CHAPTER 6: Bezoar Breakfast

The Library of Lost Wands

by Antonia Zenkevitch

“This is all quite alarming!” exclaimed Cordelia, skirts rustling angrily as she, Lindsay, Percy and Fizzy with Fred the rat headed towards the dining car. They had been expelled from visiting George on his sickbed by Amos who had propelled them out with a mix of steely determination and avid good humour. The effect of humans moving in and out of such a small space so quickly was quite disorientating. They all looked windswept, as if they’d walked through a storm, which in a way they had Lindsay thought wryly to herself. Launched out in front of the others she could feel the frost of a stare on the back of her neck. Flushed as she was with all she’d witnessed, the affect was like ice-cream melting on a hot day; sticky beads of liquid ran down from her scalp to her collar, stopped in their tracks by goose-pimple chills. The hairs on her arms were standing to attention.

“I don’t think this was the kind of adventure Mr. Quirrel had in mind for us” put in Percy.

Lindsay’s mind flashed to her name and cabin number written on the hour hand pointing to mortal peril on George’s unusual clock. A hysterical giggle bubbled up and tried to escape from her, but she forced it back down. Lindsay’s insides were reeling, sick with the emotions and ideas swirling inside her, not all of them her own. Even Fred was squeaking, wriggling from his beloved Fizzy’s grasp. Percy scooped him up and stroked the little rat behind the ears. Lindsay considered the fact she was harbouring a dog-chewed wand from the authorities and was now being almost marched to her first breakfast on-board the train. She had to leave the letter Seamus had written to George when Amos had steered her to the door. She’d been too in shock to put up much protest, Now she was bumping along the corridor by the momentum of her new travel companions forward motion with little idea who she could truly trust.

The train rounded a bend in the tracks and Percy drew level with her, concern etched on his face. They were approaching her own cabin. Lindsay had a sudden urge to run and hide from everything and everyone. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Percy do something odd. The wizard popped the now calm Fred quickly and carefully in his jacket pocket, and called out “Has anyone seen Fred? I’m so sorry Fizzy I seem to have dropped him.” Cordelia and Fizzy immediately turned and focused on the floor to search for the little squeaker, but Percy caught Lindsay’s gaze, nodding his head towards her cabin door. Flashing him a grateful if shaky smile she slipped silently inside.

“It’s all right, I’ve found Fred, he’s fine. Sorry folks!” she heard Percy say from the other side of the door. Soon their footsteps became distant. Lindsay tried out her own feet, which seemed stubbornly rooted to the spot while her mind raced. Her brother had written to George before disappearing, then George had been found unconscious outside her door just after giving her a message. She knew she was missing a few steps in the middle, but her thoughts were sparking all sorts of connections. She told herself sternly, these were mysteries to be unravelled later. She had to gather herself together and keep up a pretence of normality. Looking scared would never do.

She tidied her hair and washed quickly in the self-refilling basin now scented with lavender and marjoram. Soap and cocoa butter revived her spirits, going someway to sweetening her mood. Outside her window endless fields beckoned. She had a glimpse of a freer future self, riding a Pegasus horse across vast plains. Then her stomach let out a roar that bought her back into the present. After securing her cabin with a few extra charms she walked unseeing along the long corridors, her head as full as her tummy felt empty. Could she really be going to her first breakfast on the train? It seemed incredible.

It had been an unusual journey, from eavesdropping on Minister Moon from Magical Cooperation, to the battle to save Rosa the mischievous pomeranian, to the sinister wizard with his bone pipe, to frightened children, humiliated goblins, odd messages and attacks in the dark. The intriguing people she had met made her feel like she’d been here for weeks. It all seemed somehow connected, and her lost brother was at the heart of the whole strange story, drawing him close. Few of her fellow passengers were what they seemed at first glance, including Poggle, the elf with the hat that wasn’t a hat and her story of a stolen dragon’s heartstring. Lindsay was beginning to wonder if the riddles ran so deep that the Ministry of Magic was keeping secrets from itself.

She would find decisions easier with a full belly. Crumpets! She needed crumpets and tea. Her mood shifted as she reached the dining car and spied a swishing pom-pom tail peeking out from under a tablecloth. Dorethia sat talking with Amos over pain au chocolat and steaming cups of aromatic coffee. Watching Amos secretly feeding Rosa a sausage under the table, she breathed a sigh of relief. She knew the little dog was safe, for now at least. Hiding the evidence of the wand that Rosa had gleefully shredded had been worth it, even if there was no way of knowing how much damage the remains had caused to the memories in her precious family pensieve. She wondered what proof may still exist of unforgivable curses cast by Bulstrode using that gnawed thing lost in her history. Perhaps the wand and all it held were now no more than memories themselves.

Lindsay took in the room around her. Outside her thoughts, everywhere was sparkling. The bewitched, invisible ceiling and walls of the dining car put Lindsay in mind of eating outdoors. There was the steady hum of laughter, clatter and chatter rising in pitch as the last greys in the surrounding skies melted into cobalt blue open horizons. The air smelled of delicious dishes laid out by bustling house elves on circular tables covered in crisp white tablecloths. Whatever danger lurked on the train, here couples held hands while strangers talked like old friends. Lindsay reached into each mind she could as she passed, searching for explanations for the attack on George, but the few people in the room thinking about it had similar questions to her own.

Cordelia was across the room in avid conversation with the sleekly turned out Annie Quirrel. Amos’ gaze shifted uncomfortably towards the two every now and again. A short way away Percy Fleamont chatted happily with Arnie Singh and his lanky colleague from magical cooperation. She’d always thought well of Arnie though they only knew one another in passing. Working in the Department of Mysteries tended to make others from the Ministry of Magic give you a wide berth. Arnie Singh was the kind of wizard to always ask after your family and care enough to remember your replies. He gave Lindsay a wave of his croissant, nodding cheerfully in the direction of the now happy dog. Percy turned to see who Arnie was greeting and caught the conclusion of Lindsay’s smile. He smiled back, swallowed incorrectly in the process and was swiftly patted on the back by Arnie amid splutters. Lindsay felt her smile widen.

Some of the students and most of the river folk had left the train in Paris. Other passengers had boarded. A table of young Beaubaton students were speaking animatedly on the next table in a mix of French and Italian. There was no sign of the Guants but many families on board chose to eat in their suites. Lyndsay saw the unknown bridegroom sitting alone, reading a paper, his new bride nowhere to be seen. Ebonine Fitch was on a table near him, sucking on his bone pipe and talking to a new acquaintance while his eyes flicked around the room like a snake’s tongue.

A West African family sat around a table near them. The wizard was entertaining his son by pointing his finger at the salt pot and making it dance. Lindsay knew that magical schools across Africa, especially the largest and oldest known, Uagadou, taught their pupils magic without the use of wands. The boy tucking into jam on toast must be around ten. He’d probably receive his invitation to study there soon. His mother was dressed in a royal-blue print robe that resembled mountains in clouds. She wore a headdress of moons. Raising an eyebrow to her husband who was now conducting all the plates on the table, she touched her son’s hair and looked meaningfully around the room at all the watching faces. A teacup did one more theatrical twirl around its saucer and returned to stillness.

Lindsay quietly pulled up a chair next to Dorethia who fiddled absentmindedly with her napkin. The previous night’s concerns were written in shadows under her eyes and she seemed passive, happy to let others do the talking as she watched over her dog. Amos held court.

“Must have been that terrible Balistrode witch,” he said, throwing Rosa another piece of slightly burned sausage. “Nasty witch casting curses this way and that. It’s Merlin’s wonder she didn’t hit anyone else.”

Dorethia smiled without comment as she watched Amos scratch behind Rosa’s ears.

Lyndsay caught a flicker of an image in the older witch’s mind; a young woman, her dress the colour of the grasses on the mountains on which she sat. She had Dorethia’s deep, long-lashed eyes and full lips. The girl in Dorethia’s vision was around Lindsay’s age, with long dark hair and a golden complexion. With a jolt of recollection, Lyndsay saw her reach out towards a face as familiar to her as her own; Seamus. Her breath caught in her throat. Dorethia smiled as if she knew Lindsay had read her mind, but now was not the time to ask questions.

Fion Heinz strode confidently towards their table, nodding at Percy as he passed.

