Percy Weasley's Wand

Percy's wand was used, as the Weasleys were poor. This constant having to settle for the lesser things in life and make do with hand-me-downs and cast-offs ate at Percy's craw. Was it so bad to aspire to the better things in life?

The used wand was plain and conservative, in appearance, but not inelegant. It was of a straight, narrow, and squarish design, charcoal colored, and highly inflexible. It had a mature, grownup look. He liked that. He had once seen a man in the Ministry—a very important man—carrying one much like it. He liked to think that his wand had once belonged to a V.I.P.—perhaps a Ministry head.

Percy's wand was exactly twelve inches long, which pleased him. He liked things that fit a conventional pattern. Exact. One foot. Period. As a matter of fact, it was the very wand he would have chosen for himself had the wand not chosen him. He only resented it because it was used. And he kind of wished the core was dragon heartstring--not cheap old kelpie hair. Percy felt that shape-shifters were somehow suspect. He felt a little uncomfortable, knowing his wand had such a thing at its core.

He had some trouble learning to use it. Ollivander had warned him that hawthorn wasn't easy to master. But Percy, like his brothers, was smart and capable. He eventually became much better, and the hawthorn wand became truly his. 

Harry Potter Fanfiction

Arthur Weasley's Muggle Treasures

Arthur's Muggle Treasures

Phone Call from Arthur Weasley

Hey, I just bought these two great muggle ecktrick boxes, I just love them. They're absolutely fascinating! Well, let's see, I can't remember—it was all hush-hush, you know, black-market stuff. Beezer, you know, he never wants to hang around in one place for long—afraid he'll be caught, he made me promise... He told me what they are, I forget... 

Let's see, this first one... It's a small box or chest with a little window in front, it has a door on it. There's a cord to plug in, it works by ecktricity. I plugged it into my Gen-O-Rator, but it didn't do anything at first. It kind of looks like that muggle freezer we saw that time, but smaller. I put some ice in, but it melted. I pressed a number (it has these numbers) and the light came on, and the ice melted even FASTER. So then I decided it was an inbukator for chickens, you know, like that one we saw at the muggle fair? With a window where you can see the baby chicks when they hatch. So I put an egg in there and pressed "20" (for 20 days), but it exploded, absolutely exploded—the egg, not the chest—it stinks to high heaven! I can't imagine—oh, wait! I remember, it's a MIRO-cave, that's what Beezer said, a mirocave. He didn't know what it's for. I think I could get it to work if I JUST knew what it was FOR! Do you have any idea...? 

And then he sold me this other box, it's silver and black, it's metal. It plugs in, so it's eckectrick all right, but nothing happens. Well, just a little red light comes on, not enough to see by—can't think what that's for. It has all kind of buttons on the front and little holes in the back. I think it might need extra cords. It's about the size of a lunch tray, and as deep as a coffee cup, about three, four inches high, solid. It plugs in, but it won't open. It doesn't have a door or lid of any kind. It has these covered slots, one has a hole about the size of a small book. The other one just won't open at all. It would just about hold a thin slice of bread, but if it is a drawer or mail slot, it must have a trick to it, I just can't budge it. It clicks and whirs when I mash one button, I think it's trying to open. Most of the printing has worn off. I can read "Magna..." and "..rogressive" and "Ope ...ect." Yes, "ect"—well, I don't know what that actually said, the lettering has worn off. Wait a minute, I wrote down—I can't find—note here somewhere... Wait, it's a CVR, that's what Beezer said, I remember! A CVR. Pretty sure that's it.

Harry Potter Fanfiction

Ghost Wands - Harry Potter Wand Lore

Wand Lore: Speculation on Ghost Wands

The ghosts of Hogwarts were wizards in life and presumably carried wands. Here are my thoughts:

The Bloody Baron was violent, ill-tempered, immoral, often cruel, and a drunkard, but he was not without remorse. His wand was of yew wood, which can be good or evil, but never timid. At its core was thestral hair, which tends toward aggression; some feel it is an omen of misfortune. Certainly, these traits plagued the Bloody Baron. His wand was a strapping, though unlucky, thirteen inches long.

The Fat Friar was a jolly, kindly fellow, with a good heart. He was a healer. The friar carried a wand of alder wood, nine inches long, thick and unyielding. It had a slightly curved, knobby shape like a natural stick. The core was dittany stalk, which has healing properties. Alder is unyielding, but its owner is helpful, considerate, and likeable. The friar proved his ability to do non-verbal spells, transfiguration, and healing with ease, and for good causes, but these advanced spells were his downfall. His magic was misunderstood by muggle church authorities of his day, and he was executed—a shameful event in wizard history, but the friar probably forgave his executioners.

