Chapter Two: "What I Did on my Summer Vacation"

His mind cast back to his school days. It was the summer before his final year at Hogwart's. The Grans had planned a Trek into the dark mountains of Transylvania to collect some components from a particularly nasty species of vampire bat, along with some herbs, and perhaps some werewolf glands should the opportunity arise. It was a truly dangerous trip, and one they had never made with him until now. His Defense Against the Dark Arts knowledge would be tested here, as Boggarts weren't the worst hazards they may meet.

They set off on a bright July morning, arrived at their base camp deep in a densely pine wooded Transylvanian forest, dark as night though it was already mid day here, and spent the time until sundown setting up and making preparations for the month. The stuffy closeness and heat of the steamy breathless pine scent was almost overwhelming. These trips were half safari, half laboratory inventory. An incredible amount of information was collected and cataloged with each specimen so that the eventual reagent could be properly sorted and sold by type, class, and potency. Over the years, Wilfred had taken over ever greater responsibility for this documentation, only dimly aware and not at all resentful of the fact that he was following the path of generations of training as proprietor of Muggworth's Apothecary. It had always been felt that the Muggworth of the time should fully have mastered every aspect of the art.

This particular night of hunting had begun like the previous three since they'd arrived. Wilfred had his receiving area all prepared in his tent for their acquisitions. They had conjured a cloud of bovine blood mist as bait, above a small clearing they used for their hunting space. They'd transfigured some logs into cattle and set them floating, sleepy and comfortable, in the midst of the cloud. The bats could smell and be attracted to the blood, but without a solid target for their radar, they would just flit back and forth about the edges of the cloud without entering the field of fire. Of course, while they were superb hunters, fliers, and could "see" flawlessly in complete darkness, they were not particularly bright, else the concept of "floating cows" may have given them pause. As it was, they'd fly in and settle down to feed on the cattle as happy as bats ever get.

The next thing heard by the bat's super ultrasonic hearing would be – "STUPEFY" – coming from three directions at once, as light blazed forth from three Muggworth wands, and they'd spin gently to the ground rather like maple tree seeds helicopter to the earth on a summer day.

The hunters could then set quickly to work, extracting, containing and labeling one salivary gland, some wing membrane, fur, claw, and a bit of earwax painlessly from each. A quick wand flash and "ENNERVATE" would send each on his or her way, a bit confused, but none the worse for wear. In thanks, they were in fact allowed to feed unmolested before the trap was reset for another go. The care they took meant they could only do two rounds a night, but at 20-25 bats per round the stores were filling nicely.

Their fifth night of hunting was interrupted by the howls of werewolves not far away. This was not entirely unexpected, as the lunar cycle was factored into the trip plan and this was the first night of the truly full moon. Every year, Wilfred had drilled on the danger escape plan. He knew, if he felt afraid or on the command of either Gran, to run inside the lab tent or any tent, and grab a particular lantern that faintly glowed in red. The lanterns were port keys that would transport him and the tent around him instantly to the back yard of the Farm.

When he was little, the Grans had made the escape drill something of a game to take the fear out of it. One of them would shout, "DANGER! GO HOME!" and he was to run to the closest Port Key Lantern and activate it, then run to the kitchen of the Farm. If he could get to the kitchen before they apparated there – and they always gave him a little head start – then Grandmother would cook his very favorite dessert of apple dumplings. They seemed to have great confidence in him, as she always had the pans all prepared for the oven when they arrived.

Over the years they had drilled less and used the escape plan more for real situations. He was to escape when he sensed danger he could not identify. The Grans were great believers in following his instincts. They felt you had survival senses built in, that your mind could not always keep up with. As he had gotten older and more capable, the Treks had become more dangerous and, of course, much MUCH more fun.

Even as he hearkened intently to the baying of the werewolves, he winced to recall one of the few times he'd ever gotten in trouble on these trips...

