I'm approaching Hogwarts in the '62 Austin Healy. The school-grounds are alive with activity. An assortment of dragons of every color and size fly in formation overhead. Young witches and wizards roam the boundaries of the school-yard practicing their spells, turning the leaves on the trees from green to yellow to red and then back to green. A group of young wizards is engaged in a strange sport which reminds me somewhat of soccer, except that the young wizards are all riding air-borne broomsticks and the ball they are playing with remains constantly in flight.
I slowly make my approach in the Austin Healy, I'm feeling slightly apprehensive. I bring the car to a stop in the courtyard of the main entrance hall and disembark. I stand beside the Austin Healy for a moment, straightening my grey suit, adjusting my thin black tie, taking in my surroundings.
Suddenly I hear what sounds like a ball rolling along the ground nearby.
I look up just in time to see one of the young wizards riding his broomstick quickly in my direction.
"A little help there, Muggle!" the young wizard shouts to me with a snide grin on his lips.
Instantly I whirl in place, bend my knees and hips, assuming the classic stance. I draw my snub-nosed Walther PPK pistol from my breast pocket, and drill the red ball with a single shot, deflating it instantly.
The young wizard's jaw drops as he glares at me in horrified astonishment.
"Oh Miss Moneypenny," I say slowly with a smile as I turn away, replacing the Walther PPK in my breast pocket.
A moment later and I'm inside the entrance of the Great Hall. The chatter of noisy teenagers fills every corner of the building.
The voice of a teenaged girl, "Did you see what Gerard Way wore to the Grammy Award ceremony last night, he looked so goth! If we ever dated, my parents would hate him soooo much!"
The voice of another teenaged girl in response, "Oh my God, I heard that Gerard Way and Jared Leto got into a slap-fight at the awards ceremony after-party because Gerard Way said that his black Porsche got him more 13-year-old poon than Jared Leto's faux-hawk! They are such rebels!"
The voice of a teenaged boy, "Dude, did you see Avril Levine at the Grammy Ceremony last night? She looked hot as shit!"
The voice of another teenaged boy in response, "Oh yeah dude, I would fuckin' nail that shit soooo fuckin' hard man!" Then the teenaged boys slap a high-five and he continues, "Yeah man, I would like, totally penetrate her, like 4 inches deep, with my tiny, little, under-developed, fourteen-year-old dick!"
I look around in dismay, beginning to regret my decision to come here.
I turn to leave the Great Hall when a firm hand clasps my bicep.
"Mr. Blonde?" a stern voice asks, "Mr. James Blonde?"
I turn to face the voice and find myself confronted by an older woman. Her grip on my arm is strong and man-like, her voice is shrill and discompassionate, her face is the scowl of an old and embittered schoolmarm.
"Ah," I say, "Hogwarts Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonegall I presume?"
"You presume correctly Mr. blonde," she says coldly, "We haven't time to waste. Please follow me."
"At you service Madame," I reply as she hurries briskly away. I follow.
Minutes later and we're outside a great, ancient door.
"I'll leave you here, Mr. Blonde," the old dame says.
"Yes, thank you, Ma'am," I say apprehensively, "but Madame, what is on the other side of this door?"
With a knowing stare, Deputy Headmistress McGonegall says, "What is on the other side of this door, Mr. Blonde, are things which the Muggle world need not know about."
And before I could say anything else she was halfway down the hall, floating briskly away.
I turn back toward the door. I inhale deeply, not knowing what to expect, expecting the worst. In a place like this, what could be behind this door? What could be so horrific that it needed to be shrouded from the Muggle world, the world of those who did not practice magic? A dragon? A demon? The kind of eternal knowledge which would drive a man to madness? I hold my breathe and muster my courage. I knock once, twice, I knock three times.
No answer.
I knock again, three times.
Still no answer.
Finally, I take a moment to steady my nerves, and push the door forward. Immediately, a thick plume of dark mist wafts forward. But it isn't mist, no, its smoke, with a distinctly herbal scent to it.
I stand outside the door for a moment allowing the smoke to clear a little. Finally, through the haze, I can see figures in various places and positions, inside the room behind the door. I squint and stare, trying to make out the scene before me, when the voice of an old man comes forward, "Come in, come in already!" the voice shouts with jolly intonation, "you needn't advertise us to in the entire student body!" This is followed by long bellows of rasping laughter.
"Come on mate!" a younger voice calls through the haze, "you're letting all the smoke out of the clam-bake!" And now a chorus of voices, young and old, erupt into laughter.
I step inside.
"Close the door dickbrain!" the old man's voice shouts at me.
I close the door behind me. I stand in place for a few seconds, just inside the door, trying to make-out the scene before me, but I can't, the smoke is too thick.
"Come in, come in," the old man's voice chortles.
"Yes, come in and join the party!" a younger voice calls out.
