Wheel and Weaver go to Hogwarts School of Wizardry and Witchcraft
It's official: I am bored. The kind of self-destructive boredom which spawns derivative works of fantasy in one's mind...
One dark, pleasant evening, as the Gojira was peacefully moored in an anonymous Louisiana bayou, Weaver Black was enjoying a cigarette. He was smoking a Carcinoma Angel, as he preferred, and behind the scraggly silhouettes of the swamp trees the sunset was fading from magical twilight to creeping dusk. The sounds of the light had silenced and the creatures and rhythm of the night were beginning to stir. A slight breeze blew out of the west and the mosquitoes and their ilk stayed at a distance from Weaver. It was the start of a good night. Even better, as he had no pressing business to attend.
Framed in the light of the bridge was a seductive figure in knee-length skirt. She called to Weaver, "Darling, come inside, I don't want you to catch a chill." One may be certain the air was, perpetually, humid and slightly less hot than a sauna. "I'm going to mix a couple of highballs and put Jack Benny on the vic." Her figure, somehow retaining majesty while casual, withdrew. The mingled sounds of myriad frogs and legion insects came back to Weaver Black's attention as he crushed out the embers of his cigarette and, with a final thought, finished centering himself in the Louisiana night:
This was the start of a superlative night.
Weaver remained motionless at the rail, gazing off into the infinite distance.
A great horned owl swooped out of the blackness toward Weaver's face on silent wings. Years of predation had honed its curved talons, piercing beak, light-amplifying eyes, and feathers which expertly dampened the flap of wingbeats to make it a hunter whose prey seldom heard their doom until it was gleefully munching through their spine.
Weaver reeled backwards, which was fortunate for both parties; the great horned owl landed. Its feet were the size of human hands, he noted, as claws curled around the ship's railing which had supported him moments before. Weaver regarded the immense avian with incredulity, and the owl stared back at him with piercing yellow eyes. For a while the tableau remained thus: A curious detective and a two and a half foot owl facing each other, on a steamboat in the bayou, lit only by the stars and faint light from the cabin windows.
The visitor uttered a bass whoo, hoo-hoo. Then the owl beat its wings and flew at Weaver. "Audubon's Anatomy!" invoked Weaver. He was at a loss for other oaths, as well as what to do with this seemingly possessed night bird. The words had no visible effect, as his assailant continued at him. He fended it off with his left arm while his right groped about in his pockets for a suitable owl-jabbing blade. Suddenly the owl latched like a fiend from foul crypts on to Weaver's defending arm and fluttered inelegantly to a still position.
The beautiful strings of Benny buoyed his spirit somewhat as he entered a parlor in the Gojira. "Say, Sweetie," he began before through the door. "Do we have a pet owl?"
The reclusive locale of Wheel's Hermitage suited him. Like Wheel, it was a secret. Like Wheel, most all of the Invisibles knew of it and had attended loud, gaily decorated debauches the Hermitage had hosted. Wheel's Sanctum Sanctorum was an edifice of the man, the institution.
This particular evening Wheel was at his large, round table regarding a bold newcomer to his enchanted estate. An impertinent burrowing owl, Athene cunicularia, bobbed about before him on the tabletop. Its character capering across the circular stage many times its scale lent it the aspect of a clockwork toy. Wheel ignored the feisty, feathered foreshadowing device for a minute or two, perusing a letter instead. Although he paid them no mind, the tattered letter told of tiny talon marks.
A short tug upon Wheel's sleeve brought his attentions to duty. "Oh, right, right," he addressed the owl offhand. He rose, withdrew a miniature blunderbuss from a wall cupboard, and opened the exit of his abode. "I shan't be long, my wee fey valet." Wheel tipped his non-present hat to the burrowing owl, still regarding him from the table. He exited, carefully closing the door behind him.
The Great Mouse-hunt was on!
"This is all your doing, is it not?" Weaver's tone was not so much one of question, as the voice of someone prodding for admission of guilt.
"You're welcome," Wheel replied.
"Gods consign you to Abaddon, Wheel. Do not put your pet projects on me; I have matters to attend. Stuff I would rather be doing right now."
"Why, what are you doing?" Wheel asked, slightly out of breath.
"I'm trying to get this beaked beggar to leave off from my arm." Weaver chittered out some foul curses which minions of Lolth would have sold their siblings to learn the syllables of.
