CHAPTER 5: Poggle, George & The Dragon

The Library of Lost Wands,

Epic Potterverse Fanfiction set in 1919

by Antonia Sara Zenkevitch,

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The next day began in a subdued mood, but as The Eagle chugged out of Paris at 4 o’clock the grey dawn drew its first rays of hope in copper rimmed clouds. George was not dead. He had been attacked just yards from where Lindsay had been sitting, on the other side of the wood panelling of her cabin. Perhaps it was the person she had heard outside her door while listening in on Arnie Singh and his colleague discussing muggle peace agreements with the enigmatic Minister Moon. She’d assumed, from a pale reflection in her window, the scent of pipe smoke and sense of the sinister, that it had been Ebonine Filtch listening nearby in the shadows. But the attack on George had happened later, when everyone’s attention had been on the fate of a small dog, Bulstrode had been screaming for vengeance and Lindsay had been working out what to do with the strange parcel George had entrusted her with.

Only paces away the wizard had apparently been silently disarmed, stunned, obliviated and body-bound without seeming to have had time to put up a defence. His wand was still in his pocket. The whole thing appeared to be a crime born of panic, opportunism or angry vendetta rather than a cold, calculated assault she’d expect from her bone-pipe smoking chief culprit.

Lindsay woke and dressed early and quickly, feeling in her skirt pocket for the bezoar the wise and puzzling Eremite Borage had sent her. She clutched it as if the poisoning cure was a talisman. Yet it was hard to be gloomy. The first glow of morning was beautiful; the rythmn of the train on the tracks mixing with far off footsteps, creeks and children’s playful laughter. The rays shining through gold and lilac lined clouds defiantly illuminated every corner. The air smelled of baking and earth after the rain. A phoenix carved in the cherrywood panelling seemed to bask in the sunrise. As she watched it a strange sense of excitement enveloped her. Odd, she thought, as the bronze haired image of a smiling Percy Fleamont skipped briefly into her mind.

She left her cabin and walked restlessly to the end of Wildsmith carriage. Opening a window in the vestibule, she watched the last stars disappear behind brush strokes of sun. Pale gold fields were speckled with late poppies and bordered by the fleecy streaks of clematis her mother called ‘old man’s beard’ at this time of year. She could think more clearly here where the only sounds were birdsong and distant breakfast preparations.

Her thoughts returned to the events of last night. She pondered the connection between George, Bulstrode’s destroyed wand, Seamus and the unknown Sophie. She wondered how much her the loss of her twin and all the other missing seers related to all that had happened in the past few hours.

George’s injuries may suggest a frenzied assault, but it was possible the attacker had planned it all; from the distraction outside to sending George on a mission to deliver the mangled wand to Lindsay’s cabin. Could someone do all this just so they could ambush George in a long, lightless corridor? It was possible. The young attendant would be unlikely to use the lumos charm, because casting any light from his wand would draw attention to himself and his secret task. If that were the case George’s assailant would surely have to be someone able to manipulate and mislead others while gaining their trust. Why would anyone hurt the boy though? He had seemed to Lindsay a kind and thoughtful soul. Despite this, his enigmatic announcements in the early hours about her vanished brother had made her very uneasy.

If she was honest, there was an irrational part of her that was angry at George for being attacked. She had no idea how much of last night he’d remember after being subjected to the obliviate curse. An equally frustrated part of her felt betrayed that he should know something about her beloved twin that she did not.

She heard clattering behind her and turned to see a small head popping out of an even smaller service hatch in the next carriage. A tiny house elf wearing a starched white tablecloth was clambering out, her ears poking out of holes of a shapeless bright blue wool thing on her head bearing the legend Poggle’s Tea Cosy in bold yellow letters. Her hands were full of clean towels and bandages, her saucer-like, periwinkle eyes full of concern. For a split second Lindsay caught the elf’s gaze and saw a glimpse of what was worrying her. In that moment she saw George sprawled in the dark, his limbs at unnatural angles. A swinging door and retreating footsteps were the only signs of anyone else being there. It seemed this elf may have been the first on the scene.

