don Pagliai reasoned. ‘But surely, there had to be a quicker way in and out, while all this was being built?’
“’Let’s go down it,’ Slavik said restlessly.
“’Let’s stay,’ said Karl.
“’We’ll die here,’ said Don Pagliai.
“’Ve can go back to the vand tree preserve,’ said Karl.
“’I don’t want to live in a bloody bird sanctuary!’ Rigel screamed, and after kicking as many shins as he could reach, he took advantage of the lot of us being doubled over in pain and ran down the steps.”
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE +++
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].
SURVEY: Do some wizards and witches get any formal education after Hogwarts? If so, where? (A) Trade school or on-the-job training only. (B) A magical college tucked away in a major university. (C) Mainly private research. (D) Other—please describe.
CONTEST: Describe a way a wizarding parent might discipline a naughty, wizarding child.
The Survey answer that gets the most votes, and the Contest entry that Robbie likes the most, will be featured in Magic Quill #109. So be sure to visit our Discussion Thread – and if you aren’t a member of COS Forums, join today!
[Originally posted 11/12/06]
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
102. The Drains
Contest winners: _houdini, myndon, jatibbal and floribunda
A 9-foot cargo van veered to a halt, with one tire on the pavement in front of a tall residential hotel. The van had the words “Warehouse on Wheels: Home Removals Made a ‘Wiz’! For daily rates, pop your head in the Floo and ask for Manny” painted on it in Muggleblind colors.
The hotel had an awning with the words “The Drains” painted on it for all to see. Under the awning stood a doorman, who quickly tucked the employment page of The Daily Prophet inside his waistcoat, and a charcoal pencil under his cap. He held the door open and stood at attention as Harvey, Spanky, Joe, and Merlin piled out of the front left door of the van, followed (impossibly, one would think) by Tip, all three clown wizards, Anatoly, and the burly, illustrated wizard who had come along with Anatoly. The doorman managed not to look surprised by the van’s front-seat passenger complement.
“Well, here is my humble abode,” Harvey said, waving his hands modestly at the huge building.
“This little thing?” said Joe, who today was disguised as Quasimodo. Due to the angle of his spine, he had to struggle to get a view of the building’s great height. “Phew,” he panted. “I don’t suppose it has above two dozen gargoyles.”
“You can play with them later,” said Harvey, going round to open the back doors of the van. “And really, I only live in the top two or three floors.”
“Ah,” said Anatoly, knowledgeably. “Is called Pentacle, yes?”
“In some societies, I daresay,” Harvey grunted. He and Tip had one end of a large barrel, and together they were tugging it out the rear door of the van so that Spanky and Merlin could grab the other end. The doorman looked on in boredom, even though the barrel seemed larger than the cargo area of the van.
“You couldn’t help a bit, could you?” Spanky snapped at Joe, as the four men huffed and puffed under the weight of the barrel.
“You’re doing fine,” said Joe, rubbing his hump. “Besides, I’ve got a bad back.”
With the help of Anatoly and his friend, the wizards got the first barrel onto the magic carpet, which the clown wizards had spread out on the pavement meanwhile. “Window’s open,” Harvey panted. Don Pagliai nodded, and the carpet began its ascent up the front of the building, bulging dangerously at the bottom while the three clowns struggled to balance the barrel on it.
“I could have levitated it the whole way, sir,” the doorman volunteered smugly.
“Let me know before you try that,” Harvey replied. “Give me plenty of time to move out of range, too. I wouldn’t aim my wand at that stuff – ignites too easily.”
Merlin stretched his arms, sniffed the air, and asked, “Why is your building called The Drains?”
“It used to be the Fitz-Fritz,” said Harvey. “But estate agents and rich Muggles kept coming round. I thought about doing some kind of magic to keep them away, but I decided that changing the name would be easier.”
“Ah,” said Merlin, rubbing his chin. “Yes, I suppose that would do it. So it’s all witches and wizards that live here? I’ve never heard of it.”
