Harry Rotter

by Gerrard Wllson

them, the waiter bit each coin in turn, before giving Box another one of his odd smiles before he finally departed.

  Grinning like a Cheshire cat, Harry said, “Let that be a lesson to you.”

  Box said nothing; he was simply too shocked by what he had witnessed, to speak. “Come on, let’s get back to our seat,” said Harry, chuckling away to herself.

  Returning to their seats, the two cousins found drinks awaiting them on the small table between them. Picking up one of the glasses, smelling the cloudy white coloured liquid, Box asked, “What’s this?”

  “Complimentary drinks,” said Harry.

  “Hmm, okay, I’ll go along with that, but what actually is it?”

  Grinning again, Harry said, “Taste it.”

  Box stared into the glass, afraid.

  “Go on,” she insisted, “You won’t be disappointed.”

  “You go first.”

  “All right, if you’re that paranoid I will,” she said, taking hold of her glass and knocking back its contents.

  Feeling rather stupid, at being afraid of a complimentary drink, Box, following her example, also knocked his back in the one go. And when he had done this he was amazed, he absolutely amazed at the taste; a wonderful flavour exploding on his tongue, like a million bursting bubbles, tasting of mango, chocolate and vanilla.

  “Wow, that’s fantastic,” he said. “What is it?”

  “Fizzing Fruit juice drink,” Harry explained. “It’s a local speciality.”

  An attendant who thankfully had only the one nose appeared, asking, “Was the drink to your satisfaction, sir?”

  This time an altogether more cautious Box left Harry to do the talking, to thank him. After the attendant was gone, he asked, “How long until we get there, to Hagswords?”

  Eighteen hours” she replied, her eyes glued to the carriage window, distracted.

  Eighteen hours?” Box exclaimed. “Where are we going – to Timbuktu?”

  Harry made no reply; she just continued to stare out through the window.

  “What are you looking at, anyhow?”

  Turning to face him, Harry whispered, “Owls…”

  “Owls? What owls?”

  Pointing a finger, she said. “Those owls...”

  Then he saw them, Box saw hundreds of owls winging their way towards the train. “Crikey,” he cried out. “What do they want?”

  “Me,” Harry replied darkly. “They want me…”

  Owls, Familiars and Necromancers

  The two cousins, their heads pressed firmly against the windowpane, watched as the owls flew ever closer to the speeding carriage.

  “How can they fly so fast?” Box asked, in amazement at the speed the birds were so obviously capable of achieving.

  “Owls are Familiars…” Harry whispered in reply.

  “Familiars?”

  “Yes, Familiar Spirits – controlled by Necromancers…”

  “As in wizards?”

  Harry nodded. Feeling that he had enough on his plate to contend with, Box thought it best to leave that subject for later.

  As the owls continued to fly closer, and the threat they posed Harry grew all the greater, Box wondered why the rest of people in the carriage were taking no notice, and he asked, “What’s wrong with these people, anyone would think they can’t see those owls.”

  “That’s because they can’t,” said Harry. “Those birds,” she pointed at the rapidly approaching owls, “are, like I said, marked for us, for me really, that’s why only we can see them.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Box blurted, annoyed at the very suggestion of such an absurdity.

  “Denial won’t change anything, as much as I’d like it,” said Harry, her eyes following every new move made by the owls.

  “Okay, then I won’t deny it,” said Box, watching the birds with a growing unease. “But there must be something we can do, to make them go away?”

  “No,” Harry replied indifferently, “there is absolutely nothing.”

  “Nothing? Then what happens when they reach the train – and us?”

  Replying, and ever so quietly, Harry said, “Watch and find out, because here they come…”

  No sooner had she finished speaking, the owls, the Familiars, like kamikaze pilots from the Second World War, began hurling themselves against the windowpane, as bird after bird after bird committed suicide, trying to get into the carriage, to Harry. Thump, thump, thump! The owls struck the windowpane with a ferocity, intensity and regularity that showed no signs of abating; hoping that one of them, just one of them made a crack, the first chink in the armour protecting Harry.

  “We can’t just sit here,” cried Box. “We must do something.”