“Poggle’s coming, Master Georgie” the tiny creature squeaked, twisting a stray strand of wool behind her left ear as she pushed through a nearby door. Quick as a shadow, Lindsay followed, allowing her intuition to guide her. When she slipped into the room she just had time to see the unconscious form of George on the bed before being shooed away by the startled Poggle.  Fanning Lindsay back towards the door with a towel while shaking from toes to tea cosy, the elf declared “Master George is not well and must regain his strength, Mistress, if you please.” .

“I just want to see if he is recovering. “, whispered Lindsay to the quivering, indignant elf. My name is Lindsay O’Brian, what’s yours? “

“My name is Poggle, Mistress Lindsay. Please Mistress Lindsay, Master is not well and must rest.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Poggle. Please don’t worry, I won’t wake him. I’ll just sit here a while.”

The little elf looked away, pulling the blue tea cosy down over her ears, muttering and humming under her breath. Lindsay perched on a small stool in the corner of the cabin while Poggle bathed George’s forehead. The attendant’s sleeping quarters were compact and neat with fresh white linen on a small bed. An unusual clock hung above a chest of draws and a scarred desk. The clock had many hour hands, each inscribed with a cabin number and carriage. There was writing round the circumference of the timepiece showing what each cabin’s inhabitants were doing. The choices included hungry, eating, in bed, in lounge car and in mortal peril. According to the direction of most of the hour-hands, the majority of passengers seemed to be in bed at present. Two cabin occupants were in the corridors and someone in cabin 19 of Fancourt Carriage was needing assistance. 

Looking at the unconscious figure in front of her Lindsay knew it would be another attendant who came to the aid of the passenger in cabin 19. She guessed each attendant on the train must have a similar clock. It would explain their uncanny ability to know what each passenger wanted before the passenger themselves knew. How else could they do their impossible job? She looked for her own cabin; No.8 Wildsmith on the clock-face and found her hour hand was pointing to a segment marked visiting. She tried to memorise the cabin numbers in the hope of finding out who was where but something on the desk caught her attention. A green and silver snake was circling the cover of a book; The Dangerous Secret; a warning in time by Phineas Nigellus Black. She recognised the author as being a past headmaster of Hogwarts and a Slytherin.

Then Poggle spoke in hushed words that seemed to echo. “He doesn’t wake up. When he wakes he doesn’t remember.”

“I’m so sorry this happened.” Lindsay offered, but the elf seemed not to hear.

“I have been his Poggle since he was a boy and I was a small elf.”

Lindsay lent forward, wanting to comfort Poggle, but the elf moved closer to George, stretching out thin, agile arms; shielding him. Feeling for the right words Lindsay settled on “I am sorry this happened to your friend.”

“Mistress must not say I am a friend of Master!”

“I meant no offence, Poggle, I can see you care for Master George” Lindsay ventured, but the elf spoke over her, her voice shrill with feeling:

“I was always told; Poggle, Master George is not your friend, he is a wizard, you are a house elf.”

“Did Master George say that to you?” asked Lindsay

“House elves serve wizards. It has always been this way. Master Augustus says.” Poggle’s voice softened as she added, “Maybe Mistress Lindsay was bought up by muggles and does not know the proper way.”

“I think there is more than one wizarding way,” answered Lindsay, trying to hide her feelings as her gaze slid sideways towards the book decorated with the Slytherin crest.

“Master George is the only son of an old wizarding family” said Poggle, her chest puffing up with pride.

“Is Master Augustus his father?” asked Lindsay, then noticing Poggle flinch, she continued “and have your family served his for long? I don’t know much about elf customs.”

Poggle nodded to herself, looking behind her at the fitful figure of George whose head was bandaged, eyes closed in troubled sleep. She patted George’s knee as she continued in a tone of devotion, ” I am Master George’s Poggle. I will always be. It is not allowed for us to be friends. Master George’s father would not allow it. He told Master George. My grandpa told me. An elf’s place is to serve wizarding kind. It is the law.”

