A/N: Sorry it’s been so long since I updated, but I’ve been way too busy for my own good. Wait, did I say busy? I meant to say “lazy.” Anyway, I know all of you will have read Half-Blood Prince by now, so I just want to say that this storyline is before that one. (Need to keep Aragog alive for this chapter to work. And Snape to not be evil.)
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Magorian approached the tip of the lonely sandbar, stretching his arms out to enjoy the fine salty air. Everything was perfect. The noonday sun shined happily from its unassailable position in the cloudless sky, and its reflection raced sketchily across the water like a flying fish. The breeze whooshed by at just the right speed to negate the heat of the summer without being too troublesome to breathe against.
He ran his hands through his hair and closed his eyes, listening to the serene ocean as it made its presence known. His favorite were the foghorns. He hated the seagulls. He would often pull out his bow and arrow and shoot them down on the spot. But this was his vacation, and he didn’t want to think about those bad-tasting miscreant birds. How they pecked their hateful little pecks… and their hideous caws… so grating…
Shaking his head in frustration, he tried to go back to visualizing the nice, tranquil foghorn, now accompanied with a soothing lighthouse beacon in his mind. Ah, how nice it was to be at sea… He again imagined the limitless horizon and the wavering image of the sun in its clear blue expanse. The delightful cadence of the waves before him... so beautiful... so enthralling...
It almost made him forget about everything else, as if he were in the midst of transcending to a higher state of mentality (in his case, sanity. He was often more depraved then the evil voices in his head, taking their suggestions to a level higher than even they would condone).
Which was exactly when the seagulls popped into his head again.
“Arrgh!” thought Magorian aloud, tired of having to continually escape the specter of his perpetual avian nemeses. The only way to quit thinking of their filthy, rotten beaks and their obnoxious, curmudgeonly caws, he hastily concluded, was to stare into the sun and hope his melting eyejuice would retract into his skull, burning away whatever nerve was in charge of irrational seagull hatred.
But before he could carry that out, he was interrupted by a voice coming from behind him.
“Yar!”
Magorian circled around and searched for the source of the sound.
“Down ’ere!”
The centaur looked down and gasped.
He was a short, stocky man whose complexion rivaled those of the most seasoned warriors and adventurers. His aura was unmistakably raw and virile, and his gait was almost incomprehensibly manly. Overall, though his stature was lacking, his awesome demeanor made the most prideful men want to bow down and adulate this god among paupers.
He also happened to have no head and pegs for legs.
“Yar!” he repeated, “me name’s Nohead Peglegs, the finest damn pirate in the seven seas!”
“Aren’t there more than seven seas?”
“Not on this map there ain’t!” replied the saucy sailor, unraveling said map and pointing at the various bodies of water on it. “See, this here’s the Third Sea, and this one over here is the Seventh Sea… and this one is the Fifth and Sixth one, yeh’ve gotta squint a bit to see it…”
“Huh,” said Magorian, squinting at the map. “So there actually are only seven seas.”
“That’s what I tol’ ya, innit, lad?”
“More importantly, how are you talking?”
“Why, through me BLOWHOLE o’ course!” A beam of water punctured a hole through the back of his shirt. The pirate spun around, his hydraulic jet acting as a sort of propeller blade to send him spiraling into the air.
“So looooong, matey!” he called out, vanishing into the horizon.
~-~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*~~~~~~~
Magorian woke up from his nap, eyes squinting at the trickles of light coming down from the forest canopy.
That last dream was rather inspired, thought Magorian sleepily. I've always wondered, if experienced pirates all wear eye-patches and have pegs for legs, what would eventually happen to REALLY old ones? He quickly scanned the dream again for any symbolism, found none, and moved his stream of consciousness to different topics, whistling for Ganglia to get up.
They continued to journey into the heart of the forest, having each taken a refreshing early-morning doze, to where his poultry barrack were located. Now that the Battle of Duirop Swamp was over, and he was home in the officially-renamed Styjikuhler Forest, he had to check how many chickens were left after the catastrophe. Not many, he ventured to guess.
I hate damage control, thought Magorian miserably. At least he had Ganglia by his side, but the bear was, if possible, less optimistic. By eight o’clock, they could make out an arrow-sign that read “Magorian’s Coop” with the “Australia” hastily crossed out. It was pointing downwards to a patch of grassless soil now, the sole area of the woods without any shrubbery or moss to speak of.
"There’s the symbolism," Magorian realized wryly.
It was as expected, and Ganglia hung its head in disappointment. The Coop was disheveled and abandoned, with holes all along its five walls in the shapes of frantic chickens. It looked like each and every one of Magorian’s chickens had died in the great fight, and there were none left for Magorian to breed any new ones. The Scion knew Hagrid wouldn’t give him anymore…
“C’mon, Ganglia, let’s get out of here. It’s no good staying. I’m sure they wouldn’t have wanted us to mourn their passing.” Then Mago added under his breath, “seeing as how they were chickens.” Ganglia sobbed.
Magorian ushered the bear out of the depressing clearing. He was planning to reassure the bear with a heartfelt condolence that the massacre was not its fault, but they only thing he managed to say next was “Gah!” or some derivative thereof.
“Gah!” yelped Magorian, or some derivative thereof.
Towering before them was a menacing Acromantula, its fangs dripping with venom. Along its head and thorax were red, loping streaks, and its impressively robust abdomen sported three sets of spinnerets. The top half of its eyes were blind, as was a symbol of old age for their kind; the other four were in tiptop shape, however, and were roving the forest floor malevolently. It spotted the centaur’s movements and quickly pinpointed its location. Arching up, it bellowed a complex sort of roar, like that of an animal that doesn’t usually roar (like Dr. Phil, or an accordion).