  With a crafty smile, Harry withdrew her new wand, and said, “Just because we couldn’t make them go away, doesn’t mean we can’t sort them out, once they have arrived… I think it’s about time we saw what this little beauty,” she stroked her wand, “is capable of doing. Don’t you agree?”

  Although Box had been so instrumental in its creation, he had completely forgotten about the new wand, but now that she had reminded him, he shouted, “Go on – USE IT!”

  A man and a woman seated in the next section glanced over the glass divider, wondering why all the shouting. “Sorry,” Box apologised. “Got something caught in my throat.” Seemingly satisfied with his explanation, the couple returned to their conversation.

  Several owls, smashing simultaneously against the windowpane, caused a small crack to appear. This time, and despite still feeling so threatened, Box spoke calmly, and he said, “I think you’ll find the third button to be quite useful.”

  Waving the wand from left to right and then left again, Harry said, “Abracadabra.” With that a wave of raw energy shot out from the wand, causing the windowpane to disappear. A blast of icy cold wind shot through the opening and into the carriage, but despite this encumbrance the two cousins held firm in their resolve.

  Speaking again, Harry repeated the same words, but this time pressing the third button, “Abracadabra.” A wave of intense blue light, shot out from the wand, through the newly created opening, searching for every living creature within a radius of one hundred yards. The birds, the Familiars, struck squarely fell dead to the ground.

  “Wow, now that’s what I call impressive!” said Box, quite chuffed with his creation and what it was so obviously capable of doing. Harry offered him a weak smile.

  Suddenly, a Familiar, an owl that the wand had been unable to touch (it had been out of range at the time), flying in through the window, made a beeline for Harry and began attacking her with a terrible vengeance. This attack was so ferocious so formidable she was unable to hold onto her wand, and she dropped it to the floor. Without it Harry was helpless against the vicious Familiar Spirit.

  Making a dart for the wand, Box grabbed hold of it and pressed the second button. Huge flames, like the ones his father had inadvertently produced, earlier, shot out from the wand, towards the dangerous bird – and also Harry. Squawking, screeching, hissing its displeasure the owl fell to the floor, burnt to a cinder.

  Breathing in deeply, Harry struggled to catch her breath, to recover almost as much from the flames as the attack of the killer bird.

  Shaking with fright, Box asked, “Are you all right?”

  ”Yeh, I think so,” she replied, giving the remains of the bird a little kick. Then retrieving her wand she waved it, saying, “Arbadacarba.” With that the missing windowpane returned and the scratches and injuries she had just received vanished without trace.

  “Do you think we have seen the last of them?” Box asked, staring across the countryside for birds, owls or otherwise.

  “Hardly,” she replied ominously. “I fear that was only the beginning...”

  As he stared into the landscape, a land so familiar and yet so different, Box’s thoughts turned to the words Harry spoke whenever she used the wand, and he said, “I’ve been thinking…”

  “A
Muddle, thinking?” she laughed.

  Ignoring the snide remark, Box continued, “I’ve been thinking about the words you say, when you use your wand. I hope you don’t take offence, when I say this, but aren’t they a little bit corny?”

  “Corny? Why?”

  “For God’s sake,” he continued, “abracadabra is used by every tin pot magician up and down the country.”

  Raising both of her eyebrows this time, Harry said, “Just because they happen to use the same words that I do, does that make them any less magical?”

  “Well…” said Box struggling to find an answer.

  Harry continued, “Have you never wondered where words such at those came from, where they actually originated?”

  “No,” he admitted in a mumble.

  “I will tell you, for all the good it might do, you being a Muddle and all that,” she said, reverting to her more usual manner that Box had dared hope might be on the wane. “These ‘corny’ words,” she said coldly, “as you so thoughtlessly put it, have been handed down – for generations. And while I might not be in agreement with those controlling institutions, such as Hagswords, I do understand the power of the words they use.”

  “Oh,” Box mumbled again.

  “And if I have your permission? I will now give you a demonstration!”

  “Yes, please,” Box mumbled even humbler than before.

  Withdrawing her wand, Harry tapped it on the table, and said, “Hey Presto.” The table instantly disappeared.

  “Wow, I see what you mean!”

  “Do you?” she asked, eying him with some disdain. Then waving her wand again, in the space where the table had been, she said, “Otserp Yeh.” With those words spoken the