Joint contest winners: Rehannah & TZWRD
The whistle didn't sound as Sadie expected. When Mr. Graves, or rather Joe Albuquerque, put it to his lips and blew, she had braced herself for a shrill blast. Instead, it gave a loud "Baaa!"
Duckham fell forward out of his chair. He had been resting his forearms on the table, until it vanished. Suddenly the Ministry inquisitor sprawled face-down on the floor. As he pushed himself up onto hands and knees, he heard another "Baaa!" behind him. Looking over his shoulder, he had only enough time to see a furry blur charging toward him, head down. He rolled out of the way. The charging goat narrowly missed, its hooves clattering and sliding on the floor tiles, the smell of its fur filling the interrogation room.
Weedom screamed when the table turned into the goat. He tried to get to the door, but the goat charged that next - with splintery results. The door stood up to two more blows from the goat's bony head before it gave way, landing on a surprised Millbray who had come running to see what was the matter. The three men picked themselves up, panting, cursing, whimpering, and checking each other for serious injuries, as the sound of the goat's scampering hooves faded around a distant bend in the corridor. It was only when Duckham realized that he had lost the suspect's wand that they noticed the suspect had gone as well.
Sadie started laughing the moment they apparated outside the Hog's Head pub. She kept laughing, supporting herself on Joe's arm, all the way to the shabby back parlor that had been held in readiness for them. On the way there, Joe paused to hand the whistle over to the proprietor, along with a fair tip and a word of thanks.
"That was the least thing I would have expectorated," Sadie gasped as she regained control of herself. She used the hem of her veil to wipe her eyes. "Leaf it to old what's-his-neume..."
"Yes," Joe agreed, while rummaging through a bulging carpetbag for his next disguise. "He can be a clever fellow, when goats are involved. Do you know, that whistle is made out of a goat's ankle bone? Instead of a pea inside, it's got a tiny bezoar..."
"Spanking of cleverness," said Sadie, "that Graves disgust worked awfully whelk, considering how fiddle time you had to perspire it."
"Oh! well," Joe admitted, bashfully, "it wasn't really that hard. Graves and I have crossed paths before. It's easy to pick up details about people who really annoy you."
Sadie's eyes widened. "I my have pricked up a derail about him myself."
Joe looked up at her from a selection of monogrammed jumpsuits - he had been trying to decide whether to become a pool cleaner or an exterminator - and by his look he managed to say, "Yes?"
"Did you ewer get a goad look at the chap who nickled this?" Sadie opened her fist and showed Joe the dull, heavy, silver ring she had taken from Uncle or Aunt Leslie's house. Where it might otherwise have held a jewel setting, the ring flared out into a flat, circular stamp with a raised insignia decorated with a complex design.
After staring at the ring for a moment, Joe finally took notice of Sadie's question. "The skinny youngster?" He shook his head. "Too busy hiding from him in that bank vault. Why?"
"He and your fiend Grades could be relegated to each other," said Sadie.
"You saw a family resemblance, did you?"
She nodded. Joe stroked his chin thoughtfully. When he put his hand down, he was suddenly wearing a Fu Manchu beard. "I guess I'm relieved," he said, rummaging more deeply in his carpetbag. He came up a moment later with a dog catcher's uniform.
"Released?" Sadie repeated, inaccurately. "Whiz?"
"Why?" Joe translated. Sadie nodded.
"Because," he went on, "I was starting to wonder if he was Bette Noir's boy - seeing that he inherited her bank vault and all. And given his apparent age, she would have had him around the time Bette and I were trapped in that Egyptian pyramid."
Sadie's eyes and mouth all said, in unison, "Oh."
"I thought he might have been my son," Joe added, by way of unnecessary explanation. After saying it, he fell silent, the better to concentrate on his new disguise. He also sat a bit lower in his seat. Sadie could not tell whether this showed his relief or his disappointment. She could understand another reason Joe might have been thinking along those lines: their young nemesis shared Joe's gift for disguise.
Sadie had almost put together a little speech of encouragement, which she knew wasn't going to come out right thanks to the lingering effects of the misspell on her, when a hand pulled aside the curtain at the entrance of the parlor and a familiar face looked in.
"Iguana!" Sadie exclaimed, beaming behind her veil.
Joe turned toward the doorway with a delighted grin. "You made good time," he said. But his grin faded when he saw the grim, tired look on Ilona's face.
"You have it?" she said, sitting down heavily across the table from Joe.
Sadie opened her hand again. Ilona snatched the ring out of it and held it close to her eye. She seemed to study it for a very long time, neither moving nor speaking, while Sadie fidgeted and Joe changed his disguise. At one point Ilona looked as if she might smile, but soon afterward a frown creased the center of her brow. Finally, she let the ring drop onto the table with a surprisingly loud thud.
"That's almost the best fake I've ever seen," she said.
Sadie's high spirits plummeted. "I bet your parson?"
Ilona turned her scrutiny toward Sadie, reading her features through the sheer fabric of her veil. Then she shook her head and said, "You've been had. Either Uncle or Aunt Leslie planted that fake, or he never got the real one in the first place..."
"Or I made the swatch," Sadie said, completing the thought for her. Her voice trembled with outrage. "Word you like to church me? Or maybe you shed frisky Joe here..."
"We have to eliminate the possibilities until we are left with the truth," said Ilona, refusing to retreat from Sadie's hurt feelings. "We know this Lee Shore person, whoever he is, took the real ring from my uncle. We know he used it to compel a worker at the Ministry to deposit a barrel of suiCider in Bette Noir's bank vault. We know he works with Uncle or Aunt Leslie, who has plans for the suiCider, and that he has been in contact with Il Comte di Bestemmia. What we don't know is whether Leslie planted the fake ring to fool Il Comte, or whether Lee Shore gave Leslie the fake and kept the real ring. We also don't know what happened between the three of them after you got away. So, really, any of them could have it."
"Il Comet was trying to stale this ring form Leslie," Sadie growled, "unlit I stole it fist."
"He clearly has plans to use the ring to force people to his will," said Ilona. "He was supposed to speak at a political rally in Venice, but he had to call it off. I'm sure if he had the ring, the rally would have gone forward..."
"...and Il Comte would be on his way toward world domination," Joe guessed.
Ilona nodded. "Since he didn't show up to speak, we can probably rule out Il Comte. That means either Uncle or Aunt Leslie fooled him..."
"Food us broth," Sadie muttered.
"...or Lee Shore fooled Leslie."
"In either case," said Joe, "they will start using the ring soon enough. With that vault under constant watch, they won't be able to go forward with Operation Death by Aromatherapy. But if it's true that no one can resist commands sealed with that ring, it won't be long before they move on an even nastier plan."
"The question is," said Ilona, "How will we know what their plan is before it's too late?"
The cheerful fire in the hearth behind Sadie suddenly flared green. With a loud puff of warm air, a roll of parchment sailed out of the fire, over Sadie's head, and onto the table in front of her.
"It's from Harry," said Sadie, untying the ribbon from around the parchment.
"Who?" said Joe, taking the parchment from her. "Oh! It's from Harvey!"
"That's wart I sad," Sadie sighed.
As Joe scanned the letter, his grin faded and his face became blank. With dead, hollow eyes he handed it over to Ilona. The same thing happened to her as she read it in turn.
"Er," said Sadie. "Is ever-think all ripe?"
Joe, meanwhile, had pulled several blank pieces of parchment out of his bag and begun writing at a furious pace. As soon as Ilona handed the letter back to Sadie, she began digging through her handbag for a quill and ink bottle.
Sadie squinted at the letter. Something was not quite right about it. The words swam before her eyes, their spelling changing fluidly. Any word she focused on would be spelled differently the next time she looked at it. She decided it had to do with the misspell. Muttering a dire curse under her breath, she began at the beginning and tried reading it again. The effort was so great that she had to move her lips. Before long she was reading aloud, with great difficulty and many oral spelling mistakes:
"To Wham It May Concert: This is a text of our new regiment. At your eeriest convent, please cupid this better to fire people of your acquittal and sand it to them by the fattest means at your deposition. Remonstrate to tile the better with a robin and steal it with an extract relic of the steal on this better. We recompense the following spill..."
Before Sadie could read further, she was interrupted by the voices of Joe and Ilona. They had finished copying the letter, word for word by memory, and tying them with a ribbon. Now each of them gave five wand flicks and, with each flick, repeated the word Xerosigilus. Wax seals appeared out of nowhere, securing all the ribbons on the letters with an insignia nearly identical to the one on the fake ring Sadie had stolen. The letters shot, one by one, into the fire, disappearing in explosions of green sparks and flame.
"...Xenophilius," continued Sadie, slightly shaken. "Then tun out your pickets and picket-books..."
Joe and Ilona turned out their pockets.
"...and through ever-think but the monkey into the neatest five..."
Except for their coins (which remained heaped on the table), Joe and Ilona threw all their belongings into the fire. This included the contents of Ilona's handbag and the disguises remaining in Joe's carpetbag. They watched the flames with blank expressions.
"...Then stamp by for furrier destructions," Sadie added, reaching the end of the letter. "Your obstinate servant, Lee Snore, esq."
In spite of her growing concern at her friends' behavior, Sadie could not seem to stop reading the letter before this. Now she sat and fidgeted, torn between an overwhelming urge to do as the letter commanded, and a terrifying need to do something about the wrongness unfolding all around her. The former was about to win the point, as her hands crept closer to her own handbag. But then the fire gave off a loud popping noise, and something thumped loudly on the stone floor under the grate. It rolled out into the room, sounding like a large marble. This distraction was enough to give Sadie a moment to think.
The sound of stone rolling across stone came to a halt beneath the table, close to Sadie's end. She looked down. About half a meter from her foot lay the object that had fallen out of the fire. Sadie had never seen anything quite like it...
A crystal finger.
She knelt down beside her chair and placed her hand close to the perfectly shaped, life-sized artifact. It seemed to beckon to her somehow. And it didn't give off any heat, either. Sadie picked it up and found that it felt quite cool in her hand. Then, moved by what impulse she did not know, she stuck it into her right ear...
And the memory of the chain letter, that had lingered in the back of her mind, suddenly fuzzed into a tangle of nonsense. She looked down at the parchment again and realized that she couldn't make out a word. She tried to say, "That's odd," but what came out of her mouth sounded - to her unstoppered left ear - more like, "Znrf'g bvv." She was so shocked that she immediately plucked the finger out of her ear...and the urge to comply with the letter's commands returned.
Finger in: freedom. Finger out: compulsion. Finger in: a total loss of spoken and written language. Finger out: back to the comparatively mild, magically-induced dyslexia that had been troubling her all day. Finger in left ear, for a change: the dyslexia suddenly disappeared. Sadie forgot herself for a while, then happened to look down when something touched her foot. It was that crystal finger again. How did it get down there? She picked it up, considered throwing back into the fire, then shrugged and popped it into her right ear.
Whoa. Sadie looked around the room. Ilona and Joe were both seated, looking blankly across the table at each other, waiting for further instructions. By the heft of her handbag, Sadie had emptied all her portable belongings into the fire. This hinted that she had sent five copies of the chain letter, too. But for this crystal finger in her right ear, she would be in the same zone of blank mental readiness as her two friends.
She snapped her fingers in front of their faces, but they didn't blink. She touched their arms, spoke their names: no response.
Sadie huddled back into her chair and shivered. "I'm on my own," she tried to say, but what she actually said was, "F'w kmubh zprav shlug." She decided not to think her thoughts out loud any more. So, silently, she told herself three things. First: She must never put the finger in her left ear again. Second: She would risk taking it out of her right ear only when she really needed to communicate with someone. Third: It was probably up to her to save the world. So she'd better find out what it needed saving from...
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR TMQ #157 +++
You can help decide what happens next in The Magic Quill! Simply leave a brief comment (up to 150 words) answering the following Survey and Contest. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest answer that Robbie likes best, will turn up in the chapter after next. [EDIT: This discussion is now closed.]
SURVEY: What gift from way back in Chapter 141 should Merlin use next? (A) Karl's survival satchel. (B) Some of Anatoly's defensive tattoos. (C) Another dose of Endora's Liquid Skill. (D) Harvey's inflatable wall. (E) Subito's Turbo Gum. (F) Boccachiusa's Peekaboo Kit.
CONTEST: Butcher, baker, candlestick maker, tinker, tailor, cobbler, sailor... choose any "old world" craft or trade, and describe something strange and different that could be made by combining their wares with a bit of magic.
Showing posts with label Uncle or Aunt Leslie. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Uncle or Aunt Leslie. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Monday, January 19, 2009
148. Between the Lines
Contest winner: greyniffler
Runner-up: Linda Carrig
MINISTRY OF MAGIC
Department of Magical Law Enforcement
Improper Use of Magic Office
Form IUM-21: Report of Belatedly Discovered Violation
REPORT BY: Lysippus Bean, junior apprentice obliviator
REPORT ON: Possible violation of Statute of Secrecy
DATE: Agnes Onslow (we're just friends)
LOCATION: Miss Onslow's art studio (she makes talking portraits).
SECURITY LEVEL: MoM Eyes-Only confidentiality, secured by spells to repel unauthorized Oi. You there. I need help readers.
DESCRIPTION OF VIOLATION (Attach additional rolls of parchment as needed): While waiting for my Aunt Eunice as she sat for a portrait, I started to browse through some books on Muggle painters and their weird, non-moving Hello? Is anyone there? I could use a bit of help getting out of here pictures. I was struck by some of the images, and after talking with Agnes and analyzing them a bit further, I have become convinced Look, if you could contact someone at the RMB, Blokebury on Rye office, have them tell Agent Spankison or Agent Dalrymple that I'm stuck in here. The name is Sadie that painters from our world have been mingling with Muggle painters, resulting in a horrifying breach of magical secrecy.
