Categories > Books > Harry Potter > Harry Potter and the east wing of Hogwarts
No. 4, Privet Drive, the smallest bedroom, July 19, morning
As the sun went over the horizon, bathing Surry in its golden rays, an owl made its way towards a place of residence it had been before on several occasions. Its mind was filled with instructions and the importance of its job. One could say, for doing a job that many owls did, it had quite a big head. Quite appropriate for a specially trained post owl from the Ministry. Bound to its leg quite precariously was a scroll of parchment. The witch who did so yesterday was looking like she didn’t want to send this particular parchment. She was a reader of a particular newspaper and she believed what it wrote; but she’d never ever admit to that. She had to uphold an image of incorruptibility to the public. A public she had once sworn to serve – but that oath held no consequence over her. The moment when she swore it, along with all the other wizards and witches of her year, still stood out to her as a monument of indifference in all the other moments of indifference she had experienced since joining the Ministry. Her whole life had become a big monument of indifference, and the only thing rescuing her from the boredom was the Daily Prophet with its news and some affairs with various colleagues.
Of course, the owl didn’t know that, as it delivered the scroll to a wizard, puttering around in the kitchen making breakfast for himself. It picked against the kitchen window. The wizard opened it and relieved it from its burden. Delighted over a job well done and relieved it didn’t have to carry this heavy scroll anymore, the owl took off to fly back to the Ministry.
__--^^°°^^--__
Finishing his preparations in the kitchen and walking to his room, Harry perused the letter.
Dear Mr Potter,
In accordance to your conversation with the Minister, Madam Amelia Bones, and after a thorough investigation into the circumstances surrounding you, we find to have no choice but to present you with a special dispensation to lift the reasonable restriction for underage sorcery in your case.
It is our sincere hope, that you realise the enormity of this allowance and that it’s one you don’t want to use lightly. What the Ministry gives, the Ministry can take away.
Please note that you are still subject to the statute of secrecy and that you will be held responsible for your actions under it.
The monitoring sensors for your place of residence have been adjusted accordingly.
Hoping you are well
Mafalda Hopkirk
Improper Use of Magic Office
Ministry of Magic
Harry smirked. This stupid bitch – er – witch held no power over him anymore. After finishing breakfast he copied his permission, then leisurely walked down the stairs with it and into the kitchen. The whole Dursley family was sitting around the table.
“Uncle Vernon, I have a question for you,” Harry opened.
Vernon grunted, “What is it boy? I don’t have time for your nonsense.”
“Oh nonsense it is that I speak?” Harry smiled, “Don’t worry, this will make perfect sense to you. See, Vernon, did you think that I’d be forever underage?”
“Ha! No, of course not, boy! The moment you’re seventeen, you’re out!” Vernon shouted triumphantly.
“Yes, we’re clear of that. But… did you ever think, I’d just leave?”
Vernon got confused, “Of course, boy. What else would you do?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Vernon, maybe I want to say thank you for the kind of treatment I’ve been subjected to whilst under your care,” and Harry procured his wand and laid it on the table, “a special kind of thank you.”
Petunia went stiff with fear, her eyes as wide as a saucer. Dudley took measure of Harry.
Vernon smiled jovially, “There is no need to thank me, boy. I did what I had to do.”
He turned to Petunia, “See Pet, I knew he would understand… Pet?” he closed uncertain when he saw the unbridled fear in his wife’s eyes. He turned back to Harry. The sneer Harry sported made his blood chill.
“I think you misunderstood, Vernon. I wasn’t going to thank you for your kind hospitality over the years, but for the kind of hospitality, I endured over the years. There is a slight difference in the meaning, but it will make the world for you.
“You see, when Hagrid – that big, bearded Fellow a few years ago – gave Dudley a little pig’s tail, he intended a bit of magic called transfiguration. Now, Hagrid only had a three years education. On the other hand, I have finished my fourth year and am working ahead on my fifth year of education. I could finish, what Hagrid started all those years ago. But I wouldn’t finish it on Dudley. I’d finish it on you Vernon,” and the former smile had become a frightful grimace on Harry’s face.
Vernon’s jovial smile got a nasty edge, “But you can’t do anything now, or you will be expelled from that school, isn’t it, boyo?”