In life, the Grey Lady carried a willow wand, a match for the insecure personality of great potential. Her wand was eight-and-a-half inches long and flexible. Its core was a feather from a sphinx's wing. Helena Ravenclaw (the Grey Lady) was intelligent, talented, and ambitious. She fell into the temptation of rivaling her beautiful, witty mother, betraying her by stealing the diadem, which proved useless in the hands of one who wanted it for personal gains. Helena's weakness was a sign of basic insecurity and was most likely a mistake of youthful vanity, which she might have outgrown in time, had she lived. In death the Grey Lady proved to be remorseful and humble. She was also highly moral.

Nearly Headless Nick carried a spruce wand, eleven inches long, inflexible, with a core of curupira hair (unstable—a core for powerful yet unpredictable wizards). Nick never quite mastered his wand; it seems to have mastered him. Spruce requires a firm hand—best for a bold spell caster with a sense of humor, ill-matched with cautious natures, and dangerous in fumbling fingers. Nick wanted to be brave, but maybe he was less than perfectly brave. Spruce has its own ideas about what magic it ought to be called upon to produce, which explains how it turned a lady's teeth into tusks. In time, Nick might have come to master his quirky wand. Spruce can be a superb helper, intensely loyal to its owner and capable of producing flamboyant and dramatic effects, which would suit Nick.

dkp

Harry Potter Fanfiction

Ghost Wands

Ansuz

Ansuz

Ancient Rune: Ansuz

My rune is Ansuz. It chose me. At first I was perplexed: why, of all runes, this ancient god? I expected a leaf, a deer, the sky--some symbol of nature--not this.

Then I began to read, and was touched: "god-breathed," it says; "the passing of breath from parent to child." Life, from one generation to the next. It is a beautiful, poignant thought. It immediately brought to my mind the image of Lily Potter giving her life so that her son could continue to live and breathe. But along with the breath of life, it is essential to pass ideas, thoughts, memories, and knowledge. 

This is the power of the Ansuz rune. It symbolizes language and creativity. I thought of Robert Frost's poem, The Tuft of Flowers. I "feel a spirit kindred to my own." I leave my mark. Another, finding it, may be inspired to leave a mark of their own. Language is a gift of insight from God. The Ansuz rune symbolizes the passage of ideas to all mankind. Ansuz traits encompass poetry, creativity, conscious thought, and inspiration. We find meaning in our universe. We create symbols and names, to share our insights. These "Ansuz" personality traits immediately resonated with me. This is surely my rune.

Interestingly, "action" is beyond the energy of Ansuz, which only inspires. A wise man once told me I think too much. "Just paint!" he said. I do tend to think and think and think. (It's a Ravenclaw thing.) Sometimes, this is good, but it can lead to procrastination--a trait I have mastered all too well. This is a blind spot for the Ansuz personality: over-conceptualization, faith in labels, casting aside essence. We must use language to further human thought, not to limit it. I was reminded of this Bible verse: “Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” (Hebrews 11:1) To label the visible and knowable, while casting aside "things not seen" is a trap for the Ansuz personality. 

 

Ansuz: Inspire, create, communicate. 

Mossy Cave: A New Hide-Out for the Marauders

A New Hide-Out For The Marauders

    Mossy Cave Photo

The Marauders have found a wonderful moss-covered cave to use as a new hideout. It has a waterfall and fresh stream inside for drinking water and a labyrinth of branches to explore or hide in. They can easily access it by crossing a dead tree that has fallen across a creek and then climbing a narrow, winding, natural path that leads to the entrance. They have cast several clever charms upon it to keep intruders out: a charm that makes brush and weeds seem like briars and thistle; a charm that emits scary growls and ghostly moans as anyone approaches the area; a charm that obscures the entrance, making it look like solid rock; a fake entrance to a shallow cave down the path; and a charmed path that makes intruders unsure of their footing and crumbles under their feet, producing a miniature landslide, if they get too near the cave.

My Animagus

My own animagus would be a raven or hawk. I could soar above to see the landscape for miles around, find new places to explore, see intruders, and warn the others. I could swoop down close and perch on the back of Moony, Padfoot, or Prongs when I wanted to rest or communicate. I could nip Wormtail just for the heck of it.

