History of the World Volume XX Chapter 12 The Rule of Turpin – Quidditch As a Religion, Antarctica Exemptions
The emergence of a colony of radical Quidditch players in Antarctica who live their lives to the beat of that complex game is a recent development. Many expected Turpin to eradicate this bizarre movement (often referred to as the Quidditch Cult) before it was allowed to gain momentum. Their peculiar choice in lifestyle makes virtually no impact on the operations of the empire, and Turpin has a long history of respecting religions in all forms. Allowing these cultists their lifestyle is a tangible example of Turpin's benevolence and tolerance.
The legal definition that allows this group to qualify as a religion is actually quite complex…
It was almost impossible to tell that Moody's cabin had recently collapsed into a pit trap meant for a troll. The walls were in place. The roof was thatched. If one didn't look too close, one wouldn't notice the askew shutters or the warped floors. After helping him get the walls up and the roof on Moody had left the cabin's cosmetic recovery to his apprentice.
"Slave labor," George muttered under his breath. Learning to properly hang shutters couldn't be considered a survival skill. It was a waste of time, busy work to keep him from advancing. George waved his wand at the lopsided kitchen table. "Reparo Menso." The stubborn pine top listed sadly to the right without improving.
With a disgusted sigh, George went back to the potion he was brewing. Since the incident with the troll, Moody had set a short list of goals that he expected his apprentice to master before he would be released from his contract. Of course, it was hard to work on the list when Moody had him fixing furniture day and night.
Today he didn't have a supervisor as Moody had an appointment elsewhere. No one would know if he spent five minutes on the stubborn table or the whole morning. George looked down at the gently simmering potion and smiled. One of the biggest items on his to do list was mastering the Animagus transformation. That bit of transfiguration started with a simple divining potion. George dipped out a still-steaming ladle of the liquid, mentally reviewing the characteristic of a properly brewed divining potion: crystal clear, consistency thin, and completely odourless. "Perfect," George said.
"I've never heard of a furniture repair potion." Moody clomped into the kitchen and pushed at the wobbly piece of furniture that his apprentice was supposed to be repairing. They were really a matched set, George thought rebelliously, wrecked man and broken table. "I thought you were going to finish fixing this room first thing today while I was gone?"
"You're back early." George crossed his arms over his chest and met Moody's wild-eyed stare calmly. There was a time when he wouldn't have been able to meet that glare with its bizarrely rotating eye. He knew the man behind the scars and the prosthetics now, and Mad Eye Moody didn't scare him anymore. "I'm multitasking – fixing the kitchen and brewing my Animagus potion."
Moody crossed the room and looked down at the dregs cooling in the cauldron. "Did you think you'd try this transformation here on your own?"
"I'm not mad," George said. "I was just practicing."
Moody dipped out a bit of the potion and sniffed it. He touched a finger to the liquid and rubbed it tentatively. "Seems you've got it right. I assume you'll be wanting to drink it now."
There were risks to attempting the Animagus transformation; dementia, disfigurement, catatonia, but George hardly hesitated. "Of course, the sooner the better." He fingered the charm amulet that never left his neck and wondered if Fred was still out there, if he would even feel him anymore if he got to remove the crutch that Moody had forced on him. I have to get off this mountain.
"Fine." Moody took George's precious potion and set it on the listing table. "Fix my kitchen, and you can drink that potion. And not a moment before."
One day everything was fine, and trying to figure out how to apologize to her best friend was the worst problem in Isobel's life. The next day, she and almost everyone she knew were covered in a terrible itchy rash and confined to beds. She pawed uselessly at the crowds of angry red pustules on her neck and face. The constant bone-deep itch was maddening. The Healers had spelled gauze pads over her hands to keep her from scratching. Isobel knew scratching would hurt her, but she continued pawing at the itch anyway. She stared around the room at the other girls and boys with their own angry rashes and mitten-like hands.
Healers were circulating with a steaming potion, and at every bed they visited the children stopped pawing and started sleeping. Isobel looked to her right to the bed that Amy had slept in yesterday. But the small five-year-old girl wasn't there. She wasn't sleeping or crying anymore. Where had she gone?
When a Healer stopped at her bed, Isobel pushed the potion away, suddenly terrified to sleep. The last time she slept, they took Amy away. Who knew what had happened to her? What if she never woke up? "I don't want to sleep," Isobel cried hoarsely. "Go away."
