Interview with a boy-who-lived
What would happen if the fiction we all know and love had been based on reality? What if that reality had been toned-down to make it child friendly? Perhaps our intrepid reporter will discover that things are not always as they seem… Extreme AU, slight parody, ideas stolen from various sources, including, but not limited to:
Harry Potter series (all)
Barry Trotter (parody of Harry Potter. Ideas of scandal amused me.)
Interview with a Vampire (conceptual only, as I know this author doesn't allow fanfic here)
My own warped imagination
And various other things besides…
Read at your own peril. Sex, scandal, cover-ups and more.
Chapter one: Assignment
World famous creator of Harry Potter, JK Rowling has died, aged 72.
She was admitted to hospital following a diagnosis of the flu on the first of September, where her symptoms worsened throughout the night, and she fell into a coma and never regained consciousness. She had previously battled with pneumonia and suffered from adult asthma.
Mrs Rowling, writer of the most successful series of books of all time, made a huge impression on the literary world with her magical talents…cont. page 2
"Yes! Score!" I exclaimed, flapping around my slip of paper excitedly. A few people working in the office around me looked up from their desks, perturbed; I stifled my whoops of delight with a flush. They all returned to what they had previously been doing, and I turned to the woman who'd just handed me the slip. She was primly dressed, which made the amused smile and raised eyebrow look almost out of place on her face. I could feel it as my face turned even redder. "Heh…uh…sorry," I said meekly. "So…this is a…proper article?"
"All the articles are 'proper' articles," she replied, dropping a wink; again, I found myself amazed at how her appearance had so deceived me when I first arrived at the paper. Nervously, I picked at a loose thread on the hem of my sweater. "But, if you mean is it 'filler', then no, it isn't, OK? If it's good, then it's page two follow-up." I blinked disbelievingly, before grinning broadly. On the spur of the moment, I seized her hand, shaking it so violently that her whole arm pumped up and down.
"Thanks! Wow…I – wow!" I trailed off and looked down at the piece of paper again. A wave of doubt started threatening to wash over me – before I could stop myself, I spluttered, "But, you know, are you-"
"Sure?" she supplied, glasses flashing slightly as she turned to see who'd just come through the front door. "Ah, Gainsborough," she murmured, frowning. The smile returned when she looked back at me, and I felt my anxiety decrease under the friendly gaze. "Look, I wouldn't be offering you this is I didn't think you could do it. You've got talent kid – as much as anyone else here," the last part she said in a raised voice, and typing resumed at double speed; evidently, people had been listening in. "I'm giving you a chance to see if you know how to use it." I nodded fervently to show that I understood.
"OK – so the interview's at three – when do you want the write up then?"
"My desk at 8am sharp so that I can check for the evening stock."
"OK – length?"
"500 words should do it." Internally, I did a double-take…only 500 words? I'd have to make sure to keep myself writing on a leash… I was more of a Tolkein than a journalist when it came to writing (something I'd have to work on). Seeming to notice my apprehension, the boss said, "Don't worry – editing will handle what you can't."
"Yeah…" I looked at the address of my interviewee, seeing that it was right at the other end of town. In the main office, Mr. Gainsborough (a benefactor of the small Gazette paper – annoying, but it was necessary to keep him happy), was loudly demanding coffee from the receptionist.
"Oh Lord," the boss cast her eyes to the tiled ceiling. "Why me…?" I smirked in sympathetic understanding – the rich man had already expressed his distaste regarding my employment – to my face. "Right you – you'd better get going," my superior advised.
"But, it's only," I looked at the clock, "half one. It won't take that long to get there, 'specially on the scooter," I said.
"Yes, but you'll need to change first…I'd suggest a high neck – and trousers." Her lips were pursed and her tone was disapproving, though not directed at me…at least, I didn't think it was. She hadn't mentioned anything about my clothes before, and I was wearing pretty much the usual: black 'fashion' tights (shaped like cobwebs) with the ankle boots I'd had to beg my mother for, for three months, short denim skirt and a pink v-neck sweater. Standard stuff really…
"O…K…" I murmured, wondering what she was implying.
"Well…" she turned with a regretful sigh towards the main office, "I'll see you tomorrow. Good luck!"
"Same to you," I fired back, glancing meaningfully to her destination. She grimaced, winked, and then turned on her heel. I shook my head, grinning, and then started off towards the front door of the offices, which led out onto the high street.