I think of the red fox would also be a good animagus for a marauder: handsome, intelligent, quick-witted, and brilliant at eluding pursuers.

My original composition, written for Azkaban Escapees, a Facebook group. Photo swiped from Google images. 

Dinky, My Little House Elf

Dinky the House Elf

  Dinky: Art by D.K.Pritchett, blog owner

My mother was given the elf, Dinky, upon her marriage to my father. When Mother died, she left Dinky to me. I call her "Dink." Dink has curly, dark chestnut hair, big, blue eyes, and a long, pointy nose, which she pinches in hopes of making it petite. She wears a plain white-linen toga--rather amazingly white, because my grandmother long ago sprayed it with her secret "Freshina" potion. 

       My mother had hopes of expanding Dink's wardrobe to include some pretty chintz or toile, but the poor creature was mortified and thought she was being turned out of our house. It was with great difficulty that Mother convinced the poor little soul that Raven's Rest would always be her home. We think she finally feels secure, though her forever frowny forehead says otherwise, as if she has waited these decades for the other shoe to drop. Upon my mother's death, I pressed upon Dink a plain little pair of natural pearl earrings, which she had always admired. She was aghast, until I showed her pictures of muggle cattle with ear tags and of Charlie Weasley's marked dragons. I explained that it was a sign of my ownership, like a brand. She accepte that story and is quite proud to be so lovingly stamped as "owned."

Harry Potter Fan Fiction. 

Originally written for Azkaban Escapees, a Facebook group. In my original story and paper sketch, Dinky's nose was tiny. When I created the digital version, I made it big.

Winky: the Crouch Family's House Elf

Winky: The Crouch House Elf

Poor little Winky. The moon-eyed house elf wanted none other in life but to please her master, Bartemius Crouch, Sr. Like her mother and grandmother before her, Winky was a loyal servant, dedicated to serving the undeserving Crouches. It was her task to guard the favorite son, Bartemius Crouch, Jr. "Favorite" here is a term used loosely. Barty's daddy hated the boy (a nasty little Voldemort-lover, even as a teen). At nineteen, Barty turned to crime and ended up in Azkaban Prison. (Years later, much to Winky's horror, he would even murder his own father.) Barty escaped from Azkaban, but was forced into hiding--aided by the Cloak of Invisibility and The Imperious Curse, though not by his own choice. 

It was a hard life. The soft-hearted Winky saw that he was properly rewarded for good behavior. Alas, this indirectly led to her own downfall. She coaxed her master to let his son attend the Quidditch World Cup of 1994 (yes, the one disrupted by Death-Eater riots). Winky thought her elf magic could keep Barty at her side, but no! Barty, that cunning devil, used  Winky's fear of heights to give her the slip, steal Harry Potter's wand, and cast a Dark Mark to summon Voldemort. Winky was blamed by the Ministry of Magic, for she--not her conveniently invisible ward--was caught with the stolen wand, thus breaking Clause Three of the ancient Code of Wand Use; as if a lowly elf could cast a dark mark! Nevertheless, her master "freed" her. Well, to Winky, it felt more like a sacking. She fell into a depression. Not even her elf friend, Dobby, could pull her out of it, though he got her a job in the Hogwarts kitchen. There, she worked half-heartedly, but mostly drank. Ah, butterbeer, that sweet drowner of sorrows! In spite of her addiction, she bravely joined other house elves, under Kreacher, to fight the Death Eaters (Battle of Hogwarts, 1998). Afterwards, she stayed at Hogwarts. She worked, yes; but her heart just wasn't in it. Winky never got over her life's losses.

(Originally, I put this on Azkaban Escapees, a Facebook group.)

Fenrir Greyback's Wands

Wandlore

Fenrir Greyback's Wands

My thoughts on Fenrir Greyback's First Wand

*Wood: Spindletree

*Core: Dragon heartstring

*Length: Ten inches

*Flexibility: Rigid

              Backstory:

     Fenrir Greyback's first wand was bought second hand, but it chose the eleven-year-old wizard as its new owner--it seemed eager to adapt. It was very old, carved of European spindletree wood, a very dense, creamy white hardwood, often used to make spinning-wheel spindles. The tree bears pretty, poisonous berries--thirty berries is a fatal dose for an adult. The wood itself can sicken the carpenter who works with it too long. Spindletree leaves attract aphids and their predators, including hoverflies and lacewings. These juicy insects tempt bowtruckles to live in the trees. Legend is, the spindletree for this wand foretold the coming of the plague, by flowering early in 1348 or '49. 