“People in our position – speaking on behalf of my fellow residents – don’t like our private address to be widely known. I say, here come the clowns! I take it, from the lack of dragon bogeys and wood splinters falling from the sky, that all went well?”
“Indeed, Signor Harvey,” said Don Pagliai, as Signor Boccachiusa made emphatic signs of agreement. “The house-elves are taking care of everything at that end. However, they did not take to Signor Subito as readily as I had hoped.”
The shortest of the three clowns looked furious. Whatever he was saying in his native tongue did not sound particularly friendly.
“They mistook him for one of their own, only with clothes,” Don Pagliai explained sadly. “I had to raise my voice to stop them ripping Signor Subito’s trousers off.”
Subito concluded his bout of incomprehensible swearing with an emphatic snap of his braces.
“Well, I’m sure they won’t make the same mistake another time,” said Harvey. “Ready for the second barrel, gentlemen? One down, twenty-seven to go.”
After the sixteenth barrel was removed from the van, the six heavy-lifters were resting on the pavement clutching sweat-soaked handkerchiefs when Joe decided to take an interest in the doorman. The latter was no longer concealing his search through the employment pages.
“Moving onward and upward, I take it?” Joe said slyly.
“No doubt of it,” said the doorman. “There has to be a better career than this. You know I’ve been holding this door open for fourteen months? And does any of these rich witches in their yeti-fur cloaks give me a tip? Eh? Or how about their husbands, the deputy grand warlock of so-and-so and the sub-assistant minister of what have you? Eh? Eh? Don’t even use the door, do they? Pinch of Floo powder ‘ere, Apparition there, broomstick on an overcast night. Even when they come home drunk from The Leaky Cauldron, the Knight Bus drops ‘em in their hallway upstairs...daftest job in London...”
“So what have you got circled?” asked Joe. “Let’s see there. ‘Hate Mail Wizard’? What does that one say?”
The doorman, looking flattered by the hunchback’s interest, gave the newspaper a brisk shake and began to read out loud.
"'Minister for Magic seeks personal assistant. Duties to include checking the Minister’s daily correspondence for curses, poisons, howlers, and other traps. Ear plugs and dragon-hide gloves provided; anti-jinx expertise preferred.’ See, I could do that.”
Joe scratched his deformed head. “I just wonder...”
“What?”
“I wonder why Mr. Scrimgeour should want someone to check his daily mail, when it would be so much simpler for him to stop sending things like that.”
The doorman looked puzzled.
“Nevermind,” said Joe brightly. “Read that other one.”
“Oh, yes. It says, ‘Pyromarketer needed to visit random wizarding homes via Floo powder and offer them a range of highly discounted products. Caution: While current wizarding laws and common sense forbid actually entering a wizarding home uninvited, injury can still occur while talking with one's head in the fire. Annual reports indicate that the number of Pyromarketer complaints of "being severely poked in the eye" has skyrocketed in recent years. Applicants are required to sign a liability waiver and to provide their own protective eyewear.’ I don’t know, that one doesn’t sound half as good when you read it out loud.”
“I suppose not,” Joe agreed. “How about that PortaPuffy thing?”
“’PortaPuffy Service Mage,’ it says. ‘Banshee & Sons, makers of Banishing Cream, the self-sweeping Ashwinder Broom, and other pest products, announces the launch of the PortaPuffy: A permanent portkey that you set under couches, beds, dressers -- wherever Puffskeins breed -- to port them safely away, ensuring that you never again find yourself up to your armpits in the fuzzy little darlings. Delivery and repair magicians needed urgently; allergy testing and training provided...’ I don’t know, though. That ‘permanent portkey’ bit sounds dodgy.”
“You’re absolutely right,” said Joe. “Yet, it sounds a bit nicer than this spot for a Magical Manure Sample Processor.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t mind that,” said the doorman. “I haven’t had a sense of smell since that bludger crushed my nose, last game of my seventh year at Hogwarts...”
“That’s never...!” Tip looked round, squinted, hopped to his feet and went in for a closer look. “Ted? Teddy Smith? I didn’t recognize you with the nose and all.”