“Funny you should say that, Fatty. Well, let me show you,” and he waved his wand around the kitchen. Petunia screamed for her life, but all that happened were the dishes walking into the sink where they were cleansed by moving brushes. The other household tools started to clean the kitchen. When they were finished, the kitchen was spotless.
“And now we wait for my expulsion, shan’t we, Vernon?” Harry asked, arms folded as he leaned back comfortably into the chair.
Vernon was shook up quite a bit, when he saw the magic in action. When it was finished his composure settled again to its usual smugness. He nodded in answer to Harry’s question. But as they waited and waited for the owl to appear… and nothing happened… Vernon became less and less sure about his conviction. Fifteen minutes later the surety of his conviction had all but evaporated.
Then Harry dropped the scroll on the table, “Alternatively, you could read this. Feel free to destroy it, I can make many, many more of them. Toodles,” and Harry stood up and went to his room. He secured the door, the window, and the walls of the house, in case the Dursleys tried to destroy them to get to him. He set up the sneakoscope and was surprised when it didn’t whistle. Maybe his intimidation attempt had worked.
He waved his wand around himself with the intent of seeing whether there were any Monitoring charms. Sure enough, there were five. O.k., what to do with them? He opened the loose floorboard and pulled out some of the books from Sirius.
He was looking for one particular book: Secret Sorcery, a book about the dark underbelly of society called espionage and what magic can be used – from the perspective as a caster and the perspective of a victim. It wasn’t only a spell book, it introduced the thought process of a spy to the reader, and what the reader could do, if he found himself target of one. When Harry had first read the book, he found he could understand Moody. Luckily, the charms on him were harmless and easy to remove – with one exception. And that one had to be Dumbledore’s work. Ridiculously strong Magic, with a great deal of information for the caster, and all it took was one drop of Harry’s blood. Hellishly difficult to remove without alerting the caster, but… deliciously easy to move onto something else. All it took was again a drop of Harry’s blood and a spell that was easy for a third year. It was more difficult to create the model than to move that charm. And with intent-based magic, things became easier for Harry.
So Harry set to work. He waved his wand focused on creating that model – and failed miserably. What was supposed to be a wooden model of himself was nothing but a pile of wood sticks. He vanished the stuff and started again – with only a slight increase in quality. He tried and tried, but even after an hour of casting, his wand failed to produce more than a pile of moderately long wood sticks. What was going on here? Even desperation or anger didn’t help as they usually did.
So Harry focused in on the process. He strengthened his desire for this model to a point he didn’t think possible. Then he cast…
But nothing happened. His wand failed to perform. What was going on?!? He focused again on the process, tried again and was again surprised by the lack of anything. What could he do? Call for Sirius? But no, he wanted to try once more. But this time he focussed on the way his magic moved. He felt it move from his body centre to his arm and then his hand. But after it entered the wand, it stopped dead. He looked intently on his wand, but saw nothing. It was the same wand as always. But it didn’t work.
A passage of Sirius’ most secret book about mages floated to the forefront of his mind. In it, the Author warned of this possibility. It would happen, if the mage would cast with too much intent. Harry felt like slapping his head. He laid down his wand and wanted to try without it before a cautioning feeling swept over Harry. Was his Magic trying to warn him? But it was taught that Magic wasn’t sentient. Could they be wrong?
Harry became very cautious. He pulled the Mage book from his stash and looked for the sections of ‘losing his wand’. After reading it he fell back relieved. He would’ve made his worst mistake if he’d have cast without. His wand might’ve exploded as well as creating a crater of two miles in diameter. He got it: unsupervised use of magic could be dangerous. That’s why spell crafting was heavily regulated and came with a steep learning curve. And still, according to Hermione spell creators lived a dangerous (and sometimes short) life. The book advised him of using small spells ‘to win the allegiance of his wand back’.
After an hour of doing just that, he tried to transfigure one of Dudders’ little toy soldiers into a copy of himself… and succeeded. Phew, one crisis averted. His wand still worked for him. He should read that mage book more often, it seemed.
After putting his blood in a phial and magicking it into the model, he attempted to move the spells – and got it on the first time. His wand still worked for him… but why was he so relieved over this, when he considered himself on the path of a mage?
__--^^°°^^--__
“What?!?” Madam Malkin seemed not amused at his request.