"Oh, that's all? Well, (grunt), you're supposed to feed him. Pretty simple, really." There was a horrible hissing, squealing noise barely picked up by Wheel's well-insulated bonefone.
"Feed it? Yes, I've been feeding it! Damn feather-head eats more than your brother. I swear-"
"Hang on," Wheel's end cut out for a moment.
Weaver Black was sullen. He continued feeding the great horned owl. The owl, for its part, was gleefully latched on to Weaver's arm as tightly as a blithely drunk—but still deeply insecure—prom date. The owl was snorking up freeze-dried voles. As quickly as Weaver could fish them out of the box with one free hand, the owl would snatch them from him. Weaver suspected that the owl would stick around until he had hand-fed it every lasting fucking morsel of vole-jerky. More grimly than that, he did not want to know why he had a cereal box full of freeze-dried voles; his gut told him that Wheel had planted the voles during his last visit. The fucking stash of voles probably drew the owl to the Gojira in the first place. "Damn you, Wheel. I have my own plans."
The great horned owl was now insistently waiting with its beak wide open. With its large, bright eyes, however, the open mouth gave it an expression of constant surprise.
Wheel suddenly cut back in, startling Weaver and his owl, "-YAH YAH YAH! DIE! Die, you bastards! No one here gets out alive, not on my watch! YAH! You like that? Oh, now you want some?"
"Hello?? Wheel, what the fuck are you doing over there?"
"Hey, man. These Florida bugs are huge and sting-crazy fuckers."
"Should I just call you back later?"
"No need, broseph!" There was an ultra-sonic sound which was inaudible, except as a length of unnatural silence. "Heh heh. No neeed, I'll just pop on over your place as soon as I'm done here. I'm already packed." Wheel began jauntily singing "Be Prepared" after the style of Tom Lehrer, although his own rendition was punctuated with strained grunts and interrupted by Wheel muttering "I should have brought the bandoliers."
"The what?"
"Flamethrower. A little fucking napalm would have been good, too."
"What are you doing?"
"Sorry, I was just killing some ants. Palmetto bug earlier (pant), you should have seen it! Later, chump!" The connection to Wheel suddenly dropped.
Weaver looked at the owl. The owl was even more surprised than he was.
Meanwhile, Wheel carefully crept down to the water's edge. Radio silence was a key component of stealth. There was a rank cave opening past a towering tuft of vegetation. He heard a series of faint squeaks. Babies. Just as good - they would serve in a pinch. He sprang forth, sealing the cave opening from escape.
In the cave before him was a swamp rat. She reared up before him, furiously protecting her litter near the rear of the cave. Bigger than a pony, with long whiskers, and sabre-like incisors that could shear his limbs off if he was careless. "My Goddess, you're a beaut," Wheel spoke in a low monotone. "It almost seems a shame, heartless even. But the pact, the pact with the owls..." Wheel's voice trailed off as he raised the blunderbuss to his shoulder.
Then he shouted a battle cry from his proud, quasi-Cubano heritage, "Hey, Lucy, I'M HOME!"
Castle interior. Afternoon. A high wizard's office.
"You're not the usual novice wizards we accept to Hogwarts. You, Sammy Suicide are," Dumbledore suppressed a squeamish shudder with effort, "not quite a Muggle. And as for you, you are.."
"A shaman?" Fizzlewick prompted. When he spoke his face took on a sudden mask, both imperious and crazed with a slight tilt of the chin and wild, wide eyes which frontiersmen who had dwelled amongst savages would recount to their dying days.
Dumbledore was calm and composed, "Ain't nothing wrong with that."
"Good." said Fizzlewick. His countenance was now one of simple, nigh-cherubic bliss. The kind of joy one might express if generations and centuries of fierce, unconventional rivalry sprinkled with a few decades of all-out war and horrific pogroms had suddenly arrived at a logical, dignified, and mutually agreeable compromise. "I think it best if I learned," (and here there was a moment's hesitation where he had almost said "backwards magic" but thought better) "..Book magic."
"Apart from your unique ..magic," Dumbledore pointedly squinted in the direction of Sammy, who remained expressionless, "there is the equally important concern of your ages."
Sammy and Fizzlewick were both impressed. Dumbledore looked every inch the doddering, kindly grandfather figure from his trading card. However, he was clearly a master of the subtle arts.. Few there were who thought to question the duo's age. Fewer still could penetrate the veil which surrounded it. For a moment it seemed as though the headmaster had them over a barrel.