Its roar sounded like the stirring of a million hyalapterous wings, controlled and chaotic at the same time. It was swarm and phalanx at once, and it made Magorian’s pelt stand on end. Not even the knowledge of the Acromantulas’ unspoken agreement not to kill the centaurs could’ve consoled him in that moment of downright unspeakable horror.
Magorian braced for impact, trusty spear in hand. Ganglia growled in warning, but none of it fazed the gigantic spider. Luckily, it began to talk before it lunged, nearly knocking down two trees as it made an intensely intricate web between them amazingly fast and situated itself at its silky center. Every word it made preceded a quick clicking sound as it opened and closed it mandibles to speak. (The creatures had an extremely hard time making ‘th’,‘d’ or ‘sh’ sounds, so they simply omitted them.)
“Hikt-hikt, a centaur? Hikt, In hhis part of heh forest?” It climbed further up the web, Magorian hearing many more hikthikts and some disgusting slurping sounds before it started speaking again. In his 87 years as centaur chieftain, he had never dared to hold counsel with the spider-lords of the deeper, darker sections of the land he reigned. If he had, the Acromatulas would’ve always gotten their way in all negotiations anyhow, and it would’ve only served to remind his tribe of their inferiority, which, of course, centaurs do not enjoy. Even the finest-crafted and most magically-fortified centaru arrows couldn’t dent an Acromantula’s hide, and the hairy beasts in this section of the hemisphere were, if anything, among the deadliest in the world.
“Hikt-hikt, fahter would not approve killing a *hikt-hikt* centaur.” Every soft ‘e’ sound the spider made was long and drawn out. Magorian was starting to take heart before it added, in its creepy almost musical spider-tone,
“Sssss. Perfect!”
“I am Gogara,” the spider introduced itself to its prey as is normal talking mythic-monster fashion. “My fahter has exilet me, and now I can to as I please, incluting eating a centaur.” It slurped up its venom; if any dropped onto its web it would dissolve and he’d have to make another.
“Why has your father exiled you?” screamed up Magorian.
“My iteas were too ‘unortotox,’ too ‘far-fetcht,’ said he. “I, *hikthikt* I, *hikt*, IIIIIIIIIIII was once his favorite son! His heir!”
Gogara salivated its poisonous secretion and pounced, but abruptly halted when its keen oculae spotted Magorian taking out what looked like a notepad, fake glasses, and a calligraphy pen.
“Why can’t we have an irrigason ditch made in a tract tru the forest? Or install the sundial at our forum? Why not try out for ‘Who Wants to be a Millionaire’ or do my own dry cleaning! WHY?” It slammed the forest floor in frustration, shaking the dense canopy. Normally this would have released a mini-diaspora of frightened birds, but the birds around the Coop happened to be mildly retarded, and froze instead, thereby saving the author from another painful cliché associated with loud noises in heavily wooded areas.
It hikthikted again, eye and mouth movements random now- a common symptom of Acromantulic rage.
“I will sow him who’s boss! Centaurs are not to eat, so eat them I sall!”
“And is ‘Gogara’ your real name?” asked Magorian, now putting down his spear and writing in the notepad. The centaur knew that one often had to psychoanalyze dangerous monsters before running like hell.
Gogara looked taken aback. “Hikt, no, I changet hhis morning to symbolize the severing of ties witt my fahter.”
Eager to disobey Aragog’s word of law, again it tried attacking, but it seemed too mad now or too drunk to do anything but lumber and swerve. Magorian was too swift for the monster, and he proceeded to pelt it with a series of searing psychoanalytical questions.
“What was your mother like?
How does that make you feel?
How does that make your feelers feel?
What’s the first thing that comes to mind when I say ‘lollapalooza?’
Read any good book lungs lately?
Tell me about your family.
Stream of consciousness, that’s it, keep talking…
Aren’t you glad you’re getting this all off your exoskeletal plexus?
Which would you rather have, a tuning fork or a Caesar salad?
The truth, please. What do you mean what importance could that question possibly have?
Who’s your role model?
I thought so.
Relay to me your deepest fears.
Negative integers, eh? That’s original.
Tell me, does this inkblot look like the finest damn pirate in the seven seas?
Give me a mental picture of your childhood. If you had to paint a picture of what your early years were like, what would it depict?
Holy tarnation, that appalls. But keep talking. We’re making good progress.”
“Enough!” roared Gogara, his psyche smarting from all of Magorian’s hurtful verbal accusations. “Get out of my heaht!”
“One last question,” said Magorian, tilting his glasses under his eyes and putting away his notepad, which he had been using to draw Nohead Peglegs. “Are you aware that the name you’ve given yourself this morning in order to disconnect with your troubling past is your father’s name backwards?”
Gogara seemed stricken. He gaped at them in disbelief, and Ganglia stopped growling.
“I think you may need some alone time,” condescended Magorian, and the Acromantula skittered away in shock. “Well, Ganglia, time to run in the opposite direction! Hop on my back!”