I found the strongest evidence of this in Degas' paintings of ballerinas - who, when viewed through spectrespecs, are revealed to be hags having a dance lesson. Though ordinarly Muggles would Well? Am I going to be rescued? be unable to penetrate the concealment charm on these canvases, the fact that Degas was allowed to witness such a spectacle must at least raise a concern. To be sure, this violation happened so long ago that nothing can be done about it. Yet I fear it may only be the tip of the iceberg.
My greatest worries focus on the artist René Magritte, who for some time shared his studio with one of our world's most All right, I suppose you're not doing anything to help me because you don't understand how I broke into this highly classified report. I confess! I'm a burglar! But I promise you, I was using my skills for good prolific painters, Vladimir Smazaniy. According to our archives, Smazaniy was permitted to study under Magritte on the condition that he did not reveal the existence of magic to his master. From Magritte's paintings, however, it is If you really must know (and apparently you must), I got in here through a door in Uncle or Aunt Leslie's house on chicken legs. Didn't know he or she was still alive? Now you do. HELP! evident that Smazaniy went back on his word. Magritte's paintings clearly show - from a muddled, Muggle perspective - that he was even familiar with the Ministry, owing to his frequent depiction of men wearing the style of suits and bowler hats then favored by our agents.
Perhaps Magritte was simply influenced by unintentional slips that he glimpsed from time to time, such as the You see, Il Comte had the big creep (or creepess) under some kind of extra-juice Imperius curse. I followed them to the oval room with all the well-dressed dummies in it, and slipped into a ball gown while they weren't looking. They thought I was one of the mannequins portrait behind the artist in the non-moving photo charm-linked above. I believe the painting in that photo to depict Smazaniy himself, or at least a flash-impression Magritte may have gotten when he momentarily caught Smazaniy using the vanishing cream he was known to use, particularly when painting unauthorized portraits.
I am spell-linking several other examples of Magritte's work, which I feel should I was waiting to see what would happen when Il Comte stepped on the trick floorboard and got jinxed right out of the house, but before I could do anything, Uncle or Auntie's nephew charged into the room and suddenly, spells were blasting everywhere be studied and possibly removed from Muggle collections - though I realize the cost of eradicating them from all Muggle memory would be prohibitive at this point.
First, consider the painting Elective Infinities, which I believe is based on Magritte's garbled memory of a dragon Smazaniy was known to have kept as a pet. Agnes says baby dragon tears I grabbed the ring of Count Matthias right out of Il Comte's hand and ran for it. Suddenly all the blasting wands were pointed at me. I tried one door after another as I ran down the corridor are essential to the pigments used in moving paintings. If Magritte saw this, it is likely that he also witnessed Smazaniy painting wizard portraits. Further evidence of There was a door that led to some icy rock in outerspace. I could see Jupiter at close-range from there. I decided against going in this is in Magritte's painting The Difficult Crossing - note the painting of the ship in the background, virtually identical to a seascape Smazaniy sold to the Maritime Museum of Idaho in 1966.
Then there is Golconda, which (except for the Then there was a door that led to a desert, then a mountain peak, then a boat in the middle of the ocean. I was running out of time to find a place to hide fact that it appears frozen in time) could be mistaken for a wizartist's conception of the 1953 epidemic of spontaneous random apparition, one of the worst public-health disasters in the wizarding world's history. How did Magritte escape being obliviated after this incident, long enough to paint this picture? Again, we must assume Smazaniy had a hand in it.
The Happy Donor can easily be interpreted as Magritte's depiction of Smazaniy disapparating in front of him. The poor fellow Just as they were about to catch me up, I threw myself through the very next door without looking where it led to, and here I am must have thought himself mad. The Human Condition could appear as a cry for help by a Muggle painting master struggling to capture the magical techniques of his student; note how Magritte Well, that's over-simplifying. I feel like I've been through every book in Flourish and Blotts, and since I couldn't break into any RMB documents, this is the closest I could get. So will you send for Spanky now? seems to struggle with the distinction between a picture of a thing and the thing itself.
The Listening Room suggests that Smazaniy allowed Magritte to catch him engorging pieces of fruit, no doubt in his pursuit of ever higher Spanky? Is that you? degrees of detail in his series of still-lifes. Not to be Reproduced appears to show Smazaniy caught in the act of painting his self-portrait, using the special mirror he Oh, bother. They've followed me in here. Just pretend I'm not here borrowed from Hogsmeade hairdresser Flavia Snippens in 1937. On the Threshold of Liberty suggests some of Magritte's confusion, as he interpreted the moving pictures on the walls of Smazaniy's flat as a series of impossible windows leading to different places.
In The Son of Man, we see evidence that Magritte witnessed Smazaniy doing a hovering What the... Look out! They're shooting spells at me. In here! I reckon they're trying to erase me charm. No one who knew Smazaniy can fail to recognize his left eye, which is just visible behind the apple, or his left elbow, which accidentally got I could really stand to be rescued right now fixed on backward after he splinched himself in 1963. Time Transfixed clearly shows an apparition of the ghost train that inhabited Smazaniy's flat in Owch! I thimk ivy bean hett! Brussels, which happened to be built on the site of the Shrinking Train Disaster of 1911 - the reason none of the magical schools on the continent have anything like the Hogwarts Express today. And finally, in The Treachery of Images, we see the full extent of Eye geuss thay wur shutinge mispels at me the harm all these violations of wizarding secrecy wreaked on Magritte's mind. As early as 1928 - the year he took Smazaniy in as his pupil - he Aye wunder wut thyss iz gonig two due tu mi aftre igh git owt uv heer was already losing his conviction that what he saw was real.
It is too late to save Magritte from the mental damage resulting from Smazaniy's numerous indiscretions. However, I recommend Pleez sumbuddy dew summit suen that we take immediate steps to prevent any further harm from coming through these pictures. I urge that the Ministry consider using concealment charms, or at least negotiate with the respective ministries of the countries where each painting Thare cumin kant holed owt mutsh longur is held to have them removed from public view.
Yours respectfully,
L. Bean
+++ A LITTLE ANNOUNCEMENT +++
Since Chapter 150 will be a look back on the "third season" of The Magic Quill, there will not be a new "Double Challenge" this time. Instead, please enjoy another week to answer the Survey and Contest at the end of Chapter 147. Thanks for coming along for the ride! And please, let your friends know about TMQ's new lease on life. We can always use more reader input!
Runner-up: Linda Carrig
MINISTRY OF MAGIC
Department of Magical Law Enforcement
Improper Use of Magic Office
Form IUM-21: Report of Belatedly Discovered Violation
REPORT BY: Lysippus Bean, junior apprentice obliviator
REPORT ON: Possible violation of Statute of Secrecy
DATE: Agnes Onslow (we're just friends)
LOCATION: Miss Onslow's art studio (she makes talking portraits).
SECURITY LEVEL: MoM Eyes-Only confidentiality, secured by spells to repel unauthorized Oi. You there. I need help readers.
DESCRIPTION OF VIOLATION (Attach additional rolls of parchment as needed): While waiting for my Aunt Eunice as she sat for a portrait, I started to browse through some books on Muggle painters and their weird, non-moving Hello? Is anyone there? I could use a bit of help getting out of here pictures. I was struck by some of the images, and after talking with Agnes and analyzing them a bit further, I have become convinced Look, if you could contact someone at the RMB, Blokebury on Rye office, have them tell Agent Spankison or Agent Dalrymple that I'm stuck in here. The name is Sadie that painters from our world have been mingling with Muggle painters, resulting in a horrifying breach of magical secrecy.
I found the strongest evidence of this in Degas' paintings of ballerinas - who, when viewed through spectrespecs, are revealed to be hags having a dance lesson. Though ordinarly Muggles would Well? Am I going to be rescued? be unable to penetrate the concealment charm on these canvases, the fact that Degas was allowed to witness such a spectacle must at least raise a concern. To be sure, this violation happened so long ago that nothing can be done about it. Yet I fear it may only be the tip of the iceberg.
My greatest worries focus on the artist René Magritte, who for some time shared his studio with one of our world's most All right, I suppose you're not doing anything to help me because you don't understand how I broke into this highly classified report. I confess! I'm a burglar! But I promise you, I was using my skills for good prolific painters, Vladimir Smazaniy. According to our archives, Smazaniy was permitted to study under Magritte on the condition that he did not reveal the existence of magic to his master. From Magritte's paintings, however, it is If you really must know (and apparently you must), I got in here through a door in Uncle or Aunt Leslie's house on chicken legs. Didn't know he or she was still alive? Now you do. HELP! evident that Smazaniy went back on his word. Magritte's paintings clearly show - from a muddled, Muggle perspective - that he was even familiar with the Ministry, owing to his frequent depiction of men wearing the style of suits and bowler hats then favored by our agents.
Perhaps Magritte was simply influenced by unintentional slips that he glimpsed from time to time, such as the You see, Il Comte had the big creep (or creepess) under some kind of extra-juice Imperius curse. I followed them to the oval room with all the well-dressed dummies in it, and slipped into a ball gown while they weren't looking. They thought I was one of the mannequins portrait behind the artist in the non-moving photo charm-linked above. I believe the painting in that photo to depict Smazaniy himself, or at least a flash-impression Magritte may have gotten when he momentarily caught Smazaniy using the vanishing cream he was known to use, particularly when painting unauthorized portraits.
I am spell-linking several other examples of Magritte's work, which I feel should I was waiting to see what would happen when Il Comte stepped on the trick floorboard and got jinxed right out of the house, but before I could do anything, Uncle or Auntie's nephew charged into the room and suddenly, spells were blasting everywhere be studied and possibly removed from Muggle collections - though I realize the cost of eradicating them from all Muggle memory would be prohibitive at this point.
First, consider the painting Elective Infinities, which I believe is based on Magritte's garbled memory of a dragon Smazaniy was known to have kept as a pet. Agnes says baby dragon tears I grabbed the ring of Count Matthias right out of Il Comte's hand and ran for it. Suddenly all the blasting wands were pointed at me. I tried one door after another as I ran down the corridor are essential to the pigments used in moving paintings. If Magritte saw this, it is likely that he also witnessed Smazaniy painting wizard portraits. Further evidence of There was a door that led to some icy rock in outerspace. I could see Jupiter at close-range from there. I decided against going in this is in Magritte's painting The Difficult Crossing - note the painting of the ship in the background, virtually identical to a seascape Smazaniy sold to the Maritime Museum of Idaho in 1966.
Then there is Golconda, which (except for the Then there was a door that led to a desert, then a mountain peak, then a boat in the middle of the ocean. I was running out of time to find a place to hide fact that it appears frozen in time) could be mistaken for a wizartist's conception of the 1953 epidemic of spontaneous random apparition, one of the worst public-health disasters in the wizarding world's history. How did Magritte escape being obliviated after this incident, long enough to paint this picture? Again, we must assume Smazaniy had a hand in it.
The Happy Donor can easily be interpreted as Magritte's depiction of Smazaniy disapparating in front of him. The poor fellow Just as they were about to catch me up, I threw myself through the very next door without looking where it led to, and here I am must have thought himself mad. The Human Condition could appear as a cry for help by a Muggle painting master struggling to capture the magical techniques of his student; note how Magritte Well, that's over-simplifying. I feel like I've been through every book in Flourish and Blotts, and since I couldn't break into any RMB documents, this is the closest I could get. So will you send for Spanky now? seems to struggle with the distinction between a picture of a thing and the thing itself.
The Listening Room suggests that Smazaniy allowed Magritte to catch him engorging pieces of fruit, no doubt in his pursuit of ever higher Spanky? Is that you? degrees of detail in his series of still-lifes. Not to be Reproduced appears to show Smazaniy caught in the act of painting his self-portrait, using the special mirror he Oh, bother. They've followed me in here. Just pretend I'm not here borrowed from Hogsmeade hairdresser Flavia Snippens in 1937. On the Threshold of Liberty suggests some of Magritte's confusion, as he interpreted the moving pictures on the walls of Smazaniy's flat as a series of impossible windows leading to different places.
In The Son of Man, we see evidence that Magritte witnessed Smazaniy doing a hovering What the... Look out! They're shooting spells at me. In here! I reckon they're trying to erase me charm. No one who knew Smazaniy can fail to recognize his left eye, which is just visible behind the apple, or his left elbow, which accidentally got I could really stand to be rescued right now fixed on backward after he splinched himself in 1963. Time Transfixed clearly shows an apparition of the ghost train that inhabited Smazaniy's flat in Owch! I thimk ivy bean hett! Brussels, which happened to be built on the site of the Shrinking Train Disaster of 1911 - the reason none of the magical schools on the continent have anything like the Hogwarts Express today. And finally, in The Treachery of Images, we see the full extent of Eye geuss thay wur shutinge mispels at me the harm all these violations of wizarding secrecy wreaked on Magritte's mind. As early as 1928 - the year he took Smazaniy in as his pupil - he Aye wunder wut thyss iz gonig two due tu mi aftre igh git owt uv heer was already losing his conviction that what he saw was real.
It is too late to save Magritte from the mental damage resulting from Smazaniy's numerous indiscretions. However, I recommend Pleez sumbuddy dew summit suen that we take immediate steps to prevent any further harm from coming through these pictures. I urge that the Ministry consider using concealment charms, or at least negotiate with the respective ministries of the countries where each painting Thare cumin kant holed owt mutsh longur is held to have them removed from public view.
Yours respectfully,
L. Bean
+++ A LITTLE ANNOUNCEMENT +++
Since Chapter 150 will be a look back on the "third season" of The Magic Quill, there will not be a new "Double Challenge" this time. Instead, please enjoy another week to answer the Survey and Contest at the end of Chapter 147. Thanks for coming along for the ride! And please, let your friends know about TMQ's new lease on life. We can always use more reader input!
