The Horror! The Horror!
Harry Potter and the Kurtz Estate, Chapter 2
A/N: A kind reviewer asked for a plot. Blame him or her for this continuing…travesty. The obvious plot starts in this chapter and should finish up in four or five more. Much thieving goodness from other fanfic writers and also old movies and shows. Kudos to anyone who can spot them all.
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Dear Flourish and Blotts Manager,
I have enclosed 125 galleons. I would like your staff to send along 25 galleons worth of whatever divination texts you have in stock. Our resident nundu seems to have literally consumed all our library's previous offerings in this discipline.
In addition, I would like 25 galleons of potions texts, 25 galleons of magical creature texts, the books entitled Old Priest and Young Priest: Wacky Exorcism Rituals for Fun and Profit, and The Fawlty Towers Guide to Hotel Mis-Management. Please spend the remaining galleons on any texts on hospitality management and religion (especially any that venerate eels, mongeese, or pumpkin pastries) you might happen to have in stock. (Unfortunately, Reverend Fred and Innkeeper George couldn't be any more specific about the books they wanted.)
I wonder if your staff might recommend any magical correspondence school. We have several students who wish to finish off their schooling by owl post. Any help would be appreciated.
The thunderbird delivering this letter should be plenty large enough to bring back all the books we've requested. If not, please feel free to deduct your standard owl post delivery charges for any owls you sent out to us.
Best regards,
Remus Lupin
Resident Librarian and Pubmaster,
Hamlet of Nundu-Ate-My-Books, The Congo
P.S. Do you have any cookbooks on how to prepare and serve goat? Please send along any you might have. Also anything on preparing crocodile, perhaps goat-stuffed crocodile. Thanks.
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Albus had had a bad month. First, the whole Tournament thing…and that poor boy dying. (Then having to comfort the dead boy's parents, so much crying on his robes.) Then the whole Voldemort thing, you know, his rebirth. Then it was Minerva keeping him in his discipline harness for thirty hours straight. Then the articles about him in the Prophet, the Minister acting like even more of a hippogryph's behind, and the threat of placing his foul henchtoad at Hogwarts.
Finally, worst of all, he'd run out of the pinnacle of alchemical science. He was out of lemon sherbets, the special kind, the magical kind.
Few knew it, but the only thing more difficult to create than a Philosopher's Stone was a perfectly balanced lemon sherbet. The appropriate amounts of sweet and sour; of lightness and darkness; of gravel and peat moss; the razor's edge balance of calming potion and memory obfuscation elixir. The right amounts of GHB and ketamine plus the appropriate amount of peyote and LSD. Then, the keystone: the milligram of Ritalin in every candy.
It took Albus more than…err, five minutes to brew the concoction up…but it was a tense five minutes. Any distraction, any distraction at all would result in nothing dangerous happening. However, if he added too much candied lemon peel to the mixture, then his lips might pucker a bit, sometimes.
As Albus knew, it was the hardest thing to make in all of alchemy. Such a dangerous creation couldn't be taught to children – even if he did offer one to everyone who entered his office – which was why he'd cut out half the courses at Hogwarts once he'd become headmaster.
Who wanted to learn alchemy? Or who wanted to attend a course solely on the transmutation of sewage into gold? Or that class on fooling Gringotts goblins to increase the interest they paid – who needed that? Or the one on defeating Dark Lords with logic and lime jello? Or the course on dragon wrangling?
Or the one on politics and keeping the Ministry of Magic honest – useless. There was also that course, quite antiquated, on teaching wizards how not to get witches pregnant. Didn't all parents discuss such things, awkwardly and haltingly, at home, once, for perhaps seven and a quarter minutes? Or the one on how to ensure a wizard never became a fat, firewhiskey drinking slob who was in dire need of divorce (which was illegal in the wizarding world)? Bah, much better to teach five years of astronomy and goblin rebellions, err, History of Magic.