Sammy searched around inside his coat. "You'll want these, I expect." He produced a pair of magically sealed scrolls, handing them to Dumbledore.
Dumbledore broke the seal and peered at the contents through his half moon glasses:
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The scroll trailed on and on over various terms and other technical mumbo-jumbo. With a spell, Albus Dumbledore shut both scrolls in a drawer of his desk without further perusal.
"Very well, then. The matter, it seems, is entirely 'in to' my hands." Dumbledore allowed himself a small smile at his irony. Damn the Ministry, always screwing with his school! No matter, though, thought Dumbledore. The headmaster of Hogwarts knew how to push the limits of education and both the sanctions of nature and man.
"Quot annos exeunt!" the aged wizard pronounced suddenly, flourishing his wand at his two students. A brilliant flash of light shot from the tip, and in a flash of octarine light Fizzlewick was gone. Sammy Suicide remained, however.
"Quot annos exeunt!" repeated Dumbledore, brandishing his wand squarely at the still-present Sammy. He cast his spell a few more times at the persistent detective. At the first few failures, Dumbledore was enraged with the fiery passion that lends special force to magic. However, the wind eventually slacked from his sails. "How do you do that?"
"Do what?"
Dumbledore flapped his hands ineffectually, searching for some descriptions. "That," he began again. "How do you resist my powers? What are you casting?"
"I haven't the foggiest what you mean, sir."
"Don't you tell me in my own office that you were not casting any spell just now."
"What do you mean by 'spell,' sir?"
"You're dispelling!" shot back the aggravated wizard. "I know a dispel when I see one."
"Sir, could you describe this spell? Maybe if I knew what you were trying to cast ..you know. Maybe if I had a clearer picture, in my mind, of what was supposed to happen the two of us could work it out." Dumbledore peered down at Sammy. "Together." Sammy looked up to him with a winning smile which possessed a magic of its own.
Albus Dumbledore sighed. "I am simply casting a spell to cause you to forget certain disruptive details of Muggle and adult life. Worry not, you will regain them when the time is right. Then you'd be teleported to where you could begin a normal first year at Hogwarts. Your friend, Fizzlewick is already there, waiting."
"Oh," said Sammy. "That sounds alright." Then to no one in particular, he announced toward the ceiling, "I'm throwing my save!" Looking back to Dumbledore he said, "Alright, then."
"Quot annos exeunt." stated Dumbledore flatly, the tip of his wand pressed to Sammy's nose. There was a flash of smoke and brimstone. "Finally." he muttered to himself in his empty office.
Washing his hands at the basin, Albus Dumbledore began whistling a carefree tune from his younger years.
Whipping at impossible non-speeds through the aether, the ensorcelled form of Weaver Black nearly thought, "You old son of a witch," but there was not even enough time left to finish his thought.
Although it is not essential to the narrative, there was a spot of bother with Wheel and Weaver getting on the train to Hogwarts. They, of course, had no problem locating the correct platform and boarding the train. However, as Wheel had altered the platform numbers, there was a number of young wizards and witches whom ended up with bloodied noses and scraped shins before the ruse was uncovered.
Hogwarts bound, a young Fizzlewick and his stalwart companion, Sammy Suicide:
Two pre-teen boys sat in a train compartment, by themselves. One was dressed in elegant robes which troubled the eyes to look at — the material was deep blue with a greenish iridescence, but the robes appeared to be somewhere other than their wearer was (or perhaps it was vice versa). He was short, with blond hair and a beautiful face which would be powerfully handsome in adulthood as it seemed charmingly innocent now in youth. He was restlessly kicking his feet against his seat, fiddling with the edge of his robe, and mostly gazing out the window at the scenery. This was Sammy Suicide.
The remaining boy was larger. He looked much more common in apparel, wearing an OP Surfwear design T-shirt and his short-shaven head was covered by a "Hogan Rules!" bandanna in brilliant yellow with red lettering. He was completely occupied by a Gameboy™—not the newer kind, but the old, beige kind which had the dimensions, ergonomic design, and approximately the weight of a small brick. He could only be Fizzlewick, pop-culture shaman extraordinaire.
Sammy was just starting into his dozenth refrain of the theme song from "Disney's Gummi Bears" when a red-headed, weaselly-looking kid opened the compartment door.
"Hullo, mind if I share with you two?" the new kid asked.