“Do you normally work on the train with George?”

“I followed him when he came to work on the Eagle. He said I didn’t need to, that it might be dangerous, but I did not know if the house elves here would take care of him.”

A thought was occurring to Lindsay; “Did Master George knit you that tea cosy, Poggle?”

“Master gave it to his Poggle when he went away. He said my head was turning the same colour as my eyes. He knitted this for my head and said it could be a tea cosy if I liked and a hat whenever I wanted. But I told him a house elf cannot have clothes. I wouldn’t be his Poggle anymore.”

Lindsay sat on the wobbly stool by George’s bed and looked at the thing on Poggle’s head. The holes on either side fit around the elf’s ears too snuggly to have been made for a teapot’s handle and spout. She, Seamus and their cousin Syd had not grown up in a house with elves doing their bidding as many wizarding families did, particularly those some liked to call ‘purebloods’. Yet she was aware generations of elves served some wizard families. Her only real connect with elves had been those who worked in Hogwarts, each of whom were industrious and rarely seen. Hufflepuffs like Seamus knew them best. He used to boast that, as their common room was near the school’s great kitchens, hopeful Hufflepuffs would sneak in for a treat. They found the elves only too happy to cater for midnight feasts and pre-dawn quidditch practice snacks. She knew that elves never wore proper clothes. An elf given clothes by their master or mistress was a free elf. Elves had been taught over who knew how long to fear this, seeing it as dismissal and disgrace. Lindsay suddenly found she did not know what to say.

Poggle began to sing, clicking her fingers so that the fresh bandages hovered by her ear, quietly unravelling and arranging themselves as she tended to his injured arm and rib.”We elves have magic of our own, oh yes, and my master knows.” Poggle chanted to herself.

“I can believe that!”

Turning her piercing blue gaze onto the witch before her, Poggle asked  “Who hurt my Master Georgie?”

“I don’t know, yet. I am going to try to find out. Is there anything you can tell me that may help?”

“How do you know Master?” answered Poggle, her voice still spiked with suspicion.

“I don’t know him well, but I like him” Lindsay answered truthfully,  then, trusting her instincts, she took a leap of faith and silently mouthed “He gave me the wand to hide.”

“The wand with the dragon heart” Poggle stated in wonder, her huge eyes welling with tears, her fingers twisting the blue yarn near her ears.

Lindsay cast a muffliato charm so no one else could hear them. She then told Poggle some of what she knew. After hearing and trusting the witch’s account the elf sighed and settled herself down on the bottom of the bed ready to tell her tale.

“Bulstrode killed my aunty, five years ago. She was a good elf, always followed wizarding law. Master George saw her do it. He is Mistress Bustrode’s cousin.”

“That’s awful, Poggle, did you or George report it?”

“Aunty was Mistress Bulstrode’s elf.” Poggle wept, and Lindsay understood. As far as international wizarding law was concerned, Bulstrode had done nothing illegal in killing Poggle’s aunt. Her stomach turned over in disgust. For a moment the two sat in silence, listening the whistling rise and fall of George’s breath as the clock whirred in the corner. Lindsay noticed that most of the hour hands were now pointing to in the corridors or at breakfast. Any enemies on the train were probably presently focused on filling their bellies. Poggle rested one hand tenderly on George’s cheek as the witch beside her took her other hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“When the dog, Rosa, took Mistress Bulstrode’s wand and Mistress Dorethia asked Master George to hide it” continued the elf.  “Master George bought it to me. He said he does not trust his cousin and wanted to see what spells it had cast, but it was too broken. Elves are not allowed to carry wands. It is against wizarding law. When Master got his wand for Hogwarts he made Poggle a pretend one, but the Mistress was not happy and burnt it.”

The clock clicked and whizzed, filling the gaps in conversation like a fourth person in the room. Poggle looked at her hand joined with a witches. A witch who wanted to know who had hurt her Master George.