“Mr. Quirrel, may I have a quiet word?”

“Of course, Mr. Heinz, of course! What can I do for you on this fine day?”

“My colleagues and I are rather concerned about the extra wand registrations that occurred late last night.”

“Necessary my dear chap, necessary. This dear little dog. Miss Prewett here in tears.”

“Yes, I am very happy the dog was saved from that wretched witch” answered Fion, patting Rosa whose nose had pocked out from under the tablecloth to say hello. “Hello, yes, I am very happy you are safe now” he added directly to Rosa before straightening to full height and re-addressing Quirrel. “We feel, however, that some sensitivity could have been spared for my Goblin friends. After all, under current laws they must be registered on a witch or wizard’s wand to travel and can be killed if suspected of a crime.”

“Precautions, only, dear chap, more for other creatures. Goblins are highly valued, respected patrons, I assure you!”

“They did not feel valued or respected last night. This morning I assured them I would talk to you. They wanted to remind you how much Goblin gold you borrowed to build the Eagle engine. They asked me to tell you they may rethink their terms.”

“Dear me, strong words! Most unnecessary I assure you!” Amos bobbed up from his chair, looking wildly around the room.

“I assure you, Mr. Quirrel, that the feelings behind them are just as strong. I’d urge you to take them seriously. Too many more wand registrations and you may have a goblin rebellion on your hands.”

“They are for the security of our passengers” put in Quirrel, rather more weakly.

“Grawgun has had made it clear to me that the goblins see these registrations as a degradation to those whom wizarding kind refuses to allow to carry or use wands.” Fion said in hushed tones.

“Goblins with wands! Preposterous!” Amos blustered, his face flushing red as he rocked forward across the table. The room went still.

Lyndsay realised she must speak up “Perhaps, Mr. Quirrel, you could talk to the Goblins. I’m sure if you listened to their complaint you could reassure them of their safety as passengers and investors.”

Just then Annie Quirrel arrived at their table along with Cordelia. Lindsay noticed a steely determination behind Annie’s famous calming charm now filling the room. There was also a keen intelligence behind those eyes.

“We were fixin’ to do that directly, weren’t we Amos? Why, you were only saying yesterday how glad you were they’re on this journey with us; how happy you are they can see for themselves the wonder they helped create. Perhaps you could invite them to dine with us tonight?”

“Quite right, my dear” Amos answered standing, his bouncy, confident self once more. He wiped his lips and straightened his waistcoat and pocket watch, bobbed a neat little bow each to Lindsay and Dorethia, and threw Rosa another sausage. “Apologies my dears, duty calls. Mr. Heinz please do lead the way.” They strode off towards the corridor.

“I apologise” Annie said to the rest of the table as she scooped up Rosa and sat down, settling the little dog on her knee. “Amos is a passionate man and his heart and soul are in this train. What a nest of doxies we had to deal with last night. One battle at a time is what my momma used to say.” She reached out a lacy sleeve and patted Dorethia’s hand.

Cordelia made introductions, and after a moment or two of small-talk, the only sounds coming from their table were the pouring of tea and coffee, the buttering and crunching of toast and the panting of a dog excited to meet new friends. Over coffee, the conversation turned to what had happened to George.

Cordelia was adamant; “The whole thing needs investigating, Annie dear. You can’t have people attacked and not try to find out why. Besides, George is a gem. My main coon and Rosa both adore him. It’s unsettling. Fizzy is quite ill over it.”

“Yes, where is Mr. Fitzpatrick?” ventured Lindsay.

“In his cabin; he went back shortly after you left us earlier, my dear. Such an upset, seeing George must have done it. He kept saying he wasn’t safe. We left him in bed, green as troll’s boggy asking to be locked in ” answered Cordelia with feeling, much to her friend’s alarm.

“My friend, you must not say such things, they are très indelicate,” admonished Dorethia.

Cordelia lifted her chin, took her teacup gracefully in her hand and drank deep before answering, “My lace may be delicate, Dorethia, but my sentiments never will be.”

“I know mon amie. We all feel sick with it, especially Dear Fizzy. ‘E is not himself at all.”

“Would y’all like Amos and I to send Mr. Fitzpatrick a healer?”

“No thank-you, Annie dear, we just need to know that everything is in hand. How is George?” Cordelia replied.

“”Well, he was beat as all get out last night, but he’ll be right as rain by tomorrow, George is being looked after. There’s every protective charm we know on his room now, not that anyone can get past his house-elf, Poggle. She had a mind to stop the healers getting in to help. ”

“I’d expect nothing less from you, Annie, ma chérie” put in Dorethia.

“Or Poggle” Lindsay added, surprising herself.

“Amos was quite the gatekeeper too” Cordelia added.

“Well, he doesn’t want anyone upsetting themselves. He always wants each Eagle journey to be perfect for everyone” Annie answered, her tone a mixture of pride and exasperation in her husband.

“But of course it impossible what Amos says. The vile Madmoiselle Bulstrode could not ‘av done this terrible thing. She was with us terrorising ma petite” said Dorethia.

“So, there remain unanswered questions…” continued Cordelia

“Which snake in the grass hurt George” finished Annie.

“Yes” said Cordelia, “and how to insure …”

“The snake doesn’t strike again” finished Annie.

“Precisely!”

“If I had my druthers, we’d check all wands onboard with an a’priori spell right now, to see what spells they’ve cast, but Cordelia, you heard Mr. Heinz. The Goblins won’t be the only ones who may feel threatened. Amos and I have registered one family on our own wands because they don’t use them. As you can imagine, the European and American custom of using wands for identification puts them at a disadvantage. Then there are the ministry witches and wizards from different countries who may be travelling incognito with official secrets to keep. The mutual trust we are trying to build won’t be worth a cauldron of salt if we handle this badly.”

“It sounds a dizzying task, Mrs. Quirrell, but important we find a way to find out what happened” Lindsay ventured.

“Call me Annie, dear, please, Mrs. Quirrell is my mother-in-law.”

Lindsay smiled, glancing around the table for any sign of a guilty conscience as she spoke with an unexpected shake in her voice “George was found only yards from my door”.

“Well, heavens to Sayre, I know it must have been a scare”. Annie answered, nodding to herself. “We’ll get to the nub of it soon enough I reckon, but we do need to be careful. ”

“Well,” said Cordelia, “you must keep us informed of your progress, and let us know if we can offer any help.”

“Bien Sur, please let us know” added Dorethia.

“Of course, my friends’, Annie answered easily, ” but I very much doubt the Miss Cordelia Fancourt I know will be content to wait. Be careful, all of you, if you decide to take matters into your own hands.”

“I cannot think what you mean,” answered Cordelia, an impish glint in her eye.

Amos had returned to the room. He looked relieved, even quite pleased with himself as he announced there was to be champagne served to everyone. House elves appeared balancing silver trays holding towers of tall stem glasses full of golden bubbles. Fast as lightening the elves levitated a glass to each person. Amos was making his way to the centre of the room where three stewards were conjuring a small stage. Lindsay looked towards Annie, noticing the practiced smile of a woman who had heard many similar speeches. Most passengers were watching the great Mr. Quirrel take to the stand, but several wizards were distracted, watching the beautiful flaxen-haired young bride make her way to her new husband’s side. Among these wizards were, Ebonine Filtch, Arnie Singh and his companion. Lyndsay saw a tense look pass between Percy and the young witch. He got up and left the room, looking at Lindsay as he passed.

Lindsay wondered if she was watching a tangled love story or the changing of the guard. She was increasingly thinking Percy and the mysterious bride may be the ‘X & Y’ she had overheard the Minister for International Magical Cooperation telling Arnie Singh to liaise with. She considered it more than possible that the friendly Mr. Fleamont was an auror. He seemed resourceful, chivalrous and hyper-aware of his surroundings. She suspected he was also secretive and imagined he might be brave but slightly arrogant as many dark wizard catchers could be. Unlike some of the other wizards in the room, he did not have a longing look in his eyes as he looked at the honeymooning witch. Lindsay found to her amazement that made her feel glad.

The bride had caught her attention too. There was a purpose to her fluid strides. Her mind could lock down like a fortress against a legilimens like Lindsay looking for information. She seemed to detest Ebonine Filtch. She and her husband, while obviously in love, did not cling to one another in that way the very newly married often do. Instead, Lindsay had noticed Percy and the honeymooning witch passing one another in a manner that suggested passing the baton in a race. With all the disappearances that had happened on this train’s route it would be surprising if there were not dark wizard catchers onboard and Lindsay pegged these two as contenders.

