Chapter Fourteen: Books That Are Worth Stealing From The Restricted Section
Chapter Fourteen:
Books That Are Worth Stealing From The Restricted Section
And other hints for using the Hogwarts Library.
n Homage to the Written Word
Since prehistoric man first encountered blank cave wall, wizards have endeavoured to leave complex Scratchings, Scribblings and Sketchings as record of their knowledge for those to follow. Whether on papyrus or parchment, hieroglyphic or calligraphic, whether describing the best way to distract a nundu, to nab occamy eggs, or to cast the perfect Hurling Hex, these carefully preserved testaments have been used by the wise for thousands of years.
The prankster is often considered the bane of Good, Upstanding, Rule-Recording, Pocket-Watch-Five-Minutes-Ahead Setting, Library-Card-Holding Folk. He is, therefore, assumed to prefer being caught under a Quintaped's foot than to be seen in a storehouse of Knowledge and Learning. This is a common and useful misconception. Those musty repositories of wisdom, those twisted aisles of educational epistolary, those libraries -- as they are commonly known -- are perhaps more useful to the prankster than the twelve different exits from the vestibule on the fifth floor.
The Library is, in short, the Prankster's dearest ally and closest friend. The secrets of its boundless utility must be carefully guarded by those who intend to employ its treasures. The image of a prankster who cannot tell a book from a hippogriff's arse must be cultivated at all times. Though he plays the role of the carefree dilettante, adroit at the art of studied innocence and blissful ignorance, he must never forget that this façade masks the cunning intellect of one who has mastered his profession, who has learnt from those who came before, and who, above all, pays homage to the infinite value of the written word.
We therefore bequeath to you the knowledge of all that the Hogwarts Library has to offer, not the least of which is a catalogue of the most helpful books found in that brilliant bastion of ink and paper. Use them wisely. Be sure to befriend the seductive mistress and guardian of the tomes. Be certain to avoid the wrath of the pointy-nosed librarian, and the eternally fart-smelling chair near the History of Slytherin House shelf. Always carry liquorice and a sprig of holly, and above all, respect the books; more than a few of them bite.
Peter curled up in a small pool of sun, shifting onto the other shoulder as he flexed and curled his fingers in the warmth. In his mind's eye, they were still fingers, all nine grubby with mud and charcoal, ink and whatever sauce his meats and vegetables were smothered in that night. He still dreamt he had hands, still rubbed them together as he fell asleep, still itched to draw the world in a soft chiaroscuro of light and shadow, contour and plane.
It wasn't so bad, really, life as a rat. The Weasley boys, once they'd grown out of the habit of carrying him by his tail, were careful to feed him all the best table scraps, and they let him ride on their shoulders. He curled up by the fire when it was cold and sat on the sill in the summer heat. People rarely spoke to him but had no fear speaking in front of him. He kept the boys' secrets, every one.
He didn't say much at all. Everything came out as some variation of squeak.
He didn't think much, either. There wasn't enough room in the tiny rat brain to wander through moral quandaries or existential dilemmas. The sun rose every morning and set every night, and the days drifted into months, the months into years. And it wasn't so bad.
"Scabbers, off." Percy's voice -- yet to fall into the lower registers of a man's -- chided him through the thick sun. "I need to read that one."
Peter yawned and shut his eyes as a hand descended to lift him from the page on which he'd been resting. After nine years, he'd yet to overcome that first moment of vertigo when grass-stained fingers closed around his ribcage and the ground fell away. He kept his eyes closed until he felt the reassuringly stable wood of the table beneath his feet -- paws -- again.
"Oliver, have you found any reference to vampires in Russia?" Percy asked, lifting the desired book and opening it carefully. He dusted the rat hair from the paper and began to thumb through it quickly.
"No, mate," the boy called Oliver replied, "but the Galupping Grimoire mentioned a settlement in Latvia, do you think we could write about them?"
Percy nodded noncommittally and returned to his work, quill scratching periodically, when he found some line of note in one of the most assuredly useless tomes the library had to offer: Historically Haunted Inns of the Balkan Peninsula. Though it had a promising title, Peter knew it was good for little more than a padded surface where a bloke -- rodent -- could lay his head for a kip in the sun.
Peter stretched, nose twitching as always, whether he intended it or not. In three carefully executed drops, he landed on the floor below Percy's chair. Immersed in Historically Haunted Inns, Percy had yet to notice his disappearance and would probably not do so for another twenty pages.
Peter scurried around the corner.
He kept under desks and chairs, wary of carelessly swinging feet and hastily tossed book bags. Hogwarts was a dangerous place for anyone only three inches tall.
Then, from behind a shelf in the Charms section, he heard them.
"Fred, look at this one. It's about--"
Peter stopped dead in his tracks. Familiar voices rose in his memory, echoes from between the towering shelves and musty pages.
Glitter? It says we can do what with glitter?
Shh... James. Pince'll--
Peter shook his head and wriggled his nose. Peeking between two books, he focussed on the twins bent over a dog-eared tome. "--hear you. You know he gets shirty if he finds us poking around in here."
But no matter how he tried, the memories fought their way to the surface.
"Aw hell, it's just Percy. Not like he's a prefect or anything. 'Sides, he's in--"
The Restricted Section. That's where the second edition is, unabridged. It'll have the entire Paste Potion. Back corner. By the staircase. Remus, can you fetch the cloak?
That way we won't have to bribe the Fat Lady again.
Because Pete's almost out of dirty mags.
Great. We'll find a way in. Meet us--
"Tonight. Charlie won't have any idea how his pants all turned into--"
"Fairies? Don't you think that's a little--"
"Purple. It said if we leave the potion on them long enough, they'll turn--"
Forever? They'll be glitter-covered forever?
Green and Silver and shiny bloody Glitter over everything!
Nothing is that sticky. I bet it doesn't work.
But if it did...
If only it did...
"Just imagine..."
Two sets of identical blue eyes stared into the book-lined, prank-filled future, hands running through their thick, red curls. Peter staggered backwards, a twisting, burning sensation seizing his stomach. He spun away from the black -- no -- red-haired boys, and didn't stop running until he'd reached the top of Gryffindor Tower.
