Categories > Books > Harry Potter > Let's Try That Again, Shall We?
The Harry Potter universe is the creation of J.K. Rowling. This is fanfiction. The standard disclaimers apply.
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Chapter 10: Oren
Monday, August 18, 2015.
Along Diagon Alley, tucked in between the storefronts of an herbalist and a greengrocer, was a door labeled "Oren E. C. Wayland, Custom Designs". No advertisements for it would be found in the Daily Prophet or the Quibbler; clients who came through that door were all there via word of mouth. After ascending a narrow flight of stairs they would find themselves in a front office, strikingly furnished with the proprietor's own fabrications, and dominated by a large desk and the always-open door to the workshop behind it. On the wall, if they were paying attention, they might be surprised to find a diploma from a muggle art and design school. Some of them would be reassured by its presence, others put off by it, but in either case Mr. Wayland was quite certain it was a qualification unique among British wizards.
When the door opened on this particular afternoon, Oren—who was always being called Mr. Wayland, and hated it, because it felt like being back in school—was in the back of his workshop attempting to get runic magic to work with an upholstered sofa. He was alerted to his visitor by the vibration of his pocketwatch—an idea he had gotten from muggle cellular telephones after discovering that he couldn't hear door chimes over the din of some of his machinery.
The witch who arrived in his office appeared to be in her mid-thirties. She had long blond hair and was holding her pointed hat in her hands while nervously fidgeting with it.
"Mr. Wayland?"
"Oren, please. What can I do for you?"
"You made some chairs for my friend Amanda recently . . ."
"Yes, the William Morris reproductions. It was actually a whole dining room set—table and chairs. I was quite pleased with how they all turned out. Did you see them?"
"Oh, yes, they're very nice. Amanda says you charmed the chairs to make her children eat their vegetables."
"Ah, well, yes, that was one of the features she had me add. I usually use runic magic, by the way—it has some advantages over regular charms, at least for most of the furniture orders I get. And it doesn't _make_ them eat their vegetables, it just mildly encourages them to. Much less noticeable that way, but ultimately more effective."
"Of course. So. I was wondering . . . if you could do that sort of thing to existing furniture?"
"Well, maybe! What did you have in mind?"
"This is kind of embarrassing."
"I promise to be entirely discreet. If it helps, I've been adding privacy enchantments to this office for years."
"It's not that big a deal, but thanks. I'd just rather my husband didn't find out." She was reassured that Oren's expression did not change in the slightest at this. "Can you work with a bed?"
"I'd have to see the bed, of course, and it depends on what you want me to do with it, but probably." He smiled reassuringly.
"My husband... I love my husband, and I guess he loves me -- don't worry, I'm not looking for a love spell. But he hasn't been paying me a lot of attention lately, and I'd like to have children some day."
"Just to be clear, fertility itself is usually best handled via potions, and you might want to go see a healer about it before spending money on them. You don't want to rely on enchanted artifacts or furniture for something delicate like that."
She was blushing now, but grateful for his professionalism. "Oh, no, I don't think fertility is the problem. It's sort of, you know, before you get to the point of worrying about fertility, you have to, you know . . ."
"You need to actually have sex first?" He smiled, showing amusement without mockery. "So, if I understand correctly, you are looking for a bed that makes its occupants more interested in sex?"
"Yes! That sounds right. My husband -- he says he doesn't see what the problem is, and won't talk to me about potions, and I don't want to go down Knockturn Alley because who knows what I'd be buying there."
"Of course. Could you have a seat for a minute or two while I think about this? This ought to be possible, but I want to work some things out on paper before promising something I can't deliver."
"Sure." She sat down in a green velvet armchair, and watched as Oren scribbled in a notebook, a look of intense concentration on his face.
About two minutes later, he stopped. "Yes, that should work." He looked up at her. "The next step would be to let me take a look at the bed, just to be sure I can work with it, and so that I can give you an estimate. I can probably do the work this afternoon, if you like—will your husband be out?"
She blushed again. "Yes, at least until 5:30. Can we use your floo?"
"Certainly. Let me get my tools and I'll be right with you."
__________________________________________________________________________________________
Two minutes later she was watching Oren taking a cursory look under her bed, which was a tall four-poster with about two feet of space underneath. "Oh, this should be no problem. Do you want any sort of adjustable controls or timing mechanisms, or anything?"
"No, simple is good."
"Okay, then. I'll have to make some inscriptions on the bed, but I'll put them on the underside where no one will find them unless they go looking. My rate for this sort of thing is 20 galleons an hour. There are no materials, and I think it will take about 45 minutes total. Is that acceptable?"
"Oh, yes, that's fine. It's certainly cheaper than having you make a new bed from scratch! And you can see from the dust that no one has gone down there in a long time. You can move the boxes if you need to."