Albus popped his last lemon sherbet into his mouth…and reeled for a moment. It lost a good deal of its potency it seemed; plenty of LSD in effect, but almost no memory clearing elements remaining. He didn't normally think about the past this much. Best not to dwell on dreams, especially when there was peyote and LSD available.
Maybe he'd need more of the memory obscuration elixir in the next batch?
Albus blinked a few times and then sat down. He'd need to order some supplies immediately if he were going to get some new lemon sherbets in a timely fashion.
He dug into one of the piles on his side table. His potions supplier catalogs. Most alchemy was done with potions ingredients…just in a special way confusingly described and annotated with runes and rituals that made no difference whatsoever to the final product.
Albus quickly marked down the long list of muggle pharmaceuticals he needed (he was the leading purchaser of psychotropics in wizarding Britain), then turned to a new catalog for potions supplies.
The selection was excellent and the prices were quite reasonable. What could he use as filler for his magical lemon sherbets?
One kilograms of grim dander: 8 sickles
Two kilograms of augurey regurgitation: 1 galleon 6 sickles
One kilogram of toad spawn: 3 sickles
Four kilograms of fermented Devil's Snare trimmings: 4 sickles
Twenty kilograms of crushed Congolese Black dragon egg shells: 3 galleons 4 sickles
Albus was quite pleased with the good deals he received when a few more lines on his order form filled themselves in.
Perverted Headmaster Tax: 500 galleons
Kidnapper of Babies Penalty: 750 galleons
Excess Dementia Tax: 1250 galleons
Outlived Your Usefulness Fee: 5000 galleons
Lets People Rot in Prison Surcharge: 100000 galleons
The Headmaster was confused for a good long while. He certainly didn't have 105,000 galleons to spend on something worth about 6 or 7 galleons. Hmm, a faulty order form. He might have to write and let the company know that their order form was so…buggy.
He decided to order from someone else…when the door to his office slammed open and the real Headmaster…err, Deputy Headmistress strolled in with an angry expression on her face.
"Albus, you've been a bad boy. Bad!"
"No, I haven't. I've been a good Headmaster. But I'm out of lemon sherbets…."
"You have been bad," McGonagall said. "This letter in my hand proves it. You've been a very bad Headmaster. Not only did you not bring me any new…magazines today, but you've lost us our most prominent student. Who will attend if Harry Potter doesn't? Who will hold together the shaky plot this school year? Who will be the victim of the Ministry's lead torturer…or the target of petty, yet juvenile attacks by your pet Death Eater? Hmm? Without Harry, we don't have a plot! Our show…err, book…err, school will be cancelled."
"I didn't do that."
"You did. I'm telling you, Albus. Get. Harry. Back. And I don't want you trying to pass off one of your lifesize dolls as Harry. They don't eat, talk, suffer…they don't do anything right. In fact, your punishment (in addition to being restrained) will be to give up all your lifesize, anatomically proportionate Harry Potter dolls. Where do you keep them?"
Albus mumbled something.
"What? Speak clearly…or I'll double your punishment. And I'll confiscate your magazines of young men in see-through robes."
"All right," Albus said. "My doll collection is in Lecture Hall 7."
"You need an entire lecture hall? Where do you keep your pornography then? Lecture Halls 1 through 6?"
Albus was suspiciously silent.
"Fine. All confiscated by order of the Deputy Headmistress."
"But I'm the Headmaster?"
"Do you want to be in your harness for twelve hours, Albus?"
"Fine."
"Excellent. Things work much better when you agree with me. We should have had this out years and years ago, long before you placed Potter with those horrible muggles. Come to think of it, Albus, you've never been punished for that."
"No, Mistress…."
"You have not earned that right, worm. You will call me Deputy Headmistress, worm."
"Yes, Deputy Headmistress."
"So, you get your toys and magazines confiscated and a number of hours in your harness. But what to do for ignoring my counsel all those years ago…."
"A beating, Deputy Headmistress?"