There he stood, three inches tall and impossibly high above the school grounds, letting the breeze blow through his fur, willing the memories to drift away. Just breathe. Don't think.
He'd catch his breath and wander back down to Percy's bedside table. He'd slip into the pocket of the Percy's robes and eat scraps from the dinner table. He'd curl up at night watching the stars, and everything would be right again. Or, at least, back to normal.
It wasn't so bad, really, life as a rat.
n Extensive (but not Exhaustive) Catalogue of Books Worth Stealing From the Restricted Section
Note these noteworthy tomes, Fellow Prankster, for contained betwixt their dusty covers is knowledge beyond your wildest dreams. Whether you seek to entice the favour of a coy mistress, reduce a vile enemy into a quivering mass of cowardly tentacles, or bring about a cataclysm the likes of which the world has never seen, you will find guidance in these pages. Such knowledge is not limited to the shelves of the Restricted Section; even the ordinary areas of the library have gems to discover.
Beware, however, for the wisdom of the ages is not to be treated lightly,* and you will do well to guard these books jealously. We have, in our unending generosity, returned each volume unharmed and unchanged to the library. When you have gleaned all that you can glean from the ink and parchment, we expect you to do the same.
* Except for the jokes, of course, and the pranks, the party tricks, the rude bodily functions, and the spells designed to make animals dance in improbably choreographed routines. All of those may be treated lightly. It's more the cataclysmic apocalypse that we're worried about. A good rule of thumb for all Pranksters, amateur and professional, is this: Don't bring about the end of the world unless you really mean it.
Hogwarts, A History
Do not be deterred by the dry, pedantic tone and overabundance of useless trivia contained within this book! There is much vital information to be had, if one has the patience and fortitude to separate the nonsense from the nuggets of wisdom. While you certainly will not care to learn which suit of armour belonged to which ancient knight, you may find it useful to know that every painting by the great Lake District watercolourist Francesca Turtledove is located within twenty-six steps of an entrance to a secret passageway.
Dungeon Number Five: The Dark and Dirty History of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, by Anonymous
This shocking expose, published in 1923, caused ripples throughout the wizarding world with its revelations of murder, torture, mayhem and madness within the hallowed halls of Hogwarts.* Besides its obvious shock value and use as a conversation piece (the story of Mad Marian's Most Malicious Mirage is alone worth the risk of stealing the book), it contains scattered gems of wisdom about the inner workings of Hogwarts. Of particular interest to a Prankster is Chapter 17: "Places Within Hogwarts Where An Unwary Wizard Is Likely To Lose An Eye Or Worse, And How To Avoid Them".
* Clearly, the wizarding world of 1923 had forgotten than on any given day, three out of four of those events are perfectly ordinary for most Hogwarts students.
The Sorceress of Stromboli, by Vesta Lacivia
While this may appear, at first glance, to be little more than a bodice-ripper of the sort girls read when they think nobody is looking, this tattered little paperback is, in fact, much, much more. Contained with these pages, usually disguised as actions of the swashbuckling Jasper, there is a veritable gold mine of information about hexes and curses fine-tuned for personal combat. The scene in which Jasper faces down the Dread Lord Dirgington has no fewer than seventy-two different offensive and defensive spells, as well as a strategy that may be adopted for many magical battles.
Alliterative Arts and Rhyming Rituals, by Xander Orange
A vital resource for wizards and witches hoping to create spells of their own invention. Unconfirmed rumours claim that Mr. Prongs' parents mistook this book for a collection of bedtime stories, which, if true, would explain a great deal about him.
Ars Ebrietas, by Dionysius Dunne
If we need to explain this one to you, perhaps you should wait until you are older. Or at least until you've quaffed something other than milk and pumpkin juice in your lifetime.
Count Your Toes, by Hilber Bungler
It is said, among wizards far older and wiser than you, that true prowess in the potions laboratory is an innate talent that cannot be learned or taught. We have no idea if this is true, and we don't care. What we do know is that the ability to blow up a potions laboratory (or melt a cauldron, burn a hole in a table, temporarily blind an O.W.L.s examiner, painfully weld unwitting classmates together for unspecified periods of time, etc.) is a skill that few possess naturally. (Mr. Moony, of course, is one such person, having done all of those things and many more during the course of a single term.) For those who have to work at creating destruction in the potions lab, Mr. Bungler's book is a good place to start. The section on the explosive properties of common cooking herbs is well worth memorising.
1001 Magical Soups, by Jemima Stipling
What's this, you say? Surely we jest! Serious Pranksters, as a rule, would rather boil themselves in a vat of Slytherin hair grease than host a dinner party. What is a quaintly illustrated cookbook doing on this list of mischief and mayhem? And do we truly expect a self-respecting Prankmaster-in-training to risk being caught in the Household Magic section of the library to obtain this silly book? In a word: Yes. We do. While Mrs. Stipling may be best known for the Dancing Pastry Incident which inadvertently led to the resignation of Minster of Magic Decameter Quigby in 1873, her treatise on soups, stews, bisques, broths and chowders is one of the most powerful books you will ever read. Peruse this sampling of recipes if you do not believe us:
- Li Po's Noodle Bowl (p. 349), which causes anyone who swallows so much as a sip to spend the next seventeen hours speaking in haiku.
- Miss Betty's Biting Bisque (p. 142), which can have consequences either delightful or dire, depending on whether the soup is consumed steaming or merely warm.
- Gregarious Gumbo (p. 945), which is forever burned into the memory of every student who attended Hogwarts in the year 1974 as the soup that caused certain professors-who-shall-not-be-named to engage in lewd acts involving Levitated flatware.
- Chomping Chowder (p. 76), similar to the Biting Bisque, but is truly sublime when paired with Miss Stipling's Snickering Sourdough.
- Italian Bedding Soup (p. 548), which is to be used rarely and judiciously, and never with Hufflepuff girls, for they are terrifying creatures when their inhibitions are lowered and their qualms quashed.
Compleat Magical Properties of Vegetables, Unabridged, by Jock "the Bok" Choy
The abridged version is somewhat easier to come by, but it lacks a very informative and interesting section on leafy greens.
