13. The Bette Noir Affair

Concepts contributed by: Jessica Parker and Clare

"...I was out with some old schoolfellows, celebrating somebody's last weekend of bachelorhood. After chasing around one noisy, upbeat place after another, we found a certain quiet little pub to be a pleasant change and were catching up."

As Spanky paused for a sip of firewhisky, the veiled witch called Sadie chimed in: "Catching up on what? Drinks?"

"That too, but mainly each other. Some of us had gone quite separate ways, and of course I was a couple years younger than most of them, so I was really out of touch. The groom-to-be was doing very well but that was no surprise. He was one of the most powerful wizards of my generation and a fine scholar in his day. His best man came from old money and was always mentioned in the Hogsmeade society pages. Both of them had high-paying jobs that kept them in the headlines. The groom was marrying his Hogwarts sweetheart, on whom we had all had a crush at one point or another, and some of us still did. So we had a lot of toasting to do, and a great deal of roasting, and a bit of inebriated prognostication-for those of us who could still remember any of our Divination course work. A late night was already turning toward early morning when the gents came round to asking what had become of me.

"I replied that my career was progressing slowly but surely. But the interest that was riveted on me, as I described my work, surprised me. Their reactions were so out of proportion, I wondered if I was saying something wrong. For instance, one of my friends was an out-at-the-elbows sort who was scraping just enough to live on, working as a human test subject for animal tranquilizers. The worst part was that he could only work one day a month--for safety reasons, he said. Well, when I said that I had gone into the Bureau expecting an exciting career destroying vampires and werewolves, only to find myself spending a lot of time chasing down petty dragon smugglers, this fellow slammed his drink down on the table and stood up. At once the groom and the best man pulled him aside and they talked among themselves for a while before coming back to the table. I tried to dismiss a worry that my old friend was smuggling dragons and kept talking as naturally as I could.

"By then I was finishing my tale about Penguarts and suiCider and was saying something like, 'But it's not always that exciting. Most weeks I don't do anything more dangerous than serve a citation on, say, an unregistered animagus. Small-time stuff.' At that another of my old friends, a chubby little guy with beady eyes, started choking on his ale and it was the best man who surged to his feet, only he just went off by himself for a while, until the groom got anxious and went to fetch him.

"At that point, conversation had moved on to the good old days at Hogwarts, and all the people and traditions there that we used to find silly and annoying. My mate Otis was just finishing a long rant about how stupid it was that we had to bring our owls up on the school train when they could have flown back and forth perfectly well, when the best man and the groom came back to the table. When Otis paused for breath, I cut in and said I thought the stupidest thing at Hogwarts was the whomping willow and whoever had it planted there was without a doubt a complete and utter wanker.

"God help me, I don't know what I had said wrong, but at these words the bridegroom-to-be lunged across the table and tried to get his hands around my throat. Ale splashed, glass crashed, tables and chairs went flying, and before the tapster hit us all with body-bind spells we were all rolling on the floor, punching anyone we could reach. The party broke up after that, and a lot of those guys wouldn't speak to me for a while."

As Spanky paused for another drink, Harvey's eyes smiled at the others, and he tapped the side of his handkerchief-covered nose.

"So I went home to sleep it off and instead spent half the morning lying awake, trying to work out where I had gone wrong. And that was when I got paged."

"Paged?" Endora asked, perplexed. "What's that?"

"It's a little way the RMB have of keeping in touch with their agents. Out of thin air there's a burst of purple flame and a rolled up bit of onionskin paper appears. This one flamed up right above my head, and the scroll hit my chest before I could flinch. I unrolled the page and read in the spiky handwriting of my superintendent-you remember Iovanescu?-that my leave was canceled, as I was urgently required by the local office. I was given coordinates to apparate and instructions to dress for warm weather.