Saturday, December 27, 2008
143. Enormity in Action
Contest winner: Linda Carrig
The cupboard door effectively hid her, while the holes carved into it in an elaborate design enabled her to see every move of the duel. This, she thought wryly, must be the reason Aunt or Uncle Leslie wanted to load up on calories.
It began with the sound of thunderous footsteps growing ever closer. Sadie had hidden before the door even opened. As the enormous witch or wizard passed through the broad archway at one end of the room, the space was suddenly filled with a blaze of light that made Sadie's eyes water. It came from mirrors hung all around the walls, and showed that the room was furnished only with a sturdy bench under the center of each long wall and an enormous dresser at the end opposite to the arch. Several other ornately carved doors stood around the room, similar to the cupboard door in front of Sadie.
Aunt or Uncle Leslie paced, his or her body quivering with each step. It was impossible to read the expression of his or her bloated face. Meanness and hunger always seemed to be there, and there was precious little nuance the tiny eyes and puckered mouth could add. But impatience must have been on the menu, for when Sadie heard a distinct pop near the far end of the room, His or Her Horridness snarled, "You're late."
Sadie shifted her position quietly to get a better look at whoever had Apparated. She didn't have to stifle a gasp - her habits of burglary were too deeply settled to allow such a gaffe - but her shock registered in the way her grip tightened around the fang whistle that hung round her neck.
"I was forced to make an unexpected detour," Il Comte di Bestemmia replied smoothly.
"Detour my toe," said the mountain of flesh that faced him, his or her voice as androgynous as her or his body. "You Apparated, didn't you?"
"But in stages, of course," said the well-groomed wizard, fingering a black carnation in his buttonhole. "Many carefully planned and prepared stages, some in countries I have only visited for the purpose of setting them. So when I spotted someone following me - inconceivable as that may seem - I was forced to double back and work my way around through another region. It would have been even more difficult, had I not traveled so extensively. You see, it does pay to be a wizard of the world."
"How could anyone follow you?" the giant or giantess honked peevishly. "You can't follow someone who is Apparating, unless you know where they were going and every stage of their route. How would someone know that?"
"I was wondering the same thing," said Il Comte with his usual smiling charm. "I'll admit one theory crossed my mind."
"I would hardly need to put a trace on you," Uncle or Auntie snapped, having caught his or her guest's meaning. "I know where I live. Which leaves few possibilities apart from one of us being indiscreet."
Il Comte's eyes sparked and gleamed. "Shall we settle the matter in the usual form?" he purred.
"If that pleases you," said Uncle or Aunt Leslie. "But I must say, it's a pity to kill you before we get down to business."
"That is hardly a difficulty," said Il Comte, drawing a gleaming white wand out of his spotless robes. "We can deal while we duel. Our heirs will carry out whatever agreement we reach. Have you an elephant bird quill?"
"Certainly," said Auntie or Uncle. "Two of them, in fact. They can write duplicate contracts with utter reliability, while one of us obtains satisfaction. May I ring for my nephew? He will bring the quills."
"By all means," said Il Comte.
Uncle or Aunt Leslie reached forward and pulled on thin air - or perhaps, an invisible bell-pull. Somewhere in the distance a gong sounded.
While they waited for the nephew to show up, Il Comte fingered his wand, sniffed his fingertips, and looked his opponent over.
"I believe you have lost weight," he said blandly.
"It's possible," said Auntie or Uncle Leslie. "My former physician suggested a low-carb diet. I started by eating him."
"Did you notice a difference?"
"He was a lot tougher and dryer than my previous doctor. I hate the ones who practice what they preach."
Il Comte rolled his eyes heavenward. "I meant," he said with deliberate patience, "a difference in how you feel."
"I find it harder to feel full," said Uncle or Auntie. "And at night I get chills."
"At least that's something," Signore Maledicto muttered.
A starved-looking young man - the one Sadie had been following - bowed his way into the room. "Yes, sir or ma'am?"
"Fetch the wooden box from my bedchamber," he or she snapped at him.
The youngster hesitated.
Uncle or Aunt Leslie snorted impatiently: "Well?"
"Do you mean the hope chest at the foot of your bed?" the youth asked. "The one with pink bunnies, flowers, and a pony painted on the lid? Or is it the box with the cricket things and hunting knives, that you keep under the stuffed swordfish on your wall?"
Uncle or Auntie chewed his or her tongue, turning several shades of pink and purple, before choking out the words: "The small one, like a pencil box, in the first drawer of my writing desk. Quick step, now."
Il Comte refrained from snickering, as that would be beneath his dignity; but he did so in such a manner that Aunt or Uncle Leslie knew about it, and resented it.
"It's not that I am so attached to childish things," he or she explained loftily. "I have earned far more valuable belongings since I turned to ... er, business. But some of the objects handed down to me in childhood are really quite valuable. Do you know I own the very pot in which Jules Melantier and Everard Owens brewed their infamous Tempest of 1588?"
"The one that got away?" Il Comte's slightly raised eyebrows showed slight interest, which coming from him meant he was very impressed indeed.
"The very one," said Uncle or Aunt Leslie. "Their mistake was trying to pour it into a cup without adding milk first. The china was not of the best quality. The cup shattered, the storm escaped, the Spanish Armada was destroyed... "
"It's an ill wind that bloweth no man to good," quipped Maledicto.
"My granduncle gave me the pot," said Auntie or Uncle. "I keep it in my hope chest. Before I punch out, I hope to use it again. Perhaps I will brew a storm that will wash a lot of useless people away. Pity that you won't be there to enjoy it."
"If you say so," said Il Comte.
The starved nephew was back. Looking very serious, he handed a small wooden box to Auntie or Uncle Leslie. Obeying a look from him or her, the youth backed out of the room and vanished around the corner.
"Let me set this on the dresser," said Uncle or Auntie Leslie. "Once the quills are ready to write, we can begin."
He or she heaved his or her bulk the length of the room, pulled two scrolls of parchment out of a dresser drawer, weighted the edges down with lead soldiers who, Sadie was sure, would walk down the scroll, keeping a length of it open for the quills to write on, while allowing the ends to roll themselves up. Two inkwells were uncorked and set alongside the parchment. Finally, the enormous witch or wizard lifted the lid of the wooden box and took something out of it. As he or she swung round to face Il Comte, Sadie saw briefly that it was a wand - white, like Il Comte's, but a white not of wood but of bone.
Sadie's eyes widened, but Il Comte was not all surprised. Before the wand came to bear on him, he had his trained on the center of Uncle or Auntie Leslie's body mass. He said something then, something terrible and loud that echoed from the rafters and cracked the glass in some of the wall mirrors. The vast figure opposite him stood suddenly motionless. The mean little eyes rolled with terror, but their owner seemed unable to speak or even breathe. Aunt or Uncle Leslie began to turn blue as Il Comte walked toward her or him.
"That was poor form," he murmured, taking the wand out of his or her hand. "Breathe."
Beyond belief, Sadie felt sorry for the monstrous creature that sucked in one huge, wheezing breath, then breathed out once and stopped again, looking as terrified and almost as blue as before.
"I find the Imperius Curse terribly passé, don't you? Besides, your Ministry here has set up so many new restrictions and taboos that I am loath to risk it. What do you think of this litte substitute? I whipped it up myself. Breathe."
Auntie or Uncle gasped in, blew out, and was frozen again. Sadie clutched at the sides of her face, feeling some of his or her torture herself, yet afraid to give in to her urge to gasp for air. She was sure Il Comte would hear her, even from her hiding place several meters away.
"Here's how it works," said Il Comte. "You still have your free will - but you can only act upon it with my permission. If I forget to tell you to breathe, for example, you will die. Breathe."
His helpless victim breathed, looking both terrified and furious at once.
"I will only give you permission to do what I want you to do," Il Comte said calmly, walking all the way around him or her. It took quite a few steps. "And if you don't do it, I will leave you like this. You won't last very long - just long enough to make it unpleasant. But really, at bottom, it's up to you. You can choose to do what I ask, and live; or you can do nothing. Breathe."
Another breath. Sadie breathed at the same time. Watching this was agony. She fiddled with the whistle on its dragon-bone chain, tempted to try it...
"Now," said Il Comte, "I believe you have in your possession a certain ring that has only come to light after being lost for centuries. What is it called again? The Ring of Count Stephen? Answer."
"Either that or of Count Matthias," Uncle or Auntie wheezed, stealing as many breaths as possible between his or her words. "It depends on which side of..."
"That's enough," said Il Comte, instantly arresting his adversary's tongue and lungs. "Is it true that whatever writing you seal with this ring must be obeyed by the first person who reads it?" Nod yes or no.
Swelling dangerously, Auntie or Uncle nodded yes.
"Have you tested this? Nod yes or no."
Another affirmative nod.
"All right, breathe. You now have a choice, esteemed colleague. Take me to the ring and I will free you from this curse. Refuse, and I will turn every room of this house upside-down till I find it. Either way, I will have the ring. I am offering you a chance to live, simply in exchange for shortening my stay in your lovely home, and saving me a bit of trouble. What is your answer? Nod yes or no."
Uncle or Auntie didn't move for quite a long time. She or he was quite black in the face before, at last, he or she nodded.
"Excellent," said Il Comte. "You may breathe at will."
Apart from relieved gasps, the huge witch or wizard did not move at all.
Sadie bit her lip, furious and confused. Her mind raced. How could she find the ring before Uncle or Auntie Leslie led Il Comte to it? How could she steal it before he did, without becoming the target of a curse like the one he had cast on Leslie? And how could Il Comte - who, by all accounts, was not such a powerful wizard in terms of pure magical power - how could he have cast such a powerful spell?
+++ 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 now closed.]
SURVEY: Which storyline will we see in TMQ #145? A) Sadie and Joe's mission to recover the Ring of Count Matthias. B) Merlin's mission to recover a goblin talisman from Il Comte's villa. C) Spanky and Dalrymple's investigation of Persephone's yak. D) A new mission featuring another recurring TMQ character. Write-ins will be regarded as "concepts contributed" and the winner will be chosen by Robbie, if D gets the most votes in the survey.
CONTEST: What if the "book mistakes" in the Harry Potter series were actually deliberate ploys to cover up things muggles like us aren't supposed to know about? Pick an apparent "book mistake" and suggest the "untold story" that may lie behind it.
[Originally posted 9/28/08]
The cupboard door effectively hid her, while the holes carved into it in an elaborate design enabled her to see every move of the duel. This, she thought wryly, must be the reason Aunt or Uncle Leslie wanted to load up on calories.
It began with the sound of thunderous footsteps growing ever closer. Sadie had hidden before the door even opened. As the enormous witch or wizard passed through the broad archway at one end of the room, the space was suddenly filled with a blaze of light that made Sadie's eyes water. It came from mirrors hung all around the walls, and showed that the room was furnished only with a sturdy bench under the center of each long wall and an enormous dresser at the end opposite to the arch. Several other ornately carved doors stood around the room, similar to the cupboard door in front of Sadie.
Aunt or Uncle Leslie paced, his or her body quivering with each step. It was impossible to read the expression of his or her bloated face. Meanness and hunger always seemed to be there, and there was precious little nuance the tiny eyes and puckered mouth could add. But impatience must have been on the menu, for when Sadie heard a distinct pop near the far end of the room, His or Her Horridness snarled, "You're late."
Sadie shifted her position quietly to get a better look at whoever had Apparated. She didn't have to stifle a gasp - her habits of burglary were too deeply settled to allow such a gaffe - but her shock registered in the way her grip tightened around the fang whistle that hung round her neck.
"I was forced to make an unexpected detour," Il Comte di Bestemmia replied smoothly.
"Detour my toe," said the mountain of flesh that faced him, his or her voice as androgynous as her or his body. "You Apparated, didn't you?"
"But in stages, of course," said the well-groomed wizard, fingering a black carnation in his buttonhole. "Many carefully planned and prepared stages, some in countries I have only visited for the purpose of setting them. So when I spotted someone following me - inconceivable as that may seem - I was forced to double back and work my way around through another region. It would have been even more difficult, had I not traveled so extensively. You see, it does pay to be a wizard of the world."
"How could anyone follow you?" the giant or giantess honked peevishly. "You can't follow someone who is Apparating, unless you know where they were going and every stage of their route. How would someone know that?"
"I was wondering the same thing," said Il Comte with his usual smiling charm. "I'll admit one theory crossed my mind."
"I would hardly need to put a trace on you," Uncle or Auntie snapped, having caught his or her guest's meaning. "I know where I live. Which leaves few possibilities apart from one of us being indiscreet."
Il Comte's eyes sparked and gleamed. "Shall we settle the matter in the usual form?" he purred.
"If that pleases you," said Uncle or Aunt Leslie. "But I must say, it's a pity to kill you before we get down to business."
"That is hardly a difficulty," said Il Comte, drawing a gleaming white wand out of his spotless robes. "We can deal while we duel. Our heirs will carry out whatever agreement we reach. Have you an elephant bird quill?"
"Certainly," said Auntie or Uncle. "Two of them, in fact. They can write duplicate contracts with utter reliability, while one of us obtains satisfaction. May I ring for my nephew? He will bring the quills."
"By all means," said Il Comte.
Uncle or Aunt Leslie reached forward and pulled on thin air - or perhaps, an invisible bell-pull. Somewhere in the distance a gong sounded.
While they waited for the nephew to show up, Il Comte fingered his wand, sniffed his fingertips, and looked his opponent over.
"I believe you have lost weight," he said blandly.
"It's possible," said Auntie or Uncle Leslie. "My former physician suggested a low-carb diet. I started by eating him."
"Did you notice a difference?"
"He was a lot tougher and dryer than my previous doctor. I hate the ones who practice what they preach."
Il Comte rolled his eyes heavenward. "I meant," he said with deliberate patience, "a difference in how you feel."