I'd taken not more than a few steps, before a familiar chuckle made me stop dead. Back peddling, I peered around a potted-plant, to see a grinning and bespectacled young man looking back at me. "'Ello work experience kid," he greeted me, running a hand through his flaming red hair.
"Hi, esteemed coffee boy," I shot back, through without venom. (He was really one of the best journalists at the paper.)
"Where you off to then?" he asked curiously.
"Doing the follow-up on the J.K Rowling story," I told him proudly, ducking under the fronds of the plant so I could see him properly.
"Nice!" he nodded. "Shame about her, wasn't it?" he added sombrely.
"Yeah…I used to love the books when I was little."
"Didn't we all?" he said sagely, lifting his horn-rimmed glasses off and rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Who's the subject? Family, friend?"
"Mr. Potter – the namesake and friend," I answered, after checking the name on the paper. He let out a low whistle of admiration and I flushed for the umpteenth time in so many minutes.
"Impressive stuff, work experience!" I growled good naturedly,
"It's been a month! The least you could do is call me by name, Rickie!" I leant on his name forcefully to emphasize the point.
"You have a name?" he feigned disbelief, and I swatted him on the head with my assignment. "All right, all right! Leonie-" I held the paper aloft warningly, "I mean 'Lee'," he amended. "You'd better get going. Have fun. If you get nervous, just remember the trick, OK?" I nodded, smiling tentatively. "Don't worry kid, you'll do fine."
"Hope you're right."
"So do I – I've got ten quid riding on it!" he snorted at my outraged look. "Don't worry, I'll buy you dinner with it." My heart skipped a beat when he gave me a roguish wink, but I managed to right myself quickly,
"I'll hold you to that!" He just laughed, and then urged,
"Right, now, go on you! I need to work!" he shooed me away; I stayed just long enough to whack him on the head again. I fled before he could retaliate. Just before the door to the street swung shut behind me, I heard him declare loudly; "Ah, work experience kids are so cute!" I secretly though the 'esteemed coffee boy' was quite cute as well…
…I suppose I should really explain things before we get any further.
I'm a college student, name of Leonie Lucis (generally known as 'Lee'). I'm very nearly seventeen, own a purple scooter and want to be a journalist or a professional musician when I'm through with education. My collection of subjects at college reflects these ambitions, seeing as I study a combined English and journalism course and music technology; I also take history and geography because I like them, and the friends of mine that do Latin are trying to teach it to me (with modest success).
For the combined journalism course, the top three students in the year get to do work experience for two months at a local paper. I chose the Gazette because I already knew Rickie worked for it (and I've had a crush on him for what seems like forever…even if he is ten years my senior…heh…) I'm second out of fifty, which isn't too shabby, I suppose!
Mostly, I've been hovering around the office, proofreading, or fixing the various machines. My dad's an engineer, and luckily some of the skills have been passed on. (My mum's a chef, so I also make 'one hell of a coffee' – Rickie's words, not mine). But, now, finally, after a month, I have an outside assignment! As far as I know, Rob (top of the class) hasn't had one yet, so I feel pretty smug…
At five minutes to three, I drew up outside the formidable double-fronted Victorian house of my interviewee. It was set well back from the road, with slightly neglected ornamental topiary taking up the square of front garden. A tiny fountain tinkled away in the watery sunlight, the water around the edge beginning to freeze in place as the weather grew colder. An old Bentley rested like a great sleeping beast in the drive, its windows dull from lack of attention. Evidently, Mr. Potter didn't get out much…
I shook my head, grinning at my own analogies. Years of too many fantasy novels (including those by Tolkein and Rowling) had turned me into a veritable daydreamer. Inhaling deeply, I told myself to stop being silly, and looked down at the prompts and questions I had jotted down to ask the man, over my lunch-break. I knew that I'd have to stick to safer topics, as he was quite an elderly gentleman (sixty years old or thereabouts); asking a more risqué question could give him a shock. And I didn't want to think about the repercussions of something like that!