Two of the Healers exchanged meaningful looks. "Why don't you want to sleep, Isobel?" the Healer asked gently. The matronly woman smiled consolingly. "The itching will go away while you sleep and your body can work on getting better."
"I don't want to disappear too," Isobel sobbed, "like Amy."
The Healer pushed Isobel's limp brown hair back off her forehead. "Your fever is up," she whispered. "It makes everything seem scary. You don't need to be afraid. You'll feel much better very soon." She sat on Isobel's bed, pulled her close, and stroked her sweat soaked hair back. "My name is Wendy, and I promise to take very good care of you." This time when she offered Isobel her potion the weak, semi-delirious girl accepted it. Wendy sat quietly until her charge was still, too still for simple sleep. She would raise the alarm that another child had succumbed after all the potions had been administered. No need to panic the other children.
Wendy mentally reviewed the children she was supposed to remove today: Isobel Green, Alex Grant, and Sam Lewis. She presented a serious mournful expression to the other Healers, holding her satisfaction and happiness in her chest where it warmed her. Three more heading home today, and six tomorrow, she thought. Another ten days and fifteen children and they could reverse the plague in this home and move on, leaving the real orphans and Muggle-borns behind. Walking the rows of beds, she felt a twinge of regret that they couldn't take them all. Everyone deserved a home and a family. Children shouldn't have to be raised in herds like cattle.
The Quidditch camp supported around fifty residents, full-time Quidditch players that hadn't been called up to play for the Westies yet. Those fifty players flew everyday, practicing and scrimmaging. Then twice a week, the crowd from the schools returned for their practice, over-filling the pitches with their numbers.
Harry stepped out of the camp's transportation circle, wondering what it would be like to be among the few who stayed behind after a school practice in the almost-deserted camp, living Quidditch. It would be like the summer but quieter and more intense, Harry imagined.
The hill wasn't deserted when he appeared today. Draco and Lisa had lingered outside the arrival circle waiting for him.
"Are the Westies coaches here?" Harry asked, careful to keep his voice calm and neutral. He slung his broom over his shoulder as though he hadn't a care in the world.
Draco shrugged. "How do you think we could tell from here?"
"Be nice," Lisa commanded with a smirk. "He's nervous."
"I'm not nervous." Harry started down the hill at a determinedly steady pace. There was no way a Westie coach would be interested in a twelve-year-old Seeker, and the sooner he got that through his thick head, the sooner he could stop worrying that they would make him look like a fool. "Katherine doesn't appreciate it if I dawdle."
The speculation that the Westies' coaches would be in camp didn't turn out to be an idle one. The camp's entire coaching staff had gathered together at the entrance to the main team tents with a stranger, a short, blond-haired man in a fur-trimmed travelling cloak. His arms were crossed over his chest and he did not look happy.
Katherine, her brown braid swinging, ducked her head out of the Fireballs' crimson tent, and she turned toward them. Harry tapped Draco on the shoulder bidding a silent farewell and headed for his team captain. "Katherine!"
She raised her hand in greeting and grinned broadly. "Harry, it's good to see you."
"You seem happy?" Harry followed her toward the pitch. "What's up?"
"Our team is about to become the best in camp thanks to you, and I'm happy about it. Sue me." Katherine's grin, if possible, broadened. "They're about to take the two or three best Seekers that they can find for the national team, except they can't take mine, because you're too young."
"Oh, you're happy that I can't be national Seeker." Harry actually smiled, feeling inordinately relieved that someone on the inside didn't think the Westies would be flying him today. "I can stop worrying that they're going to embarrass me in front of everyone."
"Oh, no." Katherine had the good grace to stop smiling. "All Seekers are supposed to report to pitch four. They'll be watching you fly. They just can't pick you. You shouldn't worry, Harry. You're a natural." She gave him a friendly shove toward the fourth pitch. "We'll be watching."
When Bart poked his head out of his studio he intended to walk down to the kitchen and make a sandwich, but the entire second floor hall was obstructed by three piles of stuff, with more things flying from James's old bedroom by the second. Two Quaffles dropped into the closest pile that had games and sports equipment in it. A Gobstone rolled out of the jumble and belched forth a stream of orange goo that Bart managed to dodge. He carefully picked his way through the jumble to enter a nearly empty room. Melinda's bun was loose with small ringlets sticking to her sweaty face as she finished removing all but the largest furniture from their son's old bedroom.
