Bathilda Bagshot was confused. She had a lovely conversation with a nice blonde lady, but now she couldn’t remember anything they talked about. She vaguely remembered talking about some old man she knew whose name started with a D.
But what was his name again? And who was the nice blonde lady who pointed her wand at her and asked her questions?
The nice blonde lady had left a while ago. Was it five minutes or five hours? She couldn’t remember. Bathilda had a sudden urge to chase down the blonde lady and thank her for the pleasant interview.
Without looking, Bathilda Bagshot walked into the middle of the street, completely oblivious to the cement mixer coming her way…
Ben the cement truck driver bent over to get a closer look at the body stuck in the wheel well. The skin was incredibly pale, as if all of the blood had already leaked out, leaving the corpse colourless. However, that was perfectly possible, seeing how much blood was on the body, the tyres, the underside of the truck, and the asphalt. The corpse was, of course, unmoving.
This was the second time this… incident had happened to him. And what were the chances of having it happen in the exact same spot as the first time? Several months earlier, he had been driving the same cement mixer, but then in broad daylight in front of the exact same house, a shrivelled, aged woman had walked right in front of his truck when he was passing by. She instantly expired.
He thought he was going to get the sack that time, but enough witnesses had said that, thankfully, it wasn’t his fault. The old woman had stepped in front of his truck without looking, without a care in the world. He had honked the horn and stomped on the brakes, but that hadn’t been enough.
But now, were there any witnesses who saw what he had done now, just barely a minute ago? He tore his eyes from the mutilated carcass and looked around.
Behind him on the opposite side of the road, lying on the footpath, was another body. “Oh God…” Ben murmured as he walked, trance-like towards it.
He looked down at the body. It was a tall, lanky teenager, with messy black hair and big, round glasses. Then Ben noticed some peculiar things about the boy. He wore a silver locket around his neck and was clutching a smooth, broken stick in his other hand. Most astonishing of all was the scar on his forehead, shaped like a bolt of lightning.
He couldn’t understand how there were two bodies here, when he had only run over one “ actually, make that two “ people. Then his senses caught up with him. He put his fingers to the boy’s neck, feeling for a pulse…
A huge wave of relief washed over Ben. The boy with the scar and black hair’s heart was indeed beating, and he was breathing ever so faintly. He figured that the teenager must have passed out upon seeing him run over the pale man stuck in the wheel well of his cement mixer.
He looked around, to see if anybody was nearby and could help, but there was none. He was alone in the dark, with a mutilated dead man and an unconscious teenager. But he was in a residential neighbourhood… there were houses all over the place.
Ben spotted the house directly behind his cement mixer. It was the same house that the old woman presumably lived, the same house he had now run over two people in front of. The last time, the house looked unkempt and derelict, but now it looked much worse. There was a shattered window on the upper storey, and he could see the night sky through it. The rear of that room had been completely blown apart.
The scene was getting steadily more terrible. First he ran over and killed the pale man. Then he discovered the unconscious boy, and now a destroyed house. He ran through the front gate, wondering if it could get any worse…
It did. Lying in the overgrown grass on the front lawn was another teenager: a girl. She had big, bushy brown hair that fell elegantly past her face and shoulders. She too held a wooden stick in her hand, but this one was unbroken. She also must have fainted like the boy. Ben put his hand to her neck, feeling for the main artery…
Nothing. She was as cold as ice. There was no pulse, and no breathing at all. He lifted her body gently, examining it. There were no wounds of any sort that he could see: she must have had… a heart attack? That was the first thing that came to mind.
The wailing cry of a police siren grew in the distance. Flashing blue lights went round and round, getting closer…
Ben swore loudly. He was in for a rough night.
Ben pried open another Guinness from the refrigerator. The cap popped off with a pssshhh! sound and he was hit by the stiff aroma of alcohol and barley. The smell was warm and inviting, puzzling considering the fact that the mist from the bottle’s neck was cold and damp.
Ben didn’t care. He took a swig. He swallowed. Glunk! An air bubble from his mouth floated up through the beer to the top and popped, making the upturned bottle’s contents swish around. He lowered the bottle and burped a satisfied sigh.