"I find it harder to feel full," said Uncle or Auntie. "And at night I get chills."
"At least that's something," Signore Maledicto muttered.
A starved-looking young man - the one Sadie had been following - bowed his way into the room. "Yes, sir or ma'am?"
"Fetch the wooden box from my bedchamber," he or she snapped at him.
The youngster hesitated.
Uncle or Aunt Leslie snorted impatiently: "Well?"
"Do you mean the hope chest at the foot of your bed?" the youth asked. "The one with pink bunnies, flowers, and a pony painted on the lid? Or is it the box with the cricket things and hunting knives, that you keep under the stuffed swordfish on your wall?"
Uncle or Auntie chewed his or her tongue, turning several shades of pink and purple, before choking out the words: "The small one, like a pencil box, in the first drawer of my writing desk. Quick step, now."
Il Comte refrained from snickering, as that would be beneath his dignity; but he did so in such a manner that Aunt or Uncle Leslie knew about it, and resented it.
"It's not that I am so attached to childish things," he or she explained loftily. "I have earned far more valuable belongings since I turned to ... er, business. But some of the objects handed down to me in childhood are really quite valuable. Do you know I own the very pot in which Jules Melantier and Everard Owens brewed their infamous Tempest of 1588?"
"The one that got away?" Il Comte's slightly raised eyebrows showed slight interest, which coming from him meant he was very impressed indeed.
"The very one," said Uncle or Aunt Leslie. "Their mistake was trying to pour it into a cup without adding milk first. The china was not of the best quality. The cup shattered, the storm escaped, the Spanish Armada was destroyed... "
"It's an ill wind that bloweth no man to good," quipped Maledicto.
"My granduncle gave me the pot," said Auntie or Uncle. "I keep it in my hope chest. Before I punch out, I hope to use it again. Perhaps I will brew a storm that will wash a lot of useless people away. Pity that you won't be there to enjoy it."
"If you say so," said Il Comte.
The starved nephew was back. Looking very serious, he handed a small wooden box to Auntie or Uncle Leslie. Obeying a look from him or her, the youth backed out of the room and vanished around the corner.
"Let me set this on the dresser," said Uncle or Auntie Leslie. "Once the quills are ready to write, we can begin."
He or she heaved his or her bulk the length of the room, pulled two scrolls of parchment out of a dresser drawer, weighted the edges down with lead soldiers who, Sadie was sure, would walk down the scroll, keeping a length of it open for the quills to write on, while allowing the ends to roll themselves up. Two inkwells were uncorked and set alongside the parchment. Finally, the enormous witch or wizard lifted the lid of the wooden box and took something out of it. As he or she swung round to face Il Comte, Sadie saw briefly that it was a wand - white, like Il Comte's, but a white not of wood but of bone.
Sadie's eyes widened, but Il Comte was not all surprised. Before the wand came to bear on him, he had his trained on the center of Uncle or Auntie Leslie's body mass. He said something then, something terrible and loud that echoed from the rafters and cracked the glass in some of the wall mirrors. The vast figure opposite him stood suddenly motionless. The mean little eyes rolled with terror, but their owner seemed unable to speak or even breathe. Aunt or Uncle Leslie began to turn blue as Il Comte walked toward her or him.
"That was poor form," he murmured, taking the wand out of his or her hand. "Breathe."
Beyond belief, Sadie felt sorry for the monstrous creature that sucked in one huge, wheezing breath, then breathed out once and stopped again, looking as terrified and almost as blue as before.
"I find the Imperius Curse terribly passé, don't you? Besides, your Ministry here has set up so many new restrictions and taboos that I am loath to risk it. What do you think of this litte substitute? I whipped it up myself. Breathe."
Auntie or Uncle gasped in, blew out, and was frozen again. Sadie clutched at the sides of her face, feeling some of his or her torture herself, yet afraid to give in to her urge to gasp for air. She was sure Il Comte would hear her, even from her hiding place several meters away.
"Here's how it works," said Il Comte. "You still have your free will - but you can only act upon it with my permission. If I forget to tell you to breathe, for example, you will die. Breathe."
His helpless victim breathed, looking both terrified and furious at once.
"I will only give you permission to do what I want you to do," Il Comte said calmly, walking all the way around him or her. It took quite a few steps. "And if you don't do it, I will leave you like this. You won't last very long - just long enough to make it unpleasant. But really, at bottom, it's up to you. You can choose to do what I ask, and live; or you can do nothing. Breathe."
Another breath. Sadie breathed at the same time. Watching this was agony. She fiddled with the whistle on its dragon-bone chain, tempted to try it...
"Now," said Il Comte, "I believe you have in your possession a certain ring that has only come to light after being lost for centuries. What is it called again? The Ring of Count Stephen? Answer."
"Either that or of Count Matthias," Uncle or Auntie wheezed, stealing as many breaths as possible between his or her words. "It depends on which side of..."
"That's enough," said Il Comte, instantly arresting his adversary's tongue and lungs. "Is it true that whatever writing you seal with this ring must be obeyed by the first person who reads it?" Nod yes or no.
Swelling dangerously, Auntie or Uncle nodded yes.
"Have you tested this? Nod yes or no."
Another affirmative nod.
"All right, breathe. You now have a choice, esteemed colleague. Take me to the ring and I will free you from this curse. Refuse, and I will turn every room of this house upside-down till I find it. Either way, I will have the ring. I am offering you a chance to live, simply in exchange for shortening my stay in your lovely home, and saving me a bit of trouble. What is your answer? Nod yes or no."
Uncle or Auntie didn't move for quite a long time. She or he was quite black in the face before, at last, he or she nodded.
"Excellent," said Il Comte. "You may breathe at will."
Apart from relieved gasps, the huge witch or wizard did not move at all.
Sadie bit her lip, furious and confused. Her mind raced. How could she find the ring before Uncle or Auntie Leslie led Il Comte to it? How could she steal it before he did, without becoming the target of a curse like the one he had cast on Leslie? And how could Il Comte - who, by all accounts, was not such a powerful wizard in terms of pure magical power - how could he have cast such a powerful spell?
+++ 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 now closed.]
SURVEY: Which storyline will we see in TMQ #145? A) Sadie and Joe's mission to recover the Ring of Count Matthias. B) Merlin's mission to recover a goblin talisman from Il Comte's villa. C) Spanky and Dalrymple's investigation of Persephone's yak. D) A new mission featuring another recurring TMQ character. Write-ins will be regarded as "concepts contributed" and the winner will be chosen by Robbie, if D gets the most votes in the survey.
CONTEST: What if the "book mistakes" in the Harry Potter series were actually deliberate ploys to cover up things muggles like us aren't supposed to know about? Pick an apparent "book mistake" and suggest the "untold story" that may lie behind it.
[Originally posted 9/28/08]
137. Death by Aromatherapy
Contest winner: greyniffler
Joe Albuquerque had walked around the hogshead barrel in the late Bette Noir's vault for the 100th time, occasionally pausing to knock on it or to try some other means of guessing what it contained (short of opening it), when something started to happen in the very corner where he had been hiding when the barrel was delivered.
Sadie stepped away from the pile of enormous money bags and joined Joe on the far side of the barrel. Together they watched from behind a rack full of fur coats as the jumping-juniper barrel rocked itself back and forth. Nearby, a sack writhed and shuddered as if someone was trapped inside it. Sadie chewed the end of her veil. Joe watched with his fists clenched. A few minutes earlier, he had been disguised as a money bag only a few feet from the one that was now coming to life. Now his attention was focused on who might be coming out of it, focused to razor keenness by the hope and dread of seeing a woman he had loved and lost many years ago.
So when an entirely unknown person came out of the bag, he almost cried out with relief. Or, perhaps, disappointment.
The unknown person was preceded by a fountain of galleons, shooting out of a burst seam below the neck of the sack. This was followed by a hand, which tugged on the outside of the sack to make the rip wider; then an arm, and another; then the head and shoulders of an extremely thin young man; and finally the rest of him, flowing out of the coin-clogged sack in one rapid movement. This, Joe was certain, was no one he had ever met . . . yet there was something familiar about him. Joe watched silently, meaning to learn as much as he could about this newcomer before revealing himself.
Meanwhile, Sadie had recognized the signet ring on the young man's finger. She nudged Joe and pointed it out.
Oblivious to their presence, the young man chanted some very precise shrinking charms, reducing the size of the great wriggling barrel until it would fit in the palm of his hand. He pocketed this. Then he prised the lid off a crate and pulled out a glass votive holder. This was evidently not what he needed. The youth put the votive back and opened another crate. This one was full of squat, beeswax candles. With a grin of success, he sealed the crate and shrank it until it would fit in his other pocket. Then he went back to the split money bag and burrowed into it. A moment later his kicking legs disappeared into the pile of coins still remaining in the sack, and the sound of rattling galleons ceased.
"Who was that?" Sadie blurted before the last echo had died. "And where did he go with - er - whatever it is?"
"Only one way to find out," said Joe, pushing the rack of furs aside. He began digging in the sack of galleons, and quickly struck upon a wooden surface. Clearing the coins away, he found that, on the inside, the sack was only one end of a canvas lining of a chest or strongbox of some kind. The lid on top was unadorned wood. Even with all the contents scraped out on the floor of the vault, the chest was too narrow to accommodate someone of Joe's size. He pulled his head out of the split sack and looked at Sadie. "You might be scrawny enough," he remarked.
"Thank you very much," she snapped. She stretched and flexed, throwing her bosom out as if to prove that she had one.
"Well, maybe if we wrap a tight bandage around your chest," Joe conceded.
Sadie seemed mollified. "That's all right," she said. "I can get through some tight spaces. Let me see what you have there."
Before Joe could stop her or discuss their plan of attack, Sadie swarmed into the sack headfirst and was gone, slamming the lid of the chest behind her.
Swearing, Joe pushed the lid up and tried to see out of the top of the strongbox. "Sadie," he hissed. "What are you doing?"
When he received no answer, Joe sat back on his heels and waited. After a while he grew bored, so he opened the crate of votive holders the young stranger had rejected. These were narrow glass cylinders, open at one end, and decorated with a painting of some medieval saint cradling a wounded bird in his hands. Beneath the picture, a short rhyme was picked out in curly, thread-like letters:
What Sadie found when she emerged from the narrow strongbox was a lady's bedchamber in a very fine, old house. There was no mistaking it, even with dustcovers over everything and the windows veiled by smothering curtains. The draped shapes included a four-poster bed, a chair beside a workbasket, a wardrobe, a dressing table (on which the strongbox was situated), a cold, dark fireplace, and a washstand. The dust covers were a good idea; they were heavily soiled with dust, as was the floor, except where the young man's feet had come and gone.
Sadie carefully stepped in the youth's footprints and followed them across the dusty floor. Slowly, mindful of even the tiniest creak, Sadie pulled the door open and peeked out into the room beyond. Again, smothered windows and dustcovers over all: a lady's sitting-room. Beyond that was a deserted hallway, from which dim light and the sound of voices filtered as if from some distance. She crept along the hallway, looking into the rooms she passed. In some, the curtains were pulled aside, revealing an improbable variety of vistas. From a child's day-nursery she saw a winter landscape with snow on the ground and trees glittering with icicles. From a small library, the windows gave a view of a gravel driveway, green lawns, towering hedges, and an iron gate. The music room (where a piano and violin seemed to have been abandoned by their players only a moment ago) commanded a view of a khaki-colored waste dotted with cactus, agave, and sagebrush. But the view that made the breath catch in her chest was in the dining room.
It wasn't so much the vast window overlooking the Thames at night, with the lights of the city in the distance; nor was it the painting on the other side, the painting of a Dark Lord of recent (but not blessed) memory; nor the vase of shriveled, putrid-smelling flowers under it. What made Sadie draw back around the corner was the vast figure wedged into a massive chair at the head of the dining room table, surrounded by a crowd of platters and tureens from which it ceaselessly ate while the skinny youth from the vault stood by his elbow, speaking.
"...exactly as planned," the young man was saying just now. "I will begin infusing the napple cordial into the candles tomorrow. Then, with..."
"Today," belched the monstrous figure at the head of the table.
"All right," said the youth, scarcely looking put out. "Today. Then, with the St. Mungo commemorative votives stuffed with suicider-scented candles, we can proceed to the next stage. The healers will find the missing crate of votives, conveniently but plausibly misplaced in their regular candle-supply closet. The fundraiser will proceed as planned. Every do-gooder wizard this side of the Channel will buy one to support the hospital's expansion project. Next thing they know, St. Mungo's will be flooded with unexplained comas. That's when you will - er..."
"You'll see," gobbled the thing beside him with a wicked gleam in its little eyes. It continued feeding while the young man fidgeted nervously.
"Surely, Uncle," the lad cried out at last. "That is to say, Auntie - or whatever - surely the plan has ripened to the point where I'll need to know what comes next."
A huge, meaty paw slapped the young man, knocking him headlong into a heap of discarded crockery. "Be still," the paw's owner warned, his wobbling face turning puce with anger. "When Uncle or Auntie is ready to reveal that he or she still lives," it continued, in defiance of its ordinarily ravenous appetite, "the world will know soon enough what we want. Until then, give us a reason to doubt your loyalty, and you will become" - the speech broke off in favor of a long, rich belch - "an item on the menu."
As soon as Uncle or Auntie Leslie had resumed stuffing, the skinny youth picked himself up and limped out of the room, passing within inches of the stuffed panda whose shadow concealed Sadie. She gripped the bear's fur, eyes wide as saucers, trying to make sense of all that she had just seen and heard. After several minutes of uninterrupted gross noises coming from the adjacent room, Sadie plucked up her courage and slipped back down the hallway, in search of the lady's bedchamber from which she had somehow entered the stronghold of a dark wizard whose death had been reported long ago.