The next thing he was going to say was along the lines of, “You know, I can’t help but notice this fic still hasn’t mentioned any pigeons, pheasants, peacocks, kiwis, rheas, cassowaries, lovebirds, turkeys, swifts, herons, pelicans, swallows, jays, quetzals, penguins, bobbies, kites, storks, hornbills, ibises, geese, swans, spoonbills, frigates, petrels, albatrosses, shearwaters, grebes, emus, guinea fowls, grouses, hoatzins, cranes, gallinules, coots, rails, limpkins, bitterns, lapwings, stilts, puffins, sandpipers, avocets, plovers, snipes, phalaropes, auks, terns, jaegers, skimmers, doves, keas, macaws, cocks-of-the-rock, parakeets, lorikeets, roadrunners, cuckoos, nightjars, frogmouths, hummingbirds, hoopoes, kingfishers, wrynecks, barbets, woodpeckers, toucans, jacamars, wrens, flycatchers, birds-of-paradise, finches, or orioles yet. ”
Instead what issued out of his mouth was more along the lines of “Eep!”
Towering behind them was a gigantic tree-monster. Its arms were extremely long boughs elbow-jointed at the middle, and its hands were sets of four twigs that branched out of their ends. It had no discernable legs- just an unintelligible tangle of roots that the shadowy sentry had to shuffle to move. At its top was also an amazing mass of oaken stems, except much less haphazard; a multitude of the branches, in fact, seemed connected to each other by a complicated network of miniscule wooden capillaries. Every “head-branch” came to a point at the very top, where a single, very large and deeply venous leaf could be found. Its face was located in the middle of its trunk: a petrified rectangular slab bas-reliefed with an animated stone face. At a flick of the sentry’s arm, a multitude of roots sprang forward, detached from his body and trapped Gogara in a briary cage, which then rolled away. It didn’t want any intrusions on its fun with the centaur that had for so long beguiled him, after all.
The centaur felt a massive set of branches wrap around his body like fingers. Ganglia jumped off his back and ran away as he was lifted into the air to the tree-monster’s face, its stony features radiating anger. It took a split-second for Magorian to realize it was his old mentor, Motm’s, face. He would’ve been surprised if it weren’t for the chapter title. He just wanted to know how Motm resurrected, and it looked as if Motm could read it in the chieftain’s expression, because the first words that issued from his limestone lips were how it was he came to be alive again.
“Remember when I told you, in my last dying breaths, to bury me under the yew tree down yonder, Grasshopper?” he said, squeezing the centaur in his hand a little bit too hard and not in the mood to waste any time prolonging sweet revenge. “I didn’t ask for sentimental reasons! That yew tree was my familiar! I planted it to ensure a safe passage to eternal life that I discovered in my, er, more enlightened moments. All I had to do was die naturally beneath its roots. I expected to die of old age, and to be able to sense its approach.
“But then you came- you interfered!” He crushed his helpless enemy in his palm a bit more, and Magorian started to labor in his breathing. “And it was too late! All I could do was to wait as eons rolled by, my spirit clinging desperately on this realm of being. Months passed in real-time as my corpse and my fading familiar inched closer and closer together, each of us desperate to remain fragments of reality. I remembered the planar portal to the afterlife gradually diminishing; every second I refused to choose an afterlife, hoping stupidly that there had to be a way to come back to life again, my hatred for the one who did this to me grew malignantly. I endured countless eras of my soul being strapped to my body as gradually the films of virtue and vice were stripped from my mind, not wanting to choose an afterlife before I could wrap around my tree-spirit and fuse with it. I am now simply an entity, neither living nor fully dead, neither corporeal nor truly spectral. I am the between, the nothingness that exists outside two objects.”
“And how does that make you feel?” asked Magorian, again feeling like he had to play the part of the understanding yet harsh psychiatric mediator.
“Like crap! Which is why I’m exacting my vengeance on you right now!” He tightened his grip on Magorian effortlessly, like he was a vise and the puny centaur a matchstick. There goes one kidney… thought Magorian.
“The sting of unity runs deep, Grashopper, and I’m about to give you that pain tenfold!”
“But why are you so evil all of a sudden?” Magorian squirmed. Then he remembered. Yew wood was a symbol of evil, so, when he fused with his familiar, he must’ve absorbed profane amounts of hatred and regret. He voiced his thoughts.
“No, you idiot, it had nothing to do with that! Not all villains need backstories, dammit!” The stone shifted as his face’s emotions changed. “It’s fun being evil, and I don’t need a reason to kick the lights out of everyone who pisses me off!”
The sculpture on the slab smiled. “I’m not just any evil entity, though. I’m not going to sadistically prolong your demise, like so many evildoers do nowadays. That would give you much too much time to escape, or for something miraculous to happen in your favor. Instead, I’m going to crush you immediately. You might ask, ‘Why would any villain not stupidly want to wait to kill his/her archnemesis?’ I’m not just any villain. I am Laurelm, the Seventeenth Scourge!”
Laurelm let up his vicegrip a bit and took a deep breath that seemed not to take in any air. (The only reason for him to breathe was that he could only talk on the exhale.)
“My xylem and phloem harbor the strength of a thousand cedars. My roots dig deep and my boughs touch the clouds…”
Three hours later…
“…I have the eyes of a hawk and the ears of a bat! The rings of my trunk outnumber the years of the Earth! My ankles reach the canopy and my sneeze can destroy continents… Say, is it just me or do you smell Zoloft? No? It must be my imagination. It’s been so long. Anyway… My sneeze can destroy continents and my arms can lift a million…”
I hate damage control, thought Magorian, trying desperately to keep the yawn inside his mouth.
Three hours later…
“I am bigger than the universe! Planets dissolve in my corrosive gaze! Time trembles and imaginable measure is dwarfed! I know ALL!”