"What are you doing?" Bart asked. He spun around in the now bare room. "There are thirty seven rooms in this house; what do you need James' bedroom for?"
Melinda smiled at her husband nervously, fully aware that she had to tell him what she had been up to in the next few hours. Isobel was on her way. She busied herself decorating so that she didn't have to look him in the eyes while they talked. "This room is closest to our bedroom. I'm turning it into a girl's room." Melinda gestured broadly with her wand and turned the dark green walls to a cloudy pink with an antiqued lacework pattern over it. "Do you like it?" She smiled at Bart, but he just looked confused. "Then I need to store James' things, except some of the games and maybe the Quidditch supplies. Some of it will make Harry's room feel more welcoming, you know?"
Bart felt like his heart stuttered in his chest. A room for Harry and a girl's room for... Isobel, maybe? Something was very wrong with Melinda if she was making up rooms for their dead grandchildren. "What do you mean? Are you okay, love? Harry doesn't need a room, hasn't for years. Are you feeling ill?"
"I'm not mad, delirious, or ill." Melinda continued converting the room into a stereotypical little girl's room, conjuring stuffed animals and turning the furniture white. "Albus Dumbledore discovered a plot whereby the empire stole children from the Rebellion. Disappearances and deaths for years now haven't all been what they seemed. Our grandchildren aren't dead, never were, and I told Albus we'd take them in until James and Lily make it back from the East. Isobel is arriving tonight. Harry should be here in a few months."
"Melinda, that's mad. There was a fire. If there had been any doubt about what happened, James and Lily wouldn't have stopped searching for those babies. You know they wouldn't have." Bart looked around at the pretty pink bedroom, and he shook his head sadly. "Please, don't do this to yourself. Don't let that senile fool hurt you with some crazy fantasy."
Melinda headed for the hall, head held high, scared of the emotions she was about to unleash from her gentle, understanding husband. She had lied to him for months, lied with her silence. She directed a stream of blue light at the pile of clothes and they began marching to one of the unused wardrobes. The second pile, made up of magazines and books, she showered with yellow light, and they took flight for the library to alphabetize themselves. "Walk with me. I don't know how much time we have," Melinda commanded. "I want the house to be settled. She's bound to be confused as it is."
Bart followed, growing more concerned for his wife by the moment and angrier at Dumbledore. What was the man playing at? He had convinced Melinda that their grandchildren were alive. "Melinda, just stop." Bart followed her, determined to show her that this was craziness.
Melinda paused before heading into the guest bedroom next to the now pink room. "I've seen a portrait, Bart. It was Harry. They changed their names from Potter to Green. Thin disguise when Harry is his father's son in so many ways." Melinda spun, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "James liked his green room, but blue is more traditional. What colour should I do Harry's room in?"
Bart shook his head helplessly, still convinced that his wife had become wrapped up in a delusion, that she had to be ill or at least sorely manipulated by Dumbledore. "Most boys like blue," he said quietly. "But Harry doesn't need a room."
The doorbell rang, a tone that it hadn't sounded in many years; it was a tinkling music box song that Melinda had spelled in to signal her grandchildren. As the notes floated through the house, Bart went pale, his heart thudding in his ears. That doorbell had never rung false, not in nearly fifty years. Once it was spelled to recognize a visitor, it was all but infallible. Bart stared at Melinda, at her excited hopeful eyes and realized that maybe she wasn't confused.
"They're early," Melinda said, her tone neither angry nor excited. "Gods, I wanted the house to be settled already." She hurried down the stairs, Bart trailing behind her. At the door she stopped to pat her disheveled hair before tugging it open.
A woman in a simple black cloak stood there with a trunk in tow. "I have a delivery for Mrs. Melinda Potter."
Otto Vasco, head coach to the Western National Quidditch Club, surveyed the eight training camp Seekers with a stormy expression on his face. His blond hair waved languidly in the breeze. Without explanation, he pulled two of the older Seekers out of line and sent them into the air where one of his assistants waited. Harry wanted to watch the trial in the air, but Coach Vasco crossed back to them demanding their attention. He selected two more Seekers and sent them to another waiting tester. "You." He pointed to Harry. "Are you ten yet? I can't play anyone under ten."
"I'm twelve," Harry said quickly.