"I changed my robes and popped in to the local office, which wasn't really so much a Mission as a public liaison office. They handled complaints, stored old records, and handled security arrangements for the Gryffindor Trust. But there wasn't anyone on staff who had actually had the business end of a wand brandished at him. They had never had a crime that couldn't be solved by going to the local jail, bailing out the most hungover wizard, and telling him they would drop all charges if he would put all the statue's body parts back where they belonged. One time a wizard had turned the standing stones near Salisbury into a set of draughts and hundreds of tourists had needed memory charms after that. But nothing really dangerous had ever happened around Blokebury-on-Rye, nothing really valuable had been stolen. Until now.

"The superintendent at Blokebury is a skinny chap who looks like a skeleton with skin stretched over it. Everyone calls him Hungry. He must be my father's age, but from the moment I walked into that office, I felt that he was in awe of me. It was a strange feeling, but it started to make up for the lousy night I'd had.

"'What's the problem?' I asked him. 'Haven't they told you?' he asked back. Why, the sword had been stolen from the Gryffindor Museum at Godric's Hollow. Not the sword, you know, not the one that belonged to the great man himself, but the perfect replica that was forged in the 18th century when the Trust bought the land back from a hop farmer named Snipewell. No one knew where the real sword was, but the Trust worried that the fake would be misrepresented as the real thing, used in some horrid fraud, or perhaps melted down and sold for scrap. Fake though it was, it was worth more galleons than any of us, saving your honor, has ever clapped eyes on."

Harvey nodded at the compliment and snapped his fingers to conjure another round of firewhisky.

"The honor of the RMB was at stake," Spanky went on. "No one knew better than Hungry, who had personally designed the web of enchantments that was supposed to make the sword impossible to steal. Whoever had done it must have been a dark witch or wizard of nearly unheard-of mastery. The one thing that soothed Hungry's anger was the fact that our culprit, amazing as he or she was, had not avoided leaving a trail. A tiny speck of fuzz had stuck to the felt pillow on which the sword had lain.

"I pulled a cauldron and portable fire out of my handy, four-dimensional pocketbook and began whipping up a potion. It was one that had already served me well on several occasions. I can't tell you what it's called, because I learned it in Moldova where they haven't discovered vowels yet; but the active ingredient is powdered pickled starfish. Put a bit of anything in it and it grows back the parts it has lost. Of course what you get can be no larger than your cauldron, so if you put in an elephant's toenail you'll end up with a cauldron-sized elephant with a really bad case of ingrown toenails. So don't think of making this stuff at home, it can lead to big problems.

"After the solution cooled, I dropped in the bit of fuzz, stirred it around for a while, and went out for a pint with Hungry. By the time we came back, the bit of fuzz had grown into a towel embroidered with the words Bilge Vista Hotel-Santa Perdita, California.

"'Very impressive,' said Hungry. 'And useful, perhaps.'

"'Thanks,' I said.

"Hungry beamed at me, holding the towel as though he wanted to rub himself with it. He said, 'This looks like the break we've been looking for. When can you leave?'

"'Leave?' I squeaked. 'Me?'

"'Who else?' Hungry said. He wiggled his wand over his desktop and an airplane ticket appeared there. 'Too far to go by floo or apparition,' he explained, as if answering my unspoken arguments, 'and you never want to assign a Portkey to a place you've never seen. As for flying on a broom, by the time you got there, the trail might be cold. Don't worry, this is an Air Merlin flight. Pumpkin juice cocktails, hinkypunk paté, acceleration-free, normal-air-pressure, levitation-powered flight. The flight attendants are all at least one-quarter Veela. And you can spend your frequent-flier miles at Quality Quidditch Supply.'

"'That's not what I'm concerned about,' I said.

"'What's the matter then?' asked Hungry.

"'I know someone in Santa Perdita,' I said. 'Someone who might be able to help in this.'

"'Excellent. Because your flight leaves in forty-two seconds, so you'd better go right now.'