My Goodness My Guinness! he thought to himself. In times like these, a beer “ or several “ could make all of the difference. He lounged in his most comfortable chair in front of the television. At his feet was a rubbish bin with several empty Guinness bottles in it. He wasn’t watching anything in particular on the television: it was just background noise. The Guinness on the other hand…
He vaguely considered that he should be feeling low, or maybe panicky even. But he wasn’t. The bottle in his hand gave him a strange calm, an assurance that nothing was wrong and everything would sort itself out in the end. And it would. The Guinness told him that he shouldn’t worry that he had killed an old woman with his cement truck months ago, or that he just last night killed a man in the exact same fashion and caused a girl to die of shock and a boy to pass out, or that he had been fired, or that he had absolutely no idea what he would do from now on without a job.
“My Goodness My Guinness!” he said, this time aloud. It was… funny! The old posters from back when used to say “Guinness is good for you!” Now Ben understood why. Normally, considering his situation, he would feel, well… like shit. But now, he was content. Maybe even happy. It was a good feeling.
The man on the television screen was saying nothing in particular, and pointing at nothing of any importance. Ben pressed the little button on the remote and the channel changed. This time a woman was sitting in front of a desk with pictures of owls in flight behind her. Ben only heard bits and pieces of what she was saying…
“…are perplexed as to why the nation’s owls are unusually active today… hundreds of owls sighted in broad daylight all over the country“”
Ben changed the channel again.
“…downpour of shooting stars… unusual fireworks…”
Ben yawned loudly. He raised the bottle to take another swallow“
Crack!
A stream of Guinness with some spittle jettisoned itself from Ben’s mouth. He choked and looked over his shoulder at the sliding glass door behind him. He caught a fleeting glimpse of something falling to the ground: a brown, blurry something.
Ben put the bottle down on the coffee table and ambled over to the glass door. Outside at the foot of the door on his flat’s balcony was a dazed, quivering brown… owl? Even stranger to Ben was the letter still clamped in its beak. He slid open the door.
As if waiting for that very moment, the owl staggered inside and dropped the letter on the carpet. With a weak hoot and a shudder, the owl ruffled its wings and flapped feebly outside.
Ben blinked. He was stunned. He had just been given a letter by an owl. Was he imagining things? His thoughts meandered back to the numerous liquor bottles by his favourite chair. That must be it, he reasoned. God I’m drunk.
He looked down at the floor… and the letter was still there. Ben picked it up and was surprised to discover that it wasn’t a figment of his imagination. Ben didn’t really get post from anyone, and he had no idea who would send him a letter, especially by owl. He examined the letter curiously.
The envelope was of a thick, parchment-like paper. He broke the wax seal and pulled out the letter and read:
Dear Mr Benjamin Dover,
Thank you so very, very much… blah blah defeating He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named… blah blah“
Ben walked over to his chair and plopped himself in it again. He drank another mouthful of Guinness and tried to read the rest of the letter over the noise from the television:
… Something… something… You-Know-Who… blah blah blah… Thank you so much… you have made the world a better, brighter place… blah blah…
Ben rubbed his eyes. The letters were starting to waver on the parchment and it was getting harder to read. He gave up on the letter and pulled out another piece of parchment from the envelope.
On the piece of paper was a childish drawing of a cement truck running over a pale man with red eyes… and the picture was moving!
“Whoa!” Ben exclaimed. He blinked and rubbed his eyes furiously and stared at the picture. The cement mixer ran over the pale man in the black cloak again… and again… and again…
What was going on? Was this some person’s idea of a joke? The bottom of the drawing said “Thank you,” of all things to say! This person was taunting him for getting fired after running over two people: most recently the pale man. Ben was starting to feel confused and angry…
Before he could do anything about the mocking drawing, another owl flew in through the still-open door, dropped a letter onto his lap, and soared out.
Ben launched himself out of his chair and slammed the door shut. He returned to his chair and ripped open the second letter:
Dear Mr Dover,
I never thought I would be saying this…blah blah… Muggle… ridding us of You-Know-Who…something… blah blah blah… thank you so much…
There were some words he didn’t recognise, like “Muggle.” And who exactly was this “You-Know-Who” or “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named” fellow? Why couldn’t any of these people just tell him?
Inside the second envelope was something round and heavy. Ben reached in and pulled out a large, shiny, gold coloured coin. He eyed it curiously. It didn’t have the Queen’s face on it, and the coin proclaimed itself to be worth one “Galleon.” It was incredibly shiny. Could it be real gold? Ben vaguely remember reading somewhere that gold was soft… and he could… er… test to see if it was real gold by biting it to see if it bent! That was it! Ben bit the coin.