"Fine, then, you and you." He pointed to Harry then Dani. They followed him for a couple of paces and he pointed to another waiting flier. "Mandy is going to watch you fly and check your visual acuity. Do what she says."
The next hours passed in a rush of tests, chasing balls, racing, diving, and generally showing off. Harry was determined to make Coach Vasco sorry that he couldn't play this twelve-year-old. The insinuation that he looked nine had pricked his pride. He might be a little thin, but he wasn't that scrawny or short.
The other players populated the stands, gasping and cheering at all the right moments. It was the most exhilarating feeling, diving toward the brown grass after a thimble-sized ball with the wind rushing in your ears so loud that nothing else in the world existed.
At the end of the day, Vasco pulled them together into a loose huddle. "You've all got talent. Boris has never sent us a Seeker without some natural ability at the position. But some of you have more than others." He stared at Harry, his expression unreadable. "Herriman, Green, come with me."
Vasco herded the two children he'd singled out and tried to calculate a strategy for the coming year. Of the eight Seekers flying, only two came close to meeting his standards, and he had hoped to find at least three. If they kept haemorrhaging talent to the Arctic, he was going to be playing Seeker again himself, back injury be damned. As things stood he was looking at a sixteen-year-old and a twelve-year-old. Merlin be damned, what were the Antarctic nutters smoking? Why were his best a brightest going down there to freeze their collective arses off?
The assistants that conducted the tests were waiting for him, lists in hand. "Julie, I want Green's eyes fixed before practice tomorrow. I'm thinking three degrees overshot, but we'll have some time to fine tune. Both these boys need uniforms. I'm sure you can handle it."
"Sir," one of the assistant coaches interjected. "Herriman's fine, but Green's Class I. You can't have him full time for another four years, and then only if he consents."
"Four years? Only if he consents?" His blue eyes seemed to actually light with rage, and Otto started cursing in fluent Portuguese. With a dramatic look at the sky, he added, "The other six are a waste of time. We'll have to make do."
Hermione flipped to the next page of the essay she was reading, and glanced over at Ron who was staring blearily at the scribbled recounting of an attack the Reapers had committed on Versailles. He had taken up the essays she procured for him with determined attention, reading every night. It was strangely gratifying to watch.
She glanced back down at her reading for the night, a work that explained the strict declassifications for Muggle-type violence in the schools. According to the rules, she could hex someone daily for the entire time she was in school and never be sent to Class II, but one solid punch could end her educational career. According to the essay these rules existed to keep the overly Muggle-influenced students from rising in society where they could be troublesome. Hermione grimaced darkly, more certain than ever that she could control her temper. She fully intended to stay where she was in Class I and be troublesome for the rest of her life afterwards. Hermione gazed at the empty seat where Harry usually studied. She really wanted to talk about the essay, the bigotry and unfairness of it, but Ron wasn't the best philosophical sounding board. Now Harry, when he wasn't distracted, had an ear for philosophy, but lately it was all about Quidditch with him. He and his Quidditch friends had been at practice all day. And they'd want nothing more than to talk about their games while cramming all their homework into Sunday.
If she wanted someone to discuss things with, she really needed to expand her social circle, but the prospect terrified her. So Hermione turned back to her essay and continued reading.
Ron looked up, his eyes haunted. "I can't read any more today." He shuffled the loose papers back together and set them beside Hermione. "Want to go get some air? I heard they reopened the tunnel to London, and I have loads of pocket money." Ron felt nervous now that he'd asked. He and Hermione did things together like study sessions and meals. They didn't play games and they didn't go get Butterbeers.
"Sure," Hermione said. She set her own essay aside. "A break would do us both some good. Did you discover anything interesting tonight?"
"Aside from a list of ways to torture a herd of billy goats, not much. You?" Ron asked.
"Nothing particularly new," Hermione said. "Why would anyone torture a herd of billy goats?"
"From the sound of things, the Reapers tortured them because they were there, for fun." Ron frowned darkly. "That's all they do, torture and kill and torture and kill. And they never go away no matter how many times they're killed. That witch Oscasia just takes people like my brother and somehow brings them back."
"The somehow is what we're looking for," Hermione said firmly. "If we figure out how she makes them, we can figure out how to unmake them, right?"
Ron reached the suit of armour that blocked the entrance to the tunnel to London. He pulled the arm and nodded to Hermione, accepting her positive interpretation of the situation for the moment. "Exactly right."