"That's fine with me," said Sammy. He regarded the kid with curiosity.
However, the redhead kid did not notice. He was preoccupied staring rudely at Fizzlewick. "Is he supposed to be here? I mean, in those ..clothes. He's not a Muggle?"
"Fizzlewick, you mean? He's no Muggle, you idiot. He's one of my best buds." Sammy then added confidentially, "And he's powerful with the ju-ju."
There was an interrupting series of beeps from the paused Gameboy™. Without glancing up from the screen, Fizzlewick presented a fist salute, reminiscent of the Black Power struggles of the 60s and 70s. He then resumed his supremacy over Marioland.
The weaselly kid turned his attention to Sammy. "Those are some keen robes you have. I'm stuck with my older brother's hand-me-downs." (Jesus, thought Sammy. Is he going to start crying in his self-pity now?) The kid asked, "Where did you get yours?"
"Dungeon."
"What? In a, like, a proper dungeon?"
"Nothing proper about dungeons. Unless you're evil." Sam placed an emphasis on evil, his eyes widening slightly and a maniacal grin making his fair features seem impish. Then his expression resumed normalcy. "But you're not."
"Er, no. No, thank you, I'm not an evil wizard." The red-headed kid was a bit uneasy around his shorter companion in the fancier robes now. For a while the two remained silent, although whenever he looked up, he noticed Sammy regarding him with interest. He decided to change the subject. "Have you got a wand? Mine's rowan wood with two unicorn hairs in." He carefully drew a battered wand from his plain, black robes. Sammy was grateful the red didn't start sobbing that no one had given him a brand new one.
"Mine's hemp," Fizzlewick put in, startling the weasel-faced young boy. From the pocket of his shorts, Fizzlewick drew forth a strip of braided hemp with a gold tibetan coin knotted at either end.
"What use is that as a wand?" said the child, whose main concerns seemed to be confusion and self-pity.
"It's a tethaman." Fizzlewick held the hemp in the middle and swung the weighted ends about a bit, but didn't venture to explain beyond his demonstration.
"Wands are for sissies anyhow," young Sam said. Real power comes from rods." ("Or staves," Wheel added quietly.) From a black leather case with chromed studs, he brandished an elaborate, two-foot long rod. The rod was obsidian, cunningly carved in some Meso-American style and topped with an ivory skull. It was really almost a sceptre. In the hands of a young boy it looked entirely out of place. The rod seemed to dominate everything in the train cabin. Sammy waved it ineptly a few times, somewhere between a baton or cudgel. The weaselly kid reached to touch it, provoking a sour glare from Sammy who replaced it into its case. "Don't touch my rod."
"Did you get that in a dungeon as well?"
"Sort of, kinda," Sammy said. His face took on a pained expression. "It's a 'loaner'. From Orcus."
The weaselly redhead completely missed the parody, though. "Orcus. That's a queer name. Who's he?"
Sammy Suicide stood up and recited loudly, "Orcus - Lord of the Pit. Demon Lord of the Living Dead. Great Defeater of Wendighu and his foul spawn."
The red-headed, weaselly-looking kid began backing to the compartment door. "You're mad, like a dog. You know that?"
Sammy only shrugged, but the effect was more than that, amplified by his strange, shifting robes of power. Fizzlewick, bored and now attempting to play his game with one hand, was twirling his tethaman in his right hand, in the direction of the red-headed boy. The boy fled in terror, leaving Sammy to close the door after him.
Fizzlewick rummaged around in a nylon beltpack until he found an aromatic packet of Big League Chew. He offered some to Sammy who was leaning across the compartment to get a wad when the door to their compartment opened once more. A thin kid with dark hair and broken spectacles stood there. "May I share your cabin," he asked.
"No, Scarface," Fizzlewick said. Go find that emo kid. Sit with him."
"There's no need to be rude," the dark-haired kid said, scratching self-consciously at his forehead.
"Then please, will you shut the door?" Sammy asked with an ingratiating smile on his face. Scarface did so, and left.
"Eris' Tits, I hope they're not all like this," Wheel said, rolling his eyes.
"We should have sat further to the front. I told you so," Sammy whined at him.
"No way. All the cool kids sit in back of the bus."
As if Eris Herself was trying him, the door to their compartment opened once more.
Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter, Hogwarts, and the Harry Potter book series are the creative properties of Joanne Rowling. © 1997 J. K. Rowling. Used here without permission for purposes of parody and lack of anything better to write.