“They’re a handsome couple,” Lindsay offered, fishing for information on the young witch.

“Lucy and Philip Abbot? Yes, they do seem a pretty pair,” Annie replied.

“There’s something especially compelling about Lucy” Lyndsey pressed.

“Yes, that girl’s got gumption, especially after what happened,” Annie said with meaning.

Amos had started to speak but Lindsay was only half listening. He was saying something about the camaraderie that had saved a small dog from the jaws of death. When he asked everyone to raise their glasses and toast a bright new day, Lindsay bought the glass to her mouth and drank. It tasted sour and strange. She felt first burning and blistering then complete numbness on her tongue and down her throat. The sensation was reaching her stomach and radiating out second by second. She tried to open her mouth to speak but her face would not do as her brain asked. She felt her back begin to jerk and convulse. She was quickly losing control of her body. Poison. Her mind focused on that word. She was being poisoned and all she could think was, this cannot be real.

The numbness was spreading down her arms as she reached for the bezoar her enigmatic friend Eremite had sent her with the note you’ll need the bezoar after Paris. She could no longer lift her arm to reach her mouth. She was aware people close by were staring. She locked eyes with Cordelia as she felt herself slide to the ground, willing the woman before her to follow her gaze down to the cure in her hand. Cordelia was quick to react, grasping the bezoar and thrusting it into Lindsay’s mouth before directing it backward with her wand. Lindsay feared she was going to choke but her body remembered how to swallow.

Feeling was returning to her and with it came needles of pain. She could not ever have imagined feeling so gloriously happy to feel pain but she knew she was alive. Her vision blurred around a halo of people looking down on her. Arnie and Cordelia were either side of her, Annie, Dorethia, Lucy the bride come dark wizard catcher and the man Lindsay had seen entertaining his son with dancing teacups. It was his arms reaching for her, lifting her up and rushing her out of the room with his wife leading the way. Lindsay was aware of Cordelia, Arnie, and Lucy following behind. The last thing she saw before passing out completely were billows of clouds and mountains.

It’s the fabric of a dress, she told herself, not the stairway to heaven. I am alive. It was with that comfort that she blacked out.

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CHAPTER 4: Porte de Versailles

The Library of Lost Wands,

Epic Potterverse Fanfiction set in 1919

by Antonia Sara Zenkevitch,

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Plaintive hoots and rustlings came from the onboard owlery, joined by the clicks and bangs of carriage doors as strangers alighted or joined the train. They had arrived at Porte de Versailles in Paris. The clock chimed one. Late though the hour, suits and cloaks from many nations milled around the platform, their muted conversations sounding like the hum of an agitated beehive. Whispers were all the more guarded because not all on the platform were aware that the Eagle Engine and its carriages were different. Muggles believed this to be the metro line’s terminus. They were repelled from getting close to this triumph of magical engineering by an overwhelming fear of getting on the wrong train. They had no idea that the Eagle and the enigmas she carried would, in a few short hours, continue on through an archway which they could not see and along a track they believed to be bricked up and abandoned.

Muflatio charms were cast here and there to mask conversations. Such spells did not work entirely on those who could read minds and emotions. The atmosphere was tense and serious, determined, belligerent and optimistic all at the same time. War was on everyone’s lips. Conflicts past and still burning in the muggle world, peace treaties and the spoils of war. Lindsay was ever more aware that there were others, like herself, in the wizarding world, who knew all too well that battles in the non-magic world affected the magical world too. In the darkness of her cabin, she listened over the thunder of her heart for any clue that could unlock the secrets of the past years or what the future held.

Then, like a retreating tide, the passengers poured out of the station in a haze of steam. Three men clung to the shadows, talking in low, hushed tones. Lindsay caught their conversation and hesitated, wrapped in the dim light that curtained her window from view. Through the glass, Lindsay could see the men exchanging files. She recognised the taller, slightly older wizard as the Minister for International Cooperation, Leonard Spencer Moon, code name Moon, or simply ‘M’. The other two wizards had their back to her, but she thought she recognised the voice of Arnie Singh from Magical Cooperation.

“I fear the muggle war has not ended but has only changed. Indeed I sometimes question if it ever was purely a muggle war. ” the shadowed figure of Moon was saying.

“Do you think maybe the rumours are true? I’d heard there were dementor attacks, disappearances?” said a lanky, dark-haired wizard bending against the chill in the air.

“There is no clear evidence as yet.” the senior minister admonished.

There was a beat, a cough, the ruffle of papers.

“They’re calling The Muggle Prime-Minister ‘The Welsh Wizard’ after your last shift, Mr. Spencer-Moon,” said Arnie, his friendly voice familiar to Lindsay’s eve-dropping ears.

“I simply nudged proceedings by interpreting the thoughts of Clemenceau regarding his desire for a British-American guarantee of protection against possible aggression from his neighbours. It was Lloyd George that sold the idea to Wilson” answered Moon.

“Apparently, Lloyd George wasn’t that surprised when the portrait of old Ulrik at no.10 told him about the Ministry of Magic. Acted as if he expected the picture to announce a visit from Evermonde. Some say his great-aunt was one of us.” Arnie chuckled.

“Maybe, maybe,” said Moon, who exuded a calm authority the other two men were yet to master. “He was certainly excited when I told him how we travel here. He has been speaking about building a train tunnel under the sea to link France and Britain.”

“I’m surprised our Minister is permitting our help with this muggle peace treaty,” said Arnie, a clear note of bitterness in his voice, “Given that he passed emergency legislation forbidding us to get involved with the war. What is Evermonde playing at?”

Lindsay, not for the first time that night, heard something or someone outside her cabin door. She held her breath but a second later whoever it was had passed by. She refocused her attention on Moon as he spoke in measured tones;

“Evermonde knows thousands defied his order to let the muggles fight alone. Many, like yourself, felt obliged to help. The Minister would lose his position if he does not offer the muggle governments our assistance now. He also worries, I think, that if this muggle peace treaty doesn’t hold potion, more witches and wizards may take up arms. That would risk far greater infractions of the International Statute of Secrecy” he sighed.

“But you say the war has not ended, M? I suppose it won’t end until the treaty is signed.” Said the tall, leggy wizard.

“We may be in some sort of cease-fire but this paperwork is a form of war in itself” Arnie was saying, earning him a swift nod of approval from both men.

“Precisely!” Moon replied. “Civil wars, boundary battles and fights continue, even close to home in the British Isles. Old injustices are bubbling. In the 4 months it took to get to this point Germany has remained under naval blockade, her children dying of hunger.”

“So are children in many countries after the war,” Arnie answered with quiet passion.

“Quite so, starving people do not always make rational decisions, nor do grieving ones”

“Some of us lost people in the war, Sir,” said Arnie.

“We all lost heavily, some, like yourself, more than others. That is why we are here, to prevent, if we can do, more deaths” Replied Spencer-Moon.

“But you fear we cannot?” said the tall stranger, a note of concern in his voice.

“I fear there is more at play here than perhaps there should be. My first job, you know, was as a tea boy in the Department of Magical Accidents. It was then I learned to listen and to try not to judge, though non-judgement is not always possible, or even advisable.”

“But couldn’t you always tune into people’s thoughts?”

“It was then I learned to listen. It is not always the same thing as hearing.”

“Quite so,” said the stranger.

“Not judging is often the privilege of those who have lost little,” said Arnie.

“True. But it may also be the last defence of those who have lost everything.” Replied the Minister for International Cooperation.

“They have 24hrs?” asked their tall colleague.

A nod, a whistle in the dark, then “Journey well boys, you know the details of your assignment. Time for you to swap your tales with X and Y. ”

Goodbyes were said. Lindsay listened as the carriage door opened and closed and two pairs of footsteps moved down the corridor. The minds of both men were on dementor attacks, worrying for their loved ones. As she opened the door she heard soft breaths and noticed a faint smell of tobacco. Catching a reflection of a pale face in the polished wood panels she spun around, wand outstretched, but she saw no one. Nearby a train engine coughed into action, smoke stretching like the fingers of ghosts across the chill night air.