“You heard me,” Harry replied, “I’m looking for a piece of material, where a second colour shimmers through the first, main one. Is there such a Material?”
“No!” the seamstress deadpanned, “And I don’t think there will ever be!”
“Why so dead set, Madam Malkin?”
“Because it would look ridiculous. No wizard with any amount of self-respect would be caught wearing such a… such a …”
“Fashion statement?” Harry smirked.
“Fashion travesty, more likely. Now, unless you have any real business for me…” and she really tapped her foot on the floor.
“Yes, I need a new set of school uniforms.”
Madam Malkin grumbled, but set to work quickly and efficiently.
“I’m going to put the extra lengthening charms on the Uniform. With going through puberty, I think you’ll need them,” Malkin said, while pinning down the cloak’s seam around his feet.
To Harry, the meaning was clear: she wanted to see him never again. Well, Harry could honour that wish without any particular difficulty. It seemed, that being a stuck-up snobbish bitch was par for the course of being a Madam. He remembered another Madam… and nodded his head.
Well, he’d see, whether there were shops more open to his … ideas.
Suffice to say: there weren’t. Harry shook his head. Wizards were so boring. No amount of imagination in their heads. He looked around, everyone looked almost the same. He wanted to scream it to their faces, “Boooriing!” Even the muggles had more fantasy. Duh, of course they had imagination, they had no magic, they needed imagination to improve themselves and their lives.
He looked around Diagon Alley but found, that not much captured his interest anymore. Sure, the shops were the same as two years ago, but things had changed. He had changed. He bought himself a bigger trunk out of necessity (his old one was bursting and this model had more compartments and could be shrunk without a wand), but his heart wasn’t in it. He looked into Flourish and Blotts for some ‘light reading’ on Material Creation. The clerk looked as if he had grown a second head right before his very eyes, before showing him to the Spell creation section. It was just more of the same and disenchanted him. He asked if there was a place where one could buy a pensieve. Now the clerk laughed in his face.
‘There should be more,’ Harry thought when he sat in his bedroom at Privet Drive. ‘I could imagine more: eternal cities floating in the sky, hidden from airplanes by dimensional wards, flying himself without a broom, passageways – or at least image-ways - into time, so you could see what happened, cloaks of smoke, that changed into whatever, mythic materials, stuff like that. And what do we have? A ghost spreading pro-wizard propaganda on one topic alone, broomsticks, wands, acromantula silk, transfiguration exercises, and potions essays. It’s pathetically poor.
‘Even Hogwarts on its own is funnier than any lesson with McG. Moving staircases, doors hiding themselves, this is a spirit full of wit. You have to have imagination to cope with Hogwarts. Not too much, it’s a school after all, but hey, who knows how it was when mages were around. Poor firsties,’ and he had to laugh at the image these thoughts conjured. That was magic. Always something new, no predictability, no boredom. Children laughing carefree. Happiness.
He sat down and started to read about material invention. He fought through the spell creation texts with its arithmantic equations and runic enchantments. It needed even astrology for the right time to create a charm or else… Yeah, yeah, he got it. Spell creation was for Masochists. Why did it have to be so complicated?
Then a brainwave shot through him, ‘It needs to be complicated, or everyone would do it. They need it to be complicated …whoever they are.’
Wand in hand he waved it around in crazy movements. The result he got looked suspiciously like what Hedwig needed paper for, but at least it was black and shimmered with a red sheen when he moved his head. His ‘evanesco’ on the other hand didn’t need any more training. That had become a mere thought.
‘Damn it all, this should be easier,’ Harry thought as he flung his wand to the floor. It rolled a bit away from him before it stopped and lay there, just innocently. He fetched his Mage book. No help there, too. You were either a mage or a wizard, but not both.
So, how did you lose your wand again? He was fed up, angry and in serious need of a hug. As there was no one to hug him in the immediate distance, at least no one he wanted any hugs from, he started to read again. The book recommended to meditate with the target of his library. The old question propped up as always: which library? He didn’t have a library in his head, did he? So he sat down and tried for the next time. All he managed was to fall asleep. His dreams were filled with twirling wands as well as a laughing voice and an angry tittering.
__--^^°°^^--__
When he woke up, he was in really serious need of not just a hug. He wanted more. And he knew where to get more. He fetched some new clothes, well, not literally new, programmed the Toy Soldier for Bones Manor and activated it.
