Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of Joanne K. Rowling and Garth Nix. Any characters, settings, places from the Harry Potter books and movies used in this work are the property of Joanne K. Rowling, and Warner Brothers; any concepts, items and settings from the Abhorsen books used in this work are the property of Garth Nix. Original characters, settings and concepts belong to the author of this work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the private enjoyment of readers at FanFictionNet, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.
All characters, places and events in this story are either the products of the relevant author's imagination or they are used entirely fictiously.
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Drabbles, droubles, tribbles, quabbles, quibbles and ficlets with missing scenes from "The Apprentice and the Necromancer"
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Sometime between chapters 12 and 25 of "Apprentice"
Bemused, Bill Weasley gazed at his old trunk. After six years at Hogwarts and seven years in Egypt it looked rather battered and shabby.
Fleur frowned and pulled her wand from her elegant chignon. Humming under her breath, she waved it as if she was directing an invisible orchestra.
When she fell silent, the trunk gleamed: polished black leather, golden fixtures, embossed with the Weasley family crest and the Hogwarts coat of arms.
Bill gathered her into his arms. "Ah, Weed, what shall I do without you?"
"Do a good job. Be a good teacher. And don't forget to write."
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The classroom still smelled exactly the way he remembered. Dusty parchments mixed with floor polish, the acrid whiff of defensive spells infused with the stale smell of boredom. He lowered his trunk, went to the second to last desk on the left-hand side and sat down. Someone had added a frame to the snitch he'd etched into the wood.
"Bill?"
He turned and rose. "Headmistress McGonagall."
"It's Minerva, silly boy."
Bill ducked his head and grinned. "Now I feel at home. How do you do that, Minerva? Make us still feel like firsties?"
She smiled. "I remember you as one."
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After chapter 27 of "Apprentice"
"I am Bill Weasley, and I will be your teacher for Defence Against the Dark Arts. Let's get some things straight right away.
"If you think you can laze about in this class, because I'll be gone next year, you will be disappointed. You won't get rid of me that easily. I have a family to take care of. Therefore the first thing I did when I took this job was breaking the curse that was attached to it.
"If you believe that certain family connections guarantee that I have a sense of humour, you are sorely mistaken. They only guarantee that I am able to spot my brothers' products quicker than any of my colleagues. - Mr. Vaisey, I suggest you rethink the decision to use that Patented Daydream Charm. I know a spell that will turn it into a nightmare.
"If you are afraid that I'm a werewolf - Miss Callahan, flinching won't help you fight off a werewolf, Sectumsempra is more useful, trust me on that - I can lay your fears to rest. That would be one of my predecessors." Bill grinned wolfishly. "However, that doesn't mean I don't bite. And now open your books on page 37, please."
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Sometime between chapter 25 and 49 of "Apprentice"
Once again Professor Weasley concluded his rounds on the Fifth Floor in the East Wing. Ropes secured a path through a sprawling swamp. A white stone near the window offered an explanation:
"Even arse-deep in alligators, he could create a swamp.
Fred Weasley, April 1, 1978 - May 2, 1998″
Noticing the flickering light of a Hinkypunk, Bill drew his wand. Professor Vector wouldn't appreciate it if her students got lost on their way to class.
On the other hand … Bill hesitated. Fred would certainly get a kick out of that.
Grinning, Professor Weasley sheathed his wand again and left.
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After chapter 49 of "Apprentice"
With feral pleasure Bill eyed the bloody steak on his plate. The DADA teacher stuck his fork into the meat almost viciously, muttering "Little Knights, my arse." under his breath.
Snape raised a sarcastic eyebrow. "Bit of an appetite for … meat … tonight?" he asked silkily.
Bill snorted. "The moon is still full, what do you think, mate? A grrrreat time forrr rrred meat," he growled and noticed with satisfaction how certain students blanched at the sound.
Turning back to Snape, he rolled his eyes. Merlin, where had the man misplaced his sense of humour? But then Bill realised how pale the Potions master was. Apart from everything else, almost losing one of his students must have shaken Snape badly.
"Want some beer?" he offered, pulling another bottle from his robe.
Snape glared at him suspiciously, but accepted the Pilsener.
"Little Idiots would be a better term," Bill grumbled. Myrrdin Loewe, Barret Cruddace, Adrastus Alger, Terrwyn Bevan and their idea of knightly honour had managed to ruin his free evenings for the rest of the school year. "And that includes the damn fools from my House." He raised his goblet. "Cheers, Severus."
To his surprise, Snape returned the toast.
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Around the time of chapter 56 of "Apprentice"
Today her letter smelled of baby powder and lilacs. When his gaze lingered on her signature - "Your quite unruly Weed" - the giggling of a baby drifted to his ears. Bill smiled. Fleur always did that, adding scent and sound to her letters.
He imagined her, windblown and sunburnt, "unruly" after a day of gardening. His precious, pretty Weed … and the Weedlet, already just as beautiful as her mum …
Sighing, Bill crossed off another day on his calendar. 79 days until the hols.
Until he could carry Fleur off into the bedroom for some serious "weeding" of his own.
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Sometime after chapter 239 of "Apprentice"
He discovered Alina sitting on the wall of the rose garden. Her ubiquitous parchment and quill lay curled up on the ground. Above her, the phoenix Woodstock was indulging in wild aerial acrobatics. Outwardly, Alina appeared unchanged - still the dark-haired, smart girl with the pert grin. Her adventures had left no visible trace.
Bill produced a piece of parchment. "How are you?"
She shrugged, but her eyes were filled with shadows.
Bill sat down next to her with a sigh. Involuntarily, his hand went up to the very noticeable scars on his face. "Not all scars are visible," he wrote.
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A/N: A drabble has exactly one hundred words as counted by MS Word.
A drouble has two hundred, a tribble three hundred, a quabble four hundred, a quibble five hundred and small stories with more than five hundred words are usually called ficlet.
The drabble challenge in my forums is still open. Follow the link at the bottom of my profile and request a drabble for a missing scene from "Apprentice"!