"I went. I apparated on the plane, business class, with two seconds to spare. The flight to California seemed endless; it must have taken at least forty-five minutes. I don't know how Muggles put up with it, especially without the bigger-on-the-inside flight cabin. I arrived in California sweaty from a tennis match I played against one of the flight attendants, and discovered that I was underdressed after all. Santa Perdita is a small city on the coast of Southern California, and against all expectations, it was cold there. At least ten degrees cooler than in Blokebury. It was a sunny, breezy day in September and I was shivering in shorts and a polo shirt. My first thought was to curse Iovanescu for telling me to dress for warm weather. And then who should I find waiting for me at the gate but Joe Albuquerque, disguised as a flight attendant!

"'You're kinda cute,' I kidded him. 'That half-veela look really works for you.'

"'Well, it's a pain in the knickers, so hurry up,' Joe growled. 'Come on, I've got a portkey to the motel, but we can't use it in front of all these people. Do you see anything that looks like a broom cupboard?'

"I hurried after him as he walked away without giving me more than a glance. 'How did you...' I stammered. 'I mean, when did...or rather, where are we...?'

"'No time to explain,' Joe grunted. 'If the person behind this is who I think it is, your window of opportunity is closing fast.'

"'Who do you think it is?' I panted. 'What window? Why is it closing?'

"Joe snorted with exasperation. 'Will you shut up with the questions? Ah! Good! A janitor's closet. Watch your step, that mop is wet. Okay, touch this. Three, two, one...'

"While my head was still spinning from the whirl of wind and changing colors, Joe hopped over a low stone wall and approached the front doors of a sprawling, badly painted building whose garish neon sign proclaimed Bilge Vista Hotel-Vacancy. I shook the dizziness off and hopped after Joe. By the time I reached the reception desk he was already paging through the guest sign-in book.

"'There she is,' Joe said, jabbing at a page with his thumb. 'Maleficent Cacklebury, stayed two nights, September 4th and 5th. Room 226. It's a fake name of course, but it's like her. Just like her, in fact.'

"'Just like who?' I said impatiently.

"Joe batted his fake Veela-eyelashes at me, as if he pitied me for what I was about to learn. He almost seemed to be apologizing for the trouble that was going to happen, before it happened. And when he said, 'Her real name-or at least the name I first knew her by-is Bette Noir,' I new it was a name that would trouble my sleep for many nights to come..."

[Originally posted 7/30/04]

5. The Double-Barreled Wizard, Part 2

"Those were exciting days to be at Hogwarts," the cloaked stranger continued. "Dumbledore had just become headmaster. There were lots of new teachers coming in, and everyone was talking about Dumbledore's new measures and what the future might hold, good or bad. Among the people who studied at Hogwarts while I was there were some of the worst death eaters, and many of their bravest and strongest opponents. Harry Potter's parents were just a couple years ahead of me. Seven people in my year became decorated aurors. And four became professional Quidditch players, somewhere or other.

"I wanted to be one of them. I could play any position, except maybe Keeper. I was pretty good, so I tried out each year for the Quidditch team. I was very surprised, very disappointed. I didn't make the team until my fifth year, and that year I was only a reserve player. In spite of working hard and being versatile and agile and quick-witted, I was never a sport hero. I wasn't bad enough to get booed off the field, or great enough to get noticed most of the time. And besides, I had other interests by then.

"It was during my second year, just when I was feeling crushed by not making the house team. What do you think happened? Old Professor Flitwick decided to revive the old Dueling Club. The way Flitwick ran it everything was very formal and structured. It was almost more like debate than combat. Teams or opponents competed in tests of magical skill and creativity. Then each opponent had to conjure something, or transfigure something, and whatever they made would fight it out. In the last round, we blasted hexes at each other-and you'd be amazed how many hexes would get you disqualified if you even tried them-and we tried to shield ourselves from each other's attacks, until one or both of the opponents was too exhausted or disabled to continue. The referee awarded points for style and potency, and the winner of two out of three rounds won the duel. Winners and losers moved up or down in the lists accordingly. It was very complicated, but the challenge was very refreshing.