     Young Greyback's wand was ten inches long, a good length for a starter wand. It was hard, rigid, and durable, as it needed to be for the rough, headstrong boy who was to be its new master. The core was of dragon heartstring, which produces a powerful magic, easily turned to the dark arts, if that suits its master. It suited Fenrir. The wand had a gnarled appearance. It was stained a dark, charcoal grey and had small, diagonal slash-marks carved into its hilt.

     Fenrir, unfortunately, had a dark, troubled nature even in his youth. He was a sadistic boy who like to torture insects and small animals. He bullied other children, but was weak-natured, a coward at heart. He was, however, a strong athlete and a fast runner. Perhaps his darker traits might have been softened by good mentoring, but he was bitten by a werewolf. His bitterness and his growing bloodlust fed his evil tendencies. He was not an incompetent wizard, by any means; neither was he brilliant. His wand got its fair share of exercise, but Fenrir was much more interested in sports, girls, and other out-of-school activities than he was in schoolwork. 

My thoughts on Fenrir Greyback's Last Wand

     After the loss of his first wand, Fenrir Greyback sought out the infamous "Bardawulf Wand," a dark piece of craftsmanship that he had coveted for many years. The wand was six centuries old. It was created by Anguß the Wand Wright of Lorn, in 1350, for a dark wizard named Hemming Bardawulf, rumored to be a werewolf. Bardawulf, a cruel gang leader who revered Atilla the Hun, called his own cult "The Huns." Hemming, of course, was "king." Among other indecent avocations, he dug up recently buried corpses, regardless of possible plague infection, and sold them to the village potion maker. Bardawulf himself seemed immune from plague.

      The Bardawulf wand was carved from a gnarled limb taken from an ancient yew tree that stands in a churchyard in the village of Fortingall in Perthshire, at the very heart of Scotland. The yew stands near a memorial, the "Cairn of the Dead" (used in the 14th century for burying victims of the plague away from the church graveyard). The yew wand bears an incription in runes, "Thy Hun King," homage to its original owner (dark-seeming runes, several of them, alone, symbolizing pain, suffering, or destruction). 

      The wand core was a long strand of werewolf hair, and I doubt any wandmaker living today would use such a core! The ivory handle was inset with the fangs of a wolf. It had a small wolf's head, said to have been carved by Lucas Cranach the Elder; if so, that was done a century-and-a-half after the wandwright touched it. The handle was inset with a unique large opal resembling the grayish-green eye of a wolf. This cursed stone is said to take on a weird glow under a blood moon.

      The wand had had several owners and had finally fallen into the hands of an artifact collector. It was said to be cursed. It may be that it simply wouldn't perform for anyone but its original owner. Be that as it may, it must have met Bardawulf's equal in the hands of Greyback--it leaped at his touch, clearly coming to life in his evil hands. The wand was capable of powerful dark magic. Oddly enough, Greyback rarely used it. He seemed to prefer capturing his victims by hand and tormenting them with sadistic words instead of curses; or worse, he would brutally mangle their bodies as he feasted on their tender flesh. In his wolf form, he has no use for a wand. His bloodthirsty history is well known. His masterpiece of a wand is rarely seen.

*Yew: 

*Core: Werewolf Hair (usually produces 

      powerful dark magic)

*Length: 14 inches (twice the magical

       number seven)

*Handle/hilt: Elephant tusk

*Inlay: Wolf fangs

*Carving: Wolf's head

*Inscription: "Thy Hun King"

Rune Symbolism: 

    Th (giant) danger, suffering

    y (Jera, “year”) harvest, reward    

    -----

    H (hail) destruction, chaos.

    u (aurochs) strength of will

    n (need) need, unfulfilled desire.

    -----

    K (ulcer) mortality, pain

    i (ice) unknown; perhaps icy heart?

    ng - fertilization, beginnings, the

        actualization of potential

(Harry Potter Fan Fiction. I first published this on Azkaban Escapees, a Facebook group).

Matter Grey Toadstool - a Magical Fungus

My magical toadstool is the Matter Grey Toadstool. Though somewhat rare in the wild, there is a small stand of them on a mossy, fern-covered slope in the woods at my grandmother's old homestead. The fungus thrives in a rich loam and requires cool shade, filtered sunlight, and heavy dew. My grandmother and mother found a suitable environment in the woods on our country estate and have developed a domesticated Matter Grey mushroom.

    My family's fascination with the toadstool began with a family heirloom, a potions book written out by my great-grandmother, Anner, started by her own grandmother, we believe. It had lovely botanical drawings, properties, and potential uses, including some potions. 