While his young apprentice circled the kitchen a final time, looking for any glaring imperfections, Moody hunkered down in a kitchen chair, valuable potion at his hand. The ingredients George had been gathering for it would take another fortnight to reassemble if the potion were to accidentally topple today. But Moody couldn't quite bring himself to sabotage George's incessant press for freedom. Though he promised Dumbledore that he would keep the child safe for as long as possible, the entire promise was flawed. George was not a child. He was sixteen. That he hadn't had to take the responsibilities of a man before was a fluke, a blessing, but Moody couldn't stomach keeping a man captive to a contract after he had demonstrated that he could survive as well as most.
"Sufficient?" George joined Moody at the table, eager eyes shining.
"Before you drink the potion, I caution you, hold on to your purpose and find the animal quickly. When I was younger and whole, I drank that potion, and I dwelled in my own mind for what felt like an eternity. My father pulled me back before I slipped into madness. I'll try to do the same for you if necessary."
George bit back the urge to retort, 'are you sure he got you in time?' "I know the risks. You're the one who made it required. Kindly let me master it."
"First, take off your charm amulet and hand it over," Moody commanded. He couldn't let George enter the trance with a foreign magic inhibiting his sensitivity, but would the crush of his brother's pain make the vision impossible to interpret? Mood dropped the amulet into his breast pocket. "Now that you have your brother screaming in your head again, are you sure you're up to this?"
After a short pause, George took the potion from in front of Moody and nodded numbly. "Of course I'm up for it. There's nothing screaming anywhere," he whispered. "Fred's gone."
Voices floated into the Potter's redesigned bedroom, but Bartholomew didn't try to listen for anything they said. He sat in a white chair by the large pink bed that held the most improbable thing in the world, his granddaughter. A small child, almost nine, she hadn't yet opened her eyes, but he knew their colour. His granddaughter had brown eyes, big brown eyes. Bart watched her small chest rise and fall mesmerized by the reality of having her back.
The door opened and closed quietly admitting Melinda. He expected her to apologize, to explain or argue at him, but she took one of the wooden chairs to Isobel's bedside and sat quietly. Bartholomew let the silence between them stretch out, unwilling to risk awakening the sleeping child.
Melinda smoothed the covers on the bed and brushed at Isobel's forehead where the ghost of a rash lingered. "They left a cream for the rash. They said that Isobel will sleep through the night and should be awake by tomorrow afternoon."
"Is she ill, then?" Bart lifted Isobel's limp wrist where the rash was most prominent, worry creasing his brow. He vaguely remembered the plagues Melinda had been writing about. He remembered enough to be scared. "What happened? How were you involved in this?"
"She isn't really sick, not with anything dangerous. It's a manufactured illness. Albus designed it himself. We faked her death and dozens like her already. I was just the herald. I made sure the Healers were thinking about the right diseases at the right time."
"You were the herald, and I was the fool." Gently, he rubbed his granddaughter's hand, warming her cool fingers. "Why didn't you tell me? The moment you knew, you should have told me." Bart could practically hear the gears turning in Melinda's brain as she prepared to explain her deception.
"I didn't tell you because I knew you wouldn't be able to make the hard choice—to wait, to do this smart. It's the hardest thing in the world to wait when you know they're out there. I spared you the agony of waiting, and kept you from mucking up a complicated plan." She crossed her arms over her chest and waited for the inevitable explosion of anger from Bart, completely prepared to argue all night if he needed it.
"Why make this so complicated? We could have just gone and got her, and had her and Harry home all this time. You can't justify waiting to me."
Melinda smiled sadly. "And you've just confirmed to me that I couldn't tell you. You have never been logical or deliberate about anything in your life. This plan is smart and right. We don't want the empire to know that we know what they stole or that we've recovered the children. This way they'll be safe."
Anger had never been an emotion that Bart had to struggle with. Like water on an impervious charm, anger arrived, beaded into droplets, and slipped away. Today was no exception. Bart wasn't angry at Melinda, but he was as weary and as sad as he had ever been. The world was upside down and he had no partner left in it to trust. "Is there any point asking you where our grandson is or when he is scheduled to be home? You mentioned a few months."
"I don't know where Harry is," Melinda lied, certain that Bart would take matters into his own hands if she told him anything. "But he should be with us in the spring, summer at the latest."