“I heard you both.” Said the now solitary figure of Leonard Spencer-Moon from the platform below looking up. “Your thoughts are loud this night. Fare you well.” And with this, he tipped his hat, turned sharply on his heel and disappeared into vapours of steam and coal dust.

Lindsay must have fallen asleep where she had sat, curled up against the circle of her window, but she was awoken by a shriek. Bleary-eyed, Lindsay checked her pocket watch. It was a little after half past three in the morning. In the distance, she could hear a dog barking and the strangled sobbing of a woman. Then a horrible, petulant voice ripped through the night air.

“What have you done with my wand, you mongrel? I’ll have your hide for this.”

“Woof” was the reply. The witch from Control of Magical Creatures had met the train in Paris to exact her revenge. Looking through the fogged up glass of her porthole, Lindsay could make out shadows taking shape in the darkness. That hateful witch seemed to be dragging the poor Pomeranian, Rosa, outside into a small half-moon of waiting figures.

“Someone give me a wand so I can perform the curse,” she demanded, malice curling her words.

“Now, Miss Bulstrode, please be reasonable, we do not want an international incident,” said Arnie Singh. Lindsay could make out his silhouette in the small gathering.

“Under decree 19 of our wizarding law this unregistered mutt who stole ministry information and my wand …” the witch Lindsay now knew to be Miss Bulstrode panted. Suddenly the officious witch was sent backward in a hail of sparks. Someone had aimed a curse at her. Lindsay could not see who had cast the spell but she heard the response; “There are confidential spells on that wand!” Miss Bulstrode shrieked. “Of international wizarding importance.”

“I hardly think”, said the calm voice of Percy Fleamont, “that records of the creatures you’ve sized up or killed could be any serious security threat to wizarding kind.”

Miss Bulstrode sneered “The beast is under my jurisdiction; I am the only one from Control of Magical Creatures here. It is for me to say.”

“Est-ce votre démocratie?” a French official asked the group at large.

It was Cordelia Fancourt who replied “No, Jean-Louis, my dear, it is not our democracy.” Dorothia and Rosa’s friends were crowding around them in a shield.

“That dog savagely attacked me in the course of my work for the ministry!” pronounced Miss Bulstrode, pointing her finger at Rosa in a way that would have been comic if it had not had such lethal intent.

“Nous sommes en France. Rosa est une citoyenne français,” pronounced Dorethia, her voice shaking.

Suddenly, there was a furtive knock on her cabin door, followed by George’s strained voice, “Miss O’Brian?” Fearing the worst was about to happen, Lindsay flung the Aran shawl over her nightdress and opened the door. George, apologetic and urgent in his manner, passed her a small package. It looked like wet firewood in a lace scarf, buzzed like a gas lamp and smelled like rotten fish. Seeing that she did not understand and clearly in a hurry, George whispered: “If they can’t find it they can’t prove Rosa did anything.”

Lindsay now understood it was Bulstrode’s mangled wand she held in her hand. The same wand that Rosa had indeed stolen from the cruel witch from Control of Magical Creatures while passengers had been boarding at Kings Cross. This wet piece of wood and remembered spells was evidence of the dog’s petty crime. One, it seemed, that could cost the dog her life.

“But why me?” she asked, wondering why no one had thrown the destroyed wand out of a window while the train was moving.

“I knew your brother, Seamus,” George breathed in an undertone, “The wand needs to get to his Sophie.” With that pronouncement, he lunged away up the corridor into the darkness, as quietly and surely as a prowling cat, leaving Lindsay stunned.

This was too much to take in all at once. George had just told her he’d known her missing twin. She’d searched for eighteen months for answers to Seamus’ disappearance and, she knew inside herself, his death. Was this half-digested magical object now in her hands finally a clue to what had happened to him, or was George simply pulling her strings? She’d been close to her sibling but knew precious little of Seamus’ last months. She wondered what information, if any, could be found out from the wand itself. Frustration boiled up inside her when she tried to work out who ‘his Sophie’ could be and what she could want with the splintered elm and dragon heartstring in her grasp.

The sound of barking bought her back from her reveries. The debate on Rosa’s future was continuing outside and Dorethia was crying, clinging to her now frightened dog.

“Yes, dear,” Cordelia was saying firmly to Bulstrode, “I quite understand what the regulations do say, but you see there is no wand so no proof Rosa stole one. Il n’y a aucune preuve; there is no evidence. None.”

“The eyewitnesses, madame …” an unknown official responded.

“They’ll tell you they heard an excitable witch making a scene while chasing a small dog, but if you’d like to wake up the rest of the train I’m sure they’ll be happy to answer your questions” concluded Fizzy, as he stood with one arm around Dorethia’s shoulders as she cradled the quivering fur ball. Cordelia stood on the other side, like centurions guarding their treasure.

“The regulations say that all magical creatures …” Bulstrode tried again.

“Must be registered, yes, but no one knows who you registered because you lost your wand. Le bâton est perdu. ” Cordelia’s voice had taken on a dangerously sweet tone.

Rosa was whining now as Dorethia was clinging to her cooing “Ma petite, ma petite. Elle n’est pas magique.”

“If the dog is not magical then she is nothing to do with the Department for Control of Magical Creatures,” said Arnie Singh, a note of triumph evident in his words.

“It ate my wand!” Miss Bulstrode spluttered.

The click of a train door, the clack of footsteps and a delicious smell of roses and violets announced the arrival onto the tense scene of Annie Quirrel. The air around her was suddenly filled with a sense of comfort and calm; Annie’s famous charm was being used as a weapon. Behind her Amos Quirrel bobbed in her wake.

“Well, I do declare, what a gorgeous creature!” she said, the warmth in her voice cutting through the chill night air. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced” she added, scooping Rosa out of Dorethia’s arms into her own and giving the dog’s head a tiny kiss.

“Ro..Rosa” Dorethia stammered, to an answering ice-melting smile from Annie.

“Michael,” Annie gestured to a nearby attendant, “please would you show Rosa back to her cabin and get her a bone from the kitchen while Amos and I sort out this little confusion?” Annie continued, handing the quivering dog to Michael and patting Dorethia’s hand. One more centurion added to the guard.

The French official cleared his throat. “Assez!” he said, “I think if we cannot find the wand during the registration, we will draw a line under this whole affair.”

“Quite right, Jean-Louis” said Cordelia approvingly, “There are more important things than chasing around a dog with a stick. ”

Lindsay started to panic, wondering where could she hide the wand. She considered what might happen if they used the Accio spell to retrieve it. She couldn’t put it in the cabin’s safe because only the rightful owner would then be able to retrieve it, and that Lindsay most certainly was not. It would be a gift to the bloodthirsty Miss Bulstrode and a death sentence for Rosa to hide the wand there. Added to this, Lindsay would not and could not destroy anything that might lead to news about Seamus. She heard the door at the far end of the carriage open and knocking on nearby cabins, awakening the residents for wand re-registration. Lindsay did not have much time to waste and Rosa’s life may be at stake.

In the corner of her eye she saw a glint of silver as the occamy repositioned herself on her treasured pensieve. Of course, only her family could see this magical heirloom; only family could view or retrieve what was inside it. It would be the perfect place to hide the mangled magical thing in her hands. Still, Lindsay hesitated, knowing that if she put Bulstrode’s wand into the basin it was sure to pollute or destroy some of the precious recollections kept there. She would have no way of predicting which traces of lost loved one’s lives and which mislaid happy days she might lose forever. The occamy stirred, eyes watching expectantly, her beak open. Lindsay dropped the wreckage of the wand into the basin’s depths just as there was a knock at the door. She saw the mystical beast unfurl, diving after the wand and catching it in its talons before disappearing into the swirling, sparking electric mists of memories inside. Lindsay starred after it, forlorn and relieved all at once.

A second, more insistent knock on the door bought her back into action. Pulling her Aran scarf tightly around her shaking shoulders and touching her moonstone pendant, she opened the door. A polite looking young wizard standing the other side was almost bowled over by Miss Bulstrode, who took his arm and waved it as if he was a puppet, pointing his wand into the room. Bulstrode’s fervor had obviously increased with each fruitless search of the Eagle’s passengers.

“Accio wands,” said the nasty little witch directing the silent wizard’s wand arm into the room, her expression wild. Only one wand flew through the air to be counted and it was Lindsay’s.

