FLOREAN FORTESCUE, AN UNSUNG HERO

Remembering the forgotten ice-cream man of Diagon Alley

By Andrew Carlton

On 28 July, 1992, I received a curious letter. At first, I thought it was a prank pulled by my best mate, Rooney, so I threw it away without giving it a second thought. Then more letters came until I had to believe that they weren’t being sent by him. You see, my friend Rooney is one of the most talented tricksters you would ever have the misfortune to meet, but even he can’t push letters inside eggs – he’s a Muggle.

The letters were from a school called Hogwarts, telling me that they were offering me a place. I was the one who always found them, and I didn’t know whether I ought to show them to my parents. You see, they never knew what I was up to – I wasn’t stupid enough to let them find out what I’d been doing every night in my room, which was sinking through the bed. Even Rooney never knew. So, when a school of magic sent me a letter, I thought the cat was out of the bag, and my parents would now know why the local bully had dyed his hair powder blue (he hadn’t). The eleven-year-old me feared that my parents might take me for a freak and disown me. Therefore, I hid the letters.

Unfortunately, one fine morning, my mother woke up earlier than me and got to the mailbox first. When I went down to breakfast, it was to see Mr. and Mrs. Carlton, also known as my parents, sitting with their hands on their foreheads and looking somber. I instantly understood what was wrong. Before they could open their mouth, I blurted out an apology and pleaded with them to keep me; I even confessed I’d turned Big Joe’s hair blue and promised I wouldn’t do it again (Big Joe being the local bully I was talking about earlier). However, instead of Mum shouting that she had had enough of me (as she was wont to do) and my Dad threatening me that he’d send me away to a boarding school (which he has never said in his life, but I used to imagine he might because Rooney’s father usually did that to make him stop being such an “impossible kid�), the two of them apologized to me and told me the truth.

The truth was a series of information which sounded half-insane and half-sensible. Yes, it explained why I could sink through furniture or have Big Joe sporting woolly blue hair at the age of fifteen (well, he did corner me and Rooney and hit us for no reason). But my mother was something called “Squib�, and my father “Muggle�, and both of them had thought I wouldn’t be “magic enough� to be a “wizard.� Plus, I apparently had a wizard uncle called Florean Fortescue who ran an ice-cream parlour in some place called Diagon Alley. This sounded impossible because I knew the map of London by heart and there was no such place by that name in the city – to which my mother replied that Diagon Alley was “Unplottable.�

Of course, things would have been much simpler if I’d told my parents about my “magical� adventures before, but I hadn’t. It was not in my nature to discuss my pranks with adults. But Uncle Florean was a different kind of adult altogether, and to tell you the truth, I’ve been digressing up to now because this story is actually about him.

My mother, Fiona Carlton nee Fortescue, grew up in a Muggle boarding school, and hardly spent her holidays at home. She wasn’t really close to her brother, who studied at a different boarding school called Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. In later years, my mother would confess she had been jealous of her brother and had distanced herself from him. The tie was completely broken when my grandparents died and my mother married Jeremy Carlton.

Now that I had turned out to be “magic,� however, my mother had little choice but to renew her relationship with her brother. I can’t tell you how scared I was when I went to Diagon Alley with her for the first time. I was also scared of meeting my uncle, who I supposed would be bitter at his sister and take it out on me. But when we met, he greeted my mother with love and enthusiasm. And then, I got a real treat.

Many of you must still remember Florean Fortescue’s Ice-Cream Parlour and its offerings. There were so many kinds of delicious ice-creams to choose from. Buttered banana split, towering sundaes of chocolate and strawberry with bright red cherries, sorbet made of tropical fruits, gelato topped with biscuits made in the shape of Hogwarts Castle, blocks of fudge royale, Turkish Dondurma, frozen custard, cones of Kulfi, deliriously colourful Neapolitans, vanilla ripple and butter pecans.

And the colours – oh, the colours! They would swirl from red to yellow to orange to cream to tan to purple to pink to blue, until life became much more beautiful, much more delicate, and much more precious. Life, it seemed whenever I went to my Uncle’s shop, was to be savoured quickly before it melted.

