AN: Hello! I've never submitted any of my writing online, but I just thought that I'd submit this short story for fun. It's my hopefully entertaining attempt at explaining where summoned items come from, which I was always curious about. Because let's be honest, the Wizarding world is a lot less sneaky than they think they are. Enjoy!
The first time that it had happened was during Robert Mudby's late afternoon tea break. The strong brewed breakfast tea - he refused to drink anything else, despite the protests of the clock- and his old, chipped faded pink cups were primly sitting on the worn floral patterned tablecloth his dear late sister had bought him for his birthday. At least, that was how Robert had left them.
He had set out the cups and tea but had forgotten his favorite biscuits. Leaving the sitting room and striding toward the kitchen, he couldn't have been gone long enough for a tea set to go through millions of years of evolution and grow appendages capable of moving the pesky pottery to god knows where.
He had sat there in befuddlement for a moment, trying to puzzle out the odd predicament that was his disappearing tea cups. For the tablecloth in front of him was empty, not a single drop of tea to be seen. Which made everything worse, as that had been his last bag.
Eventually Robert dismissed the incident, blaming the wind, because when things happened that were against all logic, it was always the wind's fault, right?
The next time it had happened was when he was polishing the sword that was hung in all of it's glittering glory above Mudby's bookcase, in firm contrast to the trashy romance novels and dusty, unread fine literature that made their home there. The sword had been an heirloom, a pretty recently acquired one, but an heirloom nonetheless. It had an off-silver colored handle, which Robert could sometimes fantasize about being real silver, a bright steel blade, and, despite it's flashiness, was so blunt that cutting melted butter with it would be deemed a feat worthy of the gods.
Robert had turned away for a split second to put more polish on his brand new powder blue washcloth, but when he turned back around the object that he had been carefully shinning was no longer where it should be. He sat in flabbergasted shock for a long moment, not quite sure who to blame for the clearly vanished cutlery.
He couldn't blame the wind this time, as all of his windows were closed and the sword was a bit too heavy to be carried off by a firm breeze.
So he pretended that it had never happened.
The third time that it happened was the first breaking point. Robert had been watering his garden, caring for the colorful chrysanthemums, digging holes for his new batch of daisies, humming as he watered his hydrangeas. And suddenly, in front of his very eyes, the bouquet that he had been picking for his mother to brighten up her dull nursing home room vanished with a barely audible POP into thin air.
Robert wasn't sure what to make of the odd noise that had left his startled and horrified throat, but he was pretty sure that he had discovered a new octave.
Things had quickly changed after the flower incident. The average onlooker would say that Robert Mudby had gone completely and utterly bonkers. A kinder person might hesitantly blame paranoia. They were both partially right. Poor Mr. Mudby had decided very quickly that it must be aliens who had taken a great interest in abducting him, and the runaway objects were simply their miscalculations in aim. This was probably partially due to his mother's Mid Western USA upbringing and her wild stories about aliens leaving messages in cornfields, but Robert believed in his shaky theory with all of his simple minded might.
The condition of Robert's house and of his mental status had taken a turn for the worst. Most noticeable perhaps was the clutter that now blanketed his floor that was enough to make a hoarder jealous. The poor frazzled man had thought that perhaps the more targets the more likely the aliens would be to miss him. Less noticeable but no less damning was the expensive security cameras that now took permanent residence in every nook, cranny, and mouse hole in Robert's house, which he periodically checked for odd disappearances.
The neighbors had instantly proclaimed him barmy, and would sadly shake their heads and get out of the way whenever he came hobbling down the street, a wild look in his suspicious, darting eyes. Little did they know the truth to Mudby's condition was not, in fact, unfounded.
Finally, the last straw came when Robert was out at the local grocery store, stocking up on provisions for the next month during which he would be hiding under his bed wearing a tin foil hat and holding his old shotgun that could hardly make a hole in the wall, not to mention an alien. He had bought everything he needed, including a large supply of his favorite candy, and was just driving home whist sucking on the lemon flavored confection when the candy bag that he had placed on his dashboard was suddenly gone as if it had never been there at all.
After getting out of the hospital from the resulting flying crash into an unsuspecting oak tree, he would be put through rather intensive counseling before being declared a hopeless case and taken into a nursing home under careful watch.
Meanwhile, what might as well have been a world away, a man with a long white beard and twinkling blue eyes pondered for a moment where summoned items came from, before shrugging and plopping a lemon drop into his mouth happily.