The doorman turned red and mumbled something like, “I’m sure the gentleman is mistaken.”
“You were the Yule Ball King the year old Kettleburn’s fake hand fell into the punchbowl. When it turned up in your goblet, we carried you around the Great Hall on our shoulders and sang ‘All hail the three-handed wizard’! You only missed being Head Boy by a handful of votes! We voted you ‘Most Likely to Become Minister for Magic by Age 40!’ You captained the Hufflepuff side to within sixty points of...what happened to you?”
The doorman looked very uncomfortable now. Then he looked closer at Tip. “Hang on,” he said. “Now I remember you. You were the bloke that busted every instrument in the school band. Ed, or Ned, or...”
“Tip,” said Tip. “Tip Smith.”
“Right....Weren’t you in some singing group or other? After we left school, I mean.”
“Nasal Drip,” Tip said, though perhaps a bit wistfully.
The doorman grinned, feeling much better. “Yeah, I remember you now.”
Joe’s enjoyment of this conversation was interrupted when someone bumped into him – someone walking out the front door of The Drains for all that the doorman complained that no one used the door – someone walking backwards.
“Hey,” said Joe irritably.
“Excuse me,” said Harvey, continuing to walk backwards down the street and around the corner.
Joe scratched a wart on his nose in a bemused way. He looked down at the curb, where the others were still resting and wiping their sweaty faces. He hadn’t noticed that Harvey had left the group. Joe did a quick head-count – five sets of slumped shoulders. With the clowns upstairs, and Tip and himself talking with the doorman, and Harvey around the corner, there should only have been four wizards sitting there...
Harvey turned around from where he was sitting on the curb, shooting an irritated look at Joe. “What?” he asked.
“What what?” Joe asked back, nonplussed.
Harvey shrugged. “I could feel your eyes burning a hole in my back. Is something wrong?”
“No,” Joe said hastily. “Not that I know of.” But at the same time he asked himself: Am I losing my mind?
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE +++
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].
SURVEY: On a scale of 1 to 10, how much would you like to hear about each of the following:? (A) The rest of Merlin’s escape from Gringotts. (B) The rest of Spanky’s story about the werewolf he encountered in TMQ #2. (C) How Sadie made and lost each of her fortunes. (D) What happens to Harvey as he lives backward in time.
CONTEST: Briefly describe an historical event or situation that would seem very odd to a present-day wizard.
The Survey answer that gets the most votes, and the Contest entry that Robbie likes the most, will be featured in Magic Quill #104. So be sure to visit our Discussion Thread – and if you aren’t a member of COS Forums, join today!
[Originally posted 9/24/06]
A 9-foot cargo van veered to a halt, with one tire on the pavement in front of a tall residential hotel. The van had the words “Warehouse on Wheels: Home Removals Made a ‘Wiz’! For daily rates, pop your head in the Floo and ask for Manny” painted on it in Muggleblind colors.
The hotel had an awning with the words “The Drains” painted on it for all to see. Under the awning stood a doorman, who quickly tucked the employment page of The Daily Prophet inside his waistcoat, and a charcoal pencil under his cap. He held the door open and stood at attention as Harvey, Spanky, Joe, and Merlin piled out of the front left door of the van, followed (impossibly, one would think) by Tip, all three clown wizards, Anatoly, and the burly, illustrated wizard who had come along with Anatoly. The doorman managed not to look surprised by the van’s front-seat passenger complement.
“Well, here is my humble abode,” Harvey said, waving his hands modestly at the huge building.
“This little thing?” said Joe, who today was disguised as Quasimodo. Due to the angle of his spine, he had to struggle to get a view of the building’s great height. “Phew,” he panted. “I don’t suppose it has above two dozen gargoyles.”
“You can play with them later,” said Harvey, going round to open the back doors of the van. “And really, I only live in the top two or three floors.”
“Ah,” said Anatoly, knowledgeably. “Is called Pentacle, yes?”