He landed outside of the wards and walked up to the massive door. He’d feel better soon. The thunderclouds started to lift already. Just as he was about to knock the door was opened – by a house elf?
“You is Master of Susan?” he – or she – asked.
“Yes?”
“Please help, come in, please. Bad witch is here. Please help.”
“O.k. we need to be silent. Show me the way,” Harry answered, while his wand fell to his hand. It felt warm, as if it knew, something was up.
The house elf nodded and lead Harry to the living room. Harry could hear the voice of Brigitta pleading with the ‘bad witch’.
“I’m telling you, I don’t know where Amelia is. She left yesterday.”
A malicious voice answered, “And I don’t believe you. My sources tell me, Amelia Bones lives here and I think you’re just trying to hide her from me. I’m asking one last time then your cow of a daughter gets it: where is Amelia Bones?”
BOOM!
Susan had the mind to run to her mother all the while she watched Narcissa Malfoy flying backwards and landing in a crumpled heap on the floor. His wand pointing at the would-be assassin glowed and smoked from the tip as Harry entered the living room.
But it was not over. Suddenly Harry writhed and straightened and a terrible but beautiful aura established itself around him. He groaned in pain and fell to the ground. Around the first aura a second appeared and the two seemed to fight each other. Susan wanted to run to his side, but her mother held her back. After a few seconds Harry screamed and the first aura exploded, then disappeared. Brigitta let go and Susan ran to her Harry. He was in serious pain and groaned like she’d never heard from him before.
Still, he opened his eyes, “Still alive?” he croaked, trying to point his hand at the Malfoy cum dump.
Brigitta ran over to check on her, then nodded.
“Don’t let it go!” he commanded them, before he fell into unconsciousness. Both nodded.
Brigitta took Narcissa’s wand and broke it. Then, with her own wand, she cast a hex that made Narcissa’s Hands clasp together, another flick made molten iron flow from it. The pain jolted Narcissa back to consciousness and she screamed bloody murder, yet there was no remorse on the Bones’ faces. Susan took her own wand and held Narcissa still. Once they were finished with her hands, they continued with her feet which were spread apart so that anyone could enter every hole, if they so desired. Again Narcissa screamed bloody murder.
“Don’t like it, when the shoe’s on the other foot, right, cum dump?” Susan sneered. Narcissa nodded, her eyes like a puppy, her mouth in a pout.
“Mum, is this normal? I mean, it had molten iron cast over both her hands and her ankles. Shouldn’t it hurt more?” Susan asked.
Brigitta looked concerned, “Yes, normally it should scream for far longer than it did. It’s one of those Viking spells and they weren’t squeamish at all. It should have screamed for days until the iron cooled. There was only one counter and that was when the victim was bound.”
She waved her wand around Narcissa to check just for that and gasped, “No, it has the bond.”
And she flew into a rage, “Damn you, I wanted to be the second one and you stole it from me. You worthless Malfoy cum dump,” and she beat and choked and kicked her for minutes. Yet, Narcissa never said a thing. She just looked on.
Brigitta broke down and cried.
Susan crawled over to her and held her, “Mum, do we still have the room where all our waste goes into?”
Brigitta’s eyes lit up with unholy glee, “Yes, Susan we do. I believe, you have found the appropriate accommodations for our guest.”
Narcissa still hadn’t said a word.
Susan looked dispassionately on the still clothed Narcissa, “Shouldn’t we divest it of its clothes, though? Would be a shame for the precious Twillfit and Tattings masterpieces to be dunked into our shit, wouldn’t it, mum?”
“Yes, it would be,” their eyes met, “but its hands are bound. How are we going to get the clothes loose?”
“Well, I was thinking white hot knives.”
“How delightful, my lovely daughter. Yes, I’ll prepare them right away.”
“No, mother, you’ll be levitating Harry to my bed and I’ll introduce our new toilet to its duties. See, I got to take a dump. Then we’ll prepare the knives.”
“That’s even better. And you know, there is even a spell to make it an extra-large dump combined with a force-feeding addition.”
“Yes, us Bones’ have the strangest tastes, right Mum?”
Brigitta had already floated Harry, “Don’t know so much about us, but rather it will have the strangest taste in her mouth.”