"Not painful enough, worm. Perhaps hours mucking out stables? Cleaning the house elf quarters, no they'd riot if someone else cleaned them. Oh, I've surprised myself. You will have private dinners with Professor Trelawney, the old fraud, every night until classes resume. She will be denied her sherry and you won't be touching another lemon sherbet until September 1…."
"No! No, Deputy Headmistress. Anything but that. I'll claw my own eyes out. I'll pluck out inner ear bones…."
"Another thing to punish you for. You didn't listen to me about Potter's placement and you certainly didn't listen to me about abolishing Divination. Instead, you got rid of the politics and finance courses, and that dealing with Dark Lords course, and the 'health' course which scared the bejesus out of amorous wizards…you know, things which were actually useful. Yes, I think this is the perfect punishment…to begin with."
"You are more than cruel, Deputy Headmistress." Albus sounded defeated.
"And I think you will be restricted to speaking about divination techniques while you dine."
"No! Nooooo."
"Tarot cards; palmistry; séances, oh yes."
"No. Deputy Headmistress, please be kind to your old mentor."
"Perhaps you'll learn, worm. Now find me someone old enough to wear a catsuit. My non-magical poster of Michelle Pfeiffer isn't as exciting as it once was."
"Nooooo. I'll take a week in the discipline harness, Deputy Headmistress. Anything but Trelawney, She-Who-Cannot-Divine."
"You will, worm. I can add to your punishment, you know. Mr. Filch needs to eat lunch just as much as Trelawney needs to eat dinner. I understand he's hopping mad over a new variety of dungbomb that's hit the market. Next to impossible to clean up…and whoever breathes in the odors comes down with an illness or four. Dragon Pox, Spattergoit, a mysterious rash on one's upper thighs, a second head…."
"Nooooooo. Not Filch, Deputy Headmistress."
"Get me my bullwhip, worm. We have plans to make. And get Nymphadora Tonks to return my firecalls. I think she would look fetching as a seventy year old in a cat woman suit."
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The Deputy Headmistress looked down at the letter in her hand again. It displeased her greatly. She'd have to send out her Order again to find Mr. Potter.
And she made a note to punish Albus further. Perhaps she'd take away his animated Phoenix doll named Fawkes. It was bad enough that the old madman made everyone believe it was real; now he was talking with the blasted thing while he was in his harness. She'd have to take the doll away…and add a ball gag.
Potter's letter made her sad, angry, and resolute all at the same time:
Dear Professor McGonagall,
I am withdrawing from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry as I have started a business and intend to see it through.
I plan to continue my magical education via self-study, tutors, or owl correspondence courses. Do you have any recommendations in this line?
Thank you for your tuition over the years.
Best regards,
Harry Potter
P.S. Could you ask the kitchen elves if they have any recipes for goat? My employees are getting fed up (no pun intended) with the limited repertoire I have for caprine cooking. Thank you for asking them.
Cooking goat? Self study with his poor academic record? Starting a business at age fourteen? Something was very wrong here. And the Deputy Headmistress intended to find out what it was.
And she'd have to add more punishment to Albus. He always insisted that Gryffindors and Slytherins shared Potions class together. That was worth a paddling – or twenty.
Oh, yes, the Deputy Headmistress had plans.
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Dear Hermione,
I hope you are well. I remember you were supposed to be vacationing in Europe. Did you visit Viktor Krum? Some of the Gryffindor girls mentioned that he lived in a castle. Was it nice?
I was just elected mayor of NoName Town. Our reverend insisted he would only vote for me if I agreed that our town would never have a permanent name. So I am required to think up a new name every time I write a letter. Crazy townsfolk.
I have also started up a potions supply business. I will make sure I get our owl order manager to put your name on the catalog list. So far it's been fun. The nundu is rather high maintenance, but our resident dragons haven't caused many problems.