"Naturally, having two wand hands gave me an edge in dueling. That, and being able to track two series of events at once. Also, I was able to maintain a shield with one hand and shoot hexes at my opponent with the other, or block his spell and create a diversion at the same time. I became especially adept in the third round.

"One time, I believe it was the intra-house championship during my fourth year, my best friend and I were up against each other. Let's call him, er, Otis, for the moment. In round one, we were both set the task of threading a camel through the eye of a needle, without transfiguring, harming, or changing the size of either. We were both stumped for a while. After what seemed like an hour of thought, Otis conjured an Arabian camel, a plastic-canvas needle, and a spinning wheel. Then he put a five-dimensional, non-Schroedinger, curved-space shell around the camel, stuck its tail into the spinning wheel, and spun it out into a thread which (unbroken) required a spindle the size of a cricket bat. Then he put the end of the camel-thread through the needle, backed it into the spinning wheel, and began to spin the thread into a camel again. It looked like he was going to win the race for sure, but when he was down to only a yard or two of thread, I had my inspiration. Conjuring a whalebone sail needle and a pack of unfiltered cigarettes, I won the round as fast as you can say 'L. S. M. F. T.'

"Of course, I lost points for underage possession and littering. The cellophane wrapper, don't you know. But Otis also lost points when the camel relieved itself on Professor Flitwick.

"The tension mounted as we went into the second round. I was barely ahead, and Otis was angry that I had overtaken him. There is nothing like competition between best friends to bring out the throat-cutting louse in the best of us, and we were no exception. Flitwick drew a circle of containment on the dungeon floor, and we were each allowed to place three objects inside it before the spell went into effect. Choosing from the items cluttering the room, I picked a wax grape, a stuffed dog, and a wire brush. Otis picked a wax banana, a cracked goldfish bowl, and a used coffee filter. Our instructions were to transfigure each object once, turn and turn, until one opponent's objects were all destroyed or incapacitated. Also, each transformation had to follow some kind of logic.

"I drew the first turn. I turned my toy dog into a live one, which barked and ran straight toward the garbage on Otis' side of the circle. Flitwick gave me two points. Now it was Otis' turn. He turned the aquarium into a large crab with snapping claws. He got a point because crabs sometimes live in aquariums. Just as my dog was about to attack the coffee filter, the aquarium-crab scuttled over to him and clamped its jaws shut with one huge claw. Otis got another two points.

"Immediately I turned the grape into a gorilla. Flitwick demanded to know what a grape and a gorilla had in common. 'Er, alliteration?' I tried. 'Try again,' said Flitwick, as the gorilla stormed around the circle, stomping the stuffing out of my living toy dog and breaking the glass crab into a million shards. I then remembered a television cartoon I used to see sometimes, when I played with my Muggle friends in the home village. But I knew Flitwick wouldn't know about it. Just as Flitwick was about to award me a negative score, I cried out, 'His crab took my dog's grrr. I took the gr from the grape and I got an ape.'

"Flitwick looked very dissatisfied, but he awarded me half a point. By now the gorilla was sniffing the wax banana, and I was wondering why Otis hadn't done a spell yet. Then the gorilla chomped down on the banana, and it shattered like glass. The gorilla howled with pain, ran around the circle a couple of times, and curled up by itself to have a good cry. 'Very good!' Flitwick squeaked. 'A full point for the glass banana, and two points for putting the gorilla out of commission.'

"'But Professor,' I fumed, 'what does glass have to do with bananas?' 'Well,' Flitwick said smugly, 'If his taking the gr from your dog justifies you in taking the gr from your grape, then your wax fruit ape smashing his glass crab justifies him in using glass wax fruit on your ape.'