"Maybe before his next birthday? This plan started in May. You started writing those papers and stopped talking to me about what was really going on. Our grandchildren spent their birthdays alone for another year because of you and Dumbledore's plan. I guess I just wonder, are we planning to miss another birthday?"
"That's not fair. You don't understand." Melinda had made her arguments to the bedspread, looking at the arcing stitch work, avoiding her husband's angry gaze. When she looked up, her arguments failed her, as her husband's anger had failed him. A steady stream of tears coursed rivers in the creases of his face, scolding her more soundly than any amount of shouting ever could.
"I understand that we have a little girl to take care of until her parents come to get her. Do you understand? Do you understand that I can't look at you right now?" Bart scooted his chair closer. "I'd like to sit with my granddaughter tonight in peace. She's a miracle, and I can't find my joy in that with you here."
Harry wasn't sure exactly what was happening. He was Class I, and they couldn't pull him for Quidditch full time. It was a rule. Yet the coaches had taken him off to the Westies training camp to get his eyes fixed. Harry fingered his glasses nervously, reluctant to have anyone do anything to his eyes. The Medi-Wizard smiled at him with a broad toothy expression and slid his glasses off his face.
"Don't you worry," the man said. He gave Harry a clear stone that he told him to hold up. The stone shone a bright yellow. "Now see that tells me you're very short-sighted. Shut your eyes for me. This won't hurt a bit."
Harry shut his eyes, a grimace on his face. Almost immediately there was pressure on his eyeballs, like someone was massaging his face. This was what it felt like to have one's eyes fixed? What if this fellow wasn't competent? He wasn't a full Healer. What if he blinded Harry or made his eyes worse?
As abruptly as it began, the pressure was gone. When Harry opened his eyes, it was like someone had polished the world. The trees, which had been reasonably visible with his glasses and abstract green blurs without them, looked crisp and detailed like Harry had never seen them. The leaves weren't clumps of colour, they were individual entities flowing with the breeze. Harry glanced at the Medi-Wizard, ready to thank him profusely, but the world closer wasn't so clear. The man's face was quite blurry. The Medi-Wizard handed Harry his glasses back. "You'll need those off the pitch. I have adjusted them to your new prescription. Seekers do much better if they're fairly long-sighted. You still need to be able to see well enough to grab the Snitch when it gets to arm's length, but spotting the Snitch first is three-fourths of the battle. The once yellow crystal that Harry still held now glowed a mellow mint-green.
"Fixing my eyes meant making me long-sighted instead of short-sighted? Why not fix them perfectly and let me deal with finding the Snitch." Harry had been nervous to have the procedure, but now that it was done, he wished they'd consulted him on how he wanted to see. He had been wearing glasses his whole life. It might have been fun to try life without them for a while.
"Coach knows what works," the Medi-wizard said. "You should head on out to meet the team."
"Right, but I have to go back to school," Harry said nervously. "Didn't anyone tell them, I'm Class I?"
"Are you now?" the Medi-Wizard said. "I doubt Coach will let that stop him now that he's got you out here. Possession is nine tenths of the law."
Don't get distracted.
Don't forget where you are or what you're looking for.
Focus.
Pitch blackness surrounded George, pulling at him, a suffocating void into which even air couldn't reach. He gasped for breath that wouldn't come. Panic tightened in his chest and his heart stuttered forward faster.
"Lumos."
Precious blue light cut through the dark, and George was able to breathe again. Fred smiled at him, glowing wand in hand. "I thought you weren't afraid of the dark any more?"
"I'm not." George couldn't find his wand to cast another Lumos. "It was more than the dark in here. There wasn't any air."
"No air?" Fred looked around nervously. He pulled George to his feet, and enveloped him in an abrupt desperate hug. "I've missed you."
"Missed me? You see me everyday." George paused. He was going to jokingly tell Fred what he had for breakfast all week, but he couldn't remember yesterday or the day before. The past was a vague cloud. "Something's wrong with my memory."
After a long pause, Fred nodded. "Don't worry. You'll remember. It's this place. We should just get you out of here while the getting is good. Follow me."
George followed his brother, happy to let him cut a path through the dark tunnel. When he was shaken or lost, Fred was always there to steady him and on the rare occasion that something rattled Fred, George was there to reciprocate.