Revenge Most Foul, by Tinky Twinnerton
Flatulence, disgorgement, regurgitation, egestion, the breaking of wind, gagging, gassing, heaving, chucking, spewing, eructation, expellation, evacuation, squirting, spurting, retching and spouting in every way, shape and form. All the tools you need to inflict unmatched humiliation upon your Slytherin rival. (Also contains a very in-depth section on Musical Flatulence, including a list of the best foods to consume prior to challenging Mr. Padfoot to a contest to see who can produce the most accurate rendition of "The March of Merlin".*)
* Mr. Padfoot would like to remind all readers that he has been the Gryffindor Musical Flatulence Champion for seven years running. As an innocent first year he unseated the long-time champion, Mr. Henry Hammerton-Whitherby, with two full verses of the nursery rhyme "Swine for Circe". Mr. Hammerton-Witherby’s single verse of "Tom Swiff’s Grave Yard Plot," was a feeble rejoinder.
Remus leaned over the cauldron. "Is it supposed to be that colour?"
The churning liquid glowed with an eerie green hue, reminiscent of the ubiquitous radioactive wastes with alarming mutative properties that featured in those Muggle comic books Peter liked so much.
"Yes," James said.
"No," Sirius said.
"Maybe," Benjy said. He wrinkled his brow in concentration. "What does it say?"
Peter turned a page in the massive, leather-bound book and read aloud, "'Thereupon after two and seventeen days plus one half of one day to be ended after the sun has fled the sky, within the Vessel of Creation shall be discovered a concoction moste potente' -- it's 'moste' with an 'e', so you know it's really potent -- 'of a liveliness and fervour matched by none yet discovered on these wicked streets of Paris.'" He paused, read a few more lines silently, then shrugged. "It doesn't say anything about the colour."
"Well…okay." Benjy pushed his glasses up on his nose and looked up. "I need help for the next step -- no! Not you." He glared as Remus stepped forward.
Snickering, James knelt on the floor beside the cauldron. "Sorry, Remus, but I think he needs help from somebody whose Potions O.W.L. didn't require a mass evacuation of the castle and an emergency visit to St. Mungo's."
Remus tried to think of a response, but he gave up rather quickly. "Very well," he said, with unimpeachable dignity. "I shall just go…over here. Where there is nothing at all to melt."
"Or dissolve," Peter added. "Or burn, or disintegrate, or--"
"Oh, you're one to talk." James laughed as he dropped a handful of dried leaves into the cauldron. "Tell us again about your interpretation of the Goblin Accord of 1345? I don't remember reading that part about what Hervek the Hirsute did to Derla the Dangerous with his--"
"Well, that wasn't exactly my fault, was it?" Peter interrupted dryly.
Remus noted that Peter didn't even look at Sirius, but then, he didn't have to. Sirius didn't look abashed, but he didn't look smug, either. He had let Peter be in charge of reading from Ars Ebrietas, a book he guarded so jealousy he'd once slept with it under his pillow for two weeks because he thought to house-elves were plotting to steal it. The book, for its part, returned Sirius' devotion with its own brand of fierce literary loyalty, refusing to so much as rustle a page without his approval. It had bitten James hard enough to bruise one day after he mocked Sirius' choice of beverage, and there were times when Remus would swear the embossed goblets on the cover were gazing lovingly at their chosen owner.
Entrusting the tome to Peter and coaxing it to cooperate was, in the Mysterious Language of Sirius Black, almost the same thing as, "I'm sorry I left that charmed quill where you would grab it before your History O.W.L. and spend the entire exam writing 'bacchanalian orgy' where you mean to write 'goblin rebellion'."
While Peter began reading the next step, Remus wandered away from the cauldron toward the front of the dusty old chapel. Edgar Bones and Nigel Robinson were sitting on the floor by the altar, speaking in hushed voices and darting suspicious glances at the pipe organ that engulfed that back of the apse. A book lay open on the floor between them.
"…but what if we--"
"No! Not again, you know what happened last time."
"But if we try--"
"Do you want to see the candles do that…thing again?"
"But if we--"
"Hello, Bones, Nigel." Remus paused, peered around the back of the altar, then said again, "Hello, Nigel."
"'Lo, Lupin," Bones said without looking up from the book.
Nigel the Hufflepuff nodded toward the altar meaningfully. "He just sits there, staring at us. Doesn't even blink."
Remus settled on the floor beside them. "Well, no," he said after a moment. "Skulls usually don't."
Or, rather, most skulls didn't. Nigel the Skeletal Crocodile, the one permanent inhabitant of the Hogwarts chapel, did not always follow the rules that dictated the lives of most skeletons. Despite lacking any sort of wire or glue, he managed to avoid collapsing into a jumble of bones. Sometimes he moved, though nobody had been able to catch him in the act, and Nigel the Hufflepuff swore on his grandmother's grave that the skeleton occasionally talked to him.
Remus glanced up at the organ. It loomed over them, a labyrinthine mess of pipes, bellows, keyboards and glowing runic carvings. "Is it still--?"
"Yeah, thanks to you," Bones said, rolling his eyes. "I don't think we'll ever get it to stop sulking. I mean, it was going so well with 'Stairway to Heaven'--"
"Though we think it guessed that it's not a hymn," Nigel the Hufflepuff put in.
"--but that 'traps for troubadours' song just -- well, we can't get it to play a single damn note. I think you've done permanent damage. We should have stuck with 'Toccata and Fugue."
Defensively, Remus replied, "It's not my fault the thing has no sense of irony whatsoever. I was just--"
The organ groaned. The towering pipes shuddered, and there was a great whoosh, like an intake of breath. The flying buttresses seemed to draw back nervously into the shadows, and the bickering around the cauldron fell silent.
For one long second, nobody in the chapel breathed.
Then the organ exhaled. All of the boys did, too.
Bones leaned toward Remus. "Not another word, okay?" he whispered urgently. "Not one!"
"Fine, fine," Remus said.
Bones glared at him.