Styjikuhler’s sage startled. The end of the speech had come at last, just when he had found a comfortable place in Motm’s grip.
“So you see,” Laurelm continued, “I’m much too brilliant to succumb to common supervillain weaknesses such as endlessly drawling on and on when the hero is on a platter. It’s time for you to die!”
Magorian stopped trying to shave with his mind and braced again for certain death, closing his eyes. He thought he could see an intense, radiant light… was that the tunnel? No, it was coming from inside his saddlebag…
“Diffindo!” shouted a familiar voice, and Laurelm got diced into little bitty pieces poetically easily. (Motm needed to be joined together to his familiar to cling to existence, and without that direct spiritual contact he and the tree-spirit simply ceased to be, neither becoming a ghost nor being able to explore the unknown afterlife. It was rather sad. All he had really wanted to do was to raid all the pharmacies he could find and steal every prescription drug in the world. He couldn’t wait to try out that Vicodin/Claritin/Lipitor/Prilosec trail mix he’d been spending all eternity thinking of.)
The hand holding him suddenly cut into papery smithereens, Sinistra had to create a trampoline with her wand to keep Magorian from falling to his death. (Which was excellent, because everyone loves trampolines!) She had even made it his favorite color, ejacutrops. The Astronomy teacher waited for Magorian to tire of bouncing up and down.
Three hours later…
Sinistra Vanished the trampoline impatiently and made a mattress to break his fall. Then she forgot her irritation and came running jovially into her favorite centaur’s arms.
“Hey babe, how’s it going?” asked Magorian, hugging her.
“I’m just glad to see you! Where were you? They hardly ever showed scenes with you on that show you were on,” she said, pushing him playfully. “Since I’m not an Order member, and what happened yesterday with the Dark Lord was strictly confidential, I’m totally out of the loop.”
Magorian explained what happened. Since the tale was already so unbelievable, his embellishments went unnoticed. After a while, even he was starting to believe that Charlie Rose had come down in a cloud from the sky to commentate, that three eclipses had happened in rapid succession during the battle, and that the Great Refrigerator had been accompanied by a giant floating zeppelin called the Cheesegrater of Doom.
The centaur momentarily forgot his desire to go on a sea voyage, but his mind returned to it before long.
“How’s Firenze doing?” he small-talked.
“Good, good, the first-years have started to accept him,” she smiled as they winded their way back to Hogw-stra.
“Do you happen to have a boat?” Magorian hated small talk.
“It’s funny you should ask. I was ceded a yacht by the headmaster at the annual Stuff Dumbledore Doesn’t Need raffle. Why?”
“I think this is the literary reinforcement of a beautiful friendship,” replied Magorian.
“I’m just glad I didn’t get any of the lame stuff, like the defective Invisibility Cloak Professor McGonagall won that only worked if no one was looking. And that locket Flitwick won looked really gay on him.”
“Really?” Now don’t get him wrong-- Magorian had enjoyed Dodaru’s company. But Sinistra was infinitely more sociable and didn’t glare at you with the hatred of a thousand suns if you said anything she deemed to be “stupid.”
“Oh yeah! Don’t get me started on the little bugger’s fashion sense. One day he’s sporting a safari jacket in the Teacher’s Lounge, the next he’s wearing a limited edition black Megadeth tee. But Snape was by far the worst. You should’ve his face when” Er, Magorian? Should we be at all alarmed that there’s a giant deadly-looking spider a few decameters away?”
She pointed to where Gogara was futilely struggling against its thick spherical prison. Its movements were even more erratic than before.
“Hey Gogara, why don’t you just bust out?” Magorian cupped his hands over his mouth.
“Hikthikthikthikthikthikthikthikthikthikt! Can’t sssssssss get out!” It bellowed again, and again the force of the sound was enough to keep nearby wildlife immobile, either because the animal was too scared to move or its eardrums had fatally imploded.
Whoever heard of a claustrophobic spider? Magorian guessed he should’ve found out when he analyzed Gogara’s dream about fear and enclosed spaces. He also supposed he should’ve realized it upon hearing the Acromantula openly tell him that it had claustrophobia. Cautiously, the dynamic duo (Mago and Sinistra, not Batman and Robin) approached the panic-mad arachnid. It was no use, however- not even screaming at the top of their lungs could drown out the spider’s fierce thrashing and psychotic wailing.
Then an arrow whizzed past Mago’s head.
“Magorian son of Deigorian, exiled are you from this forest. Leave or perish!”
He turned around slowly and stared his archnemesis in the face, fuming. Why hadn’t he heard the sounds of their hooves? Why had the centaurs he once faithfully presided over come back in tandem to murder him, and what was up with that neat futuristic armor they were wearing? It was so shiny and pointy. Shiny and pointy things always distracted Magor”Hey, this font is Times New Roman. Ever notice how Arial and Helvetica are exactly the same? Wonder how the new pope’s doing. Man, I could go for a good wheel of sausage right about now. A Mystery Science Theater 3000 marathon would be top-notch at the moment, now that I think about it. Blasted lack of cable. Oh well. There’s still Family Guy. Wouldn’t it be cool if there was a rock band called the Bifocal Aardvarks? Admit it, it’s catchy. Fargo--
Whoops. Gotta take me Ritalin!
“We, the Tribe of Bane, hereby warn Pariah to exit our territory or suffer our wrath,” was the imperial decree of Ambassador Ronan. (Pariah is one of the more insulting and derogatory centaru sayings, reserved for those banished from the herd. Ronan spat the word out in conditioned disgust.)
