The Houses Competition
Ravenclaw
Charms
Standard
[Creature] Mountain Troll & [Object] Feather Duster
2009 words
Hogwarts Competition
Ravenclaw
Creative Technology Task #3 - Write about someone's perception being altered or changed.
History is a cruel mistress. The worth of a man centuries after he is gone is often a footnote at the bottom of the page or, at best, narrowed down to a mere chapter in the history books. Rarely do those depicted in the texts have any true input on what is placed there, and it has been said that the descriptions given often act as a mere facsimile compared to the one it would attempt to describe.
Such was the case with Pierre Bonaccord who, despite living for a respectable 132 years, had his entire memory narrowed down to a profession he held for a mere decade, and even in that, the historical accounts only truly cared for the controversy caused by Liechtenstein's refusal to acknowledge his position as Supreme Mugwump. It is perhaps necessary then, that this narrator (who is by no means a time traveller) take a moment to set the record straight on good old Pierre.
Growing up, Pierre had few political leanings at all. That was more his father's thing, and Pierre did not look forward to the day when he would be called to walk in his father's footsteps. Nay, the boy was an adventurer at heart whose idea of a good life involved seeing all there was to see and learning all there was to learn. It is said that he was a powerful student; indeed, his first bouts of accidental magic were not so much accidental as they were wandless, wordless things attempted through the use of a feather duster of all things. Such an auspicious beginning could only take the boy far in life, everyone was sure.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
"Un moment!" Pierre cried at the incessant banging at his door. The man was in the middle of packing for his grand journey to Liechtenstein's Swiss Alps, but whoever was at the door did not seem to care. With a quick flick and absent-minded thought, the intruder was let in.
"Still waving that old feather duster around, mon frère?" his sister, Anne, greeted.
"What can I say? It fits me better than that piece of wood Acajor swindled our parents into buying. Anytime I try to really push my limits, the damn thing goes capoot on me. As long as I avoid fire-based spells, this duster does me just fine." Anne simply raised an eyebrow.
"I don't suppose you'll write will you?"
"For the third and final time, yes, I will write, Anne, but you need to understand that I'll be focusing most of my attention on my studies under Emil Krum. I'm lucky to have caught the attention of such a great magizoologist and refuse to be caught slacking just because my sister insists on having a letter. But yes, I will write at least a little bit as much as I can."
Anne huffed a "You'd better!" before adding her wand to his… duster. Together, he was quickly made ready for his trip.
Master Krum was not supposed to die. They should have been further back or had better shielding against the Graphorns they'd been observing; Pierre knew that now. This particular group seemed to have a strange relationship with the trolls in the area, and they'd been eager to watch the two interact. Instead, the Graphorns attacked their troll visitor before turning their attention onto them. Master Krum had not allowed him to take his feather duster on their ventures, and, in fear of his life, Pierre put as much power as he could into his spells. The first three worked fine, but the shot that could have saved the magizoologist's life was met with a sputtering wand that refused to act. By the time Pierre thought to cast with nothing but his hands, the Graphorns had torn his mentor into shreds and run off in the opposite direction.
Pierre didn't know how long he stood there before a keening sound brought him back to the situation at hand. In the fading light, he could just make out the back of the troll moving. No, it wasn't the back. It was a troll babe, clinging to its mother's back. Soon enough, the troll turned its attention to the sole living creature in the grassy clearing.
Bright eyes that seemed to glow in the darkness peered almost curiously at Pierre. The youngling tilted its head in such a way that it reminded him of his sister's kitten when they were growing up. On unsteady feet, the creature stood on its mother's corpse before slowly making its way towards him.
If asked, Pierre could not have told you why he stayed in that place. By any measure, the smart thing to do would have been to Apparate out of there as quickly as possible, but it was as if he was transfixed by the awkward wobble of the ugly creature. Perhaps it was shock that guided his actions. Perhaps it was not. At any rate, history didn't much care for this life-changing event in his life, so no one really asked why he chose to stand there, silently waiting for the creature to reach him.
Once they stood alongside each other, the enormity of the situation came upon him. The babe came nearly to his chest in height, and with a pudgy finger, it explored his hair in confusion.
Knowing that what he was doing went against every standard of acceptable observation protocol, he meandered back to his cabin, the creature following every step of the way.