Remus sighed heavily and stood up, feeling exceptionally useless and unfairly put upon. Despite its tiresome preference for chorale music, the organ was really quite talented at pretending to be an electric guitar or a human voice, and the first song had been so easy to teach. The old book Bones found in the library was very specific about what was required. The organ could feel the music, if the wizard knew it well enough. That was how magical instruments worked, even those that had gone senile after years of misuse. They listened, and they absorbed. Remus was certain there was another song besides 'Stairway to Heaven' the organ would consent to play; he just hadn't figured out what it was.
From the group around the cauldron, James' voice rose and echoed through the chapel. "What do you mean, you forgot?"
"It's not a big deal, you stupid arse--" Sirius snapped.
"But you said it had to be exactly right!"
"It'll be fine--" Benjy began calmly.
A heated argument broke out. Remus wandered over. "What's the problem?"
James scowled. "They forgot the -- what did they forget, Pete?" He snatched the book before Peter could answer. "It says -- 'And twenty strokes, not twenty-one, stirred with the Bone of a Moste Fearsome Beast, for full potency and strength.' But the geniuses here," he waved a hand angrily at Benjy and Sirius, "forgot that little detail. Don't suppose anybody has a Moste Fearsome Beast in their pocket?"
"It's okay," Benjy insisted, still kneeling beside the cauldron. "We can improvise."
There was a uncomfortable silence. James frowned. Peter bit his lip. Even Sirius looked slightly worried.
Improvisation was, of course, a skill they all prized, a vital component of the lives they led. But when Benjy Fenwick improvised, things tended to happen. People tended to lose fingers. Pumpkin juice tended to acquire alarming conversational skills. Roofs tended to disappear in spontaneous conflagrations.
"Well--" James took a deep breath. "A Moste Fearsome--?" He stopped. "Oh."
As one, the boys turned toward the altar.
After another long silence, Remus said, coaxingly, "C'mon, Nigel. Be a sport."
Nigel the Skeletal Crocodile said nothing.
Interpreting the lack of response as consent, Sirius whooped happily and bounded over to the crocodile. "Which one should I take? A rib?" He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "But which rib? There are so many to choose from. Left side and right side. D'ya think it matters? Maybe I should--"
He was interrupted by the creak of the chapel door opening.
"Quick!" Benjy whispered, panicked. "Hide it!"
"Where?" Peter looked around wildly. "There's no ti-- Oh, hello."
A curly head of dark hair peaked around the edge of the door. Emily O'Malley stepped into the chapel, followed quickly by the a few more girls.
Peter's expression brightened immediately. "Oh, hello," he said again, waving cheerfully.
Sirius' melodramatic groan reflected Remus' thoughts, though he tried to hide his annoyance. He didn't have anything against girls, not really, he just didn't like the way they always ruined a perfectly good party. Once the girls showed up, it was only a matter of time before somebody put a Carly Simon record on and all the fun went out of the evening. He eyed the radioactive green moonshine hopefully. It was almost ready to drink, thank Merlin.
"What are you doing here?" Waverly Hart strode forward as if she owned the place -- but that was how she walked everywhere, so it didn't really mean anything -- and glared at the boys. Behind her, Lily set a book bag on a pew; Remus heard the clink of bottles and shook his head. Sneaking around the castle at night with Butterbeer -- the girls didn't even know how to drink properly.
"We could ask you the same thing," Sirius retorted, brandishing one of Nigel the Crocodile's ribs like a sword.
"You could, but we wouldn't care to answer," Waverly said.
"We don't need you to answer," Sirius said. "It's obvious."
"What on earth is that? It looks disgusting!" Penny was peering into the cauldron. She sounded positively delighted. "And the fumes! You could get drunk just breathing it."
Beside her, Lily asked suspiciously, "It looks like -- is that --?"
"Theophilus' Triple-Trove Tripudio," Peter said proudly, glancing at Imogen to see if she was suitably impressed. "We made it ourselves."
"Are you certain that's what it's called?" Lily said.
"Brilliant!" Penny exclaimed. "That's a banned substance in fifty-seven countries!"
Imogen wrinkled her nose. "You're going to drink it?"
"No, we're going to bathe in it," James replied. "Ceremonial ablutions. Cleanse the soul and all that. And after we're all squeaky clean, we're going to sit down for tea and crumpets--"
"--and knit mittens for homeless Muggles," Sirius finished. "We do this every weekend, you know. It's a humanitarian effort."
Benjy cleared his throat and pushed his glasses up his nose. "We're not going to do anything," he said pointedly, "without one of Nigel's ribs."
The girls looked around in confusion, then spotted Nigel the Hufflepuff on the floor in front of the organ.
He glanced up from the book and raised his chin bravely. "We all have sacrifices to make."
Benjy ignored him and snapped at Sirius, "Just give it to me. If I don't stir this, it'll go wrong." That was enough to get Sirius' attention. He brought the rib over to the cauldron, wiped it off on his t-shirt, and presented it to Benjy with a flourish. Rib in hand, Benjy looked up. "How many times? Twenty?" At Peter's affirmative nod, Benjy began stirring slowly, counting out loud.
"So." James grinned at Lily. "What are you ladies doing here?"
"We were looking for a place where we wouldn't be bothered," she replied coolly, not looking at him.
Emily said, "We read about this place in Hogwarts, A History. It's taken us ages to find it, though. The book says that you can charm the organ to play any music you want."
By the altar, Edgar Bones snorted loudly, and Sirius laughed outright. "You can try, maybe. We've been at it for months, but only Remus has managed. Sort of. It doesn't always…work out the way you expect." He smiled a little meanly. It was the smile Sirius gave when he was daring somebody to do something incredibly stupid for his own personal entertainment.
Tugging on Lily's hair, James asked, "What'd you want to make it play?"
She pushed his hand away. "Oh, I don't know. 'You're So Vain', maybe?"
"I knew it!" Remus pointed an accusing finger at Lily. The others stared at him. He shrugged and dropped his hand. "The organ definitely won't allow that. It only likes hymns. And Led Zeppelin."
"…eighteen…nineteen…twenty!" Benjy stopped counting and drew the rib from the cauldron. "It's done! Okay, who's first? Where're the glasses?"
Sirius produced a selection of goblets borrowed from the Great Hall. Benjy dipped one into the cauldron and passed it back to Sirius. Grinning wickedly, Sirius held it out to Waverly.