“Hey Bane, I thought you were going to seek an audience with Voldie,” Magorian said in an offhand attempt to stall. He knew well Bane would have his men try to kill him even if he did try to bolt out of there. Gogara couldn’t help: for one, he was stuck inside a spherical cage of thorns that reeked of Motm’s old-man scent, and secondly, its frenzy had degenerated even worse after having heard Ronan say the word “exiled” again.
“The Dark Lord did hear our plea to establish an alliance with him, but in the end he chose a different tribe. So we asked Hagrid to help us with the ‘refurbishment money’ allotted him, telling him all about what you did to his chickens. He agreed you needed to be taught a lesson and immediately played the part of blacksmith, retrofitting us with this super-armor. He never intended for you to get killed; just “roughed up a bit”. Hagrid, it turns out, is an awesome welder-- he even forged some armor for Grawp. Nothing you do is going to hurt us. It even muffles our hooves.” Bane stomped the ground thrice to prove his point. At that point a wild-looking centaur leapt in front of Bane and zealously yelled his head off, his lower half that of a zebra.
“Lo, Pariah, you hath sinnethed and noweth you musteth payeth the priceth!” screamed Nantos, one of Bane’s most fanatical followers and devoted lackey. “You will be purged from this land like blight on a rainy day!”
“You’ll have to excuse Nantos,” said Bane apologetically, trying to fence the lunatic off with his spear. “He’s nuts.”
“Purged! Like a rainy day!” Nantos reminded everyone, a vein popping in his left eye.
“Blight is caused by disease, not by a lack of water,” said Ronan.
“But a lack of rain can cause disease,” countered a centaur behind him. “Once, the patch of grass I tend to was so dry, it became an orangish yellow col--”
“RAINY DAY!” Nantos shrieked, kicking up his front legs and foaming at the mouth. The veins in his left eye ruptured and the spears being used to restrain him spontaneously combusted.
Holy mother of cod, that is nuts, noted Sinistra.
“Ugh,” expressed Bane as he whipped out his built-in tazer and shocked Nantos unconscious. “I HATE damage control.” The tazer efficiently whipped back into its gauntlet, and he clenched his armored fist, focusing again on his opponents: Mago, a witch, and a caged spider.
But Nantos would not stay down. He revived, shook off the electricity like a shaggy dog, and bounded into a portal that opened before him.
“My God, he’s just jumped to a conclusion!” said a voice.
“Street magician David Blaine? What are you doing here?” said Magorian.
“I heard there were free Wafers.”
“He must have been hired by The Savant to boost this fic’s popularity in order to compete against the recent release of Half-Blood Prince,” observed Sinistra.
“No, I just want Wafers.”
“Enough!” bellowed Bane, turning again to Magorian. “As you can probably see, Magorian, we’ve had to make a few exceptions in our rules in order to gain enough firepower to kill you. Technology is now limitedly acceptable in dire straits, or when the enemy is known to carry advanced weaponry. Such as you.”
“Poth tre, umna!” said a blonde centaur behind Bane who could only speak centaru, toting Magorian’s saddlebag at the tip of his spear. “I’ve got it, sir!”
“Mewafth!” praised Bane. “Good!”
Magorian cursed his luck. One of them had snuck up on him and stolen his saddlebag. He could see that another one had taken his quiver. The centaur was stuck with a useless bow and the spear in his clenched fist. Sinistra dared not attack any of them with magic just yet, but would Stun them should they try to relieve her of the wand she was holding at the ready. For now, she was looking with apprehension at the big spider in the wireframe orb of thorny tanglewood.
“Sesteret aratelid?” queried blondy, eyeing the noisy struggling Acromantula.
“What of the spider, Graros? It cannot come out of the cage. It poses no threat. Defeating Pariah will not be difficult.”
Bane was rummaging through our protagonist’s saddlebag. “Let’s see what the mighty Magorian keeps in his personal inventory!” The centaurs cheered, and Magorian looked on in dread.
“Hmmm… a pair of pants? Magorian, don’t tell me your collecting keepsakes of nasty human stuff!” Bane taunted, taking the leotards out of the spatially-enhanced saddlebag. “If I had known you liked garbage, I would’ve given you Firenze.” All the centaurs laughed.
“Hikthikthikthikthikthikt!”
Sinistra had to bite her tongue to keep back a particularly scathing comeback, having to rely on the withering glare of her eye to convey her emotion. Firenze was the only other person in the castle that actually knew anything about astrology. They would often converse about what destiny the stars had written into the sky into the wee hours of the morning. If only she could thump all those smug rotten bastard centaurs who exiled him and Magorian… But she could only watch as they rummaged and rolled in laughter.
“Graros, reggef cif scoror. Ece nun tillas sum Nantos.”
Graros took the pants away to burn, making sure to forget about Nantos now (whose disappearance had clearly shaken him). Magorian could only watch as one of the fatter, older centaurs used the flamethrower equipped on his gauntlet to try to scorch through his beloved leotards. Sinistra was very close to snapping and casting a spell on them, until she saw that the flames were not eating away at the fabric. Instead, they turned white and flared upwards in a beam of heat, charring fatty’s face really badly.
“Raaargh!” screamed Banha, crumpling to the floor in pain.
His friend Ogeta kneeled to his side. “Are you alright?!”
“Hikthikthikthikthitkhikthikt!”
Banha quit screaming, bearing the pain with centaru dignity. He opened his eyes. They were blank.
“I- I’m blind! I can see nothing!”