We also just got a very generous donation of creatures. Some kind soul sent me a young basilisk, a well-tempered cockatrice, and a rather amorous pair of manticore and chimera. Apparently no other poitions supply company bothers with these four beasts…but Hagrid might actually be right. They're relatively harmless. (The thousands of African scorpion spiders we have in our spider hut have caused many more problems and none of them are bigger than ten centimeters in length.)
The town is small so far, but we're growing. We have a pub, a church, an inn, and one major business. The house I bought is a fixer upper, but I can use magic freely out here. (No stupid Ministry rules.) It's become a fairly nice place to live. Perhaps you can come and visit next summer with your parents. I can show you my favorite water fall.
If you come, will you bring some tinned beef or fish or anything other than goat? Thanks in advance.
Oh, you'll never believe what we discovered a few days ago. About twenty miles from our little hamlet, I found a group of diricawl – known to muggles as the extinct dodo bird – and they seem to be in good health. Apparently their shed feathers are quite useful in beauty potions and a modified swelling solution that hasn't been used much in a hundred years.
Anyway, enjoy your OWL year at Hogwarts. I'm sure you've already started revising. Take some time to enjoy life, too.
All my best,
Harry
Mayor of Goat-Central-Jungle, The Congo
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Dear Ron,
How have you been? I got word that the Cannons won their first game in three seasons. I hope you were excited for them.
Too bad the other team came down with bubonic plague shortly before the match. It was a shame that one of the Beaters for the Falcons died in the air and landed on two of their Chasers and their Seeker. Still, it was a close match, 220-210.
I wrote to McGonagall to let her know I wasn't coming back to Hogwarts this year. I stumbled into a job that's fun and dangerous (on par with what your brother Charlie is doing). No matter what, I expect you to try out for the Quidditch team. You'll make a great Keeper.
The twins wrote and told me that they pranked you a few times. I hope you got them back. The simplest thing I could recommend would be to cut off some finger nails from a few garden gnomes and put them in their pumpkin juice. Instant chaos the next time you see them. (Don't tell them I said that.)
I should tell you that we have a lot of spiders here (the venom is pretty useful for potions)…so I'll understand if you're leery of visiting later this summer. Still, I'll send a letter to your mum to invite everyone down for a few days.
Maybe you can come visit. If not, have a great year at Hogwarts.
Bye!
Harry
P.S. I've been trying to get in touch your brother Charlie. We just got a bicorn and a quintaped. I know he works with dragons, but I wonder if he has any experience with other creatures.
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Perenelle Flamel, otherwise known as Hetty the Batty Realtor, sat down with her potions catalogs. She and her husband, Nicholas, were down to only seven Philosopher's Stones, all of them pretty much used up…so it was time to synthesize another one.
The damned things were horrendously expensive to make…everyone thought that they were useful in transforming lead into gold, but that was a lie (one of Nick's better ideas to puff up his reputation; some weak-minded fools got excited about immortality, but everyone wanted more gold). The Stone's only value was in extending life. Seriously, if she had an infinite amount of gold would she bother to sell real estate to nimrods?
She began flipping through catalogs. She needed a whole dragon heart, but none of the owl order catalogs offered them. (They were illegal to sell, except to a registered wand maker.) She'd probably have to approach a few people in Knockturn Alley.
She needed four leprechaun brains as well. No go in the catalogs. Perhaps she'd have to make a journey to Ireland.
However, she did find phoenix ash in one catalog. And trice-scorched yew wood.
But the find of the century was a dismal set of sheets that offered lethifold skin, grim hair, manticore venom, and basilisk fang. The catalog offered incredible prices. She ordered two thousand galleons worth of components from just that catalog. She was ready to sign the bottom of the order form when she noticed a few auto-filled lines at the bottom of the form.
Evil Realtor Surcharge: 5000 galleons
Secret Identity Tax – Flamel: 15000 galleons
Ridiculous Phony Surname Fee: 1000 galleons
Failed Evil Plotting Penalty: 100000 galleons
She crumpled the form up and screamed. Then she decided to get even.