    The stem and cap of the Matter Grey Toadstool have very different properties. Both parts (along with all fibrous matter, roots, and juice) may be used in mixing potions, to very different effects. It affects the brain, the blood, and to some extent, the central nervous system. Effects can be positive or negative, so great care must be taken in potion mixing.

  Re the Leaping Toadstool: Baruffio had the right idea, but obviously, his original concoction was too strong. His elixir can be improved by using a bit less Leaping Toadstool and adding a good portion of Matter Grey. We have found the perfect mix. Our ultimate goal is to help people like the Longbottoms, who are lost in madness.

   The Leaping Toadstool has bounce and innate energy, but it needs clarification and dilution. Our "Matter-Grey Clarifying Potion" acts as an antidote or diluting agent for it. Together, the two toadstools also make a great love potion. Other uses: by mixing equal portions of Matter Grey and Leaping Toadstool juice, we make tasty energy drinks and extra-body shampoos, as well as a unique charmed energy dip for broomsticks, tennis shoes, quaffles, and rubber ducks.

I have included my mother's Polaroud picture of this toadstool.*

*Mushroom and tiny toad image borrowed from Okamiarisu on Reddit; altered using a 1970s-vintage color filter and adding the clipped image of a 3D-model human brain from cgtrader.

My Little Wild Bowtruckles

North American Wiggentrees are rare, but some grow in shady spots in our forests. My wiggentree is deep in our woods on an old path near some stone ruins, and is known to be over a hundred years old. The bark is quite scaly and the trunk, nearly three feet broad. The tree has grown to fifty or sixty feet--pretty tall for a wiggentree. It bears a pretty, edible berry that grows in clusters. There are a few saplings in the woods, growing in mossy places where the ferns are very thick.

Our Appalachian bowtruckles are usually quite harmless. They do not mind us harvesting the sorbus berries, and will give up bark and branches to us without much trouble. Woe to the wizard who gets too greedy, though! Our bowtruckles will scratch their eyes out. The feisty fellows keep a stock of porcupine quills to use as weapons, in the rare event they feel threatened. This behavior is protected, as cutting down a bowtruckle's wiggentree is equal to home invasion under the law.

A local Appalachian witch, Anner Dunn, has made a lifelong study of American bowtruckles. She camps out and camouflages herself, because the little beasts are very shy. Dunn once attempted to tag individual bowtruckles, but spent the next few days picking porcupine quills out of her behind. Afterwards, she just took a copious notes.

Dunn Notes:

Identified Surnames of Bowtruckles on Pritchett land: Wiggentree, Wiggley, and Wickle.

Individuals: Twiggy and Twiggley (twins), Scritch, Vertie, "Bowleg," Twogg, Cuckleburr, Suze, Gramps, Knott, and Burl. Matching given names to surnames is a bit fuzzy.

Neighboring bowtruckle branches in the Chattahoochee-Oconee National Forest: Bowtruckle, Bower, and Truckley.

Our bowtruckles have a long-standing though quiet feud w/the Black Walnut branch, of the nearby Cohutta Wilderness; "quiet," because they rarely encounter the enemy, since they hardly ever wander far from home. Dunn only learned of the feud when our Wiggleys attacked one of their own, a Wickle. His feet had gotten caked with black swamp mud, which they took to be the telltale black walnut stains of their enemy. Our branch has no animosity toward the American Holly, Dogwood, and Mountain Laurel bowtruckle branches. 

Food: most insects.

Seasonal delicacies: chiggers, mayflies, and wood lice. They love june bugs, which are getting scarce, and spicy fire ants. They also ferment dandelion wine, pokeberry wine, and fox grape.

Each year in season, they eat cicadas. There are feast years, due to the cyclical biology of cicada broods.

(My own observation: This summer was horrendous! It was the Feast of the Great Eastern Brood of Cicadas; they emerge once every seventeen years. Our bowtruckles partied for seven nights running and were, if possible, louder than the cicadas. Leading up to the cicada feast, the bowtruckles provoked a multitude of skunks into spraying. They like to baste fat cicadas in a brew of skunk juice and pokeberry wine. Some even pour this stinking mess into tree holes and soak in it!)

Originally composition, written for my Facebook group, Azkaban Escapees. 