“What!?” cried Ogeta.
“What is the meaning of this!?” demanded Bane.
Mago honestly didn’t know. Not even his famed Leotards of Deflection could cause a rebound that severe. Then he noticed a soft glow coming from the bag Bane was holding. He, of course, noticed it too, and quickly rummaged through the bag for whatever was shining, intending to use it against Magorian. Instead, he took out one of his patented rubber ducky grenades, which was good enough. Bane stretched his arm back, ready to throw the RDG at Pariah.
“Wait! His eyes- they’re returning to normal!”
Bane ignored Ogeta, all too ready to use one of Magorian’s own weapons against him, as had been the original plan. The bomb flew through the air, not in slow-motion, but in fast-motion, because it was funnier and less cliché to imagine it that way.
“HikthiktihikthikthikthiktHIKT!”
Whatever was glowing in the saddlebag became brighter, and the adorable projectile changed its trajectory towards Gogara’s cage. It exploded in midair, and while the blast didn’t do anything to break the spider’s prison, it did quiet Gogara down. Even the supposedly unshakable centaurs of Bane’s tribe audibly sighed, relieved that the incessant shrieking and wailing was over.
The silence, however, was again interrupted, this time by a soft, whirring noise. A shimmering stone eye slowly rose from out of the saddlebag, stopping at Bane’s eyelevel and rotating. The eye’s pupil was a largish, elegantly complex circular array, and along the eye’s surface, radiating from its iridescent iris, were lengthy strands of hieroglyphics. It shone a dazzlingly pure white light that seemed to steal away the color from its surroundings. Everything became black and white.
“It’s the Eye of Scrutiny! Fate’s Blessing! How did you acquire such a thing!?” Bane yelled, shocked.
Magorian just raised his eyebrows. He had no idea that the Eye of Scrutiny had been in his saddlebag. Sinistra, however, stepped forward.
“He has gained Fate’s Favor! He is now extremely well-protected, and he is on friendly terms with the nature spirits you claim to revere! In other words, he’s untouchable, especially by you!”
“No.” Bane shook his head. “No!” He turned to his Tribe. They all looked extremely worried; they obviously had not expected so many complications in their mission to kill Pariah. “They must be tricking us! Pariah cannot have gained Fate’s Favor, she is Gaea’s sister, our patron! Charge, my brethren, and may all doubt leave you!”
But the Eye had something else to say about it. A white beam shot down from the sky and it was absorbed through the array-pupil, which began to spin rapidly. It fell to the floor and exploded at the charging tribe’s feet. They backed away and tried charging again. It exploded again. Then they tried charging again. Another pure white beam shot into the Eye, resulting in an even bigger fiery blast.
“Retreat! Retreat!” Bane told the other centaurs with an inexplicable grin. The centaurs gratefully did as they were told, galloping away from the scene into the trees, some glancing back at the stationary stone Eye as they ran as if afraid it would chase after them.
“Wheeeee!” said David Blaine, running after them.
Bane had a crazed look on his face. “I’ve waited too long for this moment, Magorian, tried too hard. I will have my rightful place as ruler of the Forbidden Forest, and there will be nothing you can do about it!”
Magorian thought of telling him it was no longer called the Forbidden Forest, but decided not to. Bane rummaged frantically in Magorian’s saddlebag for anything he could find to get rid of the Eye rotating on the forest floor. Eventually he found a flute. Having seen it in Dumbledore’s office once, he knew instantly what it must be, and his eyes betrayed thoughts of imminent victory.
“The Flute of the Call of the Wild! So Dumbledore gave this to you, did he? Well, I’m glad he did, because now I get to use it against you!
And he began playing. Magorian dashed for his leotards, but Bane gleefully ordered a few groups of bowtruckles to obstruct his way. Sinistra started jinxing them off of him while Bane resumed focusing on the Eye. If he didn’t get it out of the way, he’d never be able to kill Magorian. Just as all the bowtruckles were repelled by some deft spellwork on Sinistra’s part, he had successfully completed a tune that commanded a bunch of earthworms to take the Eye underground with them.
Wiping his brow of blood, the centaur who had been beset by spiky tree guardians let out a sigh of relief, only to witness a giant silver pike coming at him at top speed. Magorian had only a split-second to react. Unfortunately, he used the split-second to reflect on how delightfully shiny it was.
Seconds passed like minutes. Minutes passed like seconds. Bane charged with wanton abandon at Magorian, as if impaling him on the gleaming shaft would set right all wrongs. All Magorian could do was watch as sharp, pointy death approached.
The tip of the lance was mere inches away when he saw six spidery legs wrap around and restrain Bane, pulling him to the ground.
“The spider came out of its cage!” marveled Sinistra.
“It wassss easy!” remarked Gogara, struggling to keep Bane in a half-nelson . “All I hat to to was believe in my self, and I found the strength to break the--”
“That’s great, Gogara,” interrupted Magorian. “What should we do with him?”
“Accio Saddlebag.” It came into her hands. “Accio… what did you call them?”
“Leotards of Reflection.”
“Right, Accio those.” She flicked her wand.
The only thing Bane could see under the massive weight of the spider was the pants flying into Sinistra’s hands.
“Here you go.”
Magorian thanked her and clinked the saddlebag back into place, stuffing the leotards in them. “Let’s just leave him there.”
“No, let’s finish him off.” Sinistra was eager for vengeance.
“No one’s finishing me off!” yelled Bane. “Especially not with this armor!”