"Alright then, I'll get started! You can hang around if you want—you won't distract me. Hm." He said, getting down on his hands and knees, and taking some thing out of his satchel. "You know, you're the first person who has ever asked me to do something like this. Anything involving sex, that is. I'm sure, like you said, you can go down Knockturn Alley and get some scary stuff, but it probably all requires blood sacrifices to work or drives you insane or something. Wizards are pretty conservative folks. Do you mind if I get rid of this dust?" She shook her head.
"Scourgify! I always enjoy doing that. Oh, there was carpet under this dust!" He was now halfway under the bed, pushing boxes around. "What's this?"
There was a bright flash of light.
________________________________________________________________________________________
Friday, August 24, 1990.
Oren was standing in his family's attic, reading a note that had fallen out of a green and silver snitch. He was sure the note was for real, because his hair, clothes, and the contents of his pockets were different. The attic looked a little different, too.
"Huh." He said to himself, pocketing the snitch and its contents. At least his wand was in his pocket; that was convenient. Even if he were underage, the trace would never find him here—a quick time spell revealed the date. It was a week before he started his first year at Hogwarts. He remembered coming up here in his original timeline, too, rummaging around for things he might want to take with him to school. That seemed like a pretty reasonable thing to do this time around, too, so he started back in where his past self left off.
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Author's notes:
I wanted to give a few forward-looking notes before we get into a string of chapters I don't want to interrupt the flow of, and this seems like the best place to do it. I have about 12k words of buffer between what I'm posting and the characters surprising me, which for me is the middle of ch. 16. I'm having fun and getting a lot of words out, so I expect you will get to see them reasonably soon.
Anyway, Chapters 11-13 are light and, I humbly think, really funny in places, but I think I'm calling the overall story pg-13 for now. Not that most of you care. 14-16, though, are probably the most unsettling things I have ever written, although they're tame by fanfiction standards, and nothing compared to what goes on over in the band-fandom section. The reason I'm bringing this up is that they don't fit neatly into warnings and ratings guidelines, so I'll be almost flipping a coin on those. Again, not that most of you will care, but I feel like I've done my duty here and warned you as best as I'm able.
Here is where I once again thank Ficwad for letting me write the story the way it wants to be written and not have to look over my shoulder all the time.
As to formatting, it turns out Ficwad lets you do just about everything other than what I was trying. It eats tabs, and it eats multiple asterisks for some reason, but you can use strings of weird Unicode characters to your heart's content. Cool!
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Chapter 10: Oren
Monday, August 18, 2015.
Along Diagon Alley, tucked in between the storefronts of an herbalist and a greengrocer, was a door labeled "Oren E. C. Wayland, Custom Designs". No advertisements for it would be found in the Daily Prophet or the Quibbler; clients who came through that door were all there via word of mouth. After ascending a narrow flight of stairs they would find themselves in a front office, strikingly furnished with the proprietor's own fabrications, and dominated by a large desk and the always-open door to the workshop behind it. On the wall, if they were paying attention, they might be surprised to find a diploma from a muggle art and design school. Some of them would be reassured by its presence, others put off by it, but in either case Mr. Wayland was quite certain it was a qualification unique among British wizards.
When the door opened on this particular afternoon, Oren—who was always being called Mr. Wayland, and hated it, because it felt like being back in school—was in the back of his workshop attempting to get runic magic to work with an upholstered sofa. He was alerted to his visitor by the vibration of his pocketwatch—an idea he had gotten from muggle cellular telephones after discovering that he couldn't hear door chimes over the din of some of his machinery.
The witch who arrived in his office appeared to be in her mid-thirties. She had long blond hair and was holding her pointed hat in her hands while nervously fidgeting with it.
"Mr. Wayland?"
"Oren, please. What can I do for you?"
"You made some chairs for my friend Amanda recently . . ."
"Yes, the William Morris reproductions. It was actually a whole dining room set—table and chairs. I was quite pleased with how they all turned out. Did you see them?"
"Oh, yes, they're very nice. Amanda says you charmed the chairs to make her children eat their vegetables."
"Ah, well, yes, that was one of the features she had me add. I usually use runic magic, by the way—it has some advantages over regular charms, at least for most of the furniture orders I get. And it doesn't _make_ them eat their vegetables, it just mildly encourages them to. Much less noticeable that way, but ultimately more effective."
"Of course. So. I was wondering . . . if you could do that sort of thing to existing furniture?"
"Well, maybe! What did you have in mind?"
"This is kind of embarrassing."
"I promise to be entirely discreet. If it helps, I've been adding privacy enchantments to this office for years."
"It's not that big a deal, but thanks. I'd just rather my husband didn't find out." She was reassured that Oren's expression did not change in the slightest at this. "Can you work with a bed?"