Clue Murder Mystery Harry Potter Theme

Ravenclaw

Clue Game

Solution: Hermione Granger, with a Library Book, in the Charms Classroom (2E, Third floor grounds tower, Hogwarts)

Short Story:

__________________________

"The Murder of Professor Flitwick"

Professor Filius Flitwick was in a predicament. A very definite predicament. It all boiled down to that little smart-aleck jerk, Rufus Fudge. A bet is a bet and a joke is a joke, and this time, the little turd had gone too far. Yes, "turd," Flitwick thought (which may seem out of character for Flitwick, a determinedly nice guy). But this war had changed him. Not the nice-guy part, but he had certainly let some coarseness of habit slip into his usually nice demeanor. "Turd," he mentally reiterated. "And I say it again." 

But that's just it. He couldn't "say" it. He was lucky to be able to think it. Thank God he still had that, or some remnant of it. For Fudge had gone and turned Flitwick into something--not quite human. Right in the middle of an argument about that muggle-train incident. "Wham!" And here he was. Stuck in an ugly, furry little body, and mute.  Not able to speak. He could formulate words--mentally. He just couldn't say them. How would he ever communicate-- And now Fudge had been sacked! Sacked, and gone off in a huff, hothead that he was. 

Flitwick sighed. "Hothead. I'm the hothead. It's my own fault. A fool, to argue with a fool." Most likely, he was in this permanent state for life. What to do, what to do...? McGonagall? Could he get through to McGonagall? He thought and thought. But, wait...? "Here's an idea. What about Hermione? Now there's a girl of some resources. Sharp, and perceptive, too. Knows every spell in the book, and then some. Signs, runes. Languages, too. Now there's somebody who might be receptive to the unconventional. But, how to get through...?"

                        * * * * * * * * * * 

Hermione poked her head into her old Charms classroom, 2E. She had hoped to run into Professor Flitwick. He had survived the War of '98, that much she knew. Why wouldn't he have come back to teach? Had he chucked it all--maybe bitter at his wartime experiences, disgusted with life? That didn't sound like Flitwick. And now these weird signs. Barely signs. Vibes, she might almost say, but she was no auror. Was she wrong? Just imagining things?

She liked the diminutive professor. He was a kindly sort, and had certainly turned out to be a good fighter. She pushed the door all the way open. A thick layer of cobwebs, torn at the opening of the door, fell from the doorframe and brushed against her face. Ugh! Shuddering, she brushed them quickly from her hair. Ugh! Spiders in one's hair. Not a pleasant thought. Was she picking up Ron's horror of spiders? They still frightened him, she knew. He tried to pretend he was over it, but...

Hermione wasn't a nervous ninny--not to make light of Ron's fear, of course. He had good reason. That teddy bear. The idea of a sweet little three-year-old Ron clutching his favorite teddy, only to find himself cuddling up to a hairy, giant tarantula! For a brief second, her eyes moistened. The maternal instinct, wanting to go back in time and reassure the little fellow. Her hands went up to the little gold pendant--a locket, but it was the time turner she was thinking of. And then there was that run-in with Aragog. She shuddered again. He could have been killed, they all could... 

The whole room was covered in cobwebs. Strange. It hadn't been that long, surely. Of course, an old castle, high ceilings. Hard to keep the cobwebs down. No sign of Flitwick. No sign anyone had been here in a while. She wandered over to the desk. Library books. A big stack of them. She rubbed her hand across the top of the stack. She picked one up, idly turned the pages. "Spells, Charms, Hexes, and How to Reverse Them." She read a couple of paragraphs. Force of habit. 

She looked down at the stack. Odd. The books weren't dusty. She flipped to the inside back cover, pulled out the card. Not overdue. Hmm. She laid the book back with the others. Well, no use waiting. But she didn't leave. She stood there, hands on hips, puzzling. She sat down in Flitwick's chair.

                            * * * * * * *

Flitwick became aware that he had company. Human company. So... after all these weeks, his plan may have worked! Here she was in person, Hermione! He couldn't talk, couldn't whisper. But surely he could make some gesture, manage something, a whisper, a clicking--something. He moved closer. She didn't move. Asleep! "What to do, what to do? Drop a book?" Ha! The irony.

           

            * * * * * * * * * 

Hermione woke with a start. Something! The room was dim. The one little window let in a little light. Twilight. "Can't believe I've napped all this time." She was confused, still a bit sleepy, a bit cranky. And sweaty from her nap. "Gah! This thick hair." In a quick slap, she pushed it back off her neck. "Tap!" A little wad of something hit the table. And then... it moved! 

