DECEMBER 22 WEDNESDAY
The Lestrange brothers were discharged from St Belzebub's Hospital. The procedure had gone well.
"Thank you again, doctor Malice," said Rastaban.
"Not at all," replied doctor Malice. "I'm just happy the procedure went well. Ah, here is nurse Putrid now with your, erm, shall we call them souvenirs?"
They chuckled. Evilly.
"Here you are," said nurse Putrid, handing over two glass spheres containing a silvery mist. "Be very careful with those. They break easily."
She gave a twisted smile.
The brothers thanked them once again and left the building. They had just passed the hospital gates, when their mobile tele-mirrors went off. Rodolph looked at his.
"It's the Grand Sorcier. He wants to see us."
They sighed, and teleported away.
xxx
The Grand Sorcier sat behind his desk, concealed by his chair, facing the window and probably stroking his cat. The Grand Sorcier, the head of the Tojours Fromage.
"You failed," he said.
"Yes," said Rastaban. "We did."
Pause.
"Did you fail because of the Mischief Managers?" the Grand Sorcier asked.
Their mention made their cleared blood boil.
"We've underestimated them, I suppose," said Rodoplh. "I mean... That's not to say they are at all competent at anything, because they aren't. They are dumb and talentless. And what's worse, lucky."
"It's like not crushing a mosquito with rabies, I guess," said Rastaban. "It would be very easy to swat it. And why wouldn't you? I suppose... we've just been too arrogant. We ignored the mosquito with rabies, we didn't think it was worth our while."
More pause.
"You just doubled your workload," said the Grand Sorcier. "If you see it like that. Now you don't only have to kill Goaty Man, you also have to kill the Mischief Managers. And you better kill the mosquito with rabies first, because it can be damn annoying doing anything, with a mosquito buzzing in your ear, with or without rabies. You have 24 hours to kill the Mischief Managers. If you fail..."
The brothers bowed and left the Grand Sorcier's house.
"How in the world do we kill the Mischief Managers?" Rodolph asked. "We don't know who these mosquitos with the anatomy of teenage boys are!"
"We don't need to know who they are," said Rastaban, "The Grand Sorcier did not ask that we find out who they are. He wants them dead. We have 24 hours. Now, I seem to recall that the Mischief Managers accept fanmail..."
He had a newspaper in his hand, with an interview, where one of the mismen said, they read all their fanmail.
"So let's send them some fanmail!"
They wrapped their glass spheres in thin fabric dipped in never-dry instant skin-burn acid and put them in a cardboard box.