From the corner of my eye, I saw the net curtains on one of the first floor windows twitch slightly. Fixing a friendly, yet business-like smile on my face, I made sure the lock on my scooter was firmly in place, before hurrying up the front path to the entrance. I pulled on the old-fashioned bell-pull next to the door, and waited for an answer… It was only when a shadow appeared in the frosted glass that I realised I was still wearing my helmet. Panicking slightly, I ripped the strap open and pulled it off my head. Stupid! The door opened, and I was face to face with a smartly dressed man in a suit. Hurriedly, I shuffled my helmet so that it was under my arm, and held out my hand. "Hello there, I'm the reporter from the-"
He didn't accept my hand, though he did glance at it with a quirked eyebrow. "You may come in," he rumbled coolly, stepping out of the way so that I could walk past him and into the warm house. He closed the door behind me with a snap. I jumped, feeling on edge for some reason. "May I take your coat, madam?" His voice reminded me very strongly of the so-called 'English' accents you often hear in American films. Very posh indeed…
"Oh, uh, yes – thanks," I shrugged off my corduroy jacket and handed it to him. He deftly reached up and hung it on the grand coat stand next to the front door.
"If you would like to come this way, please," he bustled off down the corridor, and I had to hurry to keep up. "You may wait here," he indicated to an open door leading off the hallway; I peered in, to see a room that wouldn't have looked out of place in an Austen period drama. "I shall fetch the master of the house – tea?"
"What?" I asked, before I could remember my manners.
"Would you like some tea?" he repeated, sounding immensely bored.
"Oh – yes please, if you're making some," from the corner of my eye, I saw his mouth twitch into the first smile I'd seen him make.
"Do you take sugar?"
"No, just milk thanks."
"Very well – wait here," he ushered me into the room, and then slid the doors so that they were halfway shut, behind me. I paused just in front of the door and looked around. The high ceilings of the house leant grandeur to the room, which was already huge by anyone's standards! The walls had been panelled, and painted eggshell blue, white cornicing edging the ceiling, and a white wainscot around the bottom of the wall. All of the furniture looked like it belonged in an antique store, and I debated over whether or not I was supposed to sit down. I compensated by perching uncomfortably on the arm of an overstuffed sofa.
It was very warm in the house after having been outside for so long, and I wished I'd bothered to go home and get changed as the boss had suggested. Well, it wouldn't have mattered even if you had, because you forgot your keys again. I frowned, annoyed with myself for being so stupid – this was the second time in a week. It meant I'd have to slouch around in coffee shops until I was sure the parents would be home to let me in. Ah well, no use crying over split milk and all that crap. I fanned myself with my notebook, and awaited the return of the butler and the 'master of the house'.
It turned out that I didn't have to wait very long…evidently, I hadn't imagined the curtain twitching, and Mr. Potter already knew of my arrival. The door from the hallway opened once again, and the butler (he must be the butler, I suppose…) came into the room, carrying a tea tray. There were two cups on the tray, as well as a fine china teapot, small jug of milk, and a bowl of sugar. Immediately behind him came a well-dressed man of about sixty, though he looked to have aged quite well. Rather than looking old, I decided that he merely looked distinguished (much like Alan Rickman or Bill Nighy. Still charming in their own right.) Unable to stop the ridiculous impulse, I quickly scanned his forehead for some sign…of course, there was nothing there, bar a myriad of wrinkles and laughter lines.
I stood up immediately, heartened by the small smile playing on the man's lips. "Mr. Potter, I presume?" I queried, extending my left hand to shake his. Realising my mistake halfway through, I was about to switch hands, when he grabbed the one I held out, and bought it to his lips. …OK, that was odd… Now I really do feel like I'm in the middle of a period drama… Regaining myself, I continued, "I'm Leonie Lucis, and I'd just like to thank you for giving the gazette some of your valuable time." (Internally, I grimaced at my full name. What had my parents been thinking?) He was still holding onto my hand, and I awkwardly fumbled with my right hand for the pen I'd stuffed in the pocket of my skirt.
"Quite all right, quite all right," he assured me, finally letting go of my hand, and gesturing towards the sofa I'd previously perched on. "Would you care to sit? Alfred, pour the tea of you please."
"Yes sir," the butler (now know to me as Alfred), responded. I carefully walked around him (he was preparing the tea on the coffee table in between the two sofas in the room), and then settled on the very edge of the indicated sofa, notepad already on my lap. Mr. Potter remained where he was, that welcoming smile fixed firmly on his face as he watched me sit down. I tried to ignore the prickling sensation that this scrutiny caused – I could see him look me up and down, and the corners of his mouth twitch appreciatively.
"Well, Leonie," he began, easing himself smoothly into the sofa opposite. Before I could stop myself, I corrected him,
"Please – call me Lee."