"I'd have to see the bed, of course, and it depends on what you want me to do with it, but probably." He smiled reassuringly.
"My husband... I love my husband, and I guess he loves me -- don't worry, I'm not looking for a love spell. But he hasn't been paying me a lot of attention lately, and I'd like to have children some day."
"Just to be clear, fertility itself is usually best handled via potions, and you might want to go see a healer about it before spending money on them. You don't want to rely on enchanted artifacts or furniture for something delicate like that."
She was blushing now, but grateful for his professionalism. "Oh, no, I don't think fertility is the problem. It's sort of, you know, before you get to the point of worrying about fertility, you have to, you know . . ."
"You need to actually have sex first?" He smiled, showing amusement without mockery. "So, if I understand correctly, you are looking for a bed that makes its occupants more interested in sex?"
"Yes! That sounds right. My husband -- he says he doesn't see what the problem is, and won't talk to me about potions, and I don't want to go down Knockturn Alley because who knows what I'd be buying there."
"Of course. Could you have a seat for a minute or two while I think about this? This ought to be possible, but I want to work some things out on paper before promising something I can't deliver."
"Sure." She sat down in a green velvet armchair, and watched as Oren scribbled in a notebook, a look of intense concentration on his face.
About two minutes later, he stopped. "Yes, that should work." He looked up at her. "The next step would be to let me take a look at the bed, just to be sure I can work with it, and so that I can give you an estimate. I can probably do the work this afternoon, if you like—will your husband be out?"
She blushed again. "Yes, at least until 5:30. Can we use your floo?"
"Certainly. Let me get my tools and I'll be right with you."
__________________________________________________________________________________________
Two minutes later she was watching Oren taking a cursory look under her bed, which was a tall four-poster with about two feet of space underneath. "Oh, this should be no problem. Do you want any sort of adjustable controls or timing mechanisms, or anything?"
"No, simple is good."
"Okay, then. I'll have to make some inscriptions on the bed, but I'll put them on the underside where no one will find them unless they go looking. My rate for this sort of thing is 20 galleons an hour. There are no materials, and I think it will take about 45 minutes total. Is that acceptable?"
"Oh, yes, that's fine. It's certainly cheaper than having you make a new bed from scratch! And you can see from the dust that no one has gone down there in a long time. You can move the boxes if you need to."
"Alright then, I'll get started! You can hang around if you want—you won't distract me. Hm." He said, getting down on his hands and knees, and taking some thing out of his satchel. "You know, you're the first person who has ever asked me to do something like this. Anything involving sex, that is. I'm sure, like you said, you can go down Knockturn Alley and get some scary stuff, but it probably all requires blood sacrifices to work or drives you insane or something. Wizards are pretty conservative folks. Do you mind if I get rid of this dust?" She shook her head.
"Scourgify! I always enjoy doing that. Oh, there was carpet under this dust!" He was now halfway under the bed, pushing boxes around. "What's this?"
There was a bright flash of light.
________________________________________________________________________________________
Friday, August 24, 1990.
Oren was standing in his family's attic, reading a note that had fallen out of a green and silver snitch. He was sure the note was for real, because his hair, clothes, and the contents of his pockets were different. The attic looked a little different, too.
"Huh." He said to himself, pocketing the snitch and its contents. At least his wand was in his pocket; that was convenient. Even if he were underage, the trace would never find him here—a quick time spell revealed the date. It was a week before he started his first year at Hogwarts. He remembered coming up here in his original timeline, too, rummaging around for things he might want to take with him to school. That seemed like a pretty reasonable thing to do this time around, too, so he started back in where his past self left off.
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Author's notes:
I wanted to give a few forward-looking notes before we get into a string of chapters I don't want to interrupt the flow of, and this seems like the best place to do it. I have about 12k words of buffer between what I'm posting and the characters surprising me, which for me is the middle of ch. 16. I'm having fun and getting a lot of words out, so I expect you will get to see them reasonably soon.
Anyway, Chapters 11-13 are light and, I humbly think, really funny in places, but I think I'm calling the overall story pg-13 for now. Not that most of you care. 14-16, though, are probably the most unsettling things I have ever written, although they're tame by fanfiction standards, and nothing compared to what goes on over in the band-fandom section. The reason I'm bringing this up is that they don't fit neatly into warnings and ratings guidelines, so I'll be almost flipping a coin on those. Again, not that most of you will care, but I feel like I've done my duty here and warned you as best as I'm able.
Here is where I once again thank Ficwad for letting me write the story the way it wants to be written and not have to look over my shoulder all the time.
As to formatting, it turns out Ficwad lets you do just about everything other than what I was trying. It eats tabs, and it eats multiple asterisks for some reason, but you can use strings of weird Unicode characters to your heart's content. Cool!
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