It was no surprise then, really, that Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour was a mandatory stop for many who visited Diagon Alley. The children, especially, would never take “no� for an answer, and some of the parents would use that as a pretext in order to relish my Uncle’s craftsmanship for themselves. I began to spend most of my free days at that shop, and if any of you still recall that tiny boy with curly black hair who sometimes helped Florean serve – well, that was me, Andrew Carlton.

I bought all my school things with Uncle Florean. My parents could have done it, but I think my mother only reconciled herself with her brother, not the world which she thought had rejected her. Don’t take me wrong – she still loved me and supported me. As for my father, I think he was a little fascinated with the magical world, but he only came to Diagon Alley once or twice. He loved Mum more than anything on earth, and he respected her feelings.

So, yes, getting back to Uncle Florean, he was the one with whom I went to Ollivander’s and bought my walnut wand. He was also the one with whom I went to Madam Malkin’s, and Flourish and Blott’s, and Magical Menagerie (he bought me my owl, Easter), and Quality Quidditch Supplies (for I played Beater for my House), and, for pretty much everything related to the wizarding world.

I became rather close to him. I would spend parts of my holidays with him, and even though he never asked me to, I’d help him run his shop. There’s something about working at an ice-cream shop – you see people’s happy faces and become happy yourself. And then, there was something about working with Uncle Florean who greeted everyone with a genuine smile, knew everyone who came there, and would often give those who were close to him free treats. For him, it was never about the business of business; I suspect it was rather about the business of friendship. That made being around him the greatest pleasure on earth.

My Uncle Florean was a great teacher, too. He confided in me that the late Professor Dumbledore had asked him to teach at Hogwarts as soon as he graduated from the school, but he had refused. He loved teaching, but he loved his ice-cream parlour more. Professor Dumbledore once joked to me that if my Uncle was willing, he would start Magical Cooking Classes at Hogwarts, just so Florean Fortescue would come and teach.

Although the rest of Hogwarts missed out on a good teacher, I didn’t. I had a penchant for learning (I still do), and whenever I stayed at Uncle Florean’s place, I’d pester him to tell me all he knew about magical history. And he knew an awful lot; I excelled at History of Magic not because I was wide awake in Professor Binn’s classes, but because my Uncle taught me all that was there to know.

Uncle Florean and I had a bet on which House I’d get Sorted into; he said I’d go into Ravenclaw, and I said I’d get into Gryffindor. He was a Ravenclaw himself, and he assured me that apart from his great-grandfather, Dexter Fortescue, a former Headmaster of Hogwarts who had been Sorted into Hufflepuff, the Fortescues had had a long line of Ravenclaws. I argued that since I was a spunky lad, I’d be a Gryffindor. I lost the bet.

I confess I felt that my getting into Ravenclaw was the end of my heroism. When the Sorting Hat shouted that word, I was left numb. Yes, I know I’ve always thirsted after knowledge, but I also knew I was daring, more than anything else. I confess, it upset me to a certain degree.

However, my Uncle tried to assure me that heroism was not restricted to the Gryffindors. I doubted it. Unfortunately for me, Harry Potter was in the year above me, and he was a Gryffindor whose exploits were fast becoming legends. It didn’t help that Albus Dumbledore, who was my hero from the moment I first read about him on a Chocolate Frogs card during first year, had been a Gryffindor too.

However, Dumbledore lost that position to someone else a few years later – my Uncle Florean.

Many of you must be aware of the fact that my Uncle disappeared during the summer of 1996. The Ministry investigated into the matter, but their inquiry led to nothing. We had a different Ministry of Magic back then – one that was being hounded by dark forces.

My Uncle never returned.

I was at home the night he disappeared. It was the 30th of July, 1996. An Auror by the name of John Dawlish Apparated right outside our kitchen, and told us that “Florean Fortescue has been kidnapped by some unknown agents.�

Neither of my parents said anything to this announcement, shocked as they were.

“By unknown agents, could you mean the Death Eaters?� I asked.

Auror Dawlish didn’t reply. I suppose he thought it wasn’t worth bantering with a fifteen-year-old. My parents asked him a variety of questions as to the who’s, where’s, how’s, why’s and when’s of the incident. I kept silent. Being more aware of what had been happening in the wizarding world, I supposed I had correctly guessed who the culprits were, and Dawlish’s cunning evasions of the questions confirmed my suspicions.