A quick perusal of the form revealed the potions company was in Up-Your-Goat's-Nostril, The Congo.
Congo. Congo. That blasted Kurtz Estate.
That meant…that meant that Potter hadn't died.
He'd invented this insulting order form to taunt her failure. The little bastard, little premature ejaculating bastard, the little whimpers-when-tortured-with-hot-coals bastard….
Oh no. Perenelle Flamel, er, Hetty Bogrash never failed.
She got even.
The old batty woman grabbed her cloak and went to fetch her husband. She walked to the employee entrance of Gringott's.
"Excuse me, master goblin, but have you seen my husband Trellis Bogrash?"
"I know no such person," the short creature said, before breaking out into a feral, toothy grin.
"Well, do you know where," here her voice became much quieter, "Cockrot is?"
"Oh, Cockrot. Yes, I believe Cockrot is having lunch at the Stamped Galleon." It didn't help that the little goblin was almost yelling out his answer…and very nearly laughing. "It's a pub mostly frequented by goblins…and dim-witted humans. They serve the best firecrab larvae there. Just behind Gringotts and up four blocks. Can't miss it; it's in the darkest alley. Cockrot said he was picking up the tab for everyone there. Great guy, Cockrot, even if he is broken down and fairly useless."
"Err, thanks."
She hated goblins now more than ever, but they would serve their purpose. The foul little creatures would literally sell their mother's decayed bones to make a sickle…so when she 'inadvertently' offered them the information find of the century, there would be a stampede to sell it off to everyone.
An hour and a half later, Hetty finally stumbled into the darkest alley. Who knew that the London streets around Diagon had eight or twelve dark alleys per block? Magic was great, but sometimes witches and wizards were just stupid. Hiding extra dark alleys didn't seem smart at all.
Hetty walked into the literal hole in the wall (it looked like a troll had just clubbed down a section of wall) and saw her husband, drunk and slurping down fire crab larvae by the bucket.
She greeted him with a firm handshake, rather than the traditional kiss, as he had wriggling guts on his lips. Then she was pushed into a seat and handed a drink that smelled like the fermented sweat from a dozen, molding Quidditch robes.
"Hetty, Hetty. What're ya doin' here," Trellis, or Nick, or her husband slurred out.
"I just got a letter from that sweet boy Harry Potter. He's settled into his new place in the Congo very nicely. I understand he took my advice and started up a potions supply business."
"Idn't that sweet? Want some larvae?"
Hetty noticed with no mean satisfaction that the room began to empty out rapidly. Even the bartender disappeared through a back door. Only Perenelle, Nick, and a couple goblins too drunk on fermented sweat remained.
Life was good.
"I'm not going to drink that. And I'm not going to…. No, Trellis." Her drunk husband didn't seem to recognize his new name. "You are Trellis….so stop shoving those wriggling creatures near my mouth. There is no way, absolutely no way. Ack! Why did you do that." A spicy flavor filled her mouth.
"That isn't half bad, but you're still sleeping on the iron-spike bed tonight. Alone."
"Damn, not half drunk 'nough for that. Want some dis, Hetty?"
The smell sent shivers down her back. It could be the stuff in the glass or the fact that her husband's breath smelled exactly the same way.
She felt more than a little nauseous. "No, thanks. I'm going to head back to work. Isn't it time you went back to Gringotts?"
"Don't want to. Dragon tried to eat my arm."
"I'm sure it wasn't that bad."
"The goblin healer had to beat the dragon up to get my arm out of its mouth. Then it took twenty minutes to reattach it. That's why I'm soooo dru…druk…er, wasted…."
"I see. Maybe it's time to think of a safer line of work."
"Pimp?"
"No, Nic…er, Trellis. You'd spend too much time sampling the wares."
"Bartender?"
"Lush much?"
"Famous artist?"
"Maybe, but you'd have to die before your paintings would be worth anything."
"Done it before. We could do it again."
"Alright, it's a definite maybe."