“I believe that is my wand you have there, Miss Bulstrode, could I have it back please?”

At that moment a fresh cry of outrage came from the far end of her carriage. It was Cordelia. “Oh No, George! Fizzy, Amos, anyone please come. Something has happened to George.”

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CHAPTER 3: The Occamy Pensieve

The Library of Lost Wands,

Epic Potterverse Fanfiction set in 1919

by Antonia Sara Zenkevitch,

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The way back from the feast was uneasy. She felt someone watching in the shadows. The glassy dining car had been magically enlarged with panoramic views of the star-spangled heavens and countryside at night, distant towns and cities glittering as they rolled by. In contrast, the long, narrow corridors were full of shades and whispers now. Whoever was following her in the gloom, they were fearful of her too, she could feel it. She turned quickly in the direction of the prickles under her skin but saw no one. She heard the click of a door and a sharp intake of breath. Under the light of her wand, the moving pictures on the carved panels seemed to speak of sinister happenings.

Her cabin seemed a little lonely after the company that evening. As she closed the door into her own world, a title winked at her from the bookshelf; ‘Que Vestir O Verde Brilhante’, written by Castelobruxo Herbologists, Catina Faron & Moises Navarro. It had been one of Seamus’ favourites, given to him a long ago by Ermite Borage. With a pang she thought how much her twin would have appreciated the day; Rosa the dog’s escapade, the glimpse of the famous Hufflepuff herbologist’s home, Cordelia Fancourt’s bonhomie, the channel crossing, and all that endless sea and sky. She found herself chuckling to herself, feeling him suddenly close.

She opened the safe, touched the last letter he had written her, then placed the family pensieve on the nightstand. The ancient silver of the occamy shell it was hewn from was sea tarnished. The occamy crest of copper and bronze was adorned by stones and engravings, some which seemed to come from forgotten alphabets. Inside memories whispered to her, some in unknown languages, as if awoken by the lives of those who had travelled before her as well as the adventures yet to be written. There were times when it seemed to hum and sing to her. A low thrum no one else heard. When she was lonely she would go to sleep listening to its chorus of interlaced reminiscences.

It is the custom to bury pensieves with their owners, or to empty them, but family legend has it that this pensieve had been washed up at the feet of a great, great aunt three days after burying it with her sister at sea. This tale went on to say it had washed up many centuries before that in a stream in India. No one had tried to get rid of it, or its store of echoes since. It must have belonged to an ancestor, the magical basin had long been enchanted so that only relatives could see or pass it on to the next generation. This she knew to be true. A permanent tongue binding curse prevented anyone from divulging its existence to others. When it appeared to someone, they had become irrevocably family. Yet only those who had the gift of magic could use it. Syd, her muggle cousin, could see it but not access its contents, but the twins and their mum, his aunt Lizzie, had shared stories from it. When Lizzie O’ Brien had first become ill with Seer’s fever and had to go to St. Mungo’s hospital, she had given it to her children as a way to stay close and guide them with her memories when she could not be there in person. It was their family’s greatest secret and its greatest secret keeper.

She tenderly kissed the crooning occamy’s head and bade goodnight to those loved ones who she carried with her. She took out the second pensieve. The one made of grey stone and pewter carrying the ministry of magic logo, and enchanted with all the usual muggle repelling and undetectable charms. This was only used for collecting, examining and organising the memories and predictions Lindsay collected for the department of mysteries. What went in was not private. Colleagues and superiors at the ministry with the correct clearance could access the contents. She did not trust, or even know each one of them, and so did not share everything.

She raised her wand to her temple and siphoned off the information she had gathered during the day. The recollections spun like threads of silver silk; like dewy spiders’ webs shimmering in mist, then swirled with those collected in different times and places. Soon, she’d examine the webs and patterns that would begin to form. For now, the threads swirled in and out of one another in the bowl, fizzing and popping occasionally when memories connected. Images raced by on the surface like the faces and landscapes reflected in the windows of the rushing train.

She set them aside, remembering what her mother had taught her. “Don’t get lost in the visions of others or in yesterdays,” she heard her mum say “and forget to live your own life, today.”

Lindsay, back in her here and now, sighed, opened her ministry logbook and began to write. As she did so the words disappeared into the page, leaving nothing behind them;

Report for 16th October 1919,

No known seers on the Eagle. No readings that are obviously directly related to the primary mission but there is a ‘temperature’ building. I have collected several samples which have been stored in the pensieve. Will proceed as planned. Do we know anything about the Princes, or the Filch family, in particular, Ebonine Filch, or his father?

There are eyes on me. I am not the only ministry official on this train. Can you confirm there are Aurors on this route, and who they might be tailing?

She waited for a beat, as her words vanished, then fresh words appeared on the page. A response to her question had come from her department;

We will liaise with relevant departments and tell you what we can. Ebonine Filch is rumoured to be compiling a book on ancient and original wizarding family trees. What is your interest in him?

Lindsay scratched out her reply by wandlight, the distant hooting of owls in her ears;

A bone pipe, possibly human and a memory of a father who does not like non-magic people, especially those in his own family. More details can be found in the memories collected in pensieve 346.

For a long time, there was no reply, so Lindsay continued:

He seems particularly interested in one witch on the train who is a skilled Occulmens.

Still nothing but the haunting voices of restless birds and the rattle of the train.

So, if the Auror office isn’t looking into him, perhaps they should?

The reply came quickly;

Thank-you for your information. Be assured we will liaise with the relevant departments. You should be aware Ebonine Filtch is a friend to the ministry. Are there other people of interest?

A ‘friend to the ministry’, Lindsay thought to herself wryly. Well, if that was not a warning off, nothing was. She would have to watch the bone-pipe smoking wizard like a hawk, but do so quietly. She re-read the message and decided on how to answer the last question. She began writing again:

Possibly.

What do we know of the Princes? His children are scared of him.

A minute before receiving the response;

Scared children do not provide reliable evidence.

Lindsay inhaled very sharply before writing her reply;

Respectfully, children’s fear should always be enough to, at the very least, take note of.

‘Note taken.’ was the terse response from the faceless ministry official to whom she submitted these reports. Lindsay was pacing the floor, silently vowing to talk to her supervisors in person about this when she returned to her London office, when more writing appeared:

There have been reports that a dog viciously attacked one of our ministry witches yesterday at King’s Cross. They made off with a wand carrying classified information. Have you seen such an animal on the train?

‘No’ was Lindsay’s immediate reply. Well, she hadn’t actually seen her on the train, so it wasn’t a lie exactly. She added that she had witnessed an incident in which an entirely unharmed ministry official had chased a small dog down the platform. There was no response. After signing off she pondered this last exchange. She had wondered again why Dorethia seemed to be fretting about passing the dog-chewed wand on instead of getting rid of it. Now she considered there might be important, ‘classified information’ a ‘Prior Incantantum’ spell might uncover. She’d instinctively trusted the trio of elders who had befriended her, and trust given quickly was rare for her. Despite this, she was already aware that the two women had secrets.

And, whatever veiled warnings she had been given to the contrary, she would remain watchful around the bone-pale Ebonine Filtch, whatever secrets, bonds or donations of gold gave him friends in high places. She would watch the Princes too, and tell the aurors about her misgivings about the father, in particular. There were others she was watching too, including that peculiar bronze-haired wizard, Percy Fleamont and the newlyweds.

Lindsay sunk back into velvet cushions inhaling a scent of hyacinths, feeling the faint echoes of the honeymoon hopes of this cabin’s previous residents. Hot cocoa and a sugared violet had been left for her by a thoughtful house elf. As she sipped the creamy concoction her eyes flicked back to the occamy pensieve. She never travelled far without it. In part, this was because it was important to be able to separate the thoughts and recollections of others from her own. Pensieves also made it easier to organise and evaluate ideas and predictions, like books in a treasured library of forgotten minds.

A kindly teacher in her first year at Hogwarts had taught her to use her pensieve when her visions or other people’s worries and opinions were disturbing her school work. It held the past hopes of her mother and great aunt’s younger selves, their struggles and loves. It held Lizzie O’Brian’s glimpses of her journey into motherhood and of Lindsay, Seamus and Syd, their cousin, Aunty Edith and Uncle Harris.