Tentatively, I begin to make my way through the haze, toward the voices. Finally, I arrive in the antechamber.
Through the smoke I can make out a number of figures, but the smoke is so thick that it obscures my view and I cannot clearly make out any of the others in the room with me. Also, I notice that I am beginning to feel a little light-headed and euphoric. Curious.
"Mr. James Blonde," the old man's deep voice bellows out, "we have been waiting upon your arrival."
Before continuing I query, "I apologize, but I find myself a little disoriented. May I open a window?"
There is silence for a moment. Finally, the old man's voice comes through the smoke, "Yes, yes," then the voice directs, "Harry, open a window for our friend here, Mr. James Buzzkill," and the room erupts into a cacophony of laughter again.
I feel a breeze as the window opens, and moments later the haze has cleared enough for me to make out the occupants of the room.
In the center of the room is a circular stone wall filled with bubbling water. A witches cauldron I suspect, until I see young Miss Hermione Granger pop her head up through the bubbling water, purple bikini clad, her hair wet and matted down around her neck. She goes to her knees in the bubbling water. "Hello Mr. blonde," she says seductively as one of her breasts pops out of the bikini and I look away to avoid her erect nipple pointed at my forehead. I looked away uneasily as Hermione cackles hysterically at my discomfort.
"Ah, Mr. Blonde," the old man's voice blasts, "international Super-Spy!"
Again the room erupts into laughter. I suddenly notice that although this is definitely not the kind of scene I am usually into, I am beginning to feel distinctly less somber, and even though I am unaware of what I find funny, I have to resist the urge to laugh.
"Headmaster Dumbledore I presume," I say as calmly as I can.
"We are glad you could make it Mr. Blonde!" the old wizard howls, "we have some business to discuss!" He follows this with raucous laughter with causes me at first to smirk, then grimace, then bow over with laughter.
"Ah yes, Mr. Blonde," the wizard continues, "I see you have fallen under our spell. Don't hold back Mr. Blonde, enjoy! Be alive! Allow yourself the joy of living!"
Unable to control myself, I ask through tears of laughter, " Mr. Dumbledore, what kind of magic spell have you filled this room with?" I wave my hand at the smoke around me.
"Ah Mr. Blonde," Dumbledore laughs, "there is nothing magical about the air of merriment in this room. It is merely the aura of simple, organic, herbal refreshment!"
"Excuse me," I say, finding my sobriety again.
"Yes Mr. Blonde," Dumbledore bellows, "salvia, salva mea, Mary J, ganja, the green gangsta good fellow, 420, the Alaskan thundfuck, the domestic don juan, giggle twig, green grass, hocus pocus, the homegrown hooch, mbanja, panama red, one hit wonder, reefer, schwag, skunk, stems, sweet lucy, Turkish delight, wacky tabacky, dat shit dat will fuck you up 'til you don't know if you're coming or going!"
"No, Mr. Dumbledore," I argue, "I am a product of the swinging '60's London, and I can tell you Mr. Dumbledore, this is not a marijuana high that I am feeling."
"No Mr. Blonde," he persists, "not in the sense in which you are familiar with marijuana. This is hydroponic my friend! The potential of Afghani Cush has been maximized!" he says as he rolls on his haunches with laughter.
Instantly I regain my composure.
"Mr. Dumbledore!" I say sternly, "why have you summoned me here today?"
An unhappy scour appears on Dumbledore's face.
"Harry!" the old wizard shouts, "come here boy!"
Harry Potter dazedly crosses the room, stands before Dumbledore.
"On your knees, before me, Harry!" Dumbledore shouts.
Harry Potter kneels before Dumbledore as the bearded wizard loosens the belt holding his robe closed.
"Mr. Blonde," the wizard says, addressing me, "a new threat has been born which poses a threat to our way of life."
Now the wizard's robe is open and he places his hands upon the back of Harry Potter's head.
"How is this my concern," I begin, "how do you suppose that I, James Blonde, international Super-Spy, 'Muggle', can assist the wizarding world in its quest against whatever power might be threatening it?"
Now Dumbledore is thrusting his hips rhythmically as his hands pull Harry Potter's head forward and backward toward his genitalia.
"Mr. Blonde," the old wizard continues, "what threatens Hogwarts threatens not only the world of magic, but the mortal world, 'the Muggle world', as well. It is a sinister evil, Mr. Blonde, with roots dating back to the beginning of mankind, and beyond. It threatens everything we know, everything which exists. It has the power to bring about the end of us all, Muggle and magician."
"Ok, old man," I reply, "so where do I begin?"
"You've known all along," the wizard answers, "SPECTRE, your old arch-nemesis."
"Alright, wizard," I reply, "SPECTRE it is."
Harry Potter gags, then withdraws from the old man's crotch, spewing a slime of white dribble from his mouth.
"Choked on me pasta primavera, I have," he says with a goofy, stoned grin.