Hellblazer: Hogwarts

Hellblazer: Hogwarts

Chapter Three: And Hope That This Is Just Imagination

Notes From The Field

Tonks v. pleased w/wand purchase. Apparently she thought I might be something called a 'squib'. Bit annoying having my credentials questioned at every bloody turn but the wand thing put paid to that. Squibs apparently same as Muggles only they're supposed to be wizards. V. embarrassing to wizard families, squibs.

Purebloods, Muggles, squibs, half-bloods, giant crossbreeds. . . am I mad, or is this 'Ministry of Magic' thing the sodding Kennel Club in disguise?

Any road, had to buy my books next. Tonks took me to bookshop- Flourish & Blotts- & begged off on grounds she had to make Dumbledore-related stop in Surrey. Said she'd be back in a few hours & that I should tell shopkeeper what I was looking for. Did not much care for idea of being left in unfamiliar magical bookstore, figured damn things might bite or something, but did not have much choice.

No biting, fortunately. Mr. Flourish quite clear on that. Said 'not this year, anyway' but did not seem inclined to explain. Came over all sympathetic when I said I was teaching Defense Against Dark Arts, led me straight to section on breaking curses. V. interesting stuff but a bit past what I'd teach kids, really. Said so. Flourish laughed, said curse books for me but if I wanted to wait on that then he had what I needed upstairs. Showed me to introductory texts, then had to leave as other customer came in.

Spent next 2-3 hrs. picking through books by myself. Not my first choice for how to spend an afternoon, but not a bad time, either. Got a decent intro to ugly side of local magic, which is always good. Found several books worth buying once I've got proper coin in my pocket (as The Shadowed Mind: The Imperius Curse And Its Associated Hexes, Spells, and Counter-Charms by Dionigi Maladorno not really lending-library stuff). Would have liked to copy down a few passages from some of the other books but no idea if Flourish has eye-in-the-sky spells on his ceiling. Had to commit good bits to memory. Will write out and check against real thing later.

Too many books to choose from in the end, so I asked about prior professors' choices. No need to duplicate what the kids have, after all. Defensive Magical Theory sounded all right, but turned up more like How To Roll Over And Die. Half expected to find chapter by Neville Chamberlain. Series of books by one G. Lockhart looked interesting, but mostly about monster hunting. Will have to come back for that. Not a lot to say about the others really. Only one worth buying was The Dark Forces: A Guide to Advanced Self-Protection. Was going to wait for Tonks to come back and ask her advice when fat red volume caught my eye. Unpleasant Things It Is Sometimes Good To Know wins my vote for Most Understated Title of the Year, I'll give it that. Nothing I'd teach kids straight off. Chapters w/titles like 'Unforgivable Curses And Their Counters' a bit above most youngsters, I should think. Me, I'd've traded an eyeball to know some of this stuff. Fortunately all Flourish wanted was a couple of Galleons. Settled up with him, made a few inquiries re: future purchases, & went outside to wait for Tonks & read my new books.

***

Magic, like any other subject, takes time to learn. There are a number of ways in which the process may be made easier. Unfortunately for most would-be wizards and witches, none of them are particularly easy in themselves. When one sits down and calculates it all out, wizarding folk expend more effort on acquiring powdered dragon claw and Scintillating Solutions in order to boost their own cleverness at critical junctures than ever would have been spent had they simply sat down and done the studying in the first place.

John Constantine, it happened, had no such options. What he did have was a month in which to study and practice, and not much else to do. Granted, Hagrid always welcomed help with his gamekeeper duties, but that grew old very quickly. Spending any length of time in Hagrid's company made for one hell of an education in magical zoology, but John had a peculiar fondness for life's little pleasures: fingers that were still attached to his hands, eyebrows not being burnt off, things like that. The books were safer.

And, unfortunately, simpler. Dumbledore had been right about the similarity of their worlds' magical principles. There were entire chapters of the Guide to Advanced Self-Protection that John found he almost knew by heart- he'd taught himself the same material years ago, from books far older and less comprehensible. It seemed to be more a matter of channeling sorcerous power through established, expected channels and means. Once you understood the principle, it was a matter of memorising the specifics- and that got old fast. At least, the specifics in the Guide did. From what he'd seen in the bookstore John knew there were far more complex (and interesting) magical procedures out there. They just weren't listed here.