Five minutes later, Sadie knew she was lost. She recognized none of the rooms she looked into, and now some of the doors were locked. Backtracking didn't help; when she went back to a door she was sure had been, moments earlier, a dairy stocked with rounds of cheese and brimming butter molds, it had become a breadroom thick with the smell of cooling loaves. As she wandered, discouraged, through increasingly unfamiliar corridors, Sadie's ears picked up to the sound of approaching footsteps. She threw herself through a door...
...stumbled, in near-darkness, down half a dozen brick steps...
...and only realized she was outdoors when a flash of lightning brightened the sky. Sadie turned around, quickly reestablishing her bearings, but it was too late. The door she had come out of was on the retreating side of a rough-hewn, wooden shack. A shack that was running away from her at surprising speed, running on ten thousand chicken feet.
Sadie said something not very dainty and began to race after it.
+++ Double Challenge for #139 +++
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 now closed.]
SURVEY: How did Joe and Sadie get into Vault 1036 at Gringotts? (See chapters 135 and 136 for more background.) A: The goblins let them in because they had a warrant from the RMB. B: Joe had a key because Bette Noir gave it to him. C: They hid inside a deposit bag. D: I dunno, some type of magical means of entry. (Suggestions are welcome.)
CONTEST: Describe a clever, magical security measure that could trip up even an experienced burglar like Sadie.
[Originally posted 5/25/08]
Joe Albuquerque had walked around the hogshead barrel in the late Bette Noir's vault for the 100th time, occasionally pausing to knock on it or to try some other means of guessing what it contained (short of opening it), when something started to happen in the very corner where he had been hiding when the barrel was delivered.
Sadie stepped away from the pile of enormous money bags and joined Joe on the far side of the barrel. Together they watched from behind a rack full of fur coats as the jumping-juniper barrel rocked itself back and forth. Nearby, a sack writhed and shuddered as if someone was trapped inside it. Sadie chewed the end of her veil. Joe watched with his fists clenched. A few minutes earlier, he had been disguised as a money bag only a few feet from the one that was now coming to life. Now his attention was focused on who might be coming out of it, focused to razor keenness by the hope and dread of seeing a woman he had loved and lost many years ago.
So when an entirely unknown person came out of the bag, he almost cried out with relief. Or, perhaps, disappointment.
The unknown person was preceded by a fountain of galleons, shooting out of a burst seam below the neck of the sack. This was followed by a hand, which tugged on the outside of the sack to make the rip wider; then an arm, and another; then the head and shoulders of an extremely thin young man; and finally the rest of him, flowing out of the coin-clogged sack in one rapid movement. This, Joe was certain, was no one he had ever met . . . yet there was something familiar about him. Joe watched silently, meaning to learn as much as he could about this newcomer before revealing himself.
Meanwhile, Sadie had recognized the signet ring on the young man's finger. She nudged Joe and pointed it out.
Oblivious to their presence, the young man chanted some very precise shrinking charms, reducing the size of the great wriggling barrel until it would fit in the palm of his hand. He pocketed this. Then he prised the lid off a crate and pulled out a glass votive holder. This was evidently not what he needed. The youth put the votive back and opened another crate. This one was full of squat, beeswax candles. With a grin of success, he sealed the crate and shrank it until it would fit in his other pocket. Then he went back to the split money bag and burrowed into it. A moment later his kicking legs disappeared into the pile of coins still remaining in the sack, and the sound of rattling galleons ceased.
"Who was that?" Sadie blurted before the last echo had died. "And where did he go with - er - whatever it is?"
"Only one way to find out," said Joe, pushing the rack of furs aside. He began digging in the sack of galleons, and quickly struck upon a wooden surface. Clearing the coins away, he found that, on the inside, the sack was only one end of a canvas lining of a chest or strongbox of some kind. The lid on top was unadorned wood. Even with all the contents scraped out on the floor of the vault, the chest was too narrow to accommodate someone of Joe's size. He pulled his head out of the split sack and looked at Sadie. "You might be scrawny enough," he remarked.
"Thank you very much," she snapped. She stretched and flexed, throwing her bosom out as if to prove that she had one.
"Well, maybe if we wrap a tight bandage around your chest," Joe conceded.
Sadie seemed mollified. "That's all right," she said. "I can get through some tight spaces. Let me see what you have there."
Before Joe could stop her or discuss their plan of attack, Sadie swarmed into the sack headfirst and was gone, slamming the lid of the chest behind her.
Swearing, Joe pushed the lid up and tried to see out of the top of the strongbox. "Sadie," he hissed. "What are you doing?"
When he received no answer, Joe sat back on his heels and waited. After a while he grew bored, so he opened the crate of votive holders the young stranger had rejected. These were narrow glass cylinders, open at one end, and decorated with a painting of some medieval saint cradling a wounded bird in his hands. Beneath the picture, a short rhyme was picked out in curly, thread-like letters:
Here is the bird that never flew.This meant nothing to Joe. He sighed, went back to the corner behind the fur coats, wrapped one of the coats around him, and took a nap.
Here is the tree that never grew.
Here is the bell that never rang.
Here is the fish that never swam.
What Sadie found when she emerged from the narrow strongbox was a lady's bedchamber in a very fine, old house. There was no mistaking it, even with dustcovers over everything and the windows veiled by smothering curtains. The draped shapes included a four-poster bed, a chair beside a workbasket, a wardrobe, a dressing table (on which the strongbox was situated), a cold, dark fireplace, and a washstand. The dust covers were a good idea; they were heavily soiled with dust, as was the floor, except where the young man's feet had come and gone.
Sadie carefully stepped in the youth's footprints and followed them across the dusty floor. Slowly, mindful of even the tiniest creak, Sadie pulled the door open and peeked out into the room beyond. Again, smothered windows and dustcovers over all: a lady's sitting-room. Beyond that was a deserted hallway, from which dim light and the sound of voices filtered as if from some distance. She crept along the hallway, looking into the rooms she passed. In some, the curtains were pulled aside, revealing an improbable variety of vistas. From a child's day-nursery she saw a winter landscape with snow on the ground and trees glittering with icicles. From a small library, the windows gave a view of a gravel driveway, green lawns, towering hedges, and an iron gate. The music room (where a piano and violin seemed to have been abandoned by their players only a moment ago) commanded a view of a khaki-colored waste dotted with cactus, agave, and sagebrush. But the view that made the breath catch in her chest was in the dining room.
It wasn't so much the vast window overlooking the Thames at night, with the lights of the city in the distance; nor was it the painting on the other side, the painting of a Dark Lord of recent (but not blessed) memory; nor the vase of shriveled, putrid-smelling flowers under it. What made Sadie draw back around the corner was the vast figure wedged into a massive chair at the head of the dining room table, surrounded by a crowd of platters and tureens from which it ceaselessly ate while the skinny youth from the vault stood by his elbow, speaking.
"...exactly as planned," the young man was saying just now. "I will begin infusing the napple cordial into the candles tomorrow. Then, with..."
"Today," belched the monstrous figure at the head of the table.
"All right," said the youth, scarcely looking put out. "Today. Then, with the St. Mungo commemorative votives stuffed with suicider-scented candles, we can proceed to the next stage. The healers will find the missing crate of votives, conveniently but plausibly misplaced in their regular candle-supply closet. The fundraiser will proceed as planned. Every do-gooder wizard this side of the Channel will buy one to support the hospital's expansion project. Next thing they know, St. Mungo's will be flooded with unexplained comas. That's when you will - er..."
"You'll see," gobbled the thing beside him with a wicked gleam in its little eyes. It continued feeding while the young man fidgeted nervously.
"Surely, Uncle," the lad cried out at last. "That is to say, Auntie - or whatever - surely the plan has ripened to the point where I'll need to know what comes next."
A huge, meaty paw slapped the young man, knocking him headlong into a heap of discarded crockery. "Be still," the paw's owner warned, his wobbling face turning puce with anger. "When Uncle or Auntie is ready to reveal that he or she still lives," it continued, in defiance of its ordinarily ravenous appetite, "the world will know soon enough what we want. Until then, give us a reason to doubt your loyalty, and you will become" - the speech broke off in favor of a long, rich belch - "an item on the menu."
As soon as Uncle or Auntie Leslie had resumed stuffing, the skinny youth picked himself up and limped out of the room, passing within inches of the stuffed panda whose shadow concealed Sadie. She gripped the bear's fur, eyes wide as saucers, trying to make sense of all that she had just seen and heard. After several minutes of uninterrupted gross noises coming from the adjacent room, Sadie plucked up her courage and slipped back down the hallway, in search of the lady's bedchamber from which she had somehow entered the stronghold of a dark wizard whose death had been reported long ago.
Five minutes later, Sadie knew she was lost. She recognized none of the rooms she looked into, and now some of the doors were locked. Backtracking didn't help; when she went back to a door she was sure had been, moments earlier, a dairy stocked with rounds of cheese and brimming butter molds, it had become a breadroom thick with the smell of cooling loaves. As she wandered, discouraged, through increasingly unfamiliar corridors, Sadie's ears picked up to the sound of approaching footsteps. She threw herself through a door...
...stumbled, in near-darkness, down half a dozen brick steps...
...and only realized she was outdoors when a flash of lightning brightened the sky. Sadie turned around, quickly reestablishing her bearings, but it was too late. The door she had come out of was on the retreating side of a rough-hewn, wooden shack. A shack that was running away from her at surprising speed, running on ten thousand chicken feet.
Sadie said something not very dainty and began to race after it.
+++ Double Challenge for #139 +++
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 now closed.]
SURVEY: How did Joe and Sadie get into Vault 1036 at Gringotts? (See chapters 135 and 136 for more background.) A: The goblins let them in because they had a warrant from the RMB. B: Joe had a key because Bette Noir gave it to him. C: They hid inside a deposit bag. D: I dunno, some type of magical means of entry. (Suggestions are welcome.)
CONTEST: Describe a clever, magical security measure that could trip up even an experienced burglar like Sadie.
[Originally posted 5/25/08]
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
101. Eulogy for a Dark Wizard
Concept contributed by: Kat
All of us at Vold-Mart are devastated by the tragic loss of our Co-founder, Chief Operational Witch (or Wizard) and Sorcerer (or Sorceress) of Opportunity Development, Leslie Marion McInermaphrodite -- affectionately known to many as Uncle or Auntie Leslie. Driven by a disturbingly pure spirit of entrepreneurship, ruthless to the last, uncompromising in his or her love of blood purity and commitment to offering the tools of Dark wizardry at unbeatably low prices, Uncle or Auntie Leslie more than any other individual was responsible for the early success of Vold-Mart.
For these contributions, he or she was awarded the Order of the Green Serpent by the Dark Lord soon after his return. Leslie was also active in a variety of volunteer organizations, including (but not limited to) the Exterminate the Hungry Foundation, the Society for the Promotion of Cruelty to Magical Creatures, Spellbondage International, Fiends Helping Fiends, the Acid Rainbow Coaltion, the Down With People Exchange Programs for Overprivileged Brats, Cannibals for Understanding, Siblings of the Parents of Obnoxious Offspring in Favor of Underage Drunken Broom Flying, the Fund for the Furtherance of Government Corruption and the World Domination Stamp Club.
As busy as Uncle or Auntie Leslie was with all of these duties, he or she did not have time to develop many close relationships. Or at least, if he or she did have such relationships, the other people involved have vanished. After so many disappearances in Leslie’s inner circle, it may not be surprising that I am the only surviving person for whom the phrase “Uncle or Auntie Leslie” was more than a nickname. You see, Leslie was actually my uncle or aunt. In fact, I was the inspiration behind the founding of Siblings of the Parents of Obnoxious Offspring. And although my Aunt or Uncle tried to do me in several times, in what I like to think of as an affectionate way, it is to Leslie that I owe my success today.
When my dear, dyslexic mother mentioned that she thought Elocution Lessons would be good for me, it was Uncle or Auntie Leslie who made sure that my mother saw an advert for Electrocution Lessons. She signed me up at once, thereby starting my career in torture and interrogation at a receptive, young age. The following summer, when Poise was on my mother’s mind, Leslie managed me into a course on Poison. When Mum thought I was learning to arrange a table setting, I was actually practicing Vivisection. And no school of ballet could ever have taught me to be as agile as Madame Bastinado’s Bullet Academy, where we learned to evade moving projectiles such as poisoned darts, harpoons and cannon fire. I remember the exams -- diplomas were awarded to the survivors.
By the time I reached adulthood, I had acquired a world of culture -- and the ability to instantly locate the crucial nerve-ending in a person’s body and exploit it to its maximum potential. Uncle or Auntie Leslie helped me to achieve that, and in return, I helped him or her to become rich and powerful. I was even able to contribute to Leslie’s proudest achievement: the Unforgivable Curse Howlers, delivering death, torment and enslavement by owl post. He or she did not live to see the release of the completed product line, but I can now positively say that the new Howlers will be on the shelves at Vold-Mart by the dark of the moon.
As a person, Uncle or Auntie Leslie was full of enigmas and contradictions. Many people thought that Leslie hated beautiful flowers, but I found that he or she loved the feel of flowers being crushed underfoot. Leslie was also rumored to hate children, but in fact he or she loved them -- primarily as food. For this reason, another rumor had it that he or she was a vampire, but Uncle or Auntie Leslie despised vampires. In fact, he or she deliberately put itching powder in the sunblock lotion that Vold-Mart manufactured for the vampires -- in spite of which, that sunblock remains one of our best selling items.
Leslie loved music and had a beautiful Countertenor (or perhaps Contralto) voice. He or she even took part in the Hogsmeade Oratorio Society at one time, but was asked to leave after repeatedly having laughing fits at the climax of John Dee’s The Damnation of Slytherin. Most surprising of all, Uncle or Auntie Leslie made frequent donations to a variety of religious organizations; generally with the words “for armament and defense” written in the Memo line.