He had managed to wrestle free from the spider deadlock and pin it down with one of his hooves. Then he lifted his pike and had almost skewered it when Gogara rolled over again. They again commenced pitting their strength against one another; they seemed equally matched.
“Accio spear!” cried Sinistra, scared. Centaurs were not supposed to be able to keep Acromantulas at bay.
The spell simply deflected off of his impregnable armor. In fact, Bane was almost going to win until something jumped out from the distance and made the earth shake.
It was Grawp, likewise plated with futuristic armor. At its helm was Ganglia. The bear used its paws to direct the giant’s head, as if telling it where to attack. Grawp’s eyes landed on the centaur crumpled at its feet (which was thankfully Bane, for Magorian had also fallen). Curiously he used its thumb and forefinger to lift it up. Then realizing it was one of the many centaurs that had attacked it the previous summer, it opened its mouth wide and lifted the pleading centaur directly over its gaping maw, as if to drop it in.
“Grawpy! Bad boy, who do yeh think yeh are, eatin’ summat without me permission? Bad Grawpy!” admonished the voice of the Hogw-stra gamekeeper. Grawp placed the centaur on the floor disappointedly. Hagrid turned his attention to Magorian.
“I’m very sorry about this, Magorian, I heard from the other centaurs what happened. I never wanted them to kill yeh, see, I jus’ wanted them to teach yeh--”
“Teach me a lesson, yeah, I know. Let’s just call it even, okay?”
Hagrid nodded and proceeded to press a button in one of many pockets. All the armor fell off of all the centaurs and Grawp. “Don’ worry, Magorian, I’ll handle this one, you go on and meet all the other centaurs.”
Magorian and Sinistra did so. They all remarked about how Bane was too bossy, and a bit of a control freak. They were all glad they to be rid of him.
“So you’re all willing to join me again?”
“Sure,” said one of them.
“What about him?” Magorian pointed to David Blaine, who was on all fours nibbling at some Pez he’d found on the floor.
“Yeah, we wanna keep him as a pet.”
“Cool. I elect Nantos to be second in command whenever I’m gone. Bye!”
The duo left.
“Hey, babe, what’s your first name?”
“Paige,” replied Sinistra, blushing.
“Pretty.”
Soon they arrived on the grounds, and nearly died laughing when they saw that Hagrid had made Bane the doorman to his hut using the Flute of the Call of the Wild.
“Don’ worry, Professor Sinistra, I’ll let ’im go after a bit. Jus’ need him to see that he ain’t always the boss.”
“What happened to Gogara?” asked Magorian.
“Yeh mean the poor Acromantula this idiot was stepping on?” Bane narrowed his eyes in hate, but Hagrid made him do eighty laps around the grounds for it. “He’s gone back to the forest. Who knows if we’ll ever see ’im again?”
“Hey Sinistra, show me your boat,” said Magorian, for he had been thinking of dolphins while Hagrid spoke, which reminded him of beach balls, which reminded him of Cheerios, which reminded him of Mikhail Gorbachev, which reminded him of Christmas, which reminded him of hearing aids, which reminded him of cocker spaniels, which reminded him of France, which reminded him of dirt, which reminded him of Virginia Slims, which reminded him of boats.
“Okay!” said Sinistra, setting the scene for the next chapter. “Wow, this chapter’s come full circle, hasn’t it?”
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“Next!”
Lucius sighed and rolled his eyes.
“What’s the matter, Lucius? I said ‘Next!’”
Lucius held up the sign that read NEXT.
“Splendid.” With the push of button, Voldemort ejected the latest batch of mercenaries auditioning to be in his inner circle. Fortunately for him, the same button opened the cockpit, allowing several more scantily-clad “counselors” to rush to his side and “console” him. In fact, noted Bellatrix heatedly, he seemed to be refusing to employ many qualified people just so that more hot waitresses could rush to his throne.
“Excuse me, sir, but that demon had three heads, and seemed more than willing to work for you for free. Are you sure it was wise”excuse me, I’m speaking!” Bellatrix angrily shoved away a brunette that was dangerously close to nudging his nose in her “medical examination.”
“Next,” said Voldemort.
“Sir, there’s not even any new applicants here yet…” he explained.
“NEXT!”
Lucius bit his lip and help up the sign. His arms were starting to get tired.
“Excellent.” Voldemort pressed the button again, and more women ran to his side.
“Sir…” wheezed Avery pathetically. “Sir… It’s getting very uncomfortable…”
“No more questions about why you have to greet the next applicants in a pillory!” decreed the Dark Lord standing up from his marble throne. “This is my jet, and those are my rules! So there.” He tipped a glass of grape juice into his mouth and sat down again. “No no, Crabbe, Goyle, no need to stop playing pattycake on my account. I’m very sorry, I’ve just been so irritable since I lost those Eskimos… By the way, why aren’t”not now Linda”why aren’t the latest applicants here yet?”
“Apparently there’s a pileup on the line. Seems some huge bloke is blocking the way. I can only barely see it from here,” said Avery, who was next to a pair of large rectangular doors. “Actually, sir, I’d appreciate it you had someone move a bit further away from the doors; every time they open I get hit in the head, see, and they’re very hard and heavy…”
“Jugson,” said Voldemort, “make sure Avery is closer to the doors. And tell me what’s going on out there!”
“Dolohov is pushing the bloke through now.”
They could all hear a thick Spanish accent arguing and Dolohov’s subsequent redoubled efforts to get whoever was obstructing the hallway into their compartment.