The red book, at least, was more interesting. Unpleasant Things was an eccentric little compendium of all different kinds of magic- not all of the point-the-wand-and-whoosh variety, either. Jasper Barnes had apparently gathered up every kind of nasty, dangerous magical knowledge he could find and clapped it between two covers. The first chapter was a treatise on making potions, beginning with getting the skin off the boomslang and the bile from the armadillo; the second, a series of charts depicting the anatomy of British dragon species and how to go about butchering them for magically useful parts. Another chapter blandly laid out how to build a device called a Pensieve, which seemed to suck the thoughts from one's head and hold them in stasis. (John marked that idea down for later- he could think of a few times when not knowing certain things would've aided his poker face immensely.)

Most of it was like that, really. There wasn't much in the book that could be practiced under the circumstances, except for the chapter titled 'The Unforgivable Trinity'. Those were a set of three curses- fairly simple ones, it looked like. Punishable by a life sentence in some prison John had never heard of, but simple. 'Crucio' didn't sound like much to him- pain for pain's sake? That was it? All right, it did say if you kept it up you could drive your victim irrevocably mad. But still! Half the denizens of Hell-

He had to correct himself when thoughts like that came up. If there was a Hell in this universe, it either hadn't impinged upon the realm of the living, or it was far more subtle than he could possibly give any demon credit for.

No, as far as John could tell, here all the blame for evil lay in the hearts of human beings. When you looked at it like that, the Cruciatus Curse came off pretty bad. You had to want someone to hurt if you were going to cast it, and then you had to keep that wanting foremost in your thoughts as long as you held the curse in effect. Not as bad as the Imperius Curse, though. That was the act of magically shoving your hand up someone's arse and working them like a puppet, even to the point of getting them to cast spells of their own. Apparently it was all but impossible to detect, and could be cast at a distance and allowed to run its course without the caster being immediately present. While John definitely knew of some times when that would've been useful, he could think of about a hundred more situations where it would've been an utter disaster. Fortunately, the book included ways to counter both curses; John did his best to memorise those, but without another wizard on hand (Hagrid said he wasn't allowed to do magic), he had no way to practice them properly.

Little as he liked the situation, at least those two had counters. The third leg of this Trinity, the Killing Curse, was a bit less easily avoided. A line of bolded text read How To Survive The Killing Curse, but to John's dismay what followed was:

If you find yourself facing an Enemy who is both Proficient in this Curse and Willing to employ it, you would be Wise to recall that most Wizards find it quite difficult to hit a moving Target with any Accuracy. Flee from your Foe at an Angle, and change your Direction often, that his Spell might strike only Air upon its Arrival at your prior Location. Should a Broom be at hand, employ it immediately, recalling that those Wizards who do not often participate in Quidditch are not much given to thinking in three Dimensions. In fact, where possible, Apparate as far from your Enemy as you can, as swiftly as you have the Ability to manage.

"Fat lot of help that is, Barnes," John muttered when he read that. He memorised the incantation for the Killing Curse away; it might theoretically be useful. Besides, if he got this teaching position- well, kids had short legs. The way he saw it, bashing the enemy's teeth in at 'Avada' would do them a hell of a lot better than running away at the end of 'Kedavra'.

There were other chapters, of course, and John studied them all. By the fifth or sixth read-through, though, even the chapter on negative astrological and astronomical influences had lost all novelty and charm. According to Hagrid's latest note, there was still more than a fortnight to go. Sure, he could spend the next two weeks practicing every last spell, charm, and incantation in both books until his face turned blue, but. . . well. Somehow he had a feeling that wasn't the way to go. Exactly what the way was he couldn't say, but that wasn't it. What he needed was to get away from the hut, consider his next move, and get in a proper smoke. The forest behind Hagrid's hut seemed tailor-made for that. Dangerous, maybe- Hagrid had said something about his best stock living wild in there- but it wasn't as if he planned to go in far. He scribbled out a note and left it on the gamekeeper's table, checked his dwindling supply of cigarettes, and set out into the woods.

It wasn't that he trusted the place, because he didn't. The trees seemed determined to keep as much light as possible from reaching the forest floor, and the very air smelled dank beyond what a city boy like John remembered of the green world. He wasn't entirely sure if the pebbles he'd dropped behind him would still be there when the time came to leave, either; there was something brooding and unpleasant about the place. Still for all that, once properly into the forest John found himself strangely at ease. He couldn't quite figure that out. It was as if-

As if, he realised, I've lived so long with the threat of death or worse hanging over me head that being someplace where no one and nothing cares who I am is unnatural. His mouth twisted wryly as he settled down on a suitable rock and found his lighter. Knew there was something wrong about this world. Wonder if making a few enemies will pick things up a bit?