The shock of Uncle or Auntie Leslie’s passing is made more profound by the knowledge that his or her death could have been prevented. As we now know, it was the Reversus spell that did him or her in. Some fool in Research and Development convinced Leslie that Reversus would cause his or her opponents’ spells to backfire on them. Duels with uppity subordinates, such as my late, unlamented siblings and cousins, were a regular part of Leslie’s trademark management style. When the charwitch provoked Leslie by vanishing his or her pet black widow, Leslie tried the Reversus spell and did not realize that it would in fact cause his or her own spells to rebound. Sadly, though this effect could have been reversed by casting another Reversus spell, Leslie moved directly to the Killing Curse without testing the first spell’s results.
And the rest is history. Or rather, Leslie was history, and he or she is now at rest in this Plus-Sized Funeral Urn. With that, let us observe a moment of silence.... All right, that’s long enough. By the way, I ought to mention that this memorial service shall be stopped out of your pay. So get back to work, the lot of you!
Submitted to The Quibbler by an anonymous source at Vold-Mart.
+++ 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: True or False: Today’s witches and wizards are all descended from an all-magical civilization that existed long ago, before they spread out and got mixed up with Muggles.
CONTEST: Describe a joke item that might be found at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes (not including items that have been mentioned in JKR’s books).
The Survey answer that gets the most votes, and the Contest entry that Robbie likes the most, will be featured in Magic Quill #103. So be sure to visit our Discussion Thread -- and if you aren’t a member of COS Forums, join today!
[Originally posted 9/7/06]
All of us at Vold-Mart are devastated by the tragic loss of our Co-founder, Chief Operational Witch (or Wizard) and Sorcerer (or Sorceress) of Opportunity Development, Leslie Marion McInermaphrodite -- affectionately known to many as Uncle or Auntie Leslie. Driven by a disturbingly pure spirit of entrepreneurship, ruthless to the last, uncompromising in his or her love of blood purity and commitment to offering the tools of Dark wizardry at unbeatably low prices, Uncle or Auntie Leslie more than any other individual was responsible for the early success of Vold-Mart.
For these contributions, he or she was awarded the Order of the Green Serpent by the Dark Lord soon after his return. Leslie was also active in a variety of volunteer organizations, including (but not limited to) the Exterminate the Hungry Foundation, the Society for the Promotion of Cruelty to Magical Creatures, Spellbondage International, Fiends Helping Fiends, the Acid Rainbow Coaltion, the Down With People Exchange Programs for Overprivileged Brats, Cannibals for Understanding, Siblings of the Parents of Obnoxious Offspring in Favor of Underage Drunken Broom Flying, the Fund for the Furtherance of Government Corruption and the World Domination Stamp Club.
As busy as Uncle or Auntie Leslie was with all of these duties, he or she did not have time to develop many close relationships. Or at least, if he or she did have such relationships, the other people involved have vanished. After so many disappearances in Leslie’s inner circle, it may not be surprising that I am the only surviving person for whom the phrase “Uncle or Auntie Leslie” was more than a nickname. You see, Leslie was actually my uncle or aunt. In fact, I was the inspiration behind the founding of Siblings of the Parents of Obnoxious Offspring. And although my Aunt or Uncle tried to do me in several times, in what I like to think of as an affectionate way, it is to Leslie that I owe my success today.
When my dear, dyslexic mother mentioned that she thought Elocution Lessons would be good for me, it was Uncle or Auntie Leslie who made sure that my mother saw an advert for Electrocution Lessons. She signed me up at once, thereby starting my career in torture and interrogation at a receptive, young age. The following summer, when Poise was on my mother’s mind, Leslie managed me into a course on Poison. When Mum thought I was learning to arrange a table setting, I was actually practicing Vivisection. And no school of ballet could ever have taught me to be as agile as Madame Bastinado’s Bullet Academy, where we learned to evade moving projectiles such as poisoned darts, harpoons and cannon fire. I remember the exams -- diplomas were awarded to the survivors.
By the time I reached adulthood, I had acquired a world of culture -- and the ability to instantly locate the crucial nerve-ending in a person’s body and exploit it to its maximum potential. Uncle or Auntie Leslie helped me to achieve that, and in return, I helped him or her to become rich and powerful. I was even able to contribute to Leslie’s proudest achievement: the Unforgivable Curse Howlers, delivering death, torment and enslavement by owl post. He or she did not live to see the release of the completed product line, but I can now positively say that the new Howlers will be on the shelves at Vold-Mart by the dark of the moon.
As a person, Uncle or Auntie Leslie was full of enigmas and contradictions. Many people thought that Leslie hated beautiful flowers, but I found that he or she loved the feel of flowers being crushed underfoot. Leslie was also rumored to hate children, but in fact he or she loved them -- primarily as food. For this reason, another rumor had it that he or she was a vampire, but Uncle or Auntie Leslie despised vampires. In fact, he or she deliberately put itching powder in the sunblock lotion that Vold-Mart manufactured for the vampires -- in spite of which, that sunblock remains one of our best selling items.
Leslie loved music and had a beautiful Countertenor (or perhaps Contralto) voice. He or she even took part in the Hogsmeade Oratorio Society at one time, but was asked to leave after repeatedly having laughing fits at the climax of John Dee’s The Damnation of Slytherin. Most surprising of all, Uncle or Auntie Leslie made frequent donations to a variety of religious organizations; generally with the words “for armament and defense” written in the Memo line.
The shock of Uncle or Auntie Leslie’s passing is made more profound by the knowledge that his or her death could have been prevented. As we now know, it was the Reversus spell that did him or her in. Some fool in Research and Development convinced Leslie that Reversus would cause his or her opponents’ spells to backfire on them. Duels with uppity subordinates, such as my late, unlamented siblings and cousins, were a regular part of Leslie’s trademark management style. When the charwitch provoked Leslie by vanishing his or her pet black widow, Leslie tried the Reversus spell and did not realize that it would in fact cause his or her own spells to rebound. Sadly, though this effect could have been reversed by casting another Reversus spell, Leslie moved directly to the Killing Curse without testing the first spell’s results.
And the rest is history. Or rather, Leslie was history, and he or she is now at rest in this Plus-Sized Funeral Urn. With that, let us observe a moment of silence.... All right, that’s long enough. By the way, I ought to mention that this memorial service shall be stopped out of your pay. So get back to work, the lot of you!
Submitted to The Quibbler by an anonymous source at Vold-Mart.
+++ 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: True or False: Today’s witches and wizards are all descended from an all-magical civilization that existed long ago, before they spread out and got mixed up with Muggles.
CONTEST: Describe a joke item that might be found at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes (not including items that have been mentioned in JKR’s books).
The Survey answer that gets the most votes, and the Contest entry that Robbie likes the most, will be featured in Magic Quill #103. So be sure to visit our Discussion Thread -- and if you aren’t a member of COS Forums, join today!
[Originally posted 9/7/06]
Monday, December 22, 2008
64. Boggart in My Pocket
Concept Contributed by: Jade T.
Merlin and the four Slavs froze for a moment as Rigel’s worst nightmare loomed over him, obscenely obese, darkening with fury.
“You’ve disappointed me,” said Uncle or Aunt Leslie, quivering vastly. His or her voice sounded strangled and hoarse. “Do you know what happens when someone disappoints Uncle or Auntie?” Its fleshy hand grabbed Rigel’s collar and hauled him to his feet. “No? Not even a guess?”
“Er...I-I-I...” Rigel stammered.
“I’ll tell you, then,” said the wicked thing, pulling Rigel's face so close to its own that their bodies collided. Ripples spread out across Uncle or Aunt Leslie’s body. “When I’m disappointed, I get hungry.”
Rigel finally managed to spit out the words that kept getting caught in his throat: “I’m not afraid of you!”
“You just keep thinking that,” said Uncle or Aunt Leslie. His or her sharp teeth gleamed in the light from Rigel’s glowing cloak. “That’s right. Uncle or Auntie will forgive you...after I digest you...”
Rigel burst into tears. “Help me,” he sobbed.
That brought Merlin out of his paralysis. He rushed forward, and before the boggart-Leslie could do more than turn his or her head, Merlin head-butted him or her with a sound like a watermelon falling into a shot-put pit. The monster staggered, gaping, while Rigel slid precariously between its legs. As the boggart, recovering, began to lunge toward Merlin with murder in its eyes, the four Durmstrang runaways leapt forward and surrounded it. Anatoly dragged Rigel out of harm’s way, and a moment later the six of them were standing in a circle around the flustered boggart, holding hands.
“No wands,” Rigel said tremulously. “We can’t banish it.”
“No, but we can sure make it miserable,” Merlin replied.
And so they did. Uncle or Aunt Leslie turned round and round, fuming yet confused. A slimy tentacle reached for one of the Durmstrang lads, who ducked out of its way. Something viny and covered with thorns darted in another direction. Strange growths erupted all over the boggart’s body, as it tried to decide what shape to take.
“Let’s do ring around the Leslie,” Rigel suggested, brightening at the sight.
Merlin shook his head. “I have a better idea. Tell those three to herd it toward me, while you get your pocket universe ready.”
Rigel looked wonderingly at him, but as Merlin backed away a step or two, he began fumbling in his robes.
The Durmstrang comrades made a rush at the boggart, hallooing. It backed, disoriented, toward Merlin – the only direction in which it had room to move – and suddenly Merlin stepped forward.
“Back off, you three,” he hissed, as the hideous, multi-appendaged thing between them turned its many eyes toward him.
It went pop and, just as suddenly, a small glass sphere the size of Merlin’s fist was rolling toward his feet. He nodded at Rigel, whose eyes looked close to popping out of his face. Then Merlin gave the sphere a slight kick while Rigel lowered his pocket to the ground and scooped it inside. Before the boggart could change shape again, a faint hiss of escaping air proved that the pocket universe had sealed again.
“Brilliant,” Rigel exulted. “Now, do let’s get out of here!”
In spite of the shaking and rattling artifacts around them, the party of six made it through the door at the end of the passage without any further incident.
Instead of finding themselves in another dank railway tunnel, however, they emerged into a warm, brightly lit, richly furnished room. A fire crackled in a grate to their left, illuminating a tapestry on one wall and a painting on another, and surrounded by heavy armchairs and claw-footed ashtrays. A long, dark, marble-topped table filled much of the remaining space. The smell of tobacco held the room. Above the end of the table farthest from the fire was another painting, showing a very sharp-toothed, fierce-looking goblin wearing a smoking jacket and ascot, and holding a smoking pipe shaped like a witch on a broomstick. The smoke made it look as if the witch’s hair were on fire.
“That’s Undergrim the Unsavory,” Rigel breathed, indicating the same painting that had caught Merlin’s eye. “The founding chairman of Gringotts.”
“And I,” said a sharp little voice from only a few feet away, “I am Undergrim’s direct descendant, twenty-seven generations removed.”
Everyone started at the first sound of the voice, and looked around for its source. Presently a goblin revealed himself, stepping from behind a corner of the tapestry. “Greetings,” it said with a bow and a smile that made Merlin want to go back to Uncle or Aunt Leslie. “My name is Dewclaw. Congratulations. You have come closer to escaping than anyone since that adventurous American fellow in the last century. What was his name? Ah, yes, Bierce. Mind you, it took him eighteen years to reach this room, and that was with a gobbledygook dictionary and a deathwish. But enough chatter. My associates will take you back to the pit now, where you will find there have been some cave-ins and a bit of mason-work since your last visit.”
“But...” Merlin protested, as armed goblin guards poured out of several hidden doors and seized the lot of them. “But didn’t you...”
He caught himself on the edge of saying the word promise, and backpedaled. “I mean, don’t we deserve a reward? You know, for helping you analyze the flaws in your security?”
For an instant, the well-dressed goblin’s look of urbane nastiness changed into something quite dangerous: pity. Now Merlin understood what a voice had been telling him all along, though most of his mind had ignored it. The goblins weren’t interested in anything the wizards did. They were, in fact, expecting them all to die of starvation, or perhaps some quicker and stickier means. The fact that they were still alive made the goblins uncomfortable, but only the way a human squirms when an insect keeps wriggling after several attempts to crush it. As far as Dewclaw was concerned, the six wizards were beyond any chance of survival now. Their failure to become extinct made them feel not anxious or concerned, but impatient. Dewclaw’s eyes told Merlin: “If I had known what spirit you gentlemen had, I would not have sent you to your doom before. But it is done, so I can only hope we won’t meet again.”
And with that, the prisoners were swept through a narrow opening, into a dark place where bags were pulled over their heads. In moments Merlin felt the bruising hardness of an ore cart and began another sickening, wild ride through the rail tunnels.
[Originally posted 8/26/05]
Merlin and the four Slavs froze for a moment as Rigel’s worst nightmare loomed over him, obscenely obese, darkening with fury.
“You’ve disappointed me,” said Uncle or Aunt Leslie, quivering vastly. His or her voice sounded strangled and hoarse. “Do you know what happens when someone disappoints Uncle or Auntie?” Its fleshy hand grabbed Rigel’s collar and hauled him to his feet. “No? Not even a guess?”
“Er...I-I-I...” Rigel stammered.
“I’ll tell you, then,” said the wicked thing, pulling Rigel's face so close to its own that their bodies collided. Ripples spread out across Uncle or Aunt Leslie’s body. “When I’m disappointed, I get hungry.”
Rigel finally managed to spit out the words that kept getting caught in his throat: “I’m not afraid of you!”
“You just keep thinking that,” said Uncle or Aunt Leslie. His or her sharp teeth gleamed in the light from Rigel’s glowing cloak. “That’s right. Uncle or Auntie will forgive you...after I digest you...”
Rigel burst into tears. “Help me,” he sobbed.