One dark, pleasant evening, as the Gojira was peacefully moored in an anonymous Louisiana bayou, Weaver Black was enjoying a cigarette. He was smoking a Carcinoma Angel, as he preferred, and behind the scraggly silhouettes of the swamp trees the sunset was fading from magical twilight to creeping dusk. The sounds of the light had silenced and the creatures and rhythm of the night were beginning to stir. A slight breeze blew out of the west and the mosquitoes and their ilk stayed at a distance from Weaver. It was the start of a good night. Even better, as he had no pressing business to attend.
Framed in the light of the bridge was a seductive figure in knee-length skirt. She called to Weaver, "Darling, come inside, I don't want you to catch a chill." One may be certain the air was, perpetually, humid and slightly less hot than a sauna. "I'm going to mix a couple of highballs and put Jack Benny on the vic." Her figure, somehow retaining majesty while casual, withdrew. The mingled sounds of myriad frogs and legion insects came back to Weaver Black's attention as he crushed out the embers of his cigarette and, with a final thought, finished centering himself in the Louisiana night:
This was the start of a superlative night.
Weaver remained motionless at the rail, gazing off into the infinite distance.
A great horned owl swooped out of the blackness toward Weaver's face on silent wings. Years of predation had honed its curved talons, piercing beak, light-amplifying eyes, and feathers which expertly dampened the flap of wingbeats to make it a hunter whose prey seldom heard their doom until it was gleefully munching through their spine.
Weaver reeled backwards, which was fortunate for both parties; the great horned owl landed. Its feet were the size of human hands, he noted, as claws curled around the ship's railing which had supported him moments before. Weaver regarded the immense avian with incredulity, and the owl stared back at him with piercing yellow eyes. For a while the tableau remained thus: A curious detective and a two and a half foot owl facing each other, on a steamboat in the bayou, lit only by the stars and faint light from the cabin windows.
The visitor uttered a bass whoo, hoo-hoo. Then the owl beat its wings and flew at Weaver. "Audubon's Anatomy!" invoked Weaver. He was at a loss for other oaths, as well as what to do with this seemingly possessed night bird. The words had no visible effect, as his assailant continued at him. He fended it off with his left arm while his right groped about in his pockets for a suitable owl-jabbing blade. Suddenly the owl latched like a fiend from foul crypts on to Weaver's defending arm and fluttered inelegantly to a still position.
The beautiful strings of Benny buoyed his spirit somewhat as he entered a parlor in the Gojira. "Say, Sweetie," he began before through the door. "Do we have a pet owl?"
The reclusive locale of Wheel's Hermitage suited him. Like Wheel, it was a secret. Like Wheel, most all of the Invisibles knew of it and had attended loud, gaily decorated debauches the Hermitage had hosted. Wheel's Sanctum Sanctorum was an edifice of the man, the institution.
This particular evening Wheel was at his large, round table regarding a bold newcomer to his enchanted estate. An impertinent burrowing owl, Athene cunicularia, bobbed about before him on the tabletop. Its character capering across the circular stage many times its scale lent it the aspect of a clockwork toy. Wheel ignored the feisty, feathered foreshadowing device for a minute or two, perusing a letter instead. Although he paid them no mind, the tattered letter told of tiny talon marks.
A short tug upon Wheel's sleeve brought his attentions to duty. "Oh, right, right," he addressed the owl offhand. He rose, withdrew a miniature blunderbuss from a wall cupboard, and opened the exit of his abode. "I shan't be long, my wee fey valet." Wheel tipped his non-present hat to the burrowing owl, still regarding him from the table. He exited, carefully closing the door behind him.
The Great Mouse-hunt was on!
"This is all your doing, is it not?" Weaver's tone was not so much one of question, as the voice of someone prodding for admission of guilt.
"You're welcome," Wheel replied.
"Gods consign you to Abaddon, Wheel. Do not put your pet projects on me; I have matters to attend. Stuff I would rather be doing right now."
"Why, what are you doing?" Wheel asked, slightly out of breath.
"I'm trying to get this beaked beggar to leave off from my arm." Weaver chittered out some foul curses which minions of Lolth would have sold their siblings to learn the syllables of.
"Oh, that's all? Well, (grunt), you're supposed to feed him. Pretty simple, really." There was a horrible hissing, squealing noise barely picked up by Wheel's well-insulated bonefone.