The smoke rose sluggishly from the end of his cigarette, twisting slowly in the humid summer morning air. Well, he thought, the enemies would probably take care of themselves. More important just now was the practice situation. And the money situation- that wasn't going to resolve itself any time soon, either. He knew better than to try and cadge another advance out of Dumbledore, and if the hut's condition was anything to go by, Hagrid wasn't a suitable source either. Tonks' advice had got him a decent supply of edible food, but at the cost of any further books; the lone Sickle and few Knuts he had left wouldn't do him a damn bit of good. The bookshop was in London anyway. What the train ticket would cost he didn't know, but he had a feeling it was more than he could afford.

More pressing than either money or practice was a purely mundane problem. Namely: he was running out of smokes. Oh, he'd had to ration his Silk Cuts before, but there'd always been the prospect of cadging another fag off someone somehow. Here? No. London had been devoid of tobacconists that he could see. This place- ha, if there were a pack for sale anywhere within thirty miles then he was the sodding Queen. Mind, the wizards did smoke, he knew that much- but it was pipes. Anyway, after the incident on the train he had a feeling Hagrid would take a very dim view of a trip to whatever shop in Hogsmeade sold their tobacco. Maybe if he could strike out on his own for a few days. . . no, he hadn't thought to take any money with him when he went after Tim, and even if he had a spell to convince a cash machine that he existed there was the little matter of no longer having a card with which to start the transaction. . .

So. No money. No way to get money, unless- no, no, he had those last few coins. Did wizards gamble? They had that Quidditch game, whatever that was. England might not smoke any longer, but some vices were the same wherever you went. There'd be wagering somewhere. As long as they didn't mind starting off with small bets- yeah, that'd do. That'd do just fine.

Considerably cheered, John tapped off a bit of ash and leaned back with an unwholesome grin. Something nudged at his shoulder as he did so; he twisted around. "Hagrid? I- shit!"

The thing behind him- well- the first he saw of it was shining spectre-white eyes in a black-furred head reminiscent of a dragon's. He'd have called it a horse, only horses looked more alive. This thing looked like a skin-covered toast rack on legs, save for the wings- great leathery batlike things that flared upwards as the creature and John stared at each other. One black hoof pawed lightly at the ground; slowly, John rose to his feet. "All right," he said, "I don't know what you are but I don't want any trouble-"

Its lips peeled back for a moment, revealing gleaming fangs, and it let out a cry that was half-whinny, half-yowl.

"Oh, shit." John's hand dove instinctively for his wand. "All right, if that's how it- euuuugh!"

It had licked him. Right across the face!

"Stop that!" he snapped as it leaned in to do it again. Pushing the head away did little good; the animal only rubbed its head against his shoulder and whuffled, sounding pleased with itself. "What are you- hey, get out of there." With an almighty shove he forced the beast's head away from his coat pocket. "Jesus. What the hell are you supposed to be?"

It flicked an ear at him, long black tail swishing idly behind, and sidestepped to rub its black hide against one of the trees. Seen from this angle, it had the look of a horse halfway through some ghastly transformation. Possibly it was the result of an experiment in cross-breeding horses and dragons, with a pinch of the undead thrown in. Certainly John couldn't remember ever seeing its like before- not without hefty doses of magical interference, anyway.

It finished with the tree and turned back towards him, tossing its odd head a moment before nosing at his shoulder again. "Well," John muttered, "you're certainly tame- whatever you are." He laid one hand on its neck; despite the unwholesomely skeletal look, it had neither more nor less warmth than any living creature he could remember touching, and there was a very real feeling of breath and pulse beneath his hand. "I don't suppose you can talk? Hey, stop that." Apparently there was something about his coat that the . . . horse. . .thing found endlessly fascinating. It certainly seemed to like the taste, but he wasn't about to let anything with fangs like that gnaw on any of his clothing, thank you. "Go on- shove off, you-"

Abruptly, a long, shrieking cry rang through the forest from the direction John had originally come. The beast's head came up swiftly, whipping around with ears pricked forward to face the cry's source; it whinnied (more or less) and stamped at the ground with both forefeet. Warily, John drew his wand again, but nothing showed itself. He glanced up at the creature, only to find its shining eyes fixed on him- an altogether disconcerting experience. "Look, it wasn't me," he muttered. "Friend of yours, maybe?"