That brought Merlin out of his paralysis. He rushed forward, and before the boggart-Leslie could do more than turn his or her head, Merlin head-butted him or her with a sound like a watermelon falling into a shot-put pit. The monster staggered, gaping, while Rigel slid precariously between its legs. As the boggart, recovering, began to lunge toward Merlin with murder in its eyes, the four Durmstrang runaways leapt forward and surrounded it. Anatoly dragged Rigel out of harm’s way, and a moment later the six of them were standing in a circle around the flustered boggart, holding hands.
“No wands,” Rigel said tremulously. “We can’t banish it.”
“No, but we can sure make it miserable,” Merlin replied.
And so they did. Uncle or Aunt Leslie turned round and round, fuming yet confused. A slimy tentacle reached for one of the Durmstrang lads, who ducked out of its way. Something viny and covered with thorns darted in another direction. Strange growths erupted all over the boggart’s body, as it tried to decide what shape to take.
“Let’s do ring around the Leslie,” Rigel suggested, brightening at the sight.
Merlin shook his head. “I have a better idea. Tell those three to herd it toward me, while you get your pocket universe ready.”
Rigel looked wonderingly at him, but as Merlin backed away a step or two, he began fumbling in his robes.
The Durmstrang comrades made a rush at the boggart, hallooing. It backed, disoriented, toward Merlin – the only direction in which it had room to move – and suddenly Merlin stepped forward.
“Back off, you three,” he hissed, as the hideous, multi-appendaged thing between them turned its many eyes toward him.
It went pop and, just as suddenly, a small glass sphere the size of Merlin’s fist was rolling toward his feet. He nodded at Rigel, whose eyes looked close to popping out of his face. Then Merlin gave the sphere a slight kick while Rigel lowered his pocket to the ground and scooped it inside. Before the boggart could change shape again, a faint hiss of escaping air proved that the pocket universe had sealed again.
“Brilliant,” Rigel exulted. “Now, do let’s get out of here!”
In spite of the shaking and rattling artifacts around them, the party of six made it through the door at the end of the passage without any further incident.
Instead of finding themselves in another dank railway tunnel, however, they emerged into a warm, brightly lit, richly furnished room. A fire crackled in a grate to their left, illuminating a tapestry on one wall and a painting on another, and surrounded by heavy armchairs and claw-footed ashtrays. A long, dark, marble-topped table filled much of the remaining space. The smell of tobacco held the room. Above the end of the table farthest from the fire was another painting, showing a very sharp-toothed, fierce-looking goblin wearing a smoking jacket and ascot, and holding a smoking pipe shaped like a witch on a broomstick. The smoke made it look as if the witch’s hair were on fire.
“That’s Undergrim the Unsavory,” Rigel breathed, indicating the same painting that had caught Merlin’s eye. “The founding chairman of Gringotts.”
“And I,” said a sharp little voice from only a few feet away, “I am Undergrim’s direct descendant, twenty-seven generations removed.”
Everyone started at the first sound of the voice, and looked around for its source. Presently a goblin revealed himself, stepping from behind a corner of the tapestry. “Greetings,” it said with a bow and a smile that made Merlin want to go back to Uncle or Aunt Leslie. “My name is Dewclaw. Congratulations. You have come closer to escaping than anyone since that adventurous American fellow in the last century. What was his name? Ah, yes, Bierce. Mind you, it took him eighteen years to reach this room, and that was with a gobbledygook dictionary and a deathwish. But enough chatter. My associates will take you back to the pit now, where you will find there have been some cave-ins and a bit of mason-work since your last visit.”
“But...” Merlin protested, as armed goblin guards poured out of several hidden doors and seized the lot of them. “But didn’t you...”
He caught himself on the edge of saying the word promise, and backpedaled. “I mean, don’t we deserve a reward? You know, for helping you analyze the flaws in your security?”
For an instant, the well-dressed goblin’s look of urbane nastiness changed into something quite dangerous: pity. Now Merlin understood what a voice had been telling him all along, though most of his mind had ignored it. The goblins weren’t interested in anything the wizards did. They were, in fact, expecting them all to die of starvation, or perhaps some quicker and stickier means. The fact that they were still alive made the goblins uncomfortable, but only the way a human squirms when an insect keeps wriggling after several attempts to crush it. As far as Dewclaw was concerned, the six wizards were beyond any chance of survival now. Their failure to become extinct made them feel not anxious or concerned, but impatient. Dewclaw’s eyes told Merlin: “If I had known what spirit you gentlemen had, I would not have sent you to your doom before. But it is done, so I can only hope we won’t meet again.”
And with that, the prisoners were swept through a narrow opening, into a dark place where bags were pulled over their heads. In moments Merlin felt the bruising hardness of an ore cart and began another sickening, wild ride through the rail tunnels.
[Originally posted 8/26/05]
63. The Tunnel of Boggarts
Concept Contributed by: Lighthouse Junkie
During a break at work, Endora sneaked a look at the notices in the Daily Prophet. Still no sign of the words “scala di seta” – she didn’t know how she could stand another week without the thrill and danger of meeting with Harvey’s adventurous circle. Nothing interesting happened in her life, except...
“Hmm,” she said to her supervisor, a plump man with a handlebar mustache, as she ladled up a bit of runny, molten sweets from each cauldron in a row. Five such cauldrons were lined up on a bench in the Flavor Development Department at the Bertie Bott's factory. “Hmm,” she repeated, salivating. “They do make one’s mouth water. But this one,” she said abruptly, pointing to the second cauldron from the left, “uses a drooling draught instead of a dribbling decoction. You must be careful with the strength of that one, otherwise there will be a terrific mess....”
Less than a mile away, Sadie was standing on a shadowy band in Diagon Alley, giving passersby a peek at the inside of her cloak. It bristled with wands.
“Genuine Ollivanders,” she murmured whenever anyone came close. “Lovingly nicked by hand from a master of the trade. Each represents thousands of years of tradition, it does, and you’ll never be able to find the like again. Get ’em here while they’re to be had. Only for today you can take this wand home for thirty – Oi! You there! With the dragonhide hat! Are you going to throw that Daily Prophet away? I’ll give you two fake wands for it!”
And on his battered sofa in the attic, Merlin continued to mutter in his sleep while a nightmare – or perhaps a memory – played out in his brain...
He dangled in the darkness, trembling all over. He couldn’t let those goblins take him again. He had come so close to escaping from Gringotts; he could not bear the thought of having to start over. Again. Yet in the room below, four scruffy, unbathed, abjectly shuffling young men were being put into cages, to wait until the goblins put catsup on them.
“What are you doing?” Rigel hissed down at him from high above. Even in the dim light that surrounded his cloak of visibility, he was only a very faint shadowy glow from where Merlin hung, clinging to the Silken Ladder.
Finally, Merlin pulled himself together and said, “Come down. We have to get them out of there.”
“Have you cracked?” squeaked Rigel. “Do you want to be some goblin’s tea?”
“Don’t be silly,” said Merlin, trying to hide his own uneasiness. “They don’t really eat wizards. That catsup down there must have come from something that Cooper fellow ate.”
“Unlike you, I listened to Binns,” Rigel snapped, by now halfway down the ladder again. “Number one, no goblin ever went out of his way to make a wizard comfortable. So do you really suppose they would furnish free food, leave alone condiments, for their prisoners? That catsup wasn’t used for dipping fish fingers. It was used for dipping wizard fingers!”
“Number two,” Rigel panted as he stopped just above Merlin on the threadlike ladder, “in the Goblin Rebellion of 1546, a goblin named Jugshard the Peckish devoured thirty-two full-grown wizards and witches in a period of twelve hours. So if you think half a dozen of us are more than a squad of goblins can swallow...”
“The odds have been against us from the start,” Merlin said in a strangely calm voice. As he spoke, his own trembling stopped, and the tirade died on Rigel’s lips. “But we’ve made it this far,” Merlin went on. “We’ve made it, thanks in part to the help of others. If we don’t save those lads, we don’t deserve to get out of here. And who knows, they may save us in return.”
“That’s all very well until you become a biscuit made to goblin taste,” Rigel said softly, a note of sullen resignation in his voice. “Very well,” he said. “What’s your plan?”
Merlin didn’t answer, because there was no plan. He smacked the portable hole against the ceiling below him, and saw that the coast was clear. Then he scrambled down the ladder, unwound the silken thread from his finger, and tossed the end back up to Rigel. “Stay right there,” he said, improvising on the spot. He ripped the hole off the ceiling and went to the nearest cage, where the first of the Durmstrang lads was crouched, wide-eyed with hope, suspicion, and fear.
A moment later, the portable hole had been stretched across several bars of the cage, and Merlin found himself being hugged by a pudgy young man with scratchy whiskers. Three more cages and three more hugs, and the whole party was trailing up the silken ladder into a vast darkness, in which the glow of Rigel’s cloak was the only thing visible. Merlin took up the rear with the portable hole in his pocket and the slack thread winding up around his finger.
The fact that everyone else was chattering away in a language he didn’t understand gave him time to wonder what in Rigel’s make-up had enabled him to listen to Professor Binns. Taking an interest in what other people had to say had never been one of Rigel’s chief character traits; nor was he marked by a sense of responsibility, like most people who make an effort to do well in school. Yet Rigel had paid attention in History of Magic classes. Why?
His musings were interrupted by his arrival at the top of the ladder, which had somehow managed to get pinched in a crack between two large, hewn stones. The stones were near the top of the wall, which the others had climbed over. Merlin followed them, dropping down into a room lined with stacks of trunks, wardrobes and old desks. It was an enormous room, with several rows of piled-up furniture stretching hundreds of feet ahead of them.
“I move that we look inside one of these trunks,” said Rigel.
One of the Durmstrang lads said something, sounding uneasy.
“I second Anatoly’s motion,” Merlin said, as the group started moving toward the far end of the room.
“I thought you didn’t understand his language?” Rigel said, looking startled.
“I don’t. But by his tone of voice I could tell he was saying, ‘Let’s find an exit.’”
Anatoly flinched as a trunk next to his knee began rocking from side to side, by itself.
“Oh, good,” said Rigel. “This must be where they store the boggarts.”
“All in favor of running for it,” said Merlin, but there was no need for a vote. By now the rattling and creaking of old dressers, cabinets and desks surrounded them on all sides. Everything in sight was shaking, as if something inside was fighting to get out. Naturally, everyone broke into a run. But before they reached the far end of the room, an enormous barrel rolled off the top of a seven-foot-high pile and burst upon the stone floor in front of them.
Rigel was in front, closest to the boggart. He tripped and fell down backward, covering his head with both arms, as the hard face and soft body of Uncle or Auntie Leslie rose up out of the ruined barrel...
[Originally posted 8/19/05]
During a break at work, Endora sneaked a look at the notices in the Daily Prophet. Still no sign of the words “scala di seta” – she didn’t know how she could stand another week without the thrill and danger of meeting with Harvey’s adventurous circle. Nothing interesting happened in her life, except...
“Hmm,” she said to her supervisor, a plump man with a handlebar mustache, as she ladled up a bit of runny, molten sweets from each cauldron in a row. Five such cauldrons were lined up on a bench in the Flavor Development Department at the Bertie Bott's factory. “Hmm,” she repeated, salivating. “They do make one’s mouth water. But this one,” she said abruptly, pointing to the second cauldron from the left, “uses a drooling draught instead of a dribbling decoction. You must be careful with the strength of that one, otherwise there will be a terrific mess....”
Less than a mile away, Sadie was standing on a shadowy band in Diagon Alley, giving passersby a peek at the inside of her cloak. It bristled with wands.
“Genuine Ollivanders,” she murmured whenever anyone came close. “Lovingly nicked by hand from a master of the trade. Each represents thousands of years of tradition, it does, and you’ll never be able to find the like again. Get ’em here while they’re to be had. Only for today you can take this wand home for thirty – Oi! You there! With the dragonhide hat! Are you going to throw that Daily Prophet away? I’ll give you two fake wands for it!”
And on his battered sofa in the attic, Merlin continued to mutter in his sleep while a nightmare – or perhaps a memory – played out in his brain...
He dangled in the darkness, trembling all over. He couldn’t let those goblins take him again. He had come so close to escaping from Gringotts; he could not bear the thought of having to start over. Again. Yet in the room below, four scruffy, unbathed, abjectly shuffling young men were being put into cages, to wait until the goblins put catsup on them.
“What are you doing?” Rigel hissed down at him from high above. Even in the dim light that surrounded his cloak of visibility, he was only a very faint shadowy glow from where Merlin hung, clinging to the Silken Ladder.
Finally, Merlin pulled himself together and said, “Come down. We have to get them out of there.”
“Have you cracked?” squeaked Rigel. “Do you want to be some goblin’s tea?”
“Don’t be silly,” said Merlin, trying to hide his own uneasiness. “They don’t really eat wizards. That catsup down there must have come from something that Cooper fellow ate.”
“Unlike you, I listened to Binns,” Rigel snapped, by now halfway down the ladder again. “Number one, no goblin ever went out of his way to make a wizard comfortable. So do you really suppose they would furnish free food, leave alone condiments, for their prisoners? That catsup wasn’t used for dipping fish fingers. It was used for dipping wizard fingers!”
“Number two,” Rigel panted as he stopped just above Merlin on the threadlike ladder, “in the Goblin Rebellion of 1546, a goblin named Jugshard the Peckish devoured thirty-two full-grown wizards and witches in a period of twelve hours. So if you think half a dozen of us are more than a squad of goblins can swallow...”
“The odds have been against us from the start,” Merlin said in a strangely calm voice. As he spoke, his own trembling stopped, and the tirade died on Rigel’s lips. “But we’ve made it this far,” Merlin went on. “We’ve made it, thanks in part to the help of others. If we don’t save those lads, we don’t deserve to get out of here. And who knows, they may save us in return.”