Aaaaaaaayyygggghhhh! "Whap!" The library book came down with a determined, brute force. Hermione didn't know she had it in her to hate with such passion. Gingerly, she lifted the book. "Ick." What was left of the "thing" was a sticky mess. 

It was several days later that an owl arrived at the Office of the Ministry, Misuse of Magic Department. In its beak was a properly sealed letter. Its tone was rather sheepish. It was the tone of someone who did a foolish, hotheaded thing, and, cooling down, eventually thought better of it. 

"To Whom it may concern: 

"The writer of this letter wishes to inform the Ministry of his great mistake in turning Professor Filius Flitwick into a great, hairy spider. Perhaps, if one could be so kind as to change the good fellow back for me.

"Sincerely,

"Rufus Fudge, &c." 

Hagrid very kindly offered to bury what was left of poor Flitwick--now just a dried-up, crusty stain on the back cover of a spells-and-hexes book. But in the end, a proper burial in the churchyard was thought to be the best thing. The vicar was in full agreement. And so it was done.

No charges were filed against Hermione. Fudge was strongly reprimanded and the case was put forward for a full inquiry.

___________________

(Short story fan fiction by D. K. Pritchett) 

Hagrid's Wand

Hagrid's Wand

You may believe this or not, as you like. This is my story, and I'll swear by it. My tale may help explain why Hagrid is so reluctant to give up his unique wand, broken and jerry-rigged though it be. And one should remember that the destruction of the wand at the hands of the Ministry was, after all, the result of a sly, under-handed trick by the Heir of Slytherin. True, Hagrid unlawfully kept an Acromantula, as Tom Riddle swore. But it was not Hagrid's "monster" that killed poor Myrtle Warren, though feasting on her tender flesh would be a pleasure for one of Aragog's species. And keep in mind this: Hagrid's wand deception is tacitly allowed. To deny so is to say that an old pink brolly that shoots stray sparks could fool the likes of Albus Dumbledore or Minerva McGonigall.

Hagrid's wand was loyal and true. For one thing, it was carved out of mighty English oak wood, from a tree that stood in town center at the founding of Hogsmeade. The oak was ancient even then. In the thirteenth century the gigantic tree was splintered by lightning in a rather terrifying thunderstorm. A craftsman knows a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity when he sees it. Ollivander's ancestor stocked up on good English oak. Hagrid, like the oak, is faithful and true. His wand could no more switch allegiances than Hagrid himself. It is said that "oak is a wand for good times and bad, this is a friend as loyal as the wizard who deserves it." Hagrid is deserving. He is strong, courageous, and loyal to a fault.

The pointed tip of Hagrid's wand was capped with fossilized erumpent horn. Ollivander had a bit of this, a relic found among the hoard of carving materials in his father's quaint studio. Garrick Ollivander, the son, was as clever an artisan as the father, if not moreso. And though he wisely chose to limit the types of materials used for core, he did occasionally make the mystical, intuitive "quantum leap" that is characteristic of the creative mind and an earmark of true genius. For this giant of a wand (sixteen inches long), he was led to try a strange mixed core, intricately braided of the tail hairs of several magical beasts: the unicorn, the hippogriff, and the erumpent. 

Yes, I know. Erumpent hair? But you see, the beast does have a little brush of stiff hair at the end of its leathery tail. You can see it in some drawings. Newt Scamander brought Ollivander this erumpent hair personally, from America in 1926, after one of the beasts broke loose in New York City and went on a rampage. It snagged a great tuft of its tail hair on a low-hanging tree limb in Central Park, and this, Scamander wisely collected. Now, don't expect Hagrid to go on a rampage in like kind. The erumpent does not attack unless provoked, and neither does Hagrid, generally speaking. 

Continuing the theme of fidelity, no one has to ask why unicorn hair was chosen. But the hair of this lovely beast is fragile. For Hagrid, that just wouldn't do. His wand core is reinforced, not only with erumpent hair, but hippogriff's tail, and it also has a dragon's heartstring–powerful! So, Hagrid's wand does not have the fickle quality that allows some wands to switch allegiance or turn to the dark arts. One flaw of the dragon heartstring–further reflecting the character of its owner–it doesn't always behave as it ought; again, like Hagrid, who does have a tendency to chuck the rules and follow his own heart.

In this same vein, it shouldn't be any surprise that the wand master threw in one phoenix feather. Some wizards would resent this, but it suited Hagrid, and it suited the feather, which appreciated its owner's devil-may-care lifestyle. Taming the phoenix feather was no problem at all for Hagrid (easy as taming a giant scorpion). 