"Feed it? Yes, I've been feeding it! Damn feather-head eats more than your brother. I swear-"
"Hang on," Wheel's end cut out for a moment.
Weaver Black was sullen. He continued feeding the great horned owl. The owl, for its part, was gleefully latched on to Weaver's arm as tightly as a blithely drunk—but still deeply insecure—prom date. The owl was snorking up freeze-dried voles. As quickly as Weaver could fish them out of the box with one free hand, the owl would snatch them from him. Weaver suspected that the owl would stick around until he had hand-fed it every lasting fucking morsel of vole-jerky. More grimly than that, he did not want to know why he had a cereal box full of freeze-dried voles; his gut told him that Wheel had planted the voles during his last visit. The fucking stash of voles probably drew the owl to the Gojira in the first place. "Damn you, Wheel. I have my own plans."
The great horned owl was now insistently waiting with its beak wide open. With its large, bright eyes, however, the open mouth gave it an expression of constant surprise.
Wheel suddenly cut back in, startling Weaver and his owl, "-YAH YAH YAH! DIE! Die, you bastards! No one here gets out alive, not on my watch! YAH! You like that? Oh, now you want some?"
"Hello?? Wheel, what the fuck are you doing over there?"
"Hey, man. These Florida bugs are huge and sting-crazy fuckers."
"Should I just call you back later?"
"No need, broseph!" There was an ultra-sonic sound which was inaudible, except as a length of unnatural silence. "Heh heh. No neeed, I'll just pop on over your place as soon as I'm done here. I'm already packed." Wheel began jauntily singing "Be Prepared" after the style of Tom Lehrer, although his own rendition was punctuated with strained grunts and interrupted by Wheel muttering "I should have brought the bandoliers."
"The what?"
"Flamethrower. A little fucking napalm would have been good, too."
"What are you doing?"
"Sorry, I was just killing some ants. Palmetto bug earlier (pant), you should have seen it! Later, chump!" The connection to Wheel suddenly dropped.
Weaver looked at the owl. The owl was even more surprised than he was.
Meanwhile, Wheel carefully crept down to the water's edge. Radio silence was a key component of stealth. There was a rank cave opening past a towering tuft of vegetation. He heard a series of faint squeaks. Babies. Just as good - they would serve in a pinch. He sprang forth, sealing the cave opening from escape.
In the cave before him was a swamp rat. She reared up before him, furiously protecting her litter near the rear of the cave. Bigger than a pony, with long whiskers, and sabre-like incisors that could shear his limbs off if he was careless. "My Goddess, you're a beaut," Wheel spoke in a low monotone. "It almost seems a shame, heartless even. But the pact, the pact with the owls..." Wheel's voice trailed off as he raised the blunderbuss to his shoulder.
Then he shouted a battle cry from his proud, quasi-Cubano heritage, "Hey, Lucy, I'M HOME!"
Castle interior. Afternoon. A high wizard's office.
"You're not the usual novice wizards we accept to Hogwarts. You, Sammy Suicide are," Dumbledore suppressed a squeamish shudder with effort, "not quite a Muggle. And as for you, you are.."
"A shaman?" Fizzlewick prompted. When he spoke his face took on a sudden mask, both imperious and crazed with a slight tilt of the chin and wild, wide eyes which frontiersmen who had dwelled amongst savages would recount to their dying days.
Dumbledore was calm and composed, "Ain't nothing wrong with that."
"Good." said Fizzlewick. His countenance was now one of simple, nigh-cherubic bliss. The kind of joy one might express if generations and centuries of fierce, unconventional rivalry sprinkled with a few decades of all-out war and horrific pogroms had suddenly arrived at a logical, dignified, and mutually agreeable compromise. "I think it best if I learned," (and here there was a moment's hesitation where he had almost said "backwards magic" but thought better) "..Book magic."
"Apart from your unique ..magic," Dumbledore pointedly squinted in the direction of Sammy, who remained expressionless, "there is the equally important concern of your ages."
Sammy and Fizzlewick were both impressed. Dumbledore looked every inch the doddering, kindly grandfather figure from his trading card. However, he was clearly a master of the subtle arts.. Few there were who thought to question the duo's age. Fewer still could penetrate the veil which surrounded it. For a moment it seemed as though the headmaster had them over a barrel.