"Urgh!" Waverly shuddered visibly and stepped back. "You can't expect anybody to drink that."
"Oh. Dear me, I'm so sorry," Sirius said, his voice dripping with mock embarrassment. "How foolish. We wouldn't expect you to be able to handle anything so barbaric as a little drink."
Waverly narrowed her eyes.
Sirius' smile widened. "It does look rather frightening, I admit. But..."
"It's just a little bit of alcohol," Remus said.
"And some green stuff," James added helpfully. "Stirred with a crocodile bone. It's harmless."
Her chin went up and her shoulders straightened. "Able to handle it, Black? We'll see who's able to handle it." She grabbed the glass, raised it to her lips, hesitated just a moment to meet Sirius' eyes, then took one small drink.
And promptly spat it all over the front of Sirius' shirt.
Her furious, choking cough was lost under the howls of laughter all around. Waverly's face grew red. "What the hell is that? It tastes like--"
"Wormwood," Benjy supplied. He dipped another glass and held it up; the iridescent green liquid shimmered in the candlelight. "It's a little bit bitter."
Sirius wiped his face with exaggerated motions and looked very smug. "Nice try, Hart. Maybe you should have a Butterbeer to wash it down. Or did you ladies only bring pumpkin juice?"
"It's the foulest, most disgusting, most wretched--"
"I think you're supposed to swallow it," Remus said to Waverly, kindly. "It's better that way."
She turned her glare on him then. "Oh, thank you very much, you idiot! I didn't know that part. Why don't you try swallowing, if you're so smart?" She shoved the glass toward him.
Remus took it from her and raised a single eyebrow. He tipped the glass back and drank every last drop.
For a second, he was certain his head would explode with the effort of trying not to cough. His throat closed and his eyes began to burn, but the feeling passed. Remus smiled, licked his lips and handed the empty glass back to Benjy.
"Delicious," he said, meeting Waverly's incredulous gaze directly.
It wasn't entirely untrue. The alcohol had burned away the surface of his tongue. The drink may very well have been delicious, had he been able to taste it.
Benjy began filling the other glasses while Waverly continued to glare in that particularly charming Waverly fashion. "This is ridiculous," she said. "You're all going to poison yourselves. And ruin our night! We didn't want you to be here!"
Sirius raised his glass to Waverly. "Sorry, Hart. You can't always get what you want."
Remus turned so quickly he nearly knocked Emily over. "That's it!"
"That's what?" James pushed a refilled glass into Remus' hand.
"Choir music," he answered. "Excuse me."
Striding quickly away from the cauldron, Remus bounded up the steps in front of the altar and stared up at the organ. "Now, look here," he began.
"Remus!" Bones hissed. "What are you doing?"
Remus ignored him. "Listen to me," he commanded. The organ creaked quietly, and he heard a single bellow beating rhythmically behind the console. The organ was listening. "I have a song for you to play," he said, in the same voice he used to say, ‘I can explain everything, Professor McGonagall,’ or, ‘No, they've been here all night, Mr. Filch.’
"Remus!" Bones sounded truly desperate. "Stop!"
But the words were no more than a buzz somewhere beneath Remus' consciousness. The chapel seemed to both shrink and grow, morphing into a single sphere that encompassed Remus, the organ, and nothing else. The organ's pipes shone in the candlelight, stretching, pushing toward the roof of the chapel.
Remus felt a little outmatched.
He thought for a moment. Then he turned around and climbed, very carefully, onto the altar.
"Now," he said again, addressing the organ. "I have a song for you."
It was difficult to stare an organ in the eye when it did not, in fact, have any eyes, but Remus did his best. Behind him, voices and laughter hummed pleasantly: What the hell is Remus doing…must be potent stuff…sod off, Potter…usually four or five drinks before he starts talking to things that don't talk back…
"It goes," Remus said, raising his glass for emphasis, "like this."
...does talk back, that one…gah, this stuff is disgusting! here, gimme more...not the candles again… betcha I can do more cartwheels than you...
The organ let out a shriek of protest.
"No!" Remus shouted. "No! Like this!" He hummed a few bars, just so there was no mistake. "It's bloody choir music, you insufferably stubborn junk pile of pipes and air bags! You love choir music!"
...oh Merlin, stop him, it's going to lose it again…maybe we should lock the door...no that's cheating you can't tuck your shirt in…ow! your bloody elbow, Evans…
The organ inhaled deeply; the chapel walls creaked and groaned. The pipes expanded and contracted, the carved runes glowing red-gold as if fired from within. The keys on the keyboard rattled menacingly, snapping up and down like teeth but producing no music. The candles on the walls began to melt. The wood of the console cracked, and the padded bench skittered away from the organ like a panicked crab.
"Good," Remus said. "That's right."
...your hand does not belong…oy, Black, that looked like it hurt…a toast! a toast! give me your glass, Peter…
For one long moment, the organ was still and silent.
...one-armed and you get four sickles…what d'ya think'll happen if we add this blue stuff...c'mon, Hart, you're not drinking fast enough...
A few hesitant notes filled the chapel. The high, melodious voices of a choir collected in the apse, then flowed out gently, quickening and soaring through the flying buttresses, rippling over the stained glass, flickering through the candles and whispering along the stone floor. The organ gained confidence; the voices grew stronger. The first guitar chords were bold and true. Pleased, Remus turned around.
Penny was cartwheeling expertly down the centre aisle, cheered on by Lily and Sirius. James and Benjy were huddled over the cauldron, adding something to the roiling mixture; they filled two glasses and handed them to Emily and Bones. Waverly was sitting on Nigel the Hufflepuff's chest, a half-filled glass in hand; Nigel's arms and legs were waving helplessly like an overturned turtle's. Peter was grinning as he and Imogen snuck into the candlelit vestry.
Remus began to smile. Quietly, he sang to himself, "But if you try sometimes, you might find, you get what you need…."
Raising his glass, he examined the unnatural green liquid, then took a sip and looked down at the skeleton on the floor. "This stuff," he said, "is fucking incredible."