"I didn't understand the logic of this, but Flitwick was the expert, so I respected his judgment. Resentfully, to be sure. It was my turn now, and fortunately Otis had left me at an advantage by sacrificing his banana to destroy my gorilla. So I made the wire brush grow wiry legs and it ran over to the coffee filter and began scrubbing it, with soapy suds that came from nowhere. Flitwick was suddenly on my side again, clapping and laughing, and he was about to hand me the whole duel (remember, it's best two of three rounds) when Otis quickly turned his coffee-filter into a waste disposal in the middle of the floor. The brush got caught in the drain, its wiry legs tangled up and its back broken. I had to concede defeat.

"So the duel moved into the third round. Otis and I were both quite heated. Each of us glared at the other as at his worst enemy. We could no longer hear the cheers of our clubmates in the echoey dungeon around us. We could only hear the blood throbbing in our..."

"How do you know what he could hear? OW!"

"Shut up, Merle, and let him tell it!"

"Okay, just the facts then. It was in this phase, as I said, that my ambidexterity served to my best advantage. Because I had the first turn in the second round, Otis was allowed first shot this time. This is where lots of players get disqualified, under official dueling rules. Itchy wand-hands, can't wait to get off a defensive spell. Jump ahead of the player who is supposed to have first curse, and you fall prey to the Offsides Duel Rule. Well, I kept my cool. I waited until I saw the Tetonka hex on my opponent's lips. Knowing that he was about to drop a buffalo on me, I aimed my right wand straight up and cast a cushioning spell, and before the next heartbeat I pointed my left wand at Otis and said, Ichthyolabia.

"The dungeon was filled with cheers and roars of laughter as, at the same time, a buffalo came to rest on a cushion of air above my head and Otis' face broke out in, well, fish lips. 'Do you submit?' I challenged. But Otis managed to blub another curse at me-I couldn't hear what he said, all that came out was a bubble-but all at once I felt a horrid sensation all over my body, as if treacle were oozing out of every pore of my skin. Which it was.

"Half-blinded by anger and the other half blinded by treacle, I tried to heave the buffalo in Otis' direction, but it merely slid off the air-cushion and crashed onto the floor between us. At the same time I tried shooting a donkey-ears curse at Otis, but it hit the buffalo instead. And besides, in my anger and slimy, sticky-sweet discomfort, I had become careless and gave it bunny ears instead. Next Otis shot a ringing-in-the-ears curse over the buffalo's back, and while I was fending it off with a quick shield spell in one hand and taking the treacle-sweating curse off with the other, he managed to turn his fish lips back into a regular mouth.

"Before he could say a word, I was shooting greasy packets of limburger cheese at him with both wands. The smell caused him to stagger backward, but as the squishy things drummed against his chest and piled up against his legs, he cried Piloskeinus! If you've ever been hit by that spell, you'll know how awful it is. It's like having all the hair on your head pulled and woven into the spindles of a loom. I was ready, though. I deflected it with my left wand and brought down my right for the finishing blow: Bodenpuden! Instantaneously, the floor beneath his feet turned to custard. Otis sank up to his neck and was stuck.

"'Do you submit?' I shouted again, holding both my wands on him...'I do,' Otis sighed, red in the face. And the intra-house title was mine."

"Was that the end of your friendship?" asked the veiled witch who called herself Sadie.

"Well, we didn't talk to each other for a couple of days, and when we did, the first thing he told me was that if I didn't beat Slytherin in the all-school tournament, he would put a perpetual-flatulence hex on me. But that's another story for another day."

The tall, cloaked stranger tossed back the last of his McKnickers Incendiary, coughed, shrugged deeper into his all-concealing garments, and stood.

"You're not goin' already!" Endora's voice said, disembodied and dismayed. "It's hardly eight o'clock!"

"In the morning," said the cloaked stranger. "I have work to do, before the day is much older. But I will be back, if you'd like to meet me here, and then I'll tell you another chapter in my story."

Without another word he swept away.

"Fiddlestick," said Endora.

"Ah, well," said Sadie. "It's about time for breakfast anyway. I know a great henhouse where we can nick some eggs..."

[Originally posted 6/3/04]