Sammy searched around inside his coat. "You'll want these, I expect." He produced a pair of magically sealed scrolls, handing them to Dumbledore.
Dumbledore broke the seal and peered at the contents through his half moon glasses:
The scroll trailed on and on over various terms and other technical mumbo-jumbo. With a spell, Albus Dumbledore shut both scrolls in a drawer of his desk without further perusal.
"Very well, then. The matter, it seems, is entirely 'in to' my hands." Dumbledore allowed himself a small smile at his irony. Damn the Ministry, always screwing with his school! No matter, though, thought Dumbledore. The headmaster of Hogwarts knew how to push the limits of education and both the sanctions of nature and man.
"Quot annos exeunt!" the aged wizard pronounced suddenly, flourishing his wand at his two students. A brilliant flash of light shot from the tip, and in a flash of octarine light Fizzlewick was gone. Sammy Suicide remained, however.
"Quot annos exeunt!" repeated Dumbledore, brandishing his wand squarely at the still-present Sammy. He cast his spell a few more times at the persistent detective. At the first few failures, Dumbledore was enraged with the fiery passion that lends special force to magic. However, the wind eventually slacked from his sails. "How do you do that?"
"Do what?"
Dumbledore flapped his hands ineffectually, searching for some descriptions. "That," he began again. "How do you resist my powers? What are you casting?"
"I haven't the foggiest what you mean, sir."
"Don't you tell me in my own office that you were not casting any spell just now."
"What do you mean by 'spell,' sir?"
"You're dispelling!" shot back the aggravated wizard. "I know a dispel when I see one."
"Sir, could you describe this spell? Maybe if I knew what you were trying to cast ..you know. Maybe if I had a clearer picture, in my mind, of what was supposed to happen the two of us could work it out." Dumbledore peered down at Sammy. "Together." Sammy looked up to him with a winning smile which possessed a magic of its own.
Albus Dumbledore sighed. "I am simply casting a spell to cause you to forget certain disruptive details of Muggle and adult life. Worry not, you will regain them when the time is right. Then you'd be teleported to where you could begin a normal first year at Hogwarts. Your friend, Fizzlewick is already there, waiting."
"Oh," said Sammy. "That sounds alright." Then to no one in particular, he announced toward the ceiling, "I'm throwing my save!" Looking back to Dumbledore he said, "Alright, then."
"Quot annos exeunt." stated Dumbledore flatly, the tip of his wand pressed to Sammy's nose. There was a flash of smoke and brimstone. "Finally." he muttered to himself in his empty office.
Washing his hands at the basin, Albus Dumbledore began whistling a carefree tune from his younger years.
Whipping at impossible non-speeds through the aether, the ensorcelled form of Weaver Black nearly thought, "You old son of a witch," but there was not even enough time left to finish his thought.
Although it is not essential to the narrative, there was a spot of bother with Wheel and Weaver getting on the train to Hogwarts. They, of course, had no problem locating the correct platform and boarding the train. However, as Wheel had altered the platform numbers, there was a number of young wizards and witches whom ended up with bloodied noses and scraped shins before the ruse was uncovered.
Hogwarts bound, a young Fizzlewick and his stalwart companion, Sammy Suicide:
Two pre-teen boys sat in a train compartment, by themselves. One was dressed in elegant robes which troubled the eyes to look at — the material was deep blue with a greenish iridescence, but the robes appeared to be somewhere other than their wearer was (or perhaps it was vice versa). He was short, with blond hair and a beautiful face which would be powerfully handsome in adulthood as it seemed charmingly innocent now in youth. He was restlessly kicking his feet against his seat, fiddling with the edge of his robe, and mostly gazing out the window at the scenery. This was Sammy Suicide.
The remaining boy was larger. He looked much more common in apparel, wearing an OP Surfwear design T-shirt and his short-shaven head was covered by a "Hogan Rules!" bandanna in brilliant yellow with red lettering. He was completely occupied by a Gameboy™—not the newer kind, but the old, beige kind which had the dimensions, ergonomic design, and approximately the weight of a small brick. He could only be Fizzlewick, pop-culture shaman extraordinaire.
Sammy was just starting into his dozenth refrain of the theme song from "Disney's Gummi Bears" when a red-headed, weaselly-looking kid opened the compartment door.
"Hullo, mind if I share with you two?" the new kid asked.
"That's fine with me," said Sammy. He regarded the kid with curiosity.