Once there, he sent an anonymous owl to the Liechtenstein Aurors alerting them to an accident on the mountain and, with his trusty feather duster, conjured up a makeshift diaper for the creature and a large pile of faux furs that were used to make a nest-like structure for the child. It just so happened that, whilst he was working to convince the troll babe of the necessity of a diaper, Pierre discovered that the child was female. Thankfully, the difficulty of the aforementioned activity did not repeat when he introduced her to the nest, and the gangly grey babe fell to sleep quickly under his watchful gaze. Watching her sleep certainly beat attempting the same for himself. Every time Pierre blinked, flashes of the day's gory beginnings haunted him.
A routine of sorts was quickly formed. Whimpers from the grey creature that next morning caused Pierre to buy a herd of goats and chickens from a nearby farmer. Their milk alongside a steady supply of softened meat kept the babe fed, and between keeping the herd happy and the child happy, Pierre's days were busy more often than not. He got a basic rattle from a nearby village and enlarged it to fit his purposes. For the first month or so, the child, whom he began to call Petite Montagne, used the toy in much the same way elders of her kind would use a club. Several impervious charms kept the cabin standing despite the assault.
After that, however, a curious change seemed to take place. It almost seemed like Petite Montagne had become an observer, watching her caregiver's every action and slowly attempting to mimic it. Pierre had never anticipated having to teach a mountain troll how to use good touch with a goat, but seeing Petite Montagne's toothy grin when she managed to pet a goat without it running away made the week-long venture worth it.
A week after that, Petite Montagne began to become frustrated with her rattle for no reason that Pierre could decipher. It took her picking up one of the chickens and putting it on top of the rattle for Pierre to realize she wanted it to have feathers. One flick of the feather duster later, Petite Montagne happily waved her toy about… only more gently than before.
Pierre soon realized that the child had gone from mimicking actions she would have seen her own mother do to mimicking his own actions with the feather duster. Having already learned that she seemed to be soothed by the sound of his voice, he began to narrate his actions to her and speak of how, for him, magic was less about verbalizing specific words and phrases and more about picturing his desired result. By this point, Pierre had been without human contact for over two months, and it could not be said how much his ramblings were for the sake of Petite Montagne vs for his own. It is nearly certain that he did not anticipate anything to come from his monologues. At that time, as it is now, the prevailing school of thought claimed that trolls were mindless beasts incapable of magic.
While Pierre had learned enough to know Petite Montagne was by no means mindless, he certainly would not have believed her capable of understanding more than the tone of his voice, never mind magical theory that went over the heads of many of his peers who relied on their magical foci.
Pierre cannot be blamed for his ignorance just as Petite Montagne cannot be blamed for her own eagerness to be like her provider.
It began with little things, well, as little as such things can be when they're caused by a troll child. Items around the house would seem to be moved out of place whenever Pierre left Petite Montagne to her own devices. Knowing that she had the strength to move anything she wanted physically, however, he never paid it much mind.
By the time Petite Montagne actually deigned to show him her new skill, it was quite obvious that she had mastered the basic concept, and, despite the shock, the only thing that really changed was the addition of simple magic lessons to their daily agenda. He would show her a new skill with his feather duster, and his little protegé would copy him.
Life could not be sweeter.
It was inevitable that such sweetness would come to an end.
For perhaps obvious reasons to us, Pierre rather forgot to write to his dear sister off in France, and once word got out that Monsieur Krum had met a grizzly end, she was desperate for any word on his health. Their parents were equally concerned but were unwilling to allow her to go off on her own to the country where he had possibly died. It was not a simple matter of sending their own people to the area as the Liechtenstein government would doubtlessly look upon such actions unfavourably. Instead, Pierre's father was forced to plead with the local government to look into his son's disappearance.
Eight months had passed since Monsieur Krum's death by the time they agreed, eight months in which Pierre's little cabin had been made exceedingly larger to fit his little mountain. Six months of which were spent teaching said mountain how to work her magic.
The Aurors had no idea what they were walking into.
Under normal circumstances, two Aurors would not be sufficient to stop a mountain troll. The troll they came across, however, was not fully grown, and more importantly than that, the inherent magic that normally makes their skin nearly impenetrable had been given a focus through the rattle. As a result, Petite Montagne had a weakness never before seen in her kind, and Pierre had never thought to show her protective magic.
Pierre, who had been out catching their dinner, came home to a bloodbath and two Aurors congratulating themselves on a job well done. They expected thanks. What they got was an enraged father who was only able to be brought down because they had stood at opposite sides of the room.
What injuries they sustained were attributed to their battle with a troll, and the knocked-out body of the one they rescued did not say anything against such a claim. Pierre Bonaccord was quickly sent via Floo back to his home where his family was happy to find he'd lost his interest in exploring foreign lands. Instead, he entered politics, and the rest is, as they say, history.