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Dear Mr. Lovegood,
Thank you for your inquiry. We have searched our ranch and do not, at present, have any samples of your requested creatures. Perhaps if we had a firmer description beyond just the name we might be able to assist you better.
As you may be aware, new creatures are discovered all the time. Why the dragon breed Congolese Black was discovered very close to our ranch. In addition, creatures thought lost, such as Golden Snidgets and diricawls, have been found in the jungle, too. Do not despair.
As for your request for your daughter to intern with us, we would be glad to host Ms. Lovegood here. We have enclosed the medical release form, the accidental creature digestion release form, the vicious poisoning release form, the unexpected mauling release form, the agonized drowning release form, the malicious pranking release form, and the meal preference selection form. (If your daughter is allergic to goat, or does not like the taste, we might recommend her not coming for an internship.) Any questions may be answered by our solicitor, Lord Black, at Padfoot, Grim, and Bark.
(One quick note: our canteen, at present, has one hundred four recipes for goat…including goat soufflé, goat ragout, goat goulash, thrice-dragon-roasted goat spleen, peanut and goat, yam and goat, peanut, yam, and goat, goat roasted in Devil's Snare, goat roasted in clay, goat roasted in mud, goat roasted under rocks, and so on.)
Please contact us for any further questions. We will expect your daughter on August 1.
Best regards,
The Management
Grim and Heckle Potions Purveyors
Send-Chicken-We're-Tired-of-Goat-Already, The Congo
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"Mr Lord, we have discovered where Potter is," the simpering Death Eater proclaimed.
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"My Lord, we have discovered where Potter is," the simpering Dedalus Diggle said to a drugged out Albus Dumbledore (still strung up in his harness). After getting no response, he left the room in confusion and went to find Minerva.
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"My Lord, we have discovered where Potter is," the simpering Dolores Umbridge whispered lustily to her Fudge, who was gorging himself on bon-bons made from house elves (not by house elves).
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"My Lord…err, my Editor, we have discovered where Potter is," said the unctuous Rita Skeeter to her personality-less boss.
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"Holy Shit, Potter's in Africa," said the Quidditch team publicity manager. "We need to take advantage of this bleeding edge trend. Famous, sexy celebrities visit Africa. They adopt orphans; they visit villages and dig wells and ditches. They stage concerts and raise money and get tons of publicity.
"We must visit Africa. For a charity game. For orphans and water wells and hunger relief and making me more famous than Bono and Bill Gates. There must be no humanitarian fundraising gap. We will not fail. We will not let Potter out Africa us, out humanitarian us, or out-catch us on the pitch. Boys, suit up, we're going to the jungle!"
A rather unenthusiastic bunch of Quidditch players shrugged until the team's owner seemed to start nodding his head. P.R. was P.R., even if it meant malaria and diarrhea for days.
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"My Lord," the simpering fan girl said to an eight foot tall poster of Harry's face, "we have found you. We are coming."
The hundreds of girls (and the Creevey brothers) rose up and began to prepare. This was the best Harry Potter Fan Club meeting in some time: road trip. It was almost as good as the time Colin brought in omniocular footage of Harry soaping up in the shower.
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Dear Mr. William Weasley,
Thank you for your response to our earlier letter. I will pass along your breathless comments about our thunderbird to the creature himself. But I will dole them out over time, as I don't want Barney to get a big head.
As for the schedule you propose, it is acceptable. We would greatly prefer to have our facility warded earlier than October, but we understand how 'in demand' a team of warders and cursebreakers can be.
(Do not worry about us in the meantime. I am led to believe by the locals that we have already plugged up most of the security holes. The hundred kilometer network of dangerous, secret, semi-collapsed caverns was quite useful for storing…err, certain animal products. The dank helps it ferment. And we have worked out a way to avoid an attack from the river…and from the air. Dragons are useful for more than eating goats, after all.)
