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:

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"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.

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(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.

One Pale Star

One pale star
in an eggshell blue sky
just before twilight...

Mountain Road in Autumn: Beautiful, Deep Color

Mountain Road in Autumn

I'm always so moved by the beautiful, deep contrasts in color of trees in the mountains during the fall; not just the brilliant displays, but the myriad soft nuances of each hue. This photo inspires me. I love the deep blue of the mountains, with the sunlit greens and pinks just peeping out between the rust red and deep juniper-green colored trees. The pale gray of a hardwood that has lost its leaves has a slight shimmer, like dull silver or platinum. The road is a mellow blue, curving off around the trees into the foothills. I was about to drive past this mountain road near Cool Springs, but the colors beckoned to me... I turned down the road and took several pictures, inspired by the lovely autumn colors. The landscape always makes me want to paint!

Morning Glories from my Mural

Morning Glories from Mural by D.K. Pritchett

The morning glories are from my mural ~ one of my biggest projects. It included so many different elements: town and country scenes, with mountains, trees, animals, and stores with toys and treats. It took about a month of actual working days. I've blogged the experience on The Talking Artist. Here's a link to just the mural posts...

Mma Ramotswe: My New Favorite Detective

The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency by Alexander McCall Smith
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

This is the most original tea-and-crumpets mystery I've read in awhile. In this case, the tea is bush tea and the preferred delicacy (which Mma Romotswe simply cannot resist) is mopani worms. That's because it's set in Africa ~ Botswana, to be precise. The mystery is secondary to the character of the detective, Mma Ramotswe, an honest, far-sighted soul, who is very effective in her newfound business of detecting. Her story is told with delightful humor. Careful, though ~ the book is full of sudden, sly insights that sneak up all at once and stab at your heart. Mma Ramotswe is my new favorite detective. I don't think I can stop at one book.

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