“That’s all very well until you become a biscuit made to goblin taste,” Rigel said softly, a note of sullen resignation in his voice. “Very well,” he said. “What’s your plan?”
Merlin didn’t answer, because there was no plan. He smacked the portable hole against the ceiling below him, and saw that the coast was clear. Then he scrambled down the ladder, unwound the silken thread from his finger, and tossed the end back up to Rigel. “Stay right there,” he said, improvising on the spot. He ripped the hole off the ceiling and went to the nearest cage, where the first of the Durmstrang lads was crouched, wide-eyed with hope, suspicion, and fear.
A moment later, the portable hole had been stretched across several bars of the cage, and Merlin found himself being hugged by a pudgy young man with scratchy whiskers. Three more cages and three more hugs, and the whole party was trailing up the silken ladder into a vast darkness, in which the glow of Rigel’s cloak was the only thing visible. Merlin took up the rear with the portable hole in his pocket and the slack thread winding up around his finger.
The fact that everyone else was chattering away in a language he didn’t understand gave him time to wonder what in Rigel’s make-up had enabled him to listen to Professor Binns. Taking an interest in what other people had to say had never been one of Rigel’s chief character traits; nor was he marked by a sense of responsibility, like most people who make an effort to do well in school. Yet Rigel had paid attention in History of Magic classes. Why?
His musings were interrupted by his arrival at the top of the ladder, which had somehow managed to get pinched in a crack between two large, hewn stones. The stones were near the top of the wall, which the others had climbed over. Merlin followed them, dropping down into a room lined with stacks of trunks, wardrobes and old desks. It was an enormous room, with several rows of piled-up furniture stretching hundreds of feet ahead of them.
“I move that we look inside one of these trunks,” said Rigel.
One of the Durmstrang lads said something, sounding uneasy.
“I second Anatoly’s motion,” Merlin said, as the group started moving toward the far end of the room.
“I thought you didn’t understand his language?” Rigel said, looking startled.
“I don’t. But by his tone of voice I could tell he was saying, ‘Let’s find an exit.’”
Anatoly flinched as a trunk next to his knee began rocking from side to side, by itself.
“Oh, good,” said Rigel. “This must be where they store the boggarts.”
“All in favor of running for it,” said Merlin, but there was no need for a vote. By now the rattling and creaking of old dressers, cabinets and desks surrounded them on all sides. Everything in sight was shaking, as if something inside was fighting to get out. Naturally, everyone broke into a run. But before they reached the far end of the room, an enormous barrel rolled off the top of a seven-foot-high pile and burst upon the stone floor in front of them.
Rigel was in front, closest to the boggart. He tripped and fell down backward, covering his head with both arms, as the hard face and soft body of Uncle or Auntie Leslie rose up out of the ruined barrel...
[Originally posted 8/19/05]
32. Uncle or Aunt Leslie
Concepts contributed by: Jade & Angelbot
Merlin's story continued:
"Rigel was handed from one hooded, masked figure to another. They were so heavily cloaked that I couldn't tell witch from wizard. I followed as nimbly as I could, dodging through the bustle of the castle corridors, past doorways marked with signs like 'Curse R & D,' 'Store-Brand Poisons,' and 'Glamours, Illusions & Hypnopropaganda.' Through some of those doorways I could hear chains rattling, winches straining, and far-off moans or screams. It was difficult to keep Rigel in sight, but I just managed it.
"Finally, he was shown into the presence of an extremely obese wizard or witch--who did not bother to mask his or her face--but sat with its hood thrown back on an enormous, sagging chair in the middle of a firelit room. All around him or her were tables loaded with pies and pasties, and his or her fingers and jowls were stained with juices of many colors. The walls were covered, not with family portraits, but with sentimental photos and paintings of food: bowls of fruit, baskets of fried chicken, loaves peeping out of linen napkins, mounds of sweets. I suppressed a shudder as I faced the gigantic glutton who seemed to be in charge of Vold-Mart.
"The wizard who had led Rigel into the room bowed low and addressed the seated witch or wizard, who went on eating as if no one was there. 'Hail, Uncle or Auntie Leslie,' said the wizard, sounding amazingly unembarrassed by the fact that even he did not know whether that mountain of fat was male or female. And in a voice thick with half-eaten food, yet neither particularly high-pitched nor particularly deep, the butterball replied: 'Well met, Number Seventy-Three. What morsel have you brought me today?' I must say, it pleased me to see the breath catch in Rigel's throat.
"Number Seventy-Three explained that Rigel had responded to the call for volunteers for a very sensitive project. Uncle or Auntie Leslie smacked his or her lips and said, 'Very good. Have you explained to it what we shall require it to do?'
"'No, Uncle or Auntie,' said Wizard Seventy-Three, graciously.
"'Every morsel that is brought to me,' the monstrous creature said to Wizard Seventy-Three between mouthfuls of pudding, 'is given one opportunity to prove that it is a person, worthy of being addressed as a person, and entrusted with duties and invited to feast with us. Those who fail to prove their worthiness may still prove useful, either as test subjects in one of the product-development areas, or as food for the hungry things that live in our dungeons. Though, heaven knows, we try to keep them hungry, we must feed them from time to time or they will become useless to us. Now let us see. Shall we ask it to remove one of its own kidneys with a grapefruit spoon, and then eat it raw?'
"Wizard Number Seventy-Three watched Rigel closely, as did I. Rigel trembled, his eyes darting here or there, like the eyes of a trapped animal that knows it cannot escape, yet seeks an escape route all the same. Otherwise he remained still.
"'No, I believe that was how Number Fifty-Eight proved herself to me.' Uncle or Auntie Leslie began to gnaw on the roasted leg of some enormous bird which, I felt certain, was not a turkey. 'I do find repetition tiresome. But that is neither here nor there. I have a truly inspired idea. It shall break into a vault at Gringotts for me. Vault 1,066 to be precise. A vault that contains potions preserved since the time of Yves the Leper, who was William the Conqueror's magical adviser.
"'Yves is said to have made potions that were essential to the conquest of this island but too dangerous to remain in use, too alluring to be entrusted to the care of Muggles and mortals and corruptible wizards. Some say there was a potion that made the drinker immune to criticism; or that a certain cream, when rubbed on the tips of Norman spears, made them speed toward the hearts of the Saxon enemy. But the most charming anecdotes concern a Draught of Amorality, which, when taken before doing anything messy or morally complicated, could quiet the drinker's conscience and make him get on with it. I daresay that would be an invaluable asset in our efforts to raise an army for--ahem. I seem to have gone off topic.
"'The greatest potion-master since the Norman invasion, as I was saying, took great pride in his work, and so he could not bear to dispose of what was left over when its purpose was fulfilled. Yet, strange as it may sound, he scrupled against allowing it to be kept in continual use, or selling his brewings to some other likely fellow. As soon as William had conquered, his wizard seems to have lost his kidney--to turn a phrase--for the finer things in life, like inflicting fear and pain, becoming rich and powerful, and getting untold thousands to do his will unquestioningly. The poor man lost his nerve and decided that, dear as his potions were to him, he did not want anyone to use them. Anyone!
"'So Yves locked his treasures in one of the deepest vaults in Gringotts Bank and threw away the keys. Even the goblins cannot open the vault, because it is buried under the hoard of an ancient dragon, who in turn is buried under the rubble of a collapsed tunnel, a close-woven network of befuddling charms, and a lake of acid that would reduce a man's body to a quivering blob of jelly as soon as look at him. However, I am interested in what may be in that vault. The morsel will get it for me in six weeks or less, or die trying. If it does either thing, I will honor it as a colleague. If neither, I will tear it limb from limb. Now send it away, Number Seventy-Three, there's a dove.'
"Number Seventy-Three marched Rigel out of the room. The poor lad looked as if his life had already been forfeit, walking with heavy limbs and bowed head. Down several flights of stairs to a large hall in which fires burned in a dozen hearths the masked wizard led him. Someone tossed a fistful of Floo Powder into one enormous fireplace and shouted, '____ Manor,' the name of the place where Rigel lived. I hopped into the swirling green flames beside the boy as the masked wizard pushed him in. I knew it would be hard to find another way out of the castle. And besides, it was imperative that I see Rigel's father instantly and offer him my resignation. For if I was to follow Rigel to the depths of Gringotts Bank, it wasn't only his life that was forfeit..."
[Originally posted 12/10/04]
Merlin's story continued:
"Rigel was handed from one hooded, masked figure to another. They were so heavily cloaked that I couldn't tell witch from wizard. I followed as nimbly as I could, dodging through the bustle of the castle corridors, past doorways marked with signs like 'Curse R & D,' 'Store-Brand Poisons,' and 'Glamours, Illusions & Hypnopropaganda.' Through some of those doorways I could hear chains rattling, winches straining, and far-off moans or screams. It was difficult to keep Rigel in sight, but I just managed it.
"Finally, he was shown into the presence of an extremely obese wizard or witch--who did not bother to mask his or her face--but sat with its hood thrown back on an enormous, sagging chair in the middle of a firelit room. All around him or her were tables loaded with pies and pasties, and his or her fingers and jowls were stained with juices of many colors. The walls were covered, not with family portraits, but with sentimental photos and paintings of food: bowls of fruit, baskets of fried chicken, loaves peeping out of linen napkins, mounds of sweets. I suppressed a shudder as I faced the gigantic glutton who seemed to be in charge of Vold-Mart.
"The wizard who had led Rigel into the room bowed low and addressed the seated witch or wizard, who went on eating as if no one was there. 'Hail, Uncle or Auntie Leslie,' said the wizard, sounding amazingly unembarrassed by the fact that even he did not know whether that mountain of fat was male or female. And in a voice thick with half-eaten food, yet neither particularly high-pitched nor particularly deep, the butterball replied: 'Well met, Number Seventy-Three. What morsel have you brought me today?' I must say, it pleased me to see the breath catch in Rigel's throat.
"Number Seventy-Three explained that Rigel had responded to the call for volunteers for a very sensitive project. Uncle or Auntie Leslie smacked his or her lips and said, 'Very good. Have you explained to it what we shall require it to do?'
"'No, Uncle or Auntie,' said Wizard Seventy-Three, graciously.
"'Every morsel that is brought to me,' the monstrous creature said to Wizard Seventy-Three between mouthfuls of pudding, 'is given one opportunity to prove that it is a person, worthy of being addressed as a person, and entrusted with duties and invited to feast with us. Those who fail to prove their worthiness may still prove useful, either as test subjects in one of the product-development areas, or as food for the hungry things that live in our dungeons. Though, heaven knows, we try to keep them hungry, we must feed them from time to time or they will become useless to us. Now let us see. Shall we ask it to remove one of its own kidneys with a grapefruit spoon, and then eat it raw?'
"Wizard Number Seventy-Three watched Rigel closely, as did I. Rigel trembled, his eyes darting here or there, like the eyes of a trapped animal that knows it cannot escape, yet seeks an escape route all the same. Otherwise he remained still.
"'No, I believe that was how Number Fifty-Eight proved herself to me.' Uncle or Auntie Leslie began to gnaw on the roasted leg of some enormous bird which, I felt certain, was not a turkey. 'I do find repetition tiresome. But that is neither here nor there. I have a truly inspired idea. It shall break into a vault at Gringotts for me. Vault 1,066 to be precise. A vault that contains potions preserved since the time of Yves the Leper, who was William the Conqueror's magical adviser.
"'Yves is said to have made potions that were essential to the conquest of this island but too dangerous to remain in use, too alluring to be entrusted to the care of Muggles and mortals and corruptible wizards. Some say there was a potion that made the drinker immune to criticism; or that a certain cream, when rubbed on the tips of Norman spears, made them speed toward the hearts of the Saxon enemy. But the most charming anecdotes concern a Draught of Amorality, which, when taken before doing anything messy or morally complicated, could quiet the drinker's conscience and make him get on with it. I daresay that would be an invaluable asset in our efforts to raise an army for--ahem. I seem to have gone off topic.
"'The greatest potion-master since the Norman invasion, as I was saying, took great pride in his work, and so he could not bear to dispose of what was left over when its purpose was fulfilled. Yet, strange as it may sound, he scrupled against allowing it to be kept in continual use, or selling his brewings to some other likely fellow. As soon as William had conquered, his wizard seems to have lost his kidney--to turn a phrase--for the finer things in life, like inflicting fear and pain, becoming rich and powerful, and getting untold thousands to do his will unquestioningly. The poor man lost his nerve and decided that, dear as his potions were to him, he did not want anyone to use them. Anyone!
"'So Yves locked his treasures in one of the deepest vaults in Gringotts Bank and threw away the keys. Even the goblins cannot open the vault, because it is buried under the hoard of an ancient dragon, who in turn is buried under the rubble of a collapsed tunnel, a close-woven network of befuddling charms, and a lake of acid that would reduce a man's body to a quivering blob of jelly as soon as look at him. However, I am interested in what may be in that vault. The morsel will get it for me in six weeks or less, or die trying. If it does either thing, I will honor it as a colleague. If neither, I will tear it limb from limb. Now send it away, Number Seventy-Three, there's a dove.'
"Number Seventy-Three marched Rigel out of the room. The poor lad looked as if his life had already been forfeit, walking with heavy limbs and bowed head. Down several flights of stairs to a large hall in which fires burned in a dozen hearths the masked wizard led him. Someone tossed a fistful of Floo Powder into one enormous fireplace and shouted, '____ Manor,' the name of the place where Rigel lived. I hopped into the swirling green flames beside the boy as the masked wizard pushed him in. I knew it would be hard to find another way out of the castle. And besides, it was imperative that I see Rigel's father instantly and offer him my resignation. For if I was to follow Rigel to the depths of Gringotts Bank, it wasn't only his life that was forfeit..."
[Originally posted 12/10/04]
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