However, the redhead kid did not notice. He was preoccupied staring rudely at Fizzlewick. "Is he supposed to be here? I mean, in those ..clothes. He's not a Muggle?"
"Fizzlewick, you mean? He's no Muggle, you idiot. He's one of my best buds." Sammy then added confidentially, "And he's powerful with the ju-ju."
There was an interrupting series of beeps from the paused Gameboy™. Without glancing up from the screen, Fizzlewick presented a fist salute, reminiscent of the Black Power struggles of the 60s and 70s. He then resumed his supremacy over Marioland.
The weaselly kid turned his attention to Sammy. "Those are some keen robes you have. I'm stuck with my older brother's hand-me-downs." (Jesus, thought Sammy. Is he going to start crying in his self-pity now?) The kid asked, "Where did you get yours?"
"Dungeon."
"What? In a, like, a proper dungeon?"
"Nothing proper about dungeons. Unless you're evil." Sam placed an emphasis on evil, his eyes widening slightly and a maniacal grin making his fair features seem impish. Then his expression resumed normalcy. "But you're not."
"Er, no. No, thank you, I'm not an evil wizard." The red-headed kid was a bit uneasy around his shorter companion in the fancier robes now. For a while the two remained silent, although whenever he looked up, he noticed Sammy regarding him with interest. He decided to change the subject. "Have you got a wand? Mine's rowan wood with two unicorn hairs in." He carefully drew a battered wand from his plain, black robes. Sammy was grateful the red didn't start sobbing that no one had given him a brand new one.
"Mine's hemp," Fizzlewick put in, startling the weasel-faced young boy. From the pocket of his shorts, Fizzlewick drew forth a strip of braided hemp with a gold tibetan coin knotted at either end.
"What use is that as a wand?" said the child, whose main concerns seemed to be confusion and self-pity.
"It's a tethaman." Fizzlewick held the hemp in the middle and swung the weighted ends about a bit, but didn't venture to explain beyond his demonstration.
"Wands are for sissies anyhow," young Sam said. Real power comes from rods." ("Or staves," Wheel added quietly.) From a black leather case with chromed studs, he brandished an elaborate, two-foot long rod. The rod was obsidian, cunningly carved in some Meso-American style and topped with an ivory skull. It was really almost a sceptre. In the hands of a young boy it looked entirely out of place. The rod seemed to dominate everything in the train cabin. Sammy waved it ineptly a few times, somewhere between a baton or cudgel. The weaselly kid reached to touch it, provoking a sour glare from Sammy who replaced it into its case. "Don't touch my rod."
"Did you get that in a dungeon as well?"
"Sort of, kinda," Sammy said. His face took on a pained expression. "It's a 'loaner'. From Orcus."
The weaselly redhead completely missed the parody, though. "Orcus. That's a queer name. Who's he?"
Sammy Suicide stood up and recited loudly, "Orcus - Lord of the Pit. Demon Lord of the Living Dead. Great Defeater of Wendighu and his foul spawn."
The red-headed, weaselly-looking kid began backing to the compartment door. "You're mad, like a dog. You know that?"
Sammy only shrugged, but the effect was more than that, amplified by his strange, shifting robes of power. Fizzlewick, bored and now attempting to play his game with one hand, was twirling his tethaman in his right hand, in the direction of the red-headed boy. The boy fled in terror, leaving Sammy to close the door after him.
Fizzlewick rummaged around in a nylon beltpack until he found an aromatic packet of Big League Chew. He offered some to Sammy who was leaning across the compartment to get a wad when the door to their compartment opened once more. A thin kid with dark hair and broken spectacles stood there. "May I share your cabin," he asked.
"No, Scarface," Fizzlewick said. Go find that emo kid. Sit with him."
"There's no need to be rude," the dark-haired kid said, scratching self-consciously at his forehead.
"Then please, will you shut the door?" Sammy asked with an ingratiating smile on his face. Scarface did so, and left.
"Eris' Tits, I hope they're not all like this," Wheel said, rolling his eyes.
"We should have sat further to the front. I told you so," Sammy whined at him.
"No way. All the cool kids sit in back of the bus."
As if Eris Herself was trying him, the door to their compartment opened once more.
Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter, Hogwarts, and the Harry Potter book series are the creative properties of Joanne Rowling. © 1997 J. K. Rowling. Used here without permission for purposes of parody and lack of anything better to write.