Finally, one stormy grey hippogriff feather plucked with permission from the tuft of feathers that had crowned the head of Buckbeak's sire, was woven into the mix. The whole core was tightly wrapped in a sheath of Acromantula filament. "Rather bendy" (Ollivander's own words) was an understatement. That web! It's a thousand wonders anyone at Hogwarts was able to break that wand.

Ollivander had a little vial of "Pure Erumpent Calf Oil"–and indeed, it was a thick, viscous stuff, much oilier than his own boughten stock of Exploding Fluid. He had found the curious, aged, stoppered-glass bottle secreted away in a dusty old cupboard in his father's chemistry lab. It seemed stronger than the thin, but costly substance on today's market, which Ollivander strongly suspected was diluted (with good reason, he supposed). But he considered the pure oil to be rare and precious. On a hunch, he dipped the carbonized tip of the wand in this oil, several coats of it. Now, Ollivander was no man's fool. He knew enough to know that dried oil, in miniscule amounts, would not be volatile enough to cause a big explosion. Just enough to... well, we won't dwell on it, but remember Dudley's pig tail and be thankful it wasn't you.

It might seem peculiar, this curiosity of a wand, built to such precise specifications. One could say it had the best of all things. Or one could say, it was–well, frankly, a mutt, somewhat like its owner, and I mean that in a most affectionate way. Hagrid is one of a kind. As you might have guessed by now, Ollivander had some inkling of who might be the chosen wizard for this marvelous wand. For Ollivander knew Mr. Hagrid. They were old friends. He knew that Fridwulfa, the giantess, was a fickle, selfish sort, not deserving, really. Her little wizard husband had a joyous nature and a good heart–a big, loyal heart that loved unconditionally. So in 1928, when Ollivander learned of the couple's happy news, he gathered the lucky oak wood, the prized feathers, the hair, the horn, and the oil, and he started carving this masterpiece of a wand. He carved with great care, taking his time. This would be a labor of love.

Twelve years later, when the day came, when a giant of a boy came ambling into the wand shop with his diminutive papa at his side, and the wand chose young Rubeus Hagrid as its own, the usually reserved wandmaker was secretly so pleased with himself that honestly, he nearly gave himself away. He literally quivered with joy. 

His fondest memory: he'd made a pretense of trying different wands for Rubeus. The wandmaker could hardly keep a straight face, recollecting the quizzical, sidewise glances that Hagrid and his father gave when he presented one absurd, flimsy little stick after another for the giant of a boy to "try." The regular wands looked like toothpicks in his massive little-boy hand. But the expressions of father and son when Ollivander pulled out "the" wand! Oh, it was a day to remember. 

Certainly other wizards might be jealous to know that the wandmaker, just this once, had shown such favoritism; that twelve years previous, he actually had in mind the unborn giant of a spirit that would wield such a wand. And, truth be told, when the wand was broken (a travesty of justice), it was the craftsman himself who risked his license and covertly repaired Hagrid's wand–not Dumbledore, as some suspect. This is perhaps the one secret over the years that Hagrid has never let slip. Ollivander himself confessed this to me. And that's all I have to say.

–fantasy essay, written by dkp, a Ravenclaw, for Wandlore class in Azkaban Escapees (a Harry Potter group)

My curio shop, if I had one...

Wander down an obscure alley in the old part of a city somewhere in America and you will find it: "Ye Auld Curiosity Shoppe," a cliché to be sure, but rare; for who has ever come across such a shop? It is cozy and dimly lighted, pleasantly crowded with curious things stuffed into every nook and cranny. Really, you could spend a month in there and not see everything. The owner and shopkeepers are cut from the same cloth–rather bohemian and artistic. We have coffee, tea, and our special lace cookies to nibble on–both shopkeepers and guests are welcome to them. Our shopkeepers are friendly and conversational, but not intrusive. The shop is a nice place for browsing.

In a secret chamber, for those people are of a magical bent who intuit the room's existence, there are bottles and jars of strange herbs, potions, and magical candles, for those who want to explore...possibilities.

For our open house, we sent out handmade art cards as invitations. Walk-ins were also welcome. Each visitor received a lovely little token to keep for door-prize drawings. Since each token was unique and we recorded the claimed prize in our registry, visitors did not have to hand in their token, even if claiming a prize, so it was a keepsake. We had a lovely little feast of treats on a small round table. Guests were invited to sip punch, mingle, browse, buy, and come back again.

This is the shop I envision.