And both Bones laughed.
And Narcissa still said nothing.
As the sun went over the horizon, bathing Surry in its golden rays, an owl made its way towards a place of residence it had been before on several occasions. Its mind was filled with instructions and the importance of its job. One could say, for doing a job that many owls did, it had quite a big head. Quite appropriate for a specially trained post owl from the Ministry. Bound to its leg quite precariously was a scroll of parchment. The witch who did so yesterday was looking like she didn’t want to send this particular parchment. She was a reader of a particular newspaper and she believed what it wrote; but she’d never ever admit to that. She had to uphold an image of incorruptibility to the public. A public she had once sworn to serve – but that oath held no consequence over her. The moment when she swore it, along with all the other wizards and witches of her year, still stood out to her as a monument of indifference in all the other moments of indifference she had experienced since joining the Ministry. Her whole life had become a big monument of indifference, and the only thing rescuing her from the boredom was the Daily Prophet with its news and some affairs with various colleagues.
Of course, the owl didn’t know that, as it delivered the scroll to a wizard, puttering around in the kitchen making breakfast for himself. It picked against the kitchen window. The wizard opened it and relieved it from its burden. Delighted over a job well done and relieved it didn’t have to carry this heavy scroll anymore, the owl took off to fly back to the Ministry.
__--^^°°^^--__
Finishing his preparations in the kitchen and walking to his room, Harry perused the letter.
Dear Mr Potter,
In accordance to your conversation with the Minister, Madam Amelia Bones, and after a thorough investigation into the circumstances surrounding you, we find to have no choice but to present you with a special dispensation to lift the reasonable restriction for underage sorcery in your case.
It is our sincere hope, that you realise the enormity of this allowance and that it’s one you don’t want to use lightly. What the Ministry gives, the Ministry can take away.
Please note that you are still subject to the statute of secrecy and that you will be held responsible for your actions under it.
The monitoring sensors for your place of residence have been adjusted accordingly.
Hoping you are well
Mafalda Hopkirk
Improper Use of Magic Office
Ministry of Magic
Harry smirked. This stupid bitch – er – witch held no power over him anymore. After finishing breakfast he copied his permission, then leisurely walked down the stairs with it and into the kitchen. The whole Dursley family was sitting around the table.
“Uncle Vernon, I have a question for you,” Harry opened.
Vernon grunted, “What is it boy? I don’t have time for your nonsense.”
“Oh nonsense it is that I speak?” Harry smiled, “Don’t worry, this will make perfect sense to you. See, Vernon, did you think that I’d be forever underage?”
“Ha! No, of course not, boy! The moment you’re seventeen, you’re out!” Vernon shouted triumphantly.
“Yes, we’re clear of that. But… did you ever think, I’d just leave?”
Vernon got confused, “Of course, boy. What else would you do?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Vernon, maybe I want to say thank you for the kind of treatment I’ve been subjected to whilst under your care,” and Harry procured his wand and laid it on the table, “a special kind of thank you.”
Petunia went stiff with fear, her eyes as wide as a saucer. Dudley took measure of Harry.
Vernon smiled jovially, “There is no need to thank me, boy. I did what I had to do.”
He turned to Petunia, “See Pet, I knew he would understand… Pet?” he closed uncertain when he saw the unbridled fear in his wife’s eyes. He turned back to Harry. The sneer Harry sported made his blood chill.
“I think you misunderstood, Vernon. I wasn’t going to thank you for your kind hospitality over the years, but for the kind of hospitality, I endured over the years. There is a slight difference in the meaning, but it will make the world for you.
“You see, when Hagrid – that big, bearded Fellow a few years ago – gave Dudley a little pig’s tail, he intended a bit of magic called transfiguration. Now, Hagrid only had a three years education. On the other hand, I have finished my fourth year and am working ahead on my fifth year of education. I could finish, what Hagrid started all those years ago. But I wouldn’t finish it on Dudley. I’d finish it on you Vernon,” and the former smile had become a frightful grimace on Harry’s face.
Vernon’s jovial smile got a nasty edge, “But you can’t do anything now, or you will be expelled from that school, isn’t it, boyo?”