Against my parents’ wishes, I went to the scene of crime the next day. Strangely enough, no Anti-Trespassing Charm had been cast around the shop (considering it was a scene of crime), and I entered it without any hitch. The furniture had been upturned, the ice-cream display shelves smashed, and there was a long trail of blood on the floor which started at the fireplace and ended at the back door, as though someone had been dragged off. I left the place quickly.

Two months later, on the 23rd of September, 1996, Professor Dumbledore summoned me to his office. He told me that the dead body of my Uncle had been found in a shack a mile off Hogsmeade. The cause of death was the Killing Curse. The incident was never made public, and up to a few months back, my Uncle remained listed as a missing person in the Ministry’s record.

Now, why am I digging up these bones? Why did I write it for the Stirring column of the Daily Prophet on the Sunday before Christmas? Do the readers deserve a reminder of those dark times?

I am telling this story because I don’t want my Uncle’s heroism to go unsung. I don’t want him to be shunted aside as a missing statistic. I don’t want him to go without leaving a memory behind. And I chose today, 23 December, 2006, because ten years ago, a day before my Uncle disappeared, I made him a promise; I promised him that if he could prove Ravenclaws could be as heroic, as daring, and as brave as a Gryffindor, I would give away free ice-creams for a day, and pay him back later.

And prove it he did.

It took me ten years to bring the case of my Uncle’s death to the Ministry’s attention. Ten years for the investigation to happen. Ten years to gather all the witnesses’ statements. Ten years for the Ministry to release his will. Ten years till I got to the journal he left me, and I found out why he died.

My Uncle didn’t support Lord Voldemort and his followers, but he was never outspoken about his sentiments. Therefore, when I found out about Death Eaters being responsible for his disappearance (and subsequent murder), I was puzzled. How had he provoked them to merit such consequences? The journal gave me the answers.

My Uncle guarded a secret, a terrible one which involved both the darkest wizard of all time, and the greatest. He guarded the secret of a powerful weapon known as the Elder Wand, something which Professor Dumbledore knew Lord Voldemort would be after. My Uncle and Dumbledore were the only two people who knew where this wand was. Somehow, Lord Voldemort had found out about my Uncle’s connection with it.

In the last entry of my Uncle’s journal, dated 28 July, 1996, he had written:

“Judging by the last visit from Mulciber, a known Death Eater who shouldn’t be roaming the streets free, I can tell that Voldemort has got wind of my knowledge of the Elder Wand. They may come again to interview any minute – which reminds me, I must get Andrew away from here. I am never telling Voldemort about the Wand, and I don’t want my nephew geting caught in the crossfire, or being used as a hostage.

Dumbledore assures me it is in safe hands, so I’m not too worried about that. I just hope poor Ollivander doesn’t get dragged into this.�

I do not know how my Uncle knew of the Elder Wand’s existence. However, he seems to have understood the dangerous nature of that weapon as he’d put a Secret Safety Enchantment on his journal (meaning a large part of the diary died with him and shall never be recovered). All things considered, I think it’s safe to assume that he was abducted and murdered because of his acquaintance with the accursed Wand. Combine that with the common knowledge that Voldemort managed to get his hands on it almost two years after my Uncle’s death, and I know that he stood his ground against the Death Eaters, and possibly Voldemort himself.

Bravery, Courage, Heroism, Guts, Fearlessness.

These were attributes I always assigned to a certain group of people. I used to thinkI’d been one of that haloed few before I found out I was a wizard, and before my Sorting. (Rooney tells me Big Joe still has fluffy, powder-blue hair.) But my definition and exemplification were wrong; these are fluid traits, and Houses cannot claim them for their own. And my Uncle Florean knew that, and though I’m sure he didn’t want me to learn my lesson through his tragic demise, I’m glad he was the one who taught me.

So, that was the story of my Uncle Florean, who you knew as the man who sold ice-creams at Diagon Alley. If you have stuck to this story, and read it without skipping any parts (something I tend to do while reading long-winded tales), I’m sure you must remember I made a promise to my Uncle. Yes, tomorrow morning, on Christmas Eve, I am reopening Florean Fortescue’s Ice-Cream Parlour at Diagon Alley, and giving away free ice-creams and hot chocolate. I invite you all to come and help celebrate the memory of that wonderful man, whose bravery and courage have been discovered late, though I’m sure you’d agree, better late than never.


The writer is a reporter with the Daily Prophet.