There came another shriek. The beast lifted its head, wings flaring out as far as the trees would allow, and gave a shrieking cry of its own. John winced, wiggling one forefinger about in his ear. "You could keep it down, you know."

But he was not to be that fortunate. The horrid noise, it seemed, came from another of the creature's kind- smaller, yes, and not quite as loud, but very much the same animal. Definitely a friend of the first one, if the squeals and yowls they were making as they nipped at each others' wings were anything to go by. It would've had all the signs of a joyful family reunion if the creatures had looked a little less like the bloody walking dead. John shook his head, turning to slip through the trees and get away from the things.

It didn't work. He got no more than two steps away when he felt the nose in his back again. "Oh, no you don't," he said, deliberately not turning around. "I don't know what you are, but you're welcome to this place, the both of-"

Really, it was beginning to get tiresome, not being able to finish a sentence. The damn thing gave his back an almighty shove, sending him stumbling. He grabbed at one of the trees and narrowly averted a fall. "That's not funny," he growled as the smaller of the horse-things paced into view. "Both of you can just bugger off, all right? I'm leaving."

They didn't try biting him again. No, that would have been too easy. The damn things started following him instead, to his horror- and no amount of ducking between trees or doubling back seemed to shake them. Indeed, from the noises they were making, they seemed to think it was a game- and a thoroughly entertaining one at that. John didn't dare stray far from his pebble-trail, but he had no intention of leading the cadaverous creatures straight back to Hagrid's home. Abruptly he stopped, drawing his wand and pointing it at them.

"All right, you two," he said in what he hoped was a firm, authoritative voice. "I don't know what you are, and I don't know why you like me, but this is it. Either you stay right where you are and let me leave in peace, or you'll regret it. Got me?"

"'ere, now," came a familiar voice from behind him, "there's no call t'go talkin' t' Snuggles like that."

John closed his eyes, silently mouthing "Snuggles?" It wasn't happening, he decided. It just couldn't be happening.

"It's all righ', John," said Hagrid, sounding immensely pleased. "They're mine- well, they're th' school's, anyways. Never seen a thestral before, have yeh?"

"No," said John as evenly as he could. "I haven't. What the bloody hell is a thestral, anyway?"

Hagrid placed one great hand on the bigger beast's shoulder. It turned and nuzzled at the top of his head; the big man grinned. "These are," he said. "They're a type o' flyin' 'orse- this here's Snuggles, only 'is proper name's Tenebrous. Firs' one born 'ere at Hogwarts. Got me a herd of 'em here, they're jus' as magical as yeh c'n get, an' clever, too."

"It's trying to eat my coat, Hagrid," John pointed out as he twisted away from the smaller one.

"Ah, that's jus' Umbra, don' mind her. She likes yeh." Hagrid scratched the thestral next to him behind the ear; it pawed at the ground with one hoof again, whinnying happily. "Mus' smell good t'her, she's pretty shy, most o' the time."

"I'm not sure I want to smell good to these things, Hagrid. What are they? Some kind of undead?"

Hagrid's face took on an injured look. "Nah, they're alive, same as you 'n me," he protested. "They migh' look all skin an' bones, but they're alive, righ' enough."

"Ah. Very comforting- look, Umbra? Is that your name? Get away- Hagrid, why does she like me?"

"Well-" Hagrid looked up at Tenebrus a moment. "Dunno, really. They eat mean, an' hey're attracted t'blood, an' yeh don' smell like that-"

"Thank you."

"-so, near as I c'n figger, it's somethin' else." He patted Tenebrus' neck, stepping away from the creature's side. It promptly joined its companion in examining John again. "Luck, mebbe- used to be people thought thestrals were unlucky-"

"I wonder why that was." John meant it sarcastically, but Hagrid took the question at face value.

"Well, see, most folks can't see 'em. Only way yeh c'n see thestrals is if yeh've watched someone snuff it."

John eyed the beasts sourly. "Been there," he said, "done that, met the girl behind it all. . ."

"Huh?"

"Never mind." Umbra seemed to have lost interest, but Tenebrus continued to snuffle at John's arm. "So they're not death omens, then? They just look the part?"

"Yep."

"And you keep them here why?"

"Nothin' faster on the wing, 'cept maybe dragons," Hagrid promptly answered. "Dumbledore takes 'em t'London 'stead o' brooms, sometimes. An' they pull carriages righ' well, too. Can't ask fer a better sense o' direction, eith-" His voice faltered as Tenebrus bumped his head against John's side again. "Eh- John?"