"Lee," he nodded. "Well, I've no doubt that you have a lot of questions you'd like to ask, but I'd just like to-" There was a sudden hiss, and a large orange cat appeared in the doorway; my interviewee gave a sound of despair, and promptly threw a cushion at the creature. At my shocked expression, he explained, "That's Bandy – he dislikes strangers."
"Oh." I felt my cheeks burn as I realised just how ineloquent that must have sounded. "Erm… Sorry, well, what was that you were saying before Mr. Potter?" It was his turn to correct me,
"Please, call me Harry-"
"Your tea," Albert intoned quietly, handing me a delicate cup made of bone china. I noticed that it was in red and gold, and grinned as I toyed with the idea that they'd purposefully been chosen for their Gryffindor colours. I noticed the butler exchange a meaningful look with Mr. Potter – Harry – and detected a degree of tension between the two. However, after handing the distinguished silver-haired man his cup of tea, the cutler withdrew to the door – he lingered for a moment, and then drew the doors closed.
"Well, yes, as I was saying, I know that you will, of course, have a lot of questions. But, there are certain things that desperately need to be addressed; certain misconceptions that I believe it's my duty to correct." His voice was mild and dry, with a gravelly undertone that made me think of an aged rock-star or similar. Not quite understanding what he was trying to get at, I prompted him,
"Misconceptions you say? Regarding Mrs Rowling, do you mean?" He made a funny little half-laugh at the mention of the recently deceased author's name.
"What doesn't regard her?" he said mysteriously. "Of course its to do with her," he continued, frowning at me. I resisted the urge to fidget under his vibrant green gaze; I'd stare him out. Thankfully, he looked away first. "More precisely, its to do with those wretched stories of hers!" The violent dislike in his voice was tangible, and I shrank back slightly in my chair. "Those bloody stories…" he murmured.
"I was under the impression that you were in some part responsible in inspiring Mrs Rowling to-"
"Yes, yes, everyone knows that old clap-trap," he said, waving his hands dismissively. "But, I did more than inspire that woman, believe you me!" I flushed again as I picked up on the connotations of this statement… Of course, there had been rumours in gossip mags about the questionable friendship between the two, but… To have it confirmed… There was a cheeky grin on his face now, and he said, "Sorry – not meaning to offend young lady, but…well…when you get to my age, there seems little point in beating around the bush."
"Indeed," I agreed passively. I set down my cup on the table between us, as it was beginning to burn my fingers. Curious, I allowed the nib of my pen to hover over the new page in my notebook. "So, you say you want to set the record straight, is that it?" I paraphrased, drawing a little circle to act as a bullet-point.
"That's exactly what I'm saying, yes," he nodded, leaning forwards so that there was less than a foot of space between the two of us. "And, since I've been blessed with such a lovely-looking reporter, I believe I shall enjoy 'setting the record straight' a great deal." I blinked at my piece of paper, peripheral vision giving me sight of the roguish glint in the man's eyes. "Though I do wonder if you're not a little young to already be working? Of course, you're probably just incredibly good." Determined to make a good impression, despite how uncomfortable he was starting to make me, I sat up a little straighter. Crossing my left leg over my right one gave me the perfect surface on which to balance my notebook; pen at the ready, I looked up at him.
"If you'd care to tell me everything, perhaps we can begin to shed some light on these misconceptions?" Internally, I felt proud that I had managed to pronounce everything correctly. Nerves always did terrible things to my power of speech, but I seemed to have things under control for the moment.
"Perhaps we can," he said musingly, leaning back in his sofa again, and sighing as he sank into the sofa cushions. "Now, where to begin?" he studied the ornate ceiling, perhaps looking for inspiration. "Well, I suppose it all goes back to Voldermort really."
"Pardon?" I exclaimed, betraying my shock.
"Voldermort," he repeated patiently. "The Dark Lord. He-who-must-not-be-named. You-know-who. Tom Marvolo Riddle. Voldermort my dear. Surely you'll have heard of him."
"Well, yes – my parents read me the books when I was little, but I don't see what-"
"It has everything to do with it!" he snapped. Holding up my writing hand, I surrendered the point,
"Very well – Voldermort." I wrote the name down on my paper, feeling that it was going to be a very long afternoon. Evidently, Mr. Potter was a crank…or he was pulling my leg…maybe both.