Nigel the Skeletal Crocodile grinned. "Amen, brother."
Pop. Fizzzz.
Like determined toddlers, little explosions of purple and orange light blinked in and out behind Peter's eyes, vying for his severely limited attention. They popped and sizzled back into the black behind his eyelids like so many Fizzing Whizbees sputtering out after Bonfire Night and dying in the morning dew.
"Uuurgnh," he groaned. The sound hit his ears and triggered fresh waves of dampened fireworks in his skull. He stifled the urge to moan again and rolled over, back pressed against something hard.
Up. Up began to disentangle itself from where it had landed in a heap of Sideways and Down. After several attempts it was finally free, and Peter found himself lying on the once-polished floor, staring up at the buttressed ceiling of the Hogwarts chapel.
Light filtered in through the tall stained-glass windows, tracing patterns of colour and fire across the open space and leaving iridescent trails across his retinas.
Peter tried to steady the tumultuous tumblings in his head by focussing on the designs, but they shifted and moved before him as the window panes melted and rearranged themselves in a never-ending swirl of narrative movement. Wizards, castles, centaurs and the occasional troll walked in and out of their panes , illuminating the motes of dust floating lazily through the room.
It all made Peter rather queasy.
Tearing his eyes away, he sat up very slowly and noticed the figure silhouetted on the bench beneath the nearest window.
"Remus?" Peter's voice was a rough scrape, dwarfed by the silence of the chapel and a dawn unwilling to admit the sounds of day. Even the organ was still and silent as the grave. Green, syrupy liquid dripped from its ivory keys.
Remus' hair fell into his face, hiding his eyes and catching wisps of light. His knees were tucked up against his chest, encircled by his arms. Very slowly and without looking up, he nodded. Peter nodded too and immediately regretted it; the cogs, springs and squishy matter in his skull began to shudder and bump against each other again. He shut his eyes.
Reaching out to steady himself, his fingers encountered a bottle -- an empty butterbeer bottle whose label had been sloppily peeled from its side.
Oh no, was all he managed to think before bubbles of memory floated into his conscious and began to pop with metronomic frequency.
~
Toasts toasted, glasses clinked. Sirius downed his entire goblet-full of moonshine in one galumphing sip, pulling a face that reminded Peter of the gargoyles on the roof. After swallowing dramatically, Sirius grinned at Waverly; her eyebrow was arched sceptically in his direction.
Cartwheels and cheers echoed through the room. When there were no more girls to challenge, Sirius called upon the stained glass windows to join in the competition. The organ's thrumming base shook the aged structure as the boys in turn taught it all the Stones tunes they knew. Music notes and scripted lyrics came to life and caroused around their heads.
Peter, unable to wipe the dumbfounded smile from his face, held the door open as Imogen emerged from the vestry. He draped one arm around her shoulder, still thrilled with his luck and the general proximity of her breasts. They crossed the chapel, counterbalancing each others' weaving steps, when a shaggy blur darted out from behind a pew to crash into them.
"I LOVE you," James' smothered voice emerged from somewhere in Imogen's shoulder. He leapt to his feet and dragged them towards the nave where Nigel the Hufflepuff was leading a fair foxtrot with...
"Nigel the Crocodile?" Peter asked, unsure that he saw what he thought he saw as the world spun around him. Little technicoloured snowflakes had begun to erupt in the corners of his vision.
"Love you, too, Pads." James had stumbled away from Peter to collapse in Sirius' lap. He flung his arms around Sirius' shoulders, upsetting the glass he held in one hand. Its contents slopped out and oozed between the floorboards, bubbling as it made contact with centuries-old varnish and wax.
"Moony, I love you!" he proclaimed, waving in Remus' direction before turning to the gaggle of girls staring at him. "And Penny, love, you're lovely!"
Sirius pushed him off muttering something about drunken poofters, but James didn't hear. "Bones, Benjy, love you, mates." He spun around, landing face to face with a tipsy Waverly Hart. "Hart," he began, "Er..." He stumbled around a nearby tabernacle, looking to the architecture for inspiration.
It shrugged.
James turned back to Waverly. "You're not half bad." He grinned sheepishly, flashing his most winning smile and clapping her on the back.
Hart pushed him onto the ground and turned away, the effect of her huffy retreat marred only by her precariously upright stance.
The crocodile's toothy jaw bounced and crackled as Nigel spun him around, holding tight to one of his stumpy arms. His ribs glowed green in the moonlight shining through the stained-glass windows.
~
The bottle rolled across the floor with a clatter, setting miniature earthquakes rocketing up Peter's spine. "Frungh," he managed. "Sorry."
Across the room Remus shrugged. "I don't imagine they noticed," he said waving a hand towards the bodies sprawled over the floor, velvet cushioned benches, and one head of messy, black hair just visible over the altar.
Peter pressed his hands into the floor and pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. After the horizon reoriented itself in his head, he walked towards the window, leaning heavily on the back of the nearest pew. He tried to blink without actually moving his eyelids and to move without jarring his protesting vertebrae. After an age, his thoughts began to clear. Remus silently watched his progress. Peter leaned back against the wall.
"That was," he began.
"Yeah," Remus answered. "Incredible."
"You don't--"
Remus raised an eyebrow. "Headache?" he asked.
Peter nodded weakly. "You?"
"Yes. Worth it, though." He turned his face towards the rising sun and shut his eyes. A faint smile played along his lips.
From underneath a bench, something tall and boy-like rolled out into the aisle. The sound it made was more suited to a dying cat.
~
"Sirius?" Penny held Sirius' upper arm leaning into him for support, and Imogen jabbed Peter in the back. He smiled. "Sirius Black, do you think I'm pretty?" Her words were slurred as she ran a hand through her long, brown hair and tumbled against his chest.
Sirius began to back slowly away.
"Sirius Black. Black, Sirius, Black. What a nice name. It matches your hair you know?" She smiled up at him, batting her eyelashes.
Sirius ran a hand through his own hair and caught her as she stumbled, nearly knocking them both onto a pew.
"a'right Pads?" Remus asked, eyes half-closed as the music swelled around him.
"Pads? What a won-der-ful nickname." Penny prodded his chest with every syllable. "What does it mean?"