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He had been 15 and about to have a birthday, he'd made Prefect of Ravenclaw House, and had made 12 Excellent ratings on his O.W.L. examinations. Nearly perfect recall on demand made examinations much easier for him than for others, but it was still a great deal of reading and listening, just not nearly as much study. The faculty had agreed not to make his attainments public, as Muggworth's traditionally preferred modesty if not anonymity. Still, knowing his abilities there was much head shaking and "tut, tutting" among faculty, thinking of his destiny as a "shopkeeper" in their view. He smiled as he reflected, "if they only knew…"

Still, at 15 he felt pretty capable in a scrap, even if he was not yet licensed to disapparate. They were camped in the extreme northwest of the Canadian wilderness, when they were suddenly set upon by two packs of monstrous warg wolves. Rather than running for a Port Key Lantern, he instinctively grabbed his wand to do battle with the Grans.

"DANGER! GO HOME!" rang his grandfather's husky voice.

"I can fight!" he yelled back.

His grandfather turned to him in shock. "Boy! Go NOW! NO ARGUMENT" in a tone and with a look the brooked no retort.

Wilfred cut and ran for their collection tent to be sure their stock all got back safely, and then waited miserably in the kitchen for their return. He was in trouble and he knew it.

About an hour later they appeared in the kitchen with him, looking a bit disheveled and tired, but safe and unhurt. He expected to be yelled at, though that did not happen very often. But they were totally silent as Grandfather sat down at the table with him, and Grandmother put the kettle on for tea. He should have done that already, he thought miserably. No one smiled, no one said a word. Grandfather just sat there in his dark clothing and bristly gray hair, gently drumming his fingertips on the tabletop and looking concerned at his grandson.

Finally, Wilfred broke the silence, "I… I'm sorry. I guess I'll get my things packed to go home. I… I don't know what came over me. I know better than that."

His grandparents smiled.

Grandfather said, "yes. Yes, you know better."

Grandmother turned to him and said, "Yes, and you should know 'what came over you' as well" She nodded as she smiled. "Your grandfather and I talked a bit before coming back. A wizard should always know what he is feeling, since feelings direct magic far more than thoughts, and certainly more than spoken words. Let's see if I can sum up what 'came over you', and you tell me if it rings as true…

"You're a big boy now, not a little kid anymore. You've just passed your O.W.L.'s with flying colors. You can duel with the best of them, fly like a seeker, concoct potions the rest of your classmates could scarcely imagine, you know and have hunted most magical creatures on a first name basis, and you've been fighting or evading Dark Arts for years. You could turn rings around most of your classmates, if not your teachers, but your name is Muggworth and they think you're a bookworm. That and your voice is changing and you yodel, and you're breaking out in acne. And on top of all that…" her voice steadily raised as she expressed his frustration…

"Then to top it all off, we tell you to run away home like a little kid. It's just not bloody fair, is it?" she looked at him with her crooked little smile and her head cocked slightly askew, rather like the bright piercing glance of a clever bird. "And to top it all, we're OLD! And we could be hurt while you sit safe at home!" she laughed.

"That's it, Grandmama!" Wilfred exclaimed, pounding his palm on the table in agreement. "Well," he paused with an embarrassed grin, "except for that last bit. Ye may be old, but yer old like dragons. I think ye just get more dangerous and canny with time.

"But what you said before… I felt like a coward to run. And I thought I could hold my own. And I wanted to help. I'm just not… not a little kid anymore."

"Of course yer not, son," his grandfather said, getting up and coming around the table to pat him on the shoulder. "And we rely on you on these trips now more than you realize. You really carry your weight. Grandmama and I would probably only yield half of our cargo were you not with us.

"The Escape procedure though, has nothing at all to do with your talent or even your ability to fight. We have great confidence in you. It simply has to do with one thing – you are not yet 17, and so cannot yet disapparate, and we can. If we get into a scrap we're not certain about, we want to know that you and the stock are clear first. Then we are free to fight or flee as we see fit. We would never disapparate before you were clear, so your using the Port Key makes us safer than our having to cover your escape," as he sat back down, watching Wilfred intently to be certain he was understood.