The occamy was stirring, tiny bubbles rose from the surface of the pensieve’s basin to hang in the air like moons. She reached out her hand to hold one. It broke upon her touch, cascading up her arm and into her mind, taking her back to her mother. No longer a series of bright fragments and shadows that can be the echoes of early childhood. These were complex journeys seen through the thoughts of those she loved, woven into a patchwork of broken time.

Some of Lizzie’s ancestors, the McMillans, had washed up in Ireland during the Scottish clearances and two of their daughters had married local Irish lads whose history they said was tied ever to the Emerald Isle. Things had been tense, strained, as they will be when the powerful take land from one group to give to another group they’ve already taken land from. And yet the years went by, threads woven then frayed, like the ancient family tapestries Aunt Enid would clean lovingly each spring. Lindsay, who had Irish blood but no Irish memory, had asked her mum to explain the long troubles that lead to the Easter Uprising three years before. Her mother had replied: “I’ve never known, my treasure, but the whole gubu has always felt like a game of wizard’s chess to the likes of me, with not one of us knowin’ the powerful hands moving us around the board.”

She had explained to Lindsay that it was as much the British government’s brutal response to the uprising that had unified half the Emerald Isle against further British rule. Lindsay knew that in January 1919, a few short months before this journey, the South had declared independence and bitter war was raging . She had no doubt that she had family members on both sides of the conflict and she worried for them, but they were family she had not known since she was a small child.

Her mother and aunt had lived in a community that had never really recovered from the potato famines. Poverty and the memory of it had plagued them for generations. The sight of edible food shipped off while people there had to live on a failed crop of blighted roots were haunting memories that one never spoke of. Muggle relations had grown more strained during the Great Hunger. Those who knew of the family’s magic did not understand why they did not conjure the community more food. They did not understand what the wizarding world knew through Gamps’ Law of Elemental Transfiguration; that food could not be created from nothing nor transfigured from unrelated items. The magical community helped in the few ways they were able but they had also struggled with hunger and suffered persecution.

Lindsay’s mother Lizzie Anne had been the youngest. Never physically strong, Lizzie was often thought to be away with the fairies. Sometimes she quite literally was. Other times she was travelling through others’ emotions, something that affected her greatly during hard times and travelled with her after. She was mostly joyful but when the clouds came they bought storms. Her elder sister, Enid, who was quick-witted and steady, would never show signs of magic except for a fierce empathy some non-magic people have which is more healing than a vat of skellegrow. The two were exceptionally close. Two peas in a pod.

Enid married a fisherman when she was 19 and moved to his Scottish homeland with him, sending muggle money home when they could. By that time a young and beautiful Lizzie had caught the eye of the postmaster’s son, Fred O’Brian, and was working out how to tell him she was a witch. She’d told him after they’d married and it had not gone down well. Lizzie had stayed with the intention of raising a family the way she and her sister had been raised, with one foot in each world, magic, and non-magic. Fred had other plans. As soon as the twins learned to walk they started showing signs of magic. Fred would try to bully their nature away with gruff words, everyday judgements, and the withdrawal of any sign of affection. When Lindsay and Seamus turned three Lizzie smuggled them away and took them to live with her sister, Edith and her husband Uncle Harris in Scotland.

Uncle Harris, Lindsay thought with a bitter-sweet sigh. His ever-present warmth was ever with his family despite often been away at sea during her childhood. He’d bring back stories of monsters as Enid cut back his grizzled red beard by the fire, complaining it was “stiff with salt” to which he’d grin and declare himself “Neptune of the seas.” Her quick reply was always peppered with laughter. Lizzie would say he’d probably seen Merpeople and he’d try to convince the children he was one. Like Enid, Harris, though not magic himself, had always encouraged and delighted in signs of it in his niece and nephew. He quickly realised neither they or his own young son, Syd, were interested in net-mending and long nights and days at sea. Yet he made them toys and trinkets from shells and rope and spun the most fantastical tales.

One day their Neptune did not return; a shipwreck not far from the coast had claimed him to his other home. Young Syd was rocked to sleep by his Aunt Lizzie, his cousins nearby as they told him the story of the Merpeople and how his daddy was with them now. Enid still talked to Harris now in her daily activities and his warmth was still in the house.

Lindsay smiled as a rush of affection for her aunt swelled. Mrs. Edith McGilliguddy. Strict as she was, had loved the children as she loved her own son. It was Aunty Enid, widow, muggle and close friend of various saints, who helped encourage Seamus in his herbology and guided Lindsay in managing her emotions through her art. When the youngest of the brood, Syd, expressed the will to go into law, Enid worked and saved to make it happen. Meanwhile, Seamus and Lindsay had mixed healing potions for local pets to help raise money for their cousin’s studies. Enid, alongside Lizzie, made sure all three children had a foothold in both the magical and non-magic worlds with an unswayable conviction that “The Good Lord makes all of us of equal worth. He can find what he’s doing better than we folk, ye ken.”

So, they had grown together in a house that smelt of wood, old books, brewed herbs, singed spells and the wild animals Seamus and Syd took in, much to the joy of Lizzie and the pretend annoyance of the house-proud Enid. Their family had two women at the helm, an uncle, who though gone was ever with them and three and cousins growing up as siblings. It had been a loved life, if sometimes a hard one, Lindsay thought as she lay on the velvet covers of her cabin bed in Wildsmith carriage. She had to keep reminding herself where she was. She recalled the long weeks when her mother seemed so distant.

Her mother thoughts had got lost in time before. She had lingered too long in someone’s past, regaining consciousness just in time to fight off a Dementor’s kiss. Lizzie had advised the children to always have something sweet and stodgy on hand to eat in case of an emergency, preferably chocolate. “Memories are akin to occamies,” she would tell them, dishing out slices of steaming clootie pudding to eager hands. “Like those mythical beasts, they’ll fill all available space if you let them to it.”

Lizzie Anne Macmillan had been a Ravenclaw who was quick to think and slow to anger. These were character traits she’d passed to her children, but she would often have visits to St. Mungos Hospital where healers would skilfully help her retrieve and untangle her thoughts. At these times a quiet abstracted distance would occupy Lizzie’s eyes between moments of laughter. Her daughter felt it, as did Syd, who had inherited the quiet, fierce empathy of his own parents.

Lindsay popped another bubble, letting memories swirl together once more in the pensive, smiling at her latest memories of Syd, Lizzie and Aunt Enid on a picnic by the sea. Past and present merged in Lindsay’s mind as ripples lapped idly at the window of her cabin. Another bubble floated to the surface of the pensive to rise and break over her in a wave. She was entering Ravenclaw tower for the first time. Watching the owls swoop over the astronomy tower. This had become a refuge for her, a place where she and her unusual gifts were welcomed without judgement. She had made close friendships with those who celebrated their diverse talents, first within her house, then outside it. Seamus O’Brien had been sorted into Hufflepuff due to his love and care of plants and creatures. Yet the two spoke as often as they ever had, though they lived in separate houses. Few of those she grew to trust seemed to mind the conversations she had with her brother, Seamus, though they could only hear her side. Though some, mostly from the other houses, teased her for seemingly talking to herself before she learned not to. Others feared her uncanny knack of answering unspoken questions, and her sometimes penitrating stare, until she had learned to look away.

Lindsay drew her wand and siphoned away the amassing memories, transporting herself back into the gently rocking train. She touched the wooden table before her, willing herself into the present. Somewhere she could hear a coronet and its player, but she could not quite surface from the glimmers of her family’s past. She did not know how long she sat there, both lulled and kept awake by the rythmn of the train jolting over the tracks, her hand on the table rooting part of her in the present. She was dimly aware of someone outside her door, of hushed voices and the sound and feel of the train coming slowly to a stop. They had arrived at Porte de Versailles.

Paris, where the world’s future was being decided. Where aurors duelled with the dark arts using pens as often as wands. Where secrets were re-building new borders for nations. The words from Eremite Borage’s note came back to her as she felt the bezoar he’d sent her in her pocket. A cure for poisoning. He’d warned her with his usual foresight that she’d need it ‘after Paris’. She knew she would need the cure soon.

