The Murder of Professor Flitwick

The Death of Professor Flitwick

Harry Potter Fanfic

Mystery!

It all started with the Clue game...

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

___________________________

The Backstory:

"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.

Howler for Fred and George

Howler from Molly Weasley: 

Fred and George Weasley, we just got an owl telling us you bewitched and switched the people in all the Hogwarts portraits. The place is in total chaos! Sir Cadogan is completely put out. He is willing to fill in for the Fat Lady, but says he is no common foot soldier, thank you, he needs his pony. Besides, nobody gave him Gryffindor's current password, so he refuses to admit anyone at all, including Professor McGonagall, who is standing outside in the cold and is perfectly furious. Meanwhile, the poor Fat Lady is mortified. Sir Cadogan's pony refuses to let her mount. She can't get back to Gryffindor because she can't walk that far. The owls here are starting to clog up the place. Some of the portraits are so lost they don't even know how to tell us where they are! You two have had it. You'd better PUT THEM RIGHT and fast. Then get to your dorm and wait for McGonagall. Pray she is in a better mood when she gets there. Just wait till your father gets hold of you! You're lucky if we don't ground you for the next ten years! 

Mom

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).

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)