We look forward to hosting you and your team in the future. Perhaps you might also evaluate the ancient burial mounds we've discovered. Also, we have a fair number of cursed objects that locals have traded to us for our wares; we would want someone to examine them as well. (There's one rather mouthy talking, shrunken head that we would like to get rid of.) Plenty to keep you busy.
Hope you are well,
Jina Lako
Manager, Grim and Heckle Potions Purveyors
Mayor, Shit-Don't-Stink-When-It's-Buried, The Congo
P.S. I thought it was an offense against Gringotts to reveal your goblin name. You should be more careful not to recycle love notes from French witches. We will pretend not to have made note of the name "Gingerpassionfury."
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"What is your bidding, my Lord?"
"Attack!"
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"What is your bidding, my Lord?"
"I'm not a man. Can't you tell?"
"What is your bidding, my Lady?"
"Call me the Deputy Headmistress, worm."
"Yes, Deputy Headmistress. What is your bidding?"
"Kidnap," Albus shouted in a mumbled sort of way through his ball gag.
"Belay that. Hmm. Repatriate!"
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"What is your bidding, my Lord?"
"More house elf bon-bons, Dolores."
"Right away, my merciful Lord."
The room fell silent except for the sound of Fudge's slurping and crunching. Eventually he finished his plate.
"About Potter. I wonder. Dolores?"
"Yes, master."
"Incriminate!"
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"What is your bidding, my…Editor?"
"Smear!"
"Of course," Rita said with glee in her eyes. She dug out a freshly sharpened acid green quill, dripping with the milk of human…kindness.
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"What do you desire, our Lord?"
Strangely enough the eight foot poster of Potter's head was eerily silent.
"I think I hear something," Susan Bones whispered. "I do. I do. I hear it."
"What does he say?" Ginny Weasley, the immediate past president of the club, asked.
"Impregnate!"
Hundreds of arms rose in the air, punching exultantly, and hundreds of mouths shouted "yes!"
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Dear Mr. Charles Weasley,
Thank you for your helpful letter of last Thursday. I am sorry to hear that you are not aware of the proper name of a manticore-chimera crossbreed. Chimicore? Mantera? Terrifying demi-demons?
In any event, we now appear to have an even dozen of them. They seem to prefer venom over milk and want their prey to be alive. Several have stingers instead of feet; others have stingers instead of wings. One has a stinger instead of a tongue. It's a rather gruesome business all around. We will take it under advisement whether to just ship the whole lot to Rubeus Hagrid at Hogwarts.
I am also sorry to learn you had not ever heard of the Congolese Black dragon. They are quite a bit bigger and more irascible than even the Hungarian Horntail. As you noted in your letter, the sample of teeth and claws we sent do in fact seem to be made from real silver, rather than just being of a silver color. We have had to feed silver ingots to the younger dragons to help them through their growing pains.
At this time, we cannot ship any to your preserve, as the five we have are quite a tight bunch. (Plus they alone are the only things our nundu seems to fear.)
I will write to your colleagues who look after quintapeds and bicorns. I understand the necessity of specialization. No worries.
Our questions are somewhat moot now, anyway. The bicorn has become a good deal less irritable after it gave birth to tredecaplets (13 at a time). The quintaped lost its apparent sixth leg, which turned out to be a young female quintaped (3 to 4 months of age) strapped to its mother for feeding purposes.
I hope to take you up on your invitation to visit your dragon preserve. I would like to extend a similar offer to you and your colleagues in Romania. Just give us a few days' notice and we can lay in some extra goat for dinner.
Best regards,
Walla Walla
Manager, Grim and Heckle Potions Purveyor
Mayor, Awash-in-Babies, The Congo
P.S. Be sure not to arrive without ample notice at the Grim and Heckle Ranch. Dire things would likely happen if you portkeyed, apparated, parachuted, or boated your way into the wrong part of the compound. That being said, it's always safe to visit the bar of a strange town, even ours, except on the full moon, of course.
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A/N: I hope you can see where this plot is going. If I can stop giggling madly, I will try to write some more.