“OW!”
There was an excruciating pain in Ben’s jaw. The coin fell on his leg with a soft thump! Ben drained the last of the liquor in the Guinness bottle and swished the contents around his mouth. It helped the pain a tiny bit.
After swallowing, he picked up the coin and examined it. There were very shallow, faint teeth marks running on the top and bottom: it was real gold! But his jaw still hurt like hell for the painful pleasure of making that discovery.
Ben didn’t know whether he could be any more confused than he already was. Some people he didn’t know had just sent him letters by owls to thank him for running over some man. One person had even given him a gold coin. Was it a joke? Were they taunting him? Were they genuinely grateful? He had no idea.
Wham!
For the second time, an owl crashed straight into the glass door. Ben dropped the coin and ran over the door again to open it. When he did, another two owls zoomed into his flat through the open door, dropped off their letters, and flew off. He had just picked up the letter from the dazed owl lying on his balcony when he heard singing behind him.
Ben turned around to see one of the letters lying open, and he could have sworn it was singing. Either that, or he had way too much to drink. Since letters couldn’t sing, it was probably the latter.
“The cement mixer’s wheels turned round and round,
And You-Know-Who was stamped into the ground,
The brakes screeched and the truck slowed to zero,
Out came Ben, the Wizarding World’s hero!”
He was very drunk. Letters can’t sing! Pictures can’t move! But there was a singing letter and a moving picture of him running over a guy in his flat. But damn… do I need another beer, Ben’s very confused brain said.
BOOM!
There was a crash of glass and a rush of hot air. The room was flooded with noise and a brilliant orange light. Ben looked at the glass door yet again to discover it broken, but what was beyond made his mouth gape open in surprise and wonder.
Outside was the most spectacular display of fireworks Ben had ever seen. There were explosions of every colour, spinners whizzed about, and rockets zoomed and spiralled. Most astonishing of all were the two huge, blazing and sparking and exploding words, floating in the air:
GO BEN!
Sparklers were floating in midair and waving about, spelling things like Thank You!, You Rule!, or Hurrah! The noise was deafening and the spectacular sight was painful to look at. In through the broken door, another owl soared inside and dropped off a blood-red letter from its beak. The red letter started smoking and there was a screaming woman’s voice, but it was barely audible over the explosions and bangs of the fireworks.
“How dare you kill“ BANG! “you filthy Muggle animal“ POW! BOOM! “trix Lestrange is coming for you, Muggle. Consider your days numb“ BLAM!
A stray firework went wheeee! and screamed into the flat, sputtering and showering sparks all over the place. Some more owls dropped by and delivered more singing letters, which added to the chaotic clash of explosions, singing, ranting, and yelling (that was Ben) that filled the room.
Another owl flew inside with a letter, and then another with a package. Before Ben knew it, the package burst apart and out came a flock of white doves in the middle of his flat.
“AAAHHH!”
There was a bang from a firework close to his ear, and a flying dove narrowly missed his face. He waved his arms wildly five seconds too late to make any difference to the bird’s flight path: his inebriated reaction time wasn’t too good.
Ben looked at what could only be described as pandemonium. The television was still blaring nothing in particular. Several loose fireworks were zipping and exploding around the room. Owls were flying in and out, bringing in more and more letters and packages. About a dozen different letters now were either screaming murder or singing praises or even proposals of marriage. The sight was utterly weird. Ben had no idea whether any of it was real or just a product of numerous empty Guinness bottles.
Ben ran from the living room to the kitchen. Whether the chaos he left was real or not was of no importance to him. What Ben needed now was a good, stiff drink. He pulled out his last bottle of Guinness from the refrigerator and locked himself inside his bedroom.
He quickly collapsed on the bed and pried the bottle cap off. The welcome scent of the bottle’s contents greeted him, inviting him to gulp it all down. And he did.
My Goodness My Guinness! he thought to himself as he drank, now only vaguely aware of the tremendous noise from the living room.
Greetings, readers! I drew another picture, this time of our fearless protagonist, Benjamin Dover! To view, do the same copy and pasting URL thing like with the previous drawing:
http://i300.photobucket.com/albums/nn34/Pseudonym_Sam/BenjaminDover.jpg?t=1228193106