"Ungff." Sirius replied, looking vaguely terrified. Help, he mouthed at the others.
Peter, Imogen, and Remus just laughed.
~
A ray of orange light slashed the space between the two boys, and Peter looked up as quickly as his head would allow. Stained-glass witches, wizards, and frolicking animals had all stopped their dance and were staring keenly at the door. They began gesticulating at the occupants of the chapel.
Then the glass shifted, and the windows now depicted a corridor outside. Striding towards the chapel was a very purposeful professor.
Peter swallowed.
In the back of the chapel, so did the organ.
"Quickly," said Remus, cringing as he leapt off the window sill. He scanned the room and pointed at the bodies sprawled around it. "Get them up. Hide the evidence. Mobilivessel." With an overenthusiastic wave of his wand, he banished the cauldron under the altar and began to assemble the empty bottles in a dark corner.
"Frungh," James huffed as the cauldron hit his knees. The last of the moonshine slopped onto the floor.
"Who-- Wha-- I didn't do it." He looked around blearily and finally focussed on the source of the charm that had sent the cauldron crashing to his knees. "Remus, mate, what was that for? My bloody shins... no. Head... ow."
"Look sharp," Remus called to him, "and help Hart off the floor. We have company."
Footsteps sounded outside the old chapel door. The stained-glass figures gestured frantically to the students. James' slightly unfocussed eyes went wide, and he pulled Waverly off the floor with an unceremonious yank. Peter helped Imogen and a groggily protesting Lily to their feet as Bones walked over, one arm draped protectively around Penny Lindell. Remus was shaking Sirius, who was grumbling obscenities that would make a Jarvey blush, and Nigel the Hufflepuff had sunk into a pew, head resting in his hands.
At the first knock, Benjy popped up from under a bank of melted candles. "Well lads," he asked brightly, "any of you going to open the door?" In addition to the uncanny ability to assemble explosive powders, potions, pollens and even pastes, Benjy Fenwick could keep off a hangover as easily as an incoming Quaffle. Peter's head throbbed just listening to his jaunty steps.
James had just enough time to stow Ars Ebrietas behind a small hymnal before Benjy reached the door.
Professor McGonagall strode into the room. She surveyed the scene, the dishevelled hair and mussed clothing, the empty bottles and fading luminescence of the green stains, the students cowering under her glare even as they stumbled towards her. Peter could feel his heart thudding somewhere in his ears, and the air seemed to turn into syrup as he breathed.
There was the unmistakeable scuttle and thud of a skeletal crocodile hiding behind a pipe organ.
"Well?" McGonagall finally asked. "What have you to say for yourselves?"
Eleven pairs of bloodshot eyes looked up at her. Eleven minds belatedly considered their excuses, and Beethoven's Fifth began to toll softly from the organ's pipes.
"Have we missed breakfast?" Benjy asked.
Nigel the Hufflepuff turned faintly green.
McGonagall's lips were pressed in such a tight line that they threatened to disappear altogether. She arched one eyebrow. "I don’t suppose you can explain the reports of Rock and Roll music coming from the chapel last night? Professor Mirador was beside herself this morning, convinced that the fates wanted her door painted black."
Even Benjy was silent.
"I am certain I need not remind you of the consequences of meddling with powerful and unpredictable magical instruments." She looked directly at Sirius, who managed to look scandalised for a moment before he had to rub his temple. Behind him, the mahogany wood of the organ blushed a deeper shade of red.
"I cannot imagine what pos--" She stopped abruptly and reached for the pile of books beside Nigel. From beneath Songs in Praise of Pixies, she lifted a dark, leather-bound tome with a large, brass clasp.
Ars Ebrietas lay in her hands, morning sunlight glinting off the gold embossing on its cover. " What were you doing with this?"
None of the students dared breathe. Not only was a book from the Restricted Section in their possession, as far from the library as it was possible to be without leaving the castle, but they had used it to concoct a liquid banned in fifty-seven nations and got a thousand-year-old organ drunk in the process. Peter swallowed, and for the second time in twenty-four hours, time stopped.
McGonagall tapped the cover once.
Nothing happened.
She pulled out her wand and tapped it again. Then she glared. The venomous tentacula himself would have withered under that stare, but the book stayed strong.
Sirius shut his eyes. The ghost of a grin passed over his features.
McGonagall frowned, and turned towards the boys. "I repeat. What were you doing with this book?"
"Noth--" James started weakly. Then, "Nothing, ma'am," he continued in a deeper voice. "We liked the picture on the cover, but we never could get it open."
ther Essentials
It must be reiterated that not all of the important1 books Hogwarts Library has to offer are housed in the Restricted Section. Several other areas contain books on myriad different subjects useful to the Well-Read Prankster. Even the books that are not Banned, Forbidden, Prohibited, or otherwise Restricted are sometimes worth a read.
Take, for example, the many valuable books Hogwarts has to offer on the noble sport of Quidditch2. Following is a short list of the absolute most important books any Quidditcher must read, reread, memorize, and live by:
Quidditch Through the Ages
Beating the Bludgers -- A Study of Defensive Strategies in Quidditch
The Noble Sport of Warlocks
The Beater's Bible
Shuntbumps to Snitchs: The Evolution of Broomstick Games in England
The Quidditchers of Queerditch Marsh
Bring Back the Banchory Bangers: The Out-Dated Rules of Regulation Quidditch
Mumps' Treatise on Quidditch (1398)
Bloody Blooders: Quidditch the Old-Fashioned Way
He Flew Like a Madman
Secrets of the Seekers
Glory Days of the Chudley Cannons, 1834-1892
The Wonder of Wigtown Wanderers
1473: The Seven-hundred Foul Game
Kwikspell course for Quidditch Referee Training
Jillian's Comet: Gender and Quidditch in the Middle Ages
Unfortunately, the collection housed in Hogwarts Library is by no means exhaustive and neglects many literary masterpieces. Following are some that are sadly missing from the Hogwarts stacks, despite repeated petitions to Madam Pince to rectify the situation:
Blagging, Blatching, Blurting and Bumphing: How To Cheat At Quidditch
The Holyhead Harpies 1975 Calendar
The Handbook of Do-it-Yourself Broomcare
Starfish and Stick: Trick Flying for the Gutsy Quidditcher
1. That depends entirely on one's definition of the word "important," and unfortunately, the context of this definition runs along the lines of "books which feed Prongs' hideous chronic obsession with Quidditch," which is not, really, standard usage. --ed.*
* Who the hell is Ed??