“We house elves have magic of our own. Once, Master Georgie fell out of the high tree and his wand was hidden in the branches. I found it, Mistress Lindsay. I heard it calling to me. When I was carrying it back to Master George I could feel the story of the unicorn whose tail gave his wand its core. Master Georgie knows we elves have magic.”

“So, he asked you to tell him about Bulstrode’s wand?”

“The core is the heartstring of the dragon called Dordrax. Part of Dordrax still lives in the wand and she is angry. Her heartstring was not given. She was hunted by Mistress Bulstrode’s ancestors who stole her eggs to lure her into a trap. They had the wand made, binding Dordrax up in elm. Master George says elm is a tree of life and death. The wand was handed down the generations, never choosing any witch or wizard who has claimed it.  Dordrax has been a prisoner, her will taken away from her.  In the hands of Bulstrode the wand has killed creatures like my aunt. Creatures and muggles. But the dragon wanted to be free. Dordrax called out until the dog Rosa heard and freed her.”

“What happened then, Poggle?”

” I heard Mistress Bulstrode calling for her wand and I was afraid. Sorry Master Georgie, but I was afraid. I let my master down.”

“I very much doubt that.”

“We heard Rosa barking and Mistress Dorethia crying. Mistress Cordelia and Master Fizzy were arguing with her. Master George took the wand and asked me to wake Mistress Quirrel. When I came back, he was gone. I found him lying in the dark, alone.”

“He is safe now” Lindsay said reassuringly. “And the wand’s safe too, for now” she added, as much to soothe herself. “George is as lucky as a vial of Felix Felicis to have you.”

“If I had taken the wand to you he would not have been alone in the dark” the elf replied, twisting her small hands in her lap. “But it is forbidden for us to carry wands or to learn their magic.”

None of this is your fault, Poggle. George obviously trusts you, with good reason. I don’t think he wanted to put you at risk.”

“It was all for nothing!” Poggle cried miserably, pulling her hand free from Lindsay’s grasp before wrapping both arms around herself and rocking on the spot. But the witch was speaking to her in soft tones that reminded her of the lullabies she would sing Master George when he was little.

“It was for something, Poggle. Dordrax is now free of Bulstrode, and her story is remembered by you. The chewed up wand can do no more harm. It is hidden somewhere few can find and may well still hold evidence. We will find a way to punish that terrible witch for her unspeakable crimes.”

Poggle stopped rocking. She sat hunched over, her breathing uneven. Lindsay could tell she was crying.

“Poggle,” she said, very gently, “what was your aunt’s name?”

Poggle looked up, startled by the question. After a moment she said in a voice that sounded like the working of a charm “Her name was Epi Bulstrodelf”

Lindsay, feeling a tug of electricity in the air, answered “Where shall we take the memory of your Aunt Epi and of dragon Dordrax?”

“To the Keeper of Lost Wands.” the elf intoned.

Lindsay had never heard of the Keeper of Lost Wands but in the pit of her stomach she felt the occamy uncoil. It was as if in that moment she had become the occamy pensieve with the memories of centuries within her waiting to fly. It felt like the bird was within her, the parcel of lace, elm and dragon heartstring held within her beak.

The spell was broken by a knock at the door, followed by a gust of air as Cordelia, Fizzy, and Percy burst into the room followed by Amos Quirrel and an attendant Lindsay didn’t recognise. Everything happened at once, though it seemed like slow motion as the book with the Slytherin crest blew off the desk and a sheet of all to familiar writing fluttered out from the pages. It was Seamus’ writing; it seemed her brother had written to George. She wanted to look but Amos was cheerfully, firmly ushering them all out of the room.

“Breakfast, breakfast my dears! Merlin’s beard, you don’t want to miss the delicious spread we’ve laid out for you. George is in good hands, good hands.”

As Lindsay followed the curve of Amos Quirrel’s wildly gesticulating arms she saw something that made her breath catch in her throat. Her hour hand was now pointing towards Mortal Peril.

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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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