Harry Rotter

by Gerrard Wllson

don’t have the marbles?”

  “You are their Keeper, and with this office come benefits – power being one” Holdavort told her demurely.

  “Their Keeper?”

  “Yes, their Keeper, their True Keeper,” he said. “They chose you long ago…in a previous manifestation.”

  Then she remembered; Harry remembered everything, she wanted the marbles back and she wanted them NOW!

  A Collision of Interests

  “So, is this how it will finish?” Holdavort asked, “With of us fighting for the same thing?”

  “You said it, not me,” Harry retorted.

  “Yes, I did,” he replied. “But, then, you had no need to say it, had you?”

  Harry did not answer this.

  The two foes, each one eyeballing the other with a cruel, hard intent, suspended above the floor of the Great Hall, in front of the balcony and the staring children, had no intention of giving away even the slightest hint, the merest inkling of what they intended to do next. Harry, with the two Philosopher’s Marbles and her newfangled electro magical wand, and Holdavort – her mortal enemy – with the remaining marbles embedded into his extraordinary garment – both of them adamant to conceal their intentions, no matter what. This standoff was so intense you could have cut the air with a knife. And it might have gone on forever, if it were not for the mad ghost, up above, the ghost that they had all but forgotten about.

  Gathering his courage, Laughing Larry began speaking, he said, “Well, I thought I was the only mad one here! But from the look of you two, I must be far down the road to recovery, if I do say so myself.”

  It wasn’t much, just a few nonsensical words to be truthful, but enough to cause a distraction, to put the two deadly opponents off guard – then all hell broke loose…

  If I were to describe this fight, the titanic struggle between these two particularly stubborn individuals, I might be here until tomorrow, and still not be finished. So I won’t. No. Consider it sufficient when I tell you that it was the mother of all battles, with blood, sweat and tears (amongst so many other things) flying in all directions. Instead of giving you the gory details, the bloodcurdling account of what followed, I will cut to the chase and tell you how it finally came to an end…

  It was later, much later, and they were both tired, so very tired, with neither Harry nor Holdavort showing any clear sign of being victor. One moment Harry appeared capable of winning, but the next one, with Holdavort clawing his way back from the brink of defeat, close to losing. And so it went on in this seemingly endless struggle, with each one trying to outsmart the other, to secure the final, total control of the Philosopher’s Marbles.

  The Great Hall was in ruins, fire had broken out in a number of places, there were huge gaping holes in the roof, fallen debris littered the floor, and the stained glass the beautiful stained glass windows were shattered to pieces. It was a fiasco.

  The mad ghost, after making a brief return visit to the toilet, the same corner he had so favoured, earlier, returned to the hall, to the balcony, which for some peculiar reason had remained untouched.

  Exiting the hall, flying out through one of the gaping holes in the roof, Holdavort perched, high above, on the ridge tiles. Having no intention of letting him escape, Harry flew through the same hole in the roof, so fast she disappeared high into the night sky.

  Although he was so tired, Holdavort laughed, he laughed a loud belly laugh, and he said, “The famous girl mystic is tired, so tired she is out of control… And that gives me an idea…”

  Descending almost as fast as she had risen, Harry balanced upon the roof, on the ridge tiles, no more than ten feet in front of her nemesis. Puffing and panting, pointing her wand with deadly intent, twirling the two marbles, she said, “Holdavort, give me the pouch, and let’s call it a day!”

  Sensing a weakness, he replied, “So, you want to compromise. My, what a comedown from the high ideals you have preached.”

  Catching her breath, Harry said, “I am their Keeper – you said so yourself…”

  “And so I did, but that was before…”

  “Before – what?”

  “Before I sensed – victory,” and with that he let off one final, ultimate bid for supremacy, attacking Harry with every last vestige of magical power at his disposal, setting the sky alight, ablaze from the thunderous power erupting from him. The thin sliver of moon, which had been such a godsend, lighting their way up the hill, to Hagswords, disappeared, paled into insignificance by the blind fury emanating from the Alchemist and would-be Philosopher.

  This attack, this affront against Harry’s personage was so intense, so unending; she lost her balance and began sliding down the slippery roof tiles. If she hadn’t been so exhausted it would have been a simple enough task (with her newfound powers) to levitate away, to safety, but she was just too tired to think straight, and she continued her dangerous slide down.