Grandmama brought cups and saucers, sugar, lemon, cream, and finally the teapot to the table and poured. "Now, as to packing for home, don't you want to come back to Canada with us?" she smiled sweetly as she poured. "I rather thought we'd just have a nice cuppa before we headed back. Well, that and this little chat, of course."

"Certainly, I want to go back. If you'll have me, that is…" Wilfred replied breathlessly.

"Well, Wilfred," Grandpapa answered, "that depends on only one thing. I want your word, your word as a Muggworth, that this will never happen again. That if either of us command it, you will immediately escape. No matter what you see, hear, feel, or think. Agreed?"

"Agreed. I give you my word as a Muggworth," and he reflected, the Word of a Muggworth – seldom given, never broken.

"Fine. We'll finish our tea and head back then. Grandmama? Would you pass me that biscuit tin? I feel a bit peckish," he said, reaching for the snacks, and the matter was never spoken of again.

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The close howl of a nearby werewolf or warg snapped him back to the matters at hand. This Transylvania trip was different. All had been moving along like clockwork. The howling of the distant werewolves interrupted matters while all waited to see if they would approach or disrupt the camp. When midnight came and went without incident, they decided to make one more collection before dawn. As the last of the bats were being released, the moon had set and the eastern sky was beginning to lighten a shade along the horizon. In deep woods as they were, they could not so much "see" this, as feel the approach of dawn, and with it the relief of lessened vigilance in that part of the world.

But then something strange, a creeping sense of dread and darkness began to steal over the three of them. Wilfred looked at his grandfather, who looked around them very carefully, seeming to pierce the very darkness with his steely gaze.

"I feel it too, Boy," he murmured quietly. "Get your hand near that Port Key there, but hold off hitting it unless we say to, or you want to go. I want to know more about this. I'd like your impressions too. This is new to me, and that's saying something."

And that was saying something, indeed. The Grans were well over 100, though unbent, unfaltering, and as healthy as horses. They looked like Muggles in their mid 50's with only their hair and the lines around their eyes giving hint of their true age. There was no dark or forbidden magic involved in their health. Potions masters both, they attended closely to their bodies' needs and provided them promptly. They were both from long-lived families of wizards, who as a class tend to be long lived, and the Farm assured that they maintained a healthy level of activity and exercise.

So Wilfred also looked deeply into the darkness, while keeping a hand near the Port Key if needed. Gradually, all the little hairs on their arms and backs of their necks rose up as if from a chill, but it was not cold that set them rising. Fear became an atmosphere that threatened to smother them all. It seemed to become darker as an inky cloud came to settle into their bloodmist trap. They all remained perfectly still as this inky darkness swirled like a mist through their cloud. The bait cows were totally enveloped and occluded by the darkness. An odd sighing sound, a sururatiron, seemed to issue from the darkness, not quite breathing, but seemingly alive.

After a time, tendrils of mist seemed to reach out and down. As they reached the tents and accoutrements of the camp, all color seemed to drain from what the mist fingers touched, gradually turning objects gray.

Grandpapa looked straight at Wilfred and quietly commanded, "Danger. Go Home Now."

And Wilfred instantly touched the red glowing lamp. As he headed for the kitchen at the Farm, he saw his grandparents apparate just ahead of him.

"I will start the kettle this time, Grandmama. I feel chilled to the bone. What was that?"

"I have no earthly idea, Wilfred. I've never seen anything like it before. That's why I stayed so long. What about you, hon? Any ideas?" she asked, turning to her husband as they headed into the kitchen doorway through the mudroom. After wiping their feet thoroughly, the Grans took Wilfred at his word and sat down at the table, leaving the tea preparation to him.

Wilfred pulled out his wand and ignited a cheery fire in the firebox of the stove. He had special permission from Hogwart's and the Ministry of Magic to use magic when he was with his grandparents. At their request he had something of a "student work permit" as long as he was with them and under their supervision.

As he poured hot water to warm the pot and got down cups and saucers, he tried to think through everything he'd ever heard or read that might shed light on what he had just seen. While a few ideas occurred to him, he held his silence, listening to two of the greatest hunters on the face of the earth while they compared notes.