“Funny you should say that, Fatty. Well, let me show you,” and he waved his wand around the kitchen. Petunia screamed for her life, but all that happened were the dishes walking into the sink where they were cleansed by moving brushes. The other household tools started to clean the kitchen. When they were finished, the kitchen was spotless.
“And now we wait for my expulsion, shan’t we, Vernon?” Harry asked, arms folded as he leaned back comfortably into the chair.
Vernon was shook up quite a bit, when he saw the magic in action. When it was finished his composure settled again to its usual smugness. He nodded in answer to Harry’s question. But as they waited and waited for the owl to appear… and nothing happened… Vernon became less and less sure about his conviction. Fifteen minutes later the surety of his conviction had all but evaporated.
Then Harry dropped the scroll on the table, “Alternatively, you could read this. Feel free to destroy it, I can make many, many more of them. Toodles,” and Harry stood up and went to his room. He secured the door, the window, and the walls of the house, in case the Dursleys tried to destroy them to get to him. He set up the sneakoscope and was surprised when it didn’t whistle. Maybe his intimidation attempt had worked.
He waved his wand around himself with the intent of seeing whether there were any Monitoring charms. Sure enough, there were five. O.k., what to do with them? He opened the loose floorboard and pulled out some of the books from Sirius.
He was looking for one particular book: Secret Sorcery, a book about the dark underbelly of society called espionage and what magic can be used – from the perspective as a caster and the perspective of a victim. It wasn’t only a spell book, it introduced the thought process of a spy to the reader, and what the reader could do, if he found himself target of one. When Harry had first read the book, he found he could understand Moody. Luckily, the charms on him were harmless and easy to remove – with one exception. And that one had to be Dumbledore’s work. Ridiculously strong Magic, with a great deal of information for the caster, and all it took was one drop of Harry’s blood. Hellishly difficult to remove without alerting the caster, but… deliciously easy to move onto something else. All it took was again a drop of Harry’s blood and a spell that was easy for a third year. It was more difficult to create the model than to move that charm. And with intent-based magic, things became easier for Harry.
So Harry set to work. He waved his wand focused on creating that model – and failed miserably. What was supposed to be a wooden model of himself was nothing but a pile of wood sticks. He vanished the stuff and started again – with only a slight increase in quality. He tried and tried, but even after an hour of casting, his wand failed to produce more than a pile of moderately long wood sticks. What was going on here? Even desperation or anger didn’t help as they usually did.
So Harry focused in on the process. He strengthened his desire for this model to a point he didn’t think possible. Then he cast…
But nothing happened. His wand failed to perform. What was going on?!? He focused again on the process, tried again and was again surprised by the lack of anything. What could he do? Call for Sirius? But no, he wanted to try once more. But this time he focussed on the way his magic moved. He felt it move from his body centre to his arm and then his hand. But after it entered the wand, it stopped dead. He looked intently on his wand, but saw nothing. It was the same wand as always. But it didn’t work.
A passage of Sirius’ most secret book about mages floated to the forefront of his mind. In it, the Author warned of this possibility. It would happen, if the mage would cast with too much intent. Harry felt like slapping his head. He laid down his wand and wanted to try without it before a cautioning feeling swept over Harry. Was his Magic trying to warn him? But it was taught that Magic wasn’t sentient. Could they be wrong?
Harry became very cautious. He pulled the Mage book from his stash and looked for the sections of ‘losing his wand’. After reading it he fell back relieved. He would’ve made his worst mistake if he’d have cast without. His wand might’ve exploded as well as creating a crater of two miles in diameter. He got it: unsupervised use of magic could be dangerous. That’s why spell crafting was heavily regulated and came with a steep learning curve. And still, according to Hermione spell creators lived a dangerous (and sometimes short) life. The book advised him of using small spells ‘to win the allegiance of his wand back’.
After an hour of doing just that, he tried to transfigure one of Dudders’ little toy soldiers into a copy of himself… and succeeded. Phew, one crisis averted. His wand still worked for him. He should read that mage book more often, it seemed.
After putting his blood in a phial and magicking it into the model, he attempted to move the spells – and got it on the first time. His wand still worked for him… but why was he so relieved over this, when he considered himself on the path of a mage?
__--^^°°^^--__
“What?!?” Madam Malkin seemed not amused at his request.
“You heard me,” Harry replied, “I’m looking for a piece of material, where a second colour shimmers through the first, main one. Is there such a Material?”