"Yes, it all began with him. I take it you're familiar with the back-story? Regarding my parents, etcetera." I nodded, dumbfounded by the man. He obviously believed what he was saying. I wonder whether the butler would show me out if he became troublesome? I hoped so. Mr. Potter may have been silver-haired, but he still had a large frame, and strong, sinewy hands… "Well, of course, that was where this all started for me. This bloody hijinx called my life." I wondered whether I should make some sympathetic comment, but decided silence was probably the best course of action. I didn't want to provoke him…
He paused to take a sip from his cup of tea, and looked over the rim of the cup at me contemplatively. "You look nervous," he observed, setting the fine china down on the table between us. I didn't answer, and averted my eyes to my paper, which so far only bore the name of an evil wizard from a fictional world. Mr. Potter's gaze was intense, clear and unsettling. I knew instinctively that there was no way this could be related to senility on his part. He seemed completely together…
In which case… I composed myself and looked up to meet his jade eyes again. The corners of them crinkled in a wry smile. "I suppose it's only to be expected – you must think me quite mad." I started to protest, but he cut across me, "No, I know what you're thinking. 'He must be going senile in his old age. He's not quite sure where fiction ends and reality begins'. Let me assure you, I'm quite aware of the difference. Those so-called 'stories' may have been embedded with a few fictional points – that ridiculous relationship between Ron and Hermione for instance," he smirked and shook his head, "that was all Jo's idea… Yet, the rest of it was the truth – my story, my life…her fortune."
Slightly disturbed by his adamant stance on the subject, I nonetheless felt it was my duty to put Mr. Potter right. "Now, sir, you know that's not true – they're just stories – very good stories, yes, but stories all the same." He fixed with a look that communicated barely contained fury. Gulping, my eyes once again flickered up to rake his forehead; having expected to once again find it unmarked by anything other than time, I shrieked when I caught sight of a lightning shaped scar. That was not there before, I swear it! It faded away as I looked at it. "I…I," I spluttered, nerve overcoming me and rendering me incapable of intelligent speech.
He touched his forehead gingerly, and then smoothed his thinning fringe over it. "I do apologise," he breathed, with a hint of anger still in his voice. "It flares now and again; and perhaps it chose the right time for once to do so." I realised that my mouth was open, and promptly snapped it shut, feeling foolish. He titled his head to one side, and regarded me with those piercing eyes. "Speaking of Hermione…you happen to bear quite a resemblance to her you know…"
"R-really?" I asked, momentarily conquering my vocal chords.
"Yes…well, the hair's different – hers was just as bushy and wild as Jo made out…but the colour's right. You'd have to be a little chubbier too; of course…" the cheeky grin from earlier sidled back onto his face. "She always was touchy about her weight, especially in sixth year…" The grin fell away. "But, that's not what matters. What matters is, as I said, setting the record straight. Are you ready to take notes? Of course, it would have been better if you'd had a tape-recorder, but beggars can't be choosers I suppose." At the mention of tape-recorders, I remembered that I had one in the compartment on my scooter.
"Well, as a matter of fact, I do."
"Indeed? Where is it?"
"In my scooter," I pointed my thumb over my shoulder to the window that fronted the property. "I'll just go and-" I had started to rise from my seat. He snapped out one of those large, strong hands, and put in on my forearm. This effectively froze me into place, surprised by the physical contact and the power of the grip.
"No need," he assured me. "Sit down." I did as he commanded, edging deeper into the cushions so as to put more space between us. "Albert!" he called, and the butler immediately burst into the room; he seemed to have predicted what his master was about to ask. In his arms he carried a wooden box about a foot long; this he presented to his master, and then respectfully withdrew to the doorway once more.
The lid of the box was highly polished, but the hinges were blackened with time and screeched as he flipped the lid open. From inside, Mr. Potter retrieved a baton of wood, which I knew, should I measure it, would be eleven inches exactly. He smiled to himself as he twirled the wand (wand? You're being ridiculous. This is obviously just an act he puts on!) in his fingers. Then, he clasped it in his right hand, and flicked the end of it. "Accio tape-recorder." Nothing happened, and I raised my eyebrow at him. He just smiled back at me, putting the wand down into the box and closing it once again. "Thank you Albert."
"Very good sir," the butler bowed as he took the box. "Should I open the door?"