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CHAPTER 1: The Wyverns of King’s Cross Station

‘the eagle engine’ digital collage and sketch on publisher by Antonia Sara Zenkevitch

The Library of Lost Wands

by Antonia Sara Zenkevitch

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Chapter 1; The Wyverns of King’s Cross Station

Above a sea of busy humanity, two dragons whirled watchfully in the sky, stretching their wings against the damp chill in the air above the station. They awaited the ticking clock. Soon they themselves would signal adventures to places hidden from the muggle world, and known only to a few. King’s Cross stood against a pale pewter sky, wrought in iron, red bricks, glass, and defiance. Built to be the hub of a rusting empire, it had become a waiting room of lost worlds, as people waking up from war and deathly epidemic discovered renewed rhythms of life on the cusp of the new decade.

In the bustle outside, only a witch’s eyes could see the wyverns circling the great clock as it ticked towards seven. This witch was Lindsay Amata O’Brien, raven-haired, blue-eyed and slight like her beloved twin brother, Seamus had been. Above her, the great clock chimed the hour and she quickened her pace. The wyverns were becoming restless, barbed tails swishing as a tiny belch of flames erupted into the autumn morning. It was almost time. She felt unfamiliar eyes and minds directed towards her. Working for the Department of Mysteries as a Legilimens, she could read others’ thoughts and emotions, and so did not trust easily. Stopping to buy hot chestnuts, she popped one into her mouth and smiled, tucking the bag into her pocket and checking her ticket. Just half an hour before the train would depart.

A stack of yesterday evening’s muggle newspapers fluttered in the morning drizzle. She grabbed a copy of ‘The Globe’, her quick eyes scanning the pages. There it was on page 14; news that British delegates were gathering shortly for the first council meeting of the League of Nations. She folded the paper, putting it in her carpet bag next to her copy of ‘The Daily Prophet’. This was a very different kind of publication. Delivered by owl and featuring photographs that moved. The front page featured a self-important looking man gesticulating grandly at the reader. The headline proclaimed “Ministry of Magic Meddling in Muggle Peace!” Unsurprisingly, though the magical community had been forbidden from taking part in the Great War of the Muggles, thousands of wizards & witches had ignored the ban to try to protect their non-magic neighbours, friends, or muggle family members. Now it appeared ministry wizards were whispering in the ears of those at the peace negotiations.

There were other whispers too; far more troubling murmurs, and prophecies of a wizarding war to come. It was her job, in seven short days, to get to the root of these predictions. If the war could be stopped, that would be the best outcome. If not, then perhaps the length and destruction of it could be lessened, and some kind of remedial justice reached. Like most true seers, Lindsay took visions with a pinch of salt, believing the future, like the present, was capable of change. Completely accurate prophesies were comparatively rare, yet many predictions offered valuable and dangerous insights into possible tomorrows. Whenever prophecies came in clusters, with seers forecasting similar patterns or events, the odds increased. Over the last seven years, registered seers had been disappearing and meeting with strange accidents. A fierce determination boiled inside her; one of those seers had been her twin, Seamus. Though both had inherited abilities to see glimpses of what may come to pass, and the skill of translating others’ thoughts and feelings, he had always been better at divining the future. She had always been best at reading minds and emotions.

She took in a deep gulp of air and released it in a hot rush. Early on this autumn day, possibility scented the humming air around her. The station was awash with black hats and coats bobbing about like bubbles in polyjuice potion, lending a cloak of anonymity to tides of humans. Even the indignant hooting of owls went largely unnoticed as a steady stream of people slipped through a brick column between platforms 7 and 8, into a hidden world. She wore her grey cloche hat low, shielding her eyes from billows of steam, while pulling the wide collar of her coat tight about her. Absently touching the moonstone in rose gold that hung about her neck, she stepped forward. On October 16^th, 1919, Lindsay O’Brien walked through the portal to platform 7 ½, King’s Cross Station, carrying only her wand and a red, clanking carpet bag. Everything was about to change.

High above King’s Cross, the wyverns circled. There before her in all its promise and glory was the Eagle; one of the engines that took travellers between the most secretive magical communities of Europe. The whole train was designed and engineered by her fellow Ravenclaw alumni Amos Quirrel and Belgian Beauxbatons alumni Jacques Marc Lumez. The two brilliant muggle train enthusiasts had created the feat of magical engineering now shining before Lindsay. Long, sleek lines stretched in shades of twilight and midnight blue. A bronze insignia of an eagle was emblazoned upon its flanks, the great bird’s wings shifting; ready for flight. Elegantly curved culverts graced the base of each carriage next to shining wheels that looked like clocks. The Eagle always ran on time. Hundreds of rounded windows reminded Lindsay of enlarged portholes. Yet one compartment appeared to be more window than anything else, steel framing glass that seemed to subtly ripple. This she knew, was the dining car, which the brochure had informed her was magically extended to offer a small dance floor and bar.

Not, thought Lindsay sternly to herself, that she would have time to spare for dancing, though something told her she was lying to herself.

Lindsay surveyed her fellow passengers from under her hat. They were the usual assortment. The train would be busy. During the recent muggle war, healers at St. Mungos Hospital, and confused doctors in muggle hospitals had treated a fair few injuries caused by witches and wizards being mistaken for a missile or enemy craft, and shot at. As a result, no-fly bans were imposed, with many still in place across the continent. Yet there were those who chose the Eagle for the sheer opulent joy of it. Ahead of her, she spotted bright-eyed, eager newlyweds seeking luxury and romance. There would be muggle born train enthusiasts reliving childhood holidays, and explorers on quests to find rare magical beasts. There would also be those who may pretend to be these things to hide other, more secretive purposes.

She could see the usual smattering of recent graduates from various wizarding schools, setting out on, or returning from explorations. Some of the recent Hogwarts leavers preparing to sample the magical world were easily detected. In many cases, their parents waved packed lunches at them, as if a couple of cauldron pasties could last the trip. The same parents cast protective spells on anything they could wave their wands at, reminding themselves of first journeys to Hogwarts, and the infamous Sorting Hat. But this was not platform 9 3/4, or the Hogwarts Express. Wizarding schools all had closely guarded secrets. Along with several magical communities, they used protective charms to stop visitors arriving by apparition, or use of unauthorised portkeys. The train offered a way to monitor who came and went at times when distrust ran high. It also allowed those with apparition sickness to travel and provided a way for the adventurous to meet like-minded people and discover new places, including those they did not yet know existed.

At the far end of the sleeper, near the engine, was a carriage for families. In the distance she saw a sombre looking group inch into it, the children flinching at an older wizard’s words. Lindsay briefly caught the eye a young girl in the group before she disappeared from view. All around her passengers bustled, while house elves wearing a livery of starched white table clothes carried heavily laden trays, rattling bags, and outraged owls. An Owlery carriage was located to the rear of the train. Three witches from the Department of Control of Magical Creatures were scanning up and down, issuing permits and probing for stowaways. Lindsay did not recognise them; the Department of Mysteries in which she worked operated by its own rules and rhythm, connecting with other departments only when needed. The official closest to her was barking orders at a small family in front of her. She could see beneath the surface of this witch’s mind, to twisted thoughts that belonged in the wizarding prison, Azkaban. A bony finger pointed upwards to an ominous sign suspended in mid-air. Silence fell as they all read.

By Order of The Department of Magical Transport & The Department of Control of Magical Creatures:

Please have your wand and ticket ready for registration prior to boarding the train. Wandless and underage passengers must be registered on a responsible witch or wizard’s wand.All magical beasts and beings must also be registered before travel.

Prohibited or unregistered magical beasts and beings may be destroyed by order of the Ministry. Owners will be charged for this service.

Wishing you a lovely journey!

THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC

Please be aware that smuggling nifflers, dragons or other magical creature deemed dangerous to passengers or their property is a serious offense.

A contingent of goblins moved forward. They were chatting in hushed tones with an accompanying wizard who was casting the charm, “Wingardium Leviosa” upon a selection of heavy trunks, floating them ahead of the group as they talked in urgent undertones. Lindsay watched as the goblins were halted in their progress by one of the witches from the Department of Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures.

Speaking solely to the wizard, the ministry witch said, “Are these creatures yours?”

“No,” replied the wizard, then, upon noticing the witch’s raised brow, continued “we are travelling together.”