“No!” the seamstress deadpanned, “And I don’t think there will ever be!”
“Why so dead set, Madam Malkin?”
“Because it would look ridiculous. No wizard with any amount of self-respect would be caught wearing such a… such a …”
“Fashion statement?” Harry smirked.
“Fashion travesty, more likely. Now, unless you have any real business for me…” and she really tapped her foot on the floor.
“Yes, I need a new set of school uniforms.”
Madam Malkin grumbled, but set to work quickly and efficiently.
“I’m going to put the extra lengthening charms on the Uniform. With going through puberty, I think you’ll need them,” Malkin said, while pinning down the cloak’s seam around his feet.
To Harry, the meaning was clear: she wanted to see him never again. Well, Harry could honour that wish without any particular difficulty. It seemed, that being a stuck-up snobbish bitch was par for the course of being a Madam. He remembered another Madam… and nodded his head.
Well, he’d see, whether there were shops more open to his … ideas.
Suffice to say: there weren’t. Harry shook his head. Wizards were so boring. No amount of imagination in their heads. He looked around, everyone looked almost the same. He wanted to scream it to their faces, “Boooriing!” Even the muggles had more fantasy. Duh, of course they had imagination, they had no magic, they needed imagination to improve themselves and their lives.
He looked around Diagon Alley but found, that not much captured his interest anymore. Sure, the shops were the same as two years ago, but things had changed. He had changed. He bought himself a bigger trunk out of necessity (his old one was bursting and this model had more compartments and could be shrunk without a wand), but his heart wasn’t in it. He looked into Flourish and Blotts for some ‘light reading’ on Material Creation. The clerk looked as if he had grown a second head right before his very eyes, before showing him to the Spell creation section. It was just more of the same and disenchanted him. He asked if there was a place where one could buy a pensieve. Now the clerk laughed in his face.
‘There should be more,’ Harry thought when he sat in his bedroom at Privet Drive. ‘I could imagine more: eternal cities floating in the sky, hidden from airplanes by dimensional wards, flying himself without a broom, passageways – or at least image-ways - into time, so you could see what happened, cloaks of smoke, that changed into whatever, mythic materials, stuff like that. And what do we have? A ghost spreading pro-wizard propaganda on one topic alone, broomsticks, wands, acromantula silk, transfiguration exercises, and potions essays. It’s pathetically poor.
‘Even Hogwarts on its own is funnier than any lesson with McG. Moving staircases, doors hiding themselves, this is a spirit full of wit. You have to have imagination to cope with Hogwarts. Not too much, it’s a school after all, but hey, who knows how it was when mages were around. Poor firsties,’ and he had to laugh at the image these thoughts conjured. That was magic. Always something new, no predictability, no boredom. Children laughing carefree. Happiness.
He sat down and started to read about material invention. He fought through the spell creation texts with its arithmantic equations and runic enchantments. It needed even astrology for the right time to create a charm or else… Yeah, yeah, he got it. Spell creation was for Masochists. Why did it have to be so complicated?
Then a brainwave shot through him, ‘It needs to be complicated, or everyone would do it. They need it to be complicated …whoever they are.’
Wand in hand he waved it around in crazy movements. The result he got looked suspiciously like what Hedwig needed paper for, but at least it was black and shimmered with a red sheen when he moved his head. His ‘evanesco’ on the other hand didn’t need any more training. That had become a mere thought.
‘Damn it all, this should be easier,’ Harry thought as he flung his wand to the floor. It rolled a bit away from him before it stopped and lay there, just innocently. He fetched his Mage book. No help there, too. You were either a mage or a wizard, but not both.
So, how did you lose your wand again? He was fed up, angry and in serious need of a hug. As there was no one to hug him in the immediate distance, at least no one he wanted any hugs from, he started to read again. The book recommended to meditate with the target of his library. The old question propped up as always: which library? He didn’t have a library in his head, did he? So he sat down and tried for the next time. All he managed was to fall asleep. His dreams were filled with twirling wands as well as a laughing voice and an angry tittering.
__--^^°°^^--__
When he woke up, he was in really serious need of not just a hug. He wanted more. And he knew where to get more. He fetched some new clothes, well, not literally new, programmed the Toy Soldier for Bones Manor and activated it.