They didn't need the wand light for long. Once they got moving, the darkness melted away first as a grey dimness that gradually turned into bright sunlight. Fred paused at the tunnel opening, so George ducked past him, squinting against the light. The world smelled fresh and wet as though they'd just missed a rainstorm. The tunnel had opened into an idyllic clearing carpeted in grass and bounded by an old orchard fence. The broken and twisted fruit trees declared spring, budding resolutely in their neglected overgrown rows. "Where are we?" George asked. "Why can't I remember how we got here?"
"No idea," Fred said. "I thought maybe you came looking for me."
"Really?" George felt a buzz of disquiet at Fred's uncertainty. "Did you see that?" He spotted movement near the weatherworn fence and circled to get a better look, wishing he knew where his wand was. Nothing threatening greeted him. A pair of animals sat in the shade, peacefully cleaning a pile of salmon. A large fluffy skunk eviscerated the catch a fish at a time while a racoon used its dextrous hands to clean them in a nearby brook. "Fred, have you ever seen anything like this. They're working together." He laughed and turned, but Fred hadn't followed him out of the tunnel. He stood at the mouth, unmoving. "Fred?"
"Don't come back here." Though he was only a step from being in the clearing, the light didn't touch Fred's face. The shadows clung to him with greedy tentacles. The darkness licked at him and held him back. George rushed forward, groping for his still-missing wand. "STOP IT." Fred screamed. "You can't help, and I can't sleep with you here! It's easier to sleep." Fred was almost invisible now, a shade in the shadows. "Run away, George. Please just run away."
George continued forward heedless of his brother's request. He groped in the now mundane shadows, grasping for someone who wasn't there anymore. George beat at the walls, simple dirty stone, and he screamed for his brother.
After hours of fruitless pounding, George stumbled out of the tunnel and headed for the brook, his bruised hands throbbing. He tried to piece together what might be happening. At the water's edge, George dropped to his knees and gratefully let the cool water wash over his hands. Why couldn't he remember how he'd first become separated from his brother? Where was Fred now?
A soft cooing sound reached him, and George turned. The skunk and racoon were still together, but they weren't working. The pile of fish lay half cleaned and forgotten. The racoon sprawled on the ground, unmoving, while the skunk hovered over him clicking his tongue and stroking his companion.
George walked forward, unable to look away from the pair. Whatever this place was, he and his brother were being mirrored in the two animals. What kind of game was this? With no fear that the skunk would bite or spray, George stroked its soft head and down its back. The skunk squealed pitifully and leaned into his touch.
Crying mournfully, the skunk let him lift it away from its fallen companion.
George held the wild animal.
George held himself.
Finally, he remembered where he was.
He remembered why he was there.
"Aren't you a handsome fellow?"
George opened his eyes, Moody's gravely voice reassuring him that he was no longer trapped in his own mind. He tried to reply, but a high pitched grunt came out.
"Don't try to speak," Moody said with a chortle. "I've not yet met a skunk that could talk. Interesting form I have to say. Definite potential."
George rolled to his feet, feeling strange and small, his whole body foreign. If he thought about his limbs and the flowing tail behind him he could barely stand, but if he took his mind off it and let his body keep itself upright he could almost walk. George wanted to ask Moody what next.
"I'll give you tonight to try and turn yourself back. When you can slide back and forth easily, our work here is finished. Try not to scent the cabin." Moody yawned and rose. He blew out the lantern and took a limping step toward his bedroom. George hissed loudly and managed an off balance trot across the room, blocking the doorway. With a lunge he knocked the amulet in Moody's pocket with his fuzzy black and white nose.
The divination potion had done more than show George the animal form he could manifest. He saw his brother again, touched him, and spoke to him. The buzz of disquiet and pain from before Moody brought the amulet had returned. Could he trust the vision's assurance that separation from his brother made Fred more comfortable? The hum of pain ringing in his ears lent credence to the visions request. Fred had asked his brother to let him sleep, and George hoped the amulet was enough to give him the peace he asked for.
Moody pulled the amulet out and looked down at George speculatively. "A clear head can only help." He slid the chain around his apprentice's neck, the links magically shortening to a reasonable fit. "I expect you to be human again by the morning."
Author's Note – This was a difficult chapter to get together. And I'm terrified of writing the next chapter. If I do it right, you should all be pretty happy with me, and if I muck it up, I suspect there will be torches and pitchforks. *nibbles fingernails*
A million thanks are owed Jan for her amazing beta work, and another million to Mar and Steph for pestering me and reminding me not to surrender to a difficult chapter.