"Yes, I think that would be-" there was a tinkling of glass in the hallway, and then something thudded into the doorframe. "Never mind. Just duck." The butler's eyes widened, and he threw himself onto the floor – not a moment too soon either. A split-second later, my tape recorder came hurtling through the air previously occupied by Albert's head. Harry reached up with both hands and plucked it out of the air easily. "There we are." He carefully nudged his cup of tea aside, and deposited the piece of sound-equipment on the small coffee table, buttons pointing towards me. "Whenever you're ready."
I swallowed hard, and stared at the box Albert had dropped in his panic. It had sprung open on contact with the floor, and I could see the wand lying there, dark against the vermilion velvet lining of the box. Curiously, I bent down and picked up the box, staring at the contents in wonder. (Either that was the best magic trick I've ever seen, or…) I didn't finish the thought, worried that I'd be signing away my sanity if I did so. Sceptics like myself don't give in so easily, yet… How is it possible? Deciding that the baton of wood must hold the answer, I reached into the box, intending to examine it.
"No, don't!" Mr. Potter exclaimed, but I had already wrapped my fingers around the wand. A surge of warmth ran through my fingers, and a few red and gold sparks fizzled at the tip. The old man, who'd reached out to grab the box and its contents, allowed his arms to drop. "Well I never!" he whistled. "Looks like I'm not the only one with magic in this room." I dropped the wand back into the box and snapped it shut. Then, I thrust it towards him, shaking violently.
"No, there must be another explanation," I muttered defiantly, pulling the sleeves of my sweater so that they covered my hands.
"Only someone with magic could have made that happen," he pointed out kindly, the box resting on his lap. I shook my head, biting my lip and forcing back tears that were pressing against my eyelids. "Are you all right?" he queried, one of those wandering hands now resting on my right knee. "Young lady? …Lee?" I snapped back to reality on hearing my nickname; I sniffed, swept a sleeve across my eyes, and smiled.
"Fine," I said thickly, finding that my sinuses had bunged up. "This is about you, Mr. Potter,"
"Harry."
"Harry. If you're ready, I'll start the tape, and you can tell your story." I sniffed again, and searched around for the tissues I usually kept on my person. A handkerchief was presented to me by Harry, and I took it gratefully. "Thank you." I used it to mop my eyes, and then held it out to him.
"Keep it."
"Thanks."
"Are you sure you're-?"
"I'm fine," I nodded. He looked as though he wanted to say more on the matter, but stopped himself, for which I was grateful. Instead, he suddenly rose from his seat, and held out a hand to me.
"Here, there's something in the dining room which I think you'll find interesting." I looked doubtfully at the hand, and then at the butler, who had retreated once again to the door. He gave a small nod, and opened the door into the hallway for us. Strangely assured by this signal, I took the hand offered and got to my feet. It was only as my hand met his that I realised I was still shaking – he noticed it as well, and glanced at me with worry. The previous cheeky grin and manner had been replaced with a much gentler and concerned man.
As soon as I was on my own two feet, I tugged my hand back, and then gestured for him to lead the way. He did so, which gave me a chance to pinch the skin on the back of my hand, just to check that I wasn't dreaming. The sharp pain affirmed that I wasn't.
It was dark in the dining room, with all the drapes drawn across the huge picture windows. The room was just as large and grand as the drawing room, but had a feeling of misuse. Dust lay thick all around us; on the fantastic table in the centre, and the chairs surrounding it; on the writing bureau in the corner; on the mantelpiece of the fire in the corner, and even on the carpet, which threw up little clouds of dust at every step. The master and butler paused before an imposing display cabinet, which was fronted with glass.
As I looked, I realised that light seemed to be coming from the piece of furniture. Taking another couple of steps into the room, I was able to see the contents of the cabinet. It was filled with an assortment of oddities, ranging from crystal balls to what looked like a locket. However, I was fixated on the thing on the very bottom shelf, surrounded by small golden balls with shredded wings. (Snitches?) Alfred was fiddling with a ring of keys, trying them in the lock of the cabinet to try and find the right one.
Whilst he was doing this, Harry came over to me, having realised what I was staring at. Disbelievingly, I asked, "Is that…is that a pensieve?" He nodded,
"Yes it is."