“Stop trying to push him,” said the accent, “he can get through by himself! This is ridiculous…”
Then they all heard a clicking sound, and a large thud.
“Good… now, make a way for yourself, Dolc.”
They didn’t need to hear what happened next; they could see it clearly from Voldemort’s room- the hinges around the entrance doors cracked and fell apart, and a huge fist tore clean through the metal, cleaving the doors open. The force used to open the door (which was sufficient enough to break Avery’s stocks) was nothing compared to the hulking figure that now emerged from the debris-filled hallway.
The giant’s most striking feature was its skin- so pale it almost lightened the room, it stood in stark contrast with the pitch black wrestling leotards he (it?) wore. His eyes were round as red saucers and just as large, with jagged black streaks under them that were barely noticeable due to the luchadore mask covering his mouth and scalp. Dolc easily stood more than twelve feet tall, and the magnitude of his musculature even surpassed that of his stature; muscles were bulging intensely in places that Voldemort never even knew existed. He and his attendants stood transfixed at the sight of him.
“Hello,” said a familiar voice from below. The Dark Lord & company shook their head and looked down from Dolc’s face in unison. The Spanish man wore a narrow black sombrero and a small little grin that exuded more confidence than the three black tattoo stripes on each of his cheeks. He was everything his partner was not- lithe, smooth, and relaxed, it was clear that he was a powerful and confident fighter with the magical skills to match. He looked quite the snappy dresser as well, sporting a loose, opal shirt with cufflinks, a gentleman’s black vest, formal-looking black slacks and dress shoes. Only after a few seconds did Voldemort realize that he had castanets on his hands as well.
“My name is Zefir, and this,” he said, striking a pose on the floor and pointing his outstretched arm towards the ceiling, “is my friend (or should I say accomplice?), Dolc. We are here to interview with the Sixteenth Scourge, The Dark Lord, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Voldemort himself!” He struck a few more poses.
Everyone gasped at the name, even Voldemort. (“What?” he would later explain. “My name is creepy.”)
“What? This is the place, no?” Zefir squinted at the throne all the way on the other end of the aisle, where, Bellatrix, her master, and his airport staff “hunnies” were currently open-mouthed in shock.
“If you’re here for the application, stand over there on the trap door,” Lucius drawled, pointing with his sign-hand. “And try not to destroy expensive state property while you’re at it this time.”
“Ah, could not be helped, mi amigo. As you can see, my friend here is muy grande. He has a tough time getting into the most spacious locales. In fact, he might not even fit with me on the trap door.”
“Then just let him stay over there by the wreckage,” spoke up Voldie at last. “Stand on the trap door and state why you should be my assassins-for-hire.”
“Stand?” queried Zefir, as with a pirouette and an impressive triple lux he landed gracefully on the words “TRAP DOOR” etched on the floor. “No, my friends, I’d rather entertain you all than bore you all to death by standing. Allow me to dance, and show you my worth on your team!” With a click of one of his castanets, vibrant salsa music started playing in the background and darkness enveloped the extensive throne room except for a cone of light fixated on him that functioned as a spotlight. He danced the night away, amazing his makeshift audience by ceaselessly outperforming each of his previous dazzling dance moves, totally in synch with the music beating around him. Everyone watching was so mesmerized that they heard nothing of the speech he had prepared to win them over, and pretty soon the applause of the rather small audience became deafening.
“So, will you hire me?” He cast a penetrating stare at Bellatrix, which made her blush. He was so charming, so cool…
“You’re hired!” said Voldemort enthusiastically.
“Excellent!” said Zefir. “It’s your turn to audition, Dolc. Why don’t you test your might on that frail-looking hombre next to you?” He clicked his commands with his castanets.
Dolc’s bulbous red eyes fixed on poor Avery, taking some time to process the information it’d been given. Then, with almost mechanical reflexes, he picked up Avery, crushed him on his knee, and dealt him a critical karate chop on the base of the spine- all in the space of a split-second!
“That’s what you get when you cross a giant with a Gothmage,” smiled Zefir. “Extremely powerful, but just as willing to take orders.”
“Perfect!” said Voldemort. “You two might even be better than a whole tribe of Eskimos. Your first mission: kill the centaur called Magorian. He’s humiliated me one too many times.”
“He’s only humiliated you once,” pointed out Lucius.
“That’s one too many times! Your first paycheck will go towards rectifying the fine mess you’ve made of the entrance hall of my jet. It took a lot of effort to steal it and pimp it out like this, you know!”
“That’s okay; I’ve always wanted to be a Scourge’s Assassin! C’mere, Dolc! Let’s celebrate!” Dolc had a personality of his (its?) own, and he happily bounded towards where Zefir was, dancing with him on the floor marked TRAP DOOR.
“We’re hovering over Magorian’s location now, sir!” called Jugson’s voice from the other room.
Voldemort smiled. Lucius lifted his sign. Voldemort smiled wider, He pressed his button. The trap door opened, ejecting Zefir and Dolc, and Voldie opened his arms wide to welcome the newest wave of cute waitresses, infuriating Bellatrix again. All in all, another day in his life.
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A portal appeared a short while after in the forest clearing, and Nantos stepped out of it. “What happened?”
“You’ve been made our second in command.”
“Where’s the first!?”
“Gone.”
Nantos eyed the crowd. “Well? WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR!? FETCH ME THE CHEESE DOODLES!!!!!”
A/N: Again, sorry for the delay. I’m going to be going on a cruise right about tomorrow, so I probably won’t update for the remainder of the summer.