He landed outside of the wards and walked up to the massive door. He’d feel better soon. The thunderclouds started to lift already. Just as he was about to knock the door was opened – by a house elf?
“You is Master of Susan?” he – or she – asked.
“Yes?”
“Please help, come in, please. Bad witch is here. Please help.”
“O.k. we need to be silent. Show me the way,” Harry answered, while his wand fell to his hand. It felt warm, as if it knew, something was up.
The house elf nodded and lead Harry to the living room. Harry could hear the voice of Brigitta pleading with the ‘bad witch’.
“I’m telling you, I don’t know where Amelia is. She left yesterday.”
A malicious voice answered, “And I don’t believe you. My sources tell me, Amelia Bones lives here and I think you’re just trying to hide her from me. I’m asking one last time then your cow of a daughter gets it: where is Amelia Bones?”
BOOM!
Susan had the mind to run to her mother all the while she watched Narcissa Malfoy flying backwards and landing in a crumpled heap on the floor. His wand pointing at the would-be assassin glowed and smoked from the tip as Harry entered the living room.
But it was not over. Suddenly Harry writhed and straightened and a terrible but beautiful aura established itself around him. He groaned in pain and fell to the ground. Around the first aura a second appeared and the two seemed to fight each other. Susan wanted to run to his side, but her mother held her back. After a few seconds Harry screamed and the first aura exploded, then disappeared. Brigitta let go and Susan ran to her Harry. He was in serious pain and groaned like she’d never heard from him before.
Still, he opened his eyes, “Still alive?” he croaked, trying to point his hand at the Malfoy cum dump.
Brigitta ran over to check on her, then nodded.
“Don’t let it go!” he commanded them, before he fell into unconsciousness. Both nodded.
Brigitta took Narcissa’s wand and broke it. Then, with her own wand, she cast a hex that made Narcissa’s Hands clasp together, another flick made molten iron flow from it. The pain jolted Narcissa back to consciousness and she screamed bloody murder, yet there was no remorse on the Bones’ faces. Susan took her own wand and held Narcissa still. Once they were finished with her hands, they continued with her feet which were spread apart so that anyone could enter every hole, if they so desired. Again Narcissa screamed bloody murder.
“Don’t like it, when the shoe’s on the other foot, right, cum dump?” Susan sneered. Narcissa nodded, her eyes like a puppy, her mouth in a pout.
“Mum, is this normal? I mean, it had molten iron cast over both her hands and her ankles. Shouldn’t it hurt more?” Susan asked.
Brigitta looked concerned, “Yes, normally it should scream for far longer than it did. It’s one of those Viking spells and they weren’t squeamish at all. It should have screamed for days until the iron cooled. There was only one counter and that was when the victim was bound.”
She waved her wand around Narcissa to check just for that and gasped, “No, it has the bond.”
And she flew into a rage, “Damn you, I wanted to be the second one and you stole it from me. You worthless Malfoy cum dump,” and she beat and choked and kicked her for minutes. Yet, Narcissa never said a thing. She just looked on.
Brigitta broke down and cried.
Susan crawled over to her and held her, “Mum, do we still have the room where all our waste goes into?”
Brigitta’s eyes lit up with unholy glee, “Yes, Susan we do. I believe, you have found the appropriate accommodations for our guest.”
Narcissa still hadn’t said a word.
Susan looked dispassionately on the still clothed Narcissa, “Shouldn’t we divest it of its clothes, though? Would be a shame for the precious Twillfit and Tattings masterpieces to be dunked into our shit, wouldn’t it, mum?”
“Yes, it would be,” their eyes met, “but its hands are bound. How are we going to get the clothes loose?”
“Well, I was thinking white hot knives.”
“How delightful, my lovely daughter. Yes, I’ll prepare them right away.”
“No, mother, you’ll be levitating Harry to my bed and I’ll introduce our new toilet to its duties. See, I got to take a dump. Then we’ll prepare the knives.”
“That’s even better. And you know, there is even a spell to make it an extra-large dump combined with a force-feeding addition.”
“Yes, us Bones’ have the strangest tastes, right Mum?”
Brigitta had already floated Harry, “Don’t know so much about us, but rather it will have the strangest taste in her mouth.”
And both Bones laughed.
And Narcissa still said nothing.
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