Disclaimer: JK Rowling created Harry Potter...

Annabel Forsythe was a rather spoilt child. Being the Prime Minister’s niece, and therefore one of the rather more important children in the country, this was not really surprising. She had always got what she wanted. Her parents both died in a freak storm when she was two years old, which was a pity, but being two, she didn't really notice.

She went to live with her Uncle and Aunt instead, and was quite happy. You see, Uncle always gave her whatever she wanted. He felt sorry for her, since she had lost her parents at such a tender age. The trouble with this was, it did not take Annabel long to discover that Uncle always gave her whatever she wanted.

At that time her Uncle was a little-known politician in the House of Commons and they lived together in a cramped flat in one of the grimier districts of London. And Annabel wanted a bigger house.

She got it, too. Her Uncle wanted to give her the best house he could.

And so he gave her Ten Downing Street.

It is not an easy thing to become the Prime Minister. But he did it for her. For his darling niece. For Annabel. He grovelled and smarmed and wormed his way into the higher social circles, and there was rather a lot of money being stealthily slipped into much greater hands than his – well, it is rather dull to go into lengthy detail. Suffice it to say, that within three months of Annabel screaming for a nice big house, the family found themselves seated happily in the large, plush living room of Number Ten, Downing Street. Or should I say, happily only for that first night. Then disaster struck.

For Annabel wanted a gerbil.

No, to be precise - Annabel decided that she wanted a gerbil “NOW, Uncle-wuncle!�

Now, Uncle-wuncle didn’t like mice. Or rats. Or anything small and furry with sharp teeth and twitching whiskers and long bald tails and those creepy little black eyes.
So Uncle said No. Uncle had never said ‘No’ to Annabel before. And Annabel didn’t like it one bit.

---

The Prime Minister didn’t believe in magic. Or in God. He was a very practical person. But he went to bed that night wondering whether fate was going to punish him for denying the little girl, his parent-deprived niece, the one thing all children (and orphans in particular) should have; something small and furry to care for and to pet.

The next day however, he pretty much forgot his guilty feelings, when he stood in his new Prime Minister office, with the shiny polished desk and the squeaky new leather chair and the priceless old paintings on the wall.
He wasn’t expecting to hear one of the paintings cough.
Nor to see a wizard climbing out of his fireplace.

Especially as he didn’t believe in magic.

Could this be his punishment? Was he going mad? If he was sane, then he would not be sitting here listening to a strange man in a lime-green bowler hat – Fudge, he said he was called - talking about wizards and magic and Muggles, whatever they were. Or perhaps, he thought hopefully, it wasn’t God’s punishment. Perhaps it was a hoax of the opposition to get him to resign out of terror. But his heart sank as he heard Fudge’s words.

“…He tried to throw me out the window, thought I was a hoax planned by the opposition."

“You’re not a hoax, then?� The Prime Minister asked weakly.
And then he knew for sure that God was punishing him.

For the strange little man said gently to the Prime Minister, “No. No, I’m afraid I’m not,� then pulled out an actual magic wand, stretched his arm towards the Prime Minister’s cup of tea, and turned the teacup into –

Oh, Fate is cruel.

He turned the teacup into a gerbil.

---

When the Other Minister had gone, the Prime Minister sank into his chair, nervously watching the little animal scratch little rodent-marks in his nice, shiny new desk.

Perhaps it was a hallucination. Perhaps all the scheming and stress involved with becoming Prime Minister had turned his mind. He hoped very hard that this was the case (which he certainly had never done before). So he squeezed his eyes tight shut and pinched himself very hard, telling himself that when he looked again the painting on the wall would not be picking its nose with its quill, the ash from the fire would not be sprinkled all over his priceless Persian carpet, and that the gerbil would have vanished.

But to the Prime Minister’s extreme disappointment, when he opened his eyes again, the wretched little animal was still scratching around on his desk. It had finished chewing up his first speech and had set to work on his second.
It was then that the Prime Minister made up his mind. Well, it was hardly as though he had any choice in the matter. A gerbil appearing on his desk the day after he refused Annabel one for a pet - what else could it be but a Sign?

That night, Annabel’s screeches of delight made the neighbours wonder if someone was being murdered in Number Ten, Downing Street. In fact, she had just opened the box her uncle had given her.

---

The next day, Annabel went to her posh new private school with a gerbil-sized bulge in her shirt pocket and a smile on her face.

“This is Teacup,� she announced to Miss Day, her teacher, who looked at the plump, nose-twitching rodent in surprise.
“Why is he called Teacup?� said Miss Day, stroking the little beast’s head with her little finger. Oddly, she found the brown fur slightly harder and shinier than the average rodent’s.

Annabel looked thoughtful. “I don’t know,� she said eventually. “Uncle said that it was his teacup, and now it’s my Teacup.�

Miss Day nodded, pretending that she understood perfectly, as a teacher should. Annabel was not the most intelligent of small children.

---

Miss Day had just finished congratulating herself on getting the whole class to work silently on their multiplication sums when there came a shriek from the back row. The peace dissolved as quickly as sugar into tea, and Miss Day gritted her teeth as a dozen chairs scraped and a dozen heads turned to where Annabel was sitting, hands clasped to her shirt pocket and a strange brown stain spreading rapidly down her front.

“Teacup went on me!� she yelled and the class started tittering.

“Quiet now, children,� Miss Day said helplessly. Nobody listened to her.

Annabel pulled the fat gerbil out of her pocket, and the tittering stopped as the children stared in amazement at Teacup.

The gerbil’s mouth was open and Earl Grey tea was leaking out.

Annabel blinked.

“He’s changing colour!� shouted Brian Penthorpe, the son of the third most important man in the country.

Teacup was indeed changing colour. Once he had been a soft brown. Now, his fur seemed to be a strange, shiny white.

A china-like white, in fact.

And his long bald tail was curling into what looked suspiciously like a teacup handle.

And a pattern of flowers was suddenly faintly traced onto his fur.

And tea was still dripping onto Annabel’s skirt.

“Is this some kind of a joke, Annabel?� asked Miss Day tiredly, thinking wistfully of the peace of three minutes ago.
Annabel didn’t answer. She was too busy trying to plug Teacup’s mouth with her fat little finger.

Then Teacup bit it.

“Ai-eeee!� she screeched, waving her hand around wildly, Teacup dangling from the end. Miss Day and the class yelled in horror as Teacup flew across the room and smashed straight into the blackboard.

Teacup promptly shattered into a dozen shiny, flower patterned shards of white china.

And that, dear readers, is the end of the short tale – or tail – of the rather unfortunate gerbil named Teacup.

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