“In some societies, I daresay,” Harvey grunted. He and Tip had one end of a large barrel, and together they were tugging it out the rear door of the van so that Spanky and Merlin could grab the other end. The doorman looked on in boredom, even though the barrel seemed larger than the cargo area of the van.
“You couldn’t help a bit, could you?” Spanky snapped at Joe, as the four men huffed and puffed under the weight of the barrel.
“You’re doing fine,” said Joe, rubbing his hump. “Besides, I’ve got a bad back.”
With the help of Anatoly and his friend, the wizards got the first barrel onto the magic carpet, which the clown wizards had spread out on the pavement meanwhile. “Window’s open,” Harvey panted. Don Pagliai nodded, and the carpet began its ascent up the front of the building, bulging dangerously at the bottom while the three clowns struggled to balance the barrel on it.
“I could have levitated it the whole way, sir,” the doorman volunteered smugly.
“Let me know before you try that,” Harvey replied. “Give me plenty of time to move out of range, too. I wouldn’t aim my wand at that stuff – ignites too easily.”
Merlin stretched his arms, sniffed the air, and asked, “Why is your building called The Drains?”
“It used to be the Fitz-Fritz,” said Harvey. “But estate agents and rich Muggles kept coming round. I thought about doing some kind of magic to keep them away, but I decided that changing the name would be easier.”
“Ah,” said Merlin, rubbing his chin. “Yes, I suppose that would do it. So it’s all witches and wizards that live here? I’ve never heard of it.”
“People in our position – speaking on behalf of my fellow residents – don’t like our private address to be widely known. I say, here come the clowns! I take it, from the lack of dragon bogeys and wood splinters falling from the sky, that all went well?”
“Indeed, Signor Harvey,” said Don Pagliai, as Signor Boccachiusa made emphatic signs of agreement. “The house-elves are taking care of everything at that end. However, they did not take to Signor Subito as readily as I had hoped.”
The shortest of the three clowns looked furious. Whatever he was saying in his native tongue did not sound particularly friendly.
“They mistook him for one of their own, only with clothes,” Don Pagliai explained sadly. “I had to raise my voice to stop them ripping Signor Subito’s trousers off.”
Subito concluded his bout of incomprehensible swearing with an emphatic snap of his braces.
“Well, I’m sure they won’t make the same mistake another time,” said Harvey. “Ready for the second barrel, gentlemen? One down, twenty-seven to go.”
After the sixteenth barrel was removed from the van, the six heavy-lifters were resting on the pavement clutching sweat-soaked handkerchiefs when Joe decided to take an interest in the doorman. The latter was no longer concealing his search through the employment pages.
“Moving onward and upward, I take it?” Joe said slyly.
“No doubt of it,” said the doorman. “There has to be a better career than this. You know I’ve been holding this door open for fourteen months? And does any of these rich witches in their yeti-fur cloaks give me a tip? Eh? Or how about their husbands, the deputy grand warlock of so-and-so and the sub-assistant minister of what have you? Eh? Eh? Don’t even use the door, do they? Pinch of Floo powder ‘ere, Apparition there, broomstick on an overcast night. Even when they come home drunk from The Leaky Cauldron, the Knight Bus drops ‘em in their hallway upstairs...daftest job in London...”
“So what have you got circled?” asked Joe. “Let’s see there. ‘Hate Mail Wizard’? What does that one say?”
The doorman, looking flattered by the hunchback’s interest, gave the newspaper a brisk shake and began to read out loud.
"'Minister for Magic seeks personal assistant. Duties to include checking the Minister’s daily correspondence for curses, poisons, howlers, and other traps. Ear plugs and dragon-hide gloves provided; anti-jinx expertise preferred.’ See, I could do that.”
Joe scratched his deformed head. “I just wonder...”
“What?”
“I wonder why Mr. Scrimgeour should want someone to check his daily mail, when it would be so much simpler for him to stop sending things like that.”
The doorman looked puzzled.
“Nevermind,” said Joe brightly. “Read that other one.”