"Can't be Dementors, they suck consciousness and emotions…" Grandpapa mused, chin in his hand, vacantly staring out the kitchen window into the deep darkness of the earlier time zone, as his free hand drummed soft fingertips on the table.

"Aye, dear," responded his wife, equally vacant of expression, "these were clearly vampiric. They took the blood and cattle first, even the little bats, bless their hearts". She looked sorrowful, musing on the lost life. "But that at the end… those tendrils, that was interesting indeed."

"Interesting… yes. But no doubt deadly. What do you make of the color change? What do you think we'll find when we return?" he asked, his voice still abstracted.

Return, Wilfred repeated to himself, as his heart leapt with joy. He quietly poured the boiling water into the teapot, as he continued to eavesdrop on their conversation. He had seen them like this before, and knew that as long as he did not speak or make any startling noise or movement, their minds and words would link and think like a well oiled machine… it came of 80 years of marriage and hunting. But he was delighted to know that they would be returning. He was afraid they might have decided to abandon the hunt because of the possible danger to him.

"Honestly? I think we will find ash. Or possibly nothing at all. The color change was most interesting. It seemed to affect the organics first, did you notice? Specimens and our food pouches first, then leather and natural fabrics, the wood about, then the synthetics. About that time, we left, it was getting too close for my taste," she replied.

"Indeed, mine too. Not to mention that it was damned uncomfortable…" Grandpapa looked up at Wilfred. "Oops, sorry, Boy. Forgot you were there," Grandpapa smiled embarrassed.

"That was my plan, Grans," Wilfred smiled back. "I love listening when ye do that." He served the tea and brought down the biscuit tin, setting it down in front of Grandpapa as he lowered himself into his own chair and poured out. "I've never felt fear like that. The cold was terrible, but the fear nearly became panic and almost seemed like an odor or a fluid of some kind. It was bizarre."

"Yes. Yes it was. And you've put your finger on it indeed, Wilfred. That fear did almost seem like a fluid, didn't it?" Grandmama agreed, with some excitement. "Acted like a pheromone of some sort, didn't it, dear?" she asked, looking at Grandpapa.

"Yes. Do you suppose it is functional in some way? Could it be a part of their feeding? Or is it a byproduct?" Grandpapa mused, as his mind clicked along like the bioalchemist that he was.

"Well, it would certainly be functional in any natural feeding situation, dear. If that… that… whatever-it-was settled onto a natural herd of some kind, they would rapidly be paralyzed and unable to escape," Grandmama replied. While a frighteningly capable alchemist as well, her talents leaned more towards the intuitive and behavioral. While her husband focused more on the composition or the causes of alchemical reactions, she focused more on the impact or the effects of compounds especially on living systems.

"Um…" Wilfred muttered, almost unconsciously, as he sipped his tea.

"What is it, Wilfred?" Grandmama asked, looking at him with interest. "Feel free to speak up," she smiled gently, sipping her own tea.

"Yes, Wilfred," added Grandpapa with a smile. "I was serious about wanting your input."

"Oh, sorry… actually. I didn't mean to speak really. My mind just snagged on the obvious difficulty I see with a pheromone theory… But I know you didn't mean it literally. It's just that it highlights a rather knotty problem altogether with this, this, whatever-it-is, doesn't it?" his voice and eyes took on a clearly family resemblance with three pairs of knitted brows.

"Indeed," nodded Grandmama.

"Quite," echoed Grandpapa.

"After all," Wilfred murmured. "Pheromones require glands to secrete them. And this thing had…"

"No physical body at all…" Grandmama finished his sentence.

"Nope, not a bit. Quite a puzzle." Grandpapa agreed.

"Fascinating," Grandmama smiled.

"Indeed," Grandpapa smiled back.

Wilfred just shook his head and smiled as well, wondering what he'd be like in his second century of life. He hoped it would be just like this, and they finished their tea in silent musing.

The long adult Wilfred was startled as his recollections were interrupted by the tinkle of the Apothecary's little bell, marking the entrance of a customer or visitor. As he absently looked up to observe, seeming not to pay much attention, he was delighted to see his parents enter his shop.