“You need to register any magical creatures you are taking before embarkation” the witch continued, probing each of the goblins, as a coil of measuring tape snaked around them. A quill and giant ledger danced in the air next to her left ear, taking down their measurements. “Name?” she barked.

“This is Gringlehop…”

“Not them,” she interrupted, her reedy lips pursed as her wand prodded one protesting goblin in the ribs “The Ministry requires your name.”

“My name is Fion Alba-Heinz” the wizard replied with a hard stare.

“And where are you travelling to?”

“Odessa, for business”

“Wand please” bayed the officious witch who, having finished jabbing the goblins with it, touched the end of her wand with his. “Alder and dragon’s heartstring, 12 ½ inches, unyielding, carrying three goblins” stated the witch as her quill scratched furiously away above her left cheek.

“Actually,” Fion said, “I won’t be carrying anyone, Gringlehop, Inglehart and Grawgun each have two legs they are thankfully perfectly capable of using, you see.”

The three goblins laughed at this, but the ministry official ignored the comment. “Mr. Heinz, it is incumbent on me to read you the following”. She flourished the same scroll Lindsay had seen her use during the registration of magical cats and owls, and read aloud in an imperious voice;

“This creature, or creatures have been registered to your wand for the duration of your journey. Carrying them aboard ministry approved magical transportation makes you fully responsible for their every action whilst on-board. At no point during the journey can they be left unaccompanied, except in the crates provided. Please do not bring any hazardous magical creatures into the dining car. It may be necessary for you to re-register creatures at certain checkpoints, according to local laws. It may be necessary to destroy any creature that does not comply with these recommendations. You will be billed for this service. By bringing them onto the train you agree to these conditions.”

“Can my colleagues and I go now?” Fion Heinz said through clenched teeth.

“You may board the train now” she replied, waltzing off towards an attractive witch in her sixties who was wearing a mint green striped skirt and cradling a wriggling ball of fur. Lindsay was delighted to notice the dog grab the official’s wand, leap from the arms holding it and bolt across the station, yapping merrily. Predictably, pandemonium followed. The fluff ball hid behind a pillar and started tearing into the wand with joy. Passengers jostled this way and that, trying to dodge the sparks, blasts and bangs emitting from the mangled wand. One or two confused passengers even drew their wands, ready for a dual. The ministry witch became preoccupied when a large man with a wobbling moustache blocked her path. The little Pomeranian scuttled away with its prize.

When Lindsay looked around, the goblin party had disappeared into the train. An elegant octogenarian, sporting a towering bun under an absurdly delicate lace hat, was being helped onto the train by two white-gloved attendants, six trunks and several crinolines floating in her wake. She haled the witch in mint stripes who was now chasing her Pomeranian down the platform. Lindsay thought she saw a tail wag beneath one of the older witch’s huge petticoats. The great witch and her skirts vanished from view.

Lindsay refocused on the emptying platform. There were the quiet souls here; whose air, like Lindsay’s, was of calm observation. Enigmas and assignments took them across borders known and unknown. They may camouflage themselves by blending in with the dragon hunters, vacationers, and engineering enthusiasts, or pose as honeymooners, or clerks, but they were here. Legilimens like herself reconnoitred information, aurorers; the world’s dark wizard catchers, went about their tasks. Lindsay O’Brien knew those the aurorers were tailing were never far away. While she took in her fellow passengers, she was aware she too was being watched by both friend and foe.

Above her the wyverns called out, whistling and chuckling, their fire-belches mingling with the steam on the platform. The train would soon depart. Little did Lindsey know that this journey would change the course of wizarding history.

Click to go to Chapter 2

Click to go to the Chapter Index

The Fantastical Journey Begins

zauberdof & flinsterhuf — Illustration of Zauberdof Flinsterhuf from ‘The Library of Lost Wands’ by Antonia Sara Zenkevitch

Fantasy and magical realism have long been a genre I feel at home in but I am not personally into sparkly vampires. I love wonderous creatures and secret realms a breath away from the mundane. The reader can both escape the ‘real world’ and question daily realities, observing the familiar from new perspectives. The pages of my favourite novels have taken me on uncharted journeys with people we all feel we know. Many authors of this genre appear to have experienced much while refusing to completely grow up. This is a state of mind and sense of purpose I relate to. Fantasy is a genre open to a lot of great fan fiction. Many fantasty writers today have even cut their teeth this way, from Paul Cornell to Sarah Rees Brennam; Whovians, Sherlockians and Hogwarts Alumni abound in both popular fiction and quietly industrious imaginations.

The Harry Potter books and films, and more lately the first of the Fantastic Beasts series, have long since become one place of comfort and return to that belief in each of our abilities to affect the world around us. (Though issues around JK Rowling’s thoughts regarding the rights of trans women have cast a shadow over this). I reached a point where I needed a new adventure in Potterverse but there was a long wait ahead for the author to work her spell. Meanwhile, stories and, even more persistently, characters started taking shape in my head and my fingers itched to give them a voice. I realized I had time and imagination. The Potterverse is so detailed and vivid we feel we can inhabit it. My unexpected foray into fan fiction had begun.

This fantastical journey began in a less fantastic way. The project started in part as an exercise to get my ability to type and speak back, after a time when I’d not been able to speak or write much. (It’s a neurological thing. I have complex disabilities and chronic conditions.) Soon the characters were speaking for themselves and taking me on their adventures. They are always impatient with me, pushing me to catch up with them when I have to rest and when I cannot take that next step. Weaving words, whether into stories, poems or political rants, has always transported me, including after I lost the ability to walk unaided. String the right sentences together and you can go just about anywhere without the need to use your legs. The same is true for reading; there are old bookshops and libraries I would happily live in for weeks if I could. It’s my hope that the words I write can help transport others too.

The story had to involve trains and travel. I believe JK first ‘met’ Harry on a train. Like others in my family, I’ve always loved the adventure and romance of rail journeys, from (supposedly) zippy intercities to old steam engines. I was fortunate and blessed enough to see a bit of the world when I was a bit younger and have worked and lived in international communities as well as those close to home. All this influences my story. Please see my disclaimer, regarding ownership of the material. Rowling’s penmanship crafted the world my characters live within. I’ve added my own voice and the characters that came to me have added theirs. Different adult personalities inhabit the same magical world in another era. Real (muggle) history is referenced from a year that, at time of writing, had not been part of the known stories from the world of Harry Potter. 1919 seemed a complex, hopeful, confusing, dangerous, epoch-shifting time, according to the history books, which are adjectives we could also use for today’s world.

I write from an adult(ish) perspective, so the story may not be suitable for much younger readers and is aimed at teens, young adults and older adults like myself whose inner child is very much alive and kicking.

The illustrations, believe it or not, were created using Publisher. I don’t have posh photo editing and digital art apps. I created them myself, both to go with the book and for a separate Ravenclaw gallery and story section.

Recently I decided to share what I’ve written. As it is a piece of fan fiction, I seek no commercial benefit. I will also be encouraging readers to donate whatever they can to Rowling’s charity Lumos or to other charities dealing with hunger, homelessness human and animal welfare and disability. Check out the Lumos Links page for ideas or chose your own. There is also a section linking to other (non-fanfiction) writing I do. If you like my work please consider giving what you think it is worth to one of these organizations. Alternatively, give a few hours of your time to a local foodbank or shelter, some clothes or toys in that are still in good condition to a favourite charity shop or old blankets to a local dog’s home. This is my way of giving. To quote Dumbledore:

“Happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light.” JK Rowling, from Harry Potter & the Prisoner of Azkaban

the train az — ‘The Train’ Illustration for ‘The Library of Lost Wands’ by Antonia Sara Zenkevitch

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton

***DISCLAIMER: Please note that this is a FANFICTION. JK Rowling and her associates own everything concerning The Harry Potter & Fantastical Beasts franchises. This fan fiction does have original characters and real historical references, but they and the plot are set within a world of another’s skilled creation. This fanfiction is not for profit. This fanfiction is for entertainment purposes only with entirely optional donations to charities (totally unconnected to the fan fiction author) encouraged. Antonia Sara Zenkevitch as the author of this fanfiction work does not claim ownership over any of the ideas she has adopted from the magical world of JK Rowling, only for the new characters she has created. This is a piece of fan fiction that is not a part of the original authentic series. This work has many influences, but began as an inspiration born of the books, films, and plays of the original franchise. ***