  She did make some effort to hang on, to regain her balance, to try and halt her descent. She even managed to slow down a bit, but it was only for a moment, though, because Holdavort, watching with an acute interest, renewed his attack with a vengeance.

  This time, however, his attack was quite different. Instead of trying to finish her off, advancing her slippery slide, Holdavort, seizing the opportunity, Harry’s confusion, and her exhausted state of mind, spoke – wishing her well. Yes, that’s right, he actually wished Harry well.

  Harry suddenly had strange bit of luck; her foot caught, jammed in the ancient gutter, stopping her descent at the very last tile. “Pardon?” she asked, confused by his tack.

  “I said, I hope that everything works out for you,” Holdavort replied.

  Harry was dumfounded.

  “And to show my sincerity,” he continued, “please allow me to help you.” Two of the marbles in his garment began glowing green, and bathing Harry in their olive light, they lifted her gently away from the gutter, returning her to the roof apex, the very same spot from where she had begun her dangerous slide.

  “Thanks,” she said (though somewhat begrudgingly).

  “Don’t mention it,” he replied. “Now, as I was saying, I wish you well…”

  Holding her wand tightly (though discreetly this time), Harry said, “I heard you – you said it already.”

  “And so I did,” Holdavort replied, smiling in return.

  “What exactly are you wishing me well – in?” she asked.

  “In your success, of course; your victory in gaining control of the Philosopher’s Marbles.”

  Her eyebrow’s raising, Harry said, “Victory? What victory?”

  “Your victory. I am offering you the marbles, every last one.” Producing a small vial containing an iridescent blue liquid, Holdavort filled two small glasses that had appeared as mysteriously as the vial. Then offering Harry one (it floated across to her), he said, “A toast, a toast to the victor!”

  “Before we do any celebrating,” Harry interjected, pointing to her glass, “pray tell me what this concoction is.”

  His face dropping, seemingly taken aback that she had found it necessary to ask, Holdavort said, “An elixir, it’s an elixir – to toast your success!” Then swigging it back, he hurled his empty glass against the roof tiles, smashing it to pieces.

  Harry, however, was still staring suspiciously into hers. “Drink, drink to your victory!” he urged her. “Drink!”

  In her confused, tired, absolutely worn-out state of mind, Harry was becoming increasingly susceptible to his powers of suggestion – and Holdavort was an expert at this. Listening to his alluring words, Harry began to believe that she had really and truly won. Finally, raising the small glass to her lips, she said, “Cheers to my victory.” After knocking it back she also hurled the empty vessel at the roof tiles, and watched as it shattered in thousand small pieces.

  The blue coloured liquid had barely passed Harry’s lips, and the pieces of glass not yet reached ground level, when something began to happen to her. Ever
ything around her, the roof, the sky – even the ground itself, blurred like a veil had been raised. Then, with a terrible tearing, ripping, slashing sound, this veil was torn open, revealing something altogether more different from everyday life, behind it.

  “So, do you like what you see?” Holdavort asked, waving an outstretched arm before him.

  Harry, aghast by what she was seeing, said nothing. She couldn’t, she mustn’t, she didn’t, for it most surely had to be the work of the devil.

  “Well?” Holdavort asked her again. “Because I do…”

  Ignoring the question, Harry said, “That drink, that elixir – there was something added to it wasn’t there?”

  “Just some Arcanum,” he replied, thinking no more of it.

  “Arcanum? You added Arcanum to an elixir?” Harry screeched. “How did you do it? No, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know. Her mind racing, her pulse quickening, she said, “You do know what you made, don’t you?”

  “Oh, I do,” he replied smiling, “I most certainly do.”

  “You made the Elixir of Life – and we drank it!”

  Nodding, smiling again, he said, “It most certainly was. And now that we have consumed it, all this,” he waved an arm for second time, “is ours, all ours.”

  “You’re mad, as nutty as a fruitcake!” That was all that poor Harry could think of to say; she was far too shocked to say anything more meaningful.

  Several minutes later, Holdavort resumed speaking, he said, “Now that you have calmed down, perhaps