2. Oh here we go. Merlin save us. We would like the reader to know that the views of Mr. Prongs do not necessarily reflect the views of the rest of the Marauders, especially when it comes to the relative importance of Quidditch in a healthy, balanced lifestyle.**
** You're just jealous.
James and Sirius slogged into the changing rooms, every muscle on fire, every inch of them wet and cold, and every fibre of their beings weak with exhaustion. Sirius collapsed onto a bench and rested his head against the wall. James stumbled over to his cubby and stared blankly at his clean, dry robes, trying to remember what they were for.
Quidditch was supposed to be about Excitement and Fame and Glory. That’s what the articles in Quidditch Weekly were always going on about: the incredible excitement, the immeasurable fame, and the immortal glory. He wriggled his narrow shoulders, letting his wet robes slop to the floor. He was quite sure the rag had never run an article mentioning anything about Quidditch being gruelling, exhausting, wet, muddy, smelly, or anything even remotely resembling work.
Sirius moaned a wordless complaint which managed to convey exactly how unfair it was that they, as "ickle second years" and the newest members of the team, had "Bludger Duty". They'd chased the elusive devils all over the pitch for a solid twenty minutes before wrestling them back into their box. James snorted his agreement as he peeled off his damp undershirt and shorts, threw them into the pile with his soggy team robes, and set his glasses on the little shelf in his cubby. He reached for his towel with the fullest intention of making it just as far as the showers, and then standing there until either the hot water or his legs gave out. Whichever came first.
"Oy, Potter!"
James looked up sharply at the voice and squinted at the tiny figure standing in the doorway.
"Flannigan?!" he squeaked, remembering a little late to lower his towel strategically.
"I wanted to talk to you," she said, marching into the changing rooms with her hands on her hips. Fiona Flannigan was the Gryffindor Seeker, a year ahead of James and Sirius, and already something of a mythological creature in the annals of Hogwarts Quidditch.
"You can't come in here!" James squawked, trying to sound authoritative, which was difficult to do, given that he was a year younger than Fiona, only a few inches taller, and currently 68% naked. He took a step backwards and almost slipped in a puddle of water.
Fiona crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows at him. "And why not?" she demanded.
"Because you're a bloody GIRL!"
Fiona quirked a half smile at him. "What's the matter, Potter? Modest? I've got six brothers at home. There's nothing I haven't seen. Alright, Black?"
"Don't talk to me," Sirius replied. "I'm dead."
James was frantically trying to work out how to get his towel round his waist without exposing any important bits in the process. Fiona took another step towards him and he took another step back, wondering how someone so tiny could be so intimidating.
"Look, I need to check out some plays in Secrets of the Seekers and Madam Pince said you had it. In fact," Fiona paused and gave him a searching look, "she said you'd checked out every single book on Quidditch she had. Including A Bride With a Broom." She cocked her head at him and grinned. "Isn't that a book about how the ladies with the Harpies balance Quidditch and families?"
"You didn't!" Sirius said incredulously, managing to turn his head enough to gawk at James.
"No!" James cried. "I--"
Sirius looked scandalised and threw his arm over his eyes, moaning dramatically.
"Shut up," James said fiercely before turning back to Fiona. "I don't have A bloody Bride With a Broom," he insisted, turning back to Fiona.
She continued to smile at him. "I've heard it's an excellent read. Really gets to the heart of the problem with being a professional Quidditch player and a professional mum. Were you reading it for the tips on breastfeeding during timeouts or more for its discussion of the 'broomstick envy' experienced by some of the husbands?"
"I don't-- I didn't--" James sputtered indignantly. He tried to recall if he did actually have the book in question. It wasn't impossible. He had simply grabbed the entire contents of the Quidditch shelf in the library, and he hadn't had a chance to even go through them all yet.
But surely... No. He would never have taken...
He threw his arms up to indicate his locker. "Look for yourself! They're--" at which point he realized that his towel was slipping and scrambled to save his manhood from exposure.
Fiona continued to smile placidly.
"They're in m-my locker," James stuttered clutching his towel possessively. "Take whatever you want. Take all of them! And then could you just get out of here?"
Fiona grinned benevolently at him and strode forward another few paces. James backed up accordingly, his face burning as though he'd just plunged his head into a vat of Pepperup Potion.
While Fiona took her sweet time pawing through the enormous stack of books at the bottom of his locker, James tried frantically to communicate with Sirius, who was watching him with a grin.
Give -- me -- your -- robes! James mouthed desperately.
Sirius shook his head. Can't -- I'm -- dead.
James glared at him, indicating quite clearly that if Sirius wasn't actually dead already, he would be as soon as James got some clothes on.
"I'd keep this one somewhere safer if you don't want people to know you have it," Fiona said, calling his attention back to his locker. She was holding up a book and waving it at him. He couldn't see well enough without his glasses to read the title.
Sirius exploded with laughter. "BROOMSTICK ENVY!" he screeched, pointing at James.
James frowned, no longer needing to see the title of the book to know what it was.
"Here we are," Fiona said finally, pulling out Secrets of the Seekers. She turned back to face James. "You should really learn to be a bit friendlier, Potter, if we're going to be team mates." She took another step towards him and he bumped into the wall in his hasty retreat. "If I didn't know better, I might think you didn't like me."
She turned and headed back towards the door. "Thanks again for the book," she said, waving it over her head. "And don't worry," she called over her shoulder. "I'll be sure to mention that it was awfully cold in here, if anyone asks."
James stood staring dumbfounded at the empty doorway for a solid thirty seconds before regaining his composure. Sirius had actually fallen off of his bench howling with laughter. Hitching up his towel, James marched back to his locker, withdrew Mumps' Treatise on Quidditch, and lobbed it at Sirius' head.
Onward to Part Two!