"Oh." Outwardly, I managed to keep calm. Inwardly, I thought that the books' description of a pensieve hadn't done them justice… There was no way you could possibly understand the strange beauty of the memories contained within the basin without having seen them yourself. The way the silver mist of memories danced across the white collection of the archive of remembrance below was mesmerising; I stared and stared, wanting nothing more than to look at that dancing light forevermore. What was it that Mrs Rowling had said in her books? Like light mad liquid…or wind made solid… That was a good way to put it, but still didn't quite convey what it was like…
"There we are sir," the butler murmured, finally pulling the door open. He then stooped down and grabbed the pensieve; it seemed quite heavy, and he struggled to lift it again and allow it to fall with a thud onto the table. This disturbed a huge cloud of dust that enveloped all of us. I spluttered and coughed, waving my hands in order to dispel the cloud of the stuff.
When the dust had settled again, and we'd all stopped coughing, Harry took out the wand again (I hadn't realised he'd bought it with him.) "I trust you know how these things work?"
"Sort of," I nodded, drawing a little closer and leaning to try and see into the bowl of memories. He walked nonchalantly up to it, and put the tip of his wand into the swirling mix; frowning, he began to search for something (at least, that's what I guessed he was doing.)
"Hrm…I'm not sure exactly where to start… I'd never have suspected that… Not since the school was closed… There are so few of us left," he murmured, more to himself than to me. "Ah – perhaps sixth year would be best… I'm sure Ron and Hermione would love someone to clear up all that rubbish about their 'relationship' that Jo put into the sixth book…" Another of those fond looks crossed his face at the mention of their names. I knew there was no one in the world that could fake things like that so effectively.
Feeling resigned, I gave up any hope that this wasn't happening.
"There we are! Right in the first week of term – there's Slughorn, inviting me to a meeting of the Slug club… Hermione looking annoyed…" he snorted at this, and removed his wand from the white mist. "Would you like to come and have a look?"
"Urm…" luckily, my journalist instinct took over at the moment, and I hurried over to peer into the bowl. I was conscious of Mr. Potter standing closely behind me, and felt his cool breath ruffle my hair as he reached down to touch the swirling memories again. I stared, as an image swam into focus.
There was the great hall…just as grand as I'd always imagined, and surprisingly similar to the version portrayed in the movies. Candles hung in the air, their flames flickering in the gloom, and people below were eating.
The view changed to show a teenage boy (about my age) with scruffy black hair, round glasses and a well-known scar talking to a robust older man who was laughing heartily. "There he is, chuckling at my questions again," Harry intoned, nudging the memory slightly with his wand so that the view changed. I blinked in surprise when a girl, who did indeed look quite a bit like me, apart from the bushy hair, eyes and, as Mr. Potter had said, weight, appeared. She was frowning darkly in the direction of the dark-haired boy, a newspaper scrunched in her hands. "And there she is, annoyed that I'm getting all the attention again… Luckily, Ron was still asleep, or else he'd have been glaring at me as well…"
He drew away from me slightly, and the cool air of the room rushed in to meet me. "Bandy, you bloody cat, get off!" I turned around, shocked by the sudden screech, and saw that the orange cat from earlier had latched into his trouser leg with its claws. He shook his leg wildly, but the creature wouldn't let go. It hissed and growled, digging its claws further in. Albert rushed over, seeming to appear out of the shadows, and grabbed into the fur of the cat, trying to pull it off. I took a step back, scared of the enraged creature, and stumbled into one of the chairs.
Clumsily, I tried to right myself, and grabbed onto the edge of the table…or at least, I thought it was the edge of the table. However, when what was in my hands began to slide towards me, I realised I'd grabbed onto the pensieve! Panicking, I tried to pull myself upright again, and ended up slumped over the table, hand still on the edge of the pensieve. The two men were still battling with the cat, and looking at the swirling whiteness, I was drawn in once more.
Hypnotised, I slowly drew closer, the field of light spilling over me, strange, comforting…magical. I smiled, and then giggled as a strange, tickling sensation erupted down my sides. I felt as though I was falling, and laughed in delight as the world swirled into a mixing pot of vibrant colour. Mr. Potter's voice, deep and rumbling, shouted, "No, stop it!" I tried, I really did; giggling slightly, I drew back, and the colours melted back into place.
But, the pull was so insistent, and everything was so pretty as it mutated into the abnormal.
Delighted, I allowed the penseive to swallow me up, and was only given a moment to panic as everything went black.
Then…nothing.
Le gasp. What will our reporter do now? What will she discover and, perhaps more importantly, how on earth is she going to keep that report down to 500 words now?
Flames will only serve to encourage me. Quirks an eyebrow. If you want to review, then click the pretty button and do so.