“Oh, yes. It says, ‘Pyromarketer needed to visit random wizarding homes via Floo powder and offer them a range of highly discounted products. Caution: While current wizarding laws and common sense forbid actually entering a wizarding home uninvited, injury can still occur while talking with one's head in the fire. Annual reports indicate that the number of Pyromarketer complaints of "being severely poked in the eye" has skyrocketed in recent years. Applicants are required to sign a liability waiver and to provide their own protective eyewear.’ I don’t know, that one doesn’t sound half as good when you read it out loud.”
“I suppose not,” Joe agreed. “How about that PortaPuffy thing?”
“’PortaPuffy Service Mage,’ it says. ‘Banshee & Sons, makers of Banishing Cream, the self-sweeping Ashwinder Broom, and other pest products, announces the launch of the PortaPuffy: A permanent portkey that you set under couches, beds, dressers -- wherever Puffskeins breed -- to port them safely away, ensuring that you never again find yourself up to your armpits in the fuzzy little darlings. Delivery and repair magicians needed urgently; allergy testing and training provided...’ I don’t know, though. That ‘permanent portkey’ bit sounds dodgy.”
“You’re absolutely right,” said Joe. “Yet, it sounds a bit nicer than this spot for a Magical Manure Sample Processor.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t mind that,” said the doorman. “I haven’t had a sense of smell since that bludger crushed my nose, last game of my seventh year at Hogwarts...”
“That’s never...!” Tip looked round, squinted, hopped to his feet and went in for a closer look. “Ted? Teddy Smith? I didn’t recognize you with the nose and all.”
The doorman turned red and mumbled something like, “I’m sure the gentleman is mistaken.”
“You were the Yule Ball King the year old Kettleburn’s fake hand fell into the punchbowl. When it turned up in your goblet, we carried you around the Great Hall on our shoulders and sang ‘All hail the three-handed wizard’! You only missed being Head Boy by a handful of votes! We voted you ‘Most Likely to Become Minister for Magic by Age 40!’ You captained the Hufflepuff side to within sixty points of...what happened to you?”
The doorman looked very uncomfortable now. Then he looked closer at Tip. “Hang on,” he said. “Now I remember you. You were the bloke that busted every instrument in the school band. Ed, or Ned, or...”
“Tip,” said Tip. “Tip Smith.”
“Right....Weren’t you in some singing group or other? After we left school, I mean.”
“Nasal Drip,” Tip said, though perhaps a bit wistfully.
The doorman grinned, feeling much better. “Yeah, I remember you now.”
Joe’s enjoyment of this conversation was interrupted when someone bumped into him – someone walking out the front door of The Drains for all that the doorman complained that no one used the door – someone walking backwards.
“Hey,” said Joe irritably.
“Excuse me,” said Harvey, continuing to walk backwards down the street and around the corner.
Joe scratched a wart on his nose in a bemused way. He looked down at the curb, where the others were still resting and wiping their sweaty faces. He hadn’t noticed that Harvey had left the group. Joe did a quick head-count – five sets of slumped shoulders. With the clowns upstairs, and Tip and himself talking with the doorman, and Harvey around the corner, there should only have been four wizards sitting there...
Harvey turned around from where he was sitting on the curb, shooting an irritated look at Joe. “What?” he asked.
“What what?” Joe asked back, nonplussed.
Harvey shrugged. “I could feel your eyes burning a hole in my back. Is something wrong?”
“No,” Joe said hastily. “Not that I know of.” But at the same time he asked himself: Am I losing my mind?
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE +++
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].
SURVEY: On a scale of 1 to 10, how much would you like to hear about each of the following:? (A) The rest of Merlin’s escape from Gringotts. (B) The rest of Spanky’s story about the werewolf he encountered in TMQ #2. (C) How Sadie made and lost each of her fortunes. (D) What happens to Harvey as he lives backward in time.
CONTEST: Briefly describe an historical event or situation that would seem very odd to a present-day wizard.
The Survey answer that gets the most votes, and the Contest entry that Robbie likes the most, will be featured in Magic Quill #104. So be sure to visit our Discussion Thread – and if you aren’t a member of COS Forums, join today!
[Originally posted 9/24/06]
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