"Yes?"

"What's he got in his mouth?"

Slowly- oh so slowly- John turned his head to look up at the thestral.

Tenebrus blinked down at him, the bedraggled remains of John's pack of cigarettes dangling from its teeth.

"Give me that!" John bellowed, lunging at the thestral with a sudden white-hot fury. It tossed its head up, dancing backwards; John's fingers missed the pack bottom by mere inches. "You- you-"

"John!"

He wasn't listening. He didn't care. The damn thing had his last few cigarettes! "Drop it," he growled, swinging one hand in a chopping motion at the thestral's windpipe. Tenebrus jerked sideways; the blow went wide. "Give those back, damn your eyes, give those back-"

Something in his coat pocket poked at him- his wand. He whipped it out with the speed of a striking snake, pointing it and shouting "Accio Silk Cuts!"

The spit-covered paper jerked forward. Tenebrus' lips closed abruptly.

"Accio-"

Tenebrus swallowed.

The only sound that could be heard was a slow hiss of indrawn breath. "Hagrid," said John, eyes not leaving the thestral, "tell me I didn't just see him eat my last fags."

"Ah- sorry, John. 'm afraid I can't do that."

Very slowly, John nodded. "Right," he said. "That's what I thought you'd say. You didn't like him very much, I hope?"

"Wha- John, no!"

For John had leveled his wand directly at Tenebrus' chest. "Avad- oh, fuck, get out of the way, Hagrid!"

The gamekeeper, who had leaped in front of the thestral with arms spread wide, shook his head.

"If you had any idea what that thing just did you'd agree with me. Get out of the way!"

"I'm not movin', John," Hagrid said resolutely. Were those tears in his eyes?

"Hagrid-"

"Nope. Not movin'."

John stared at the big man, frustration and rage and a dozen other things pounding in his head. Somewhere in the confused welter of it all a tiny, momentary voice of sanity said: save that feeling, you'll need it later. . .

He dropped his arm. Hagrid exhaled.

"If I ever see that thing near me again," John said through clenched teeth, "I'll wring its fucking neck with my bare hands, I swear to God."

"That's as may be," said Hagrid, "but yeh won' do it while I'm aroun'."

"Fine." John waved a hand dismissively. "Hope you've got a lot of time on your hands to play bodyguard."

"Look, John, he just-"

"I don't want to hear it."

"Can't you-"

"I said I don't want to hear it. For all I know those were the last damn fags in all of sodding Britain, and Daddy's Little Death Omen here just ate them."

"Can't yeh make more?" said Hagrid, in a voice surprisingly plaintive for a man his size.

"That," said John, shoving his wand back into his pocket, "would require tobacco, and papers, and that would require money- unless you've got something hidden away in the cupboard, hmm?"

Hagrid shook his head.

"Then no. I can't. And he-" John jerked his chin at the beast. "-is dead the next time I catch him alone."

"But yer a wizard! Can't yeh conjure somethin'? Or transfigure somethin' into the stuff y'need?"

"What?"

Hagrid brought his hands together, making a vague woo-woo sort of motion. "You know- take a bundle o' leaves, mebbe a couple bits o' paper, do a Switchin' Spell t'make 'em into-"

"I can do that?"

"Dunno. Can yeh?"

John thought rapidly over the stuff he'd seen in his books. There'd been a mention of Switching Spells in the Guide, and a passing mention of conjuring in Unpleasant Things. No details, though. "Not. . . not right now, no," he admitted.

"Well," said Hagrid, "if we c'n fix that, will yeh leave Snuggles alone?"

"If it works," John said grimly, "I'll consider it."

Back at the hut, Hagrid went straight for the bedroom. "Jus' a minute- got it 'ere somewheres-"

John merely sighed. Exactly what they were doing he didn't know, and frankly, he was in no mood to find out. He dropped into the chair where he'd been sleeping- God, he was starting to hate that chair- and waited.

"Gotcha!" Hagrid emerged, beaming and waving a bundle of dog-eared papers over his head. "These'll do yeh, righ' enough. Me notes from third year Transfiguration- las' class I ever sat at 'Ogwarts." He held them out to John, who took them somewhat gingerly. "I burned all me other notes when I was expelled, see, bu' these- these, I kept."

"I see that." John glanced through a few of the pages. Hagrid's handwriting, though on the crude side, was large and clear enough to be legible. "And why was that, exactly?"

Hagrid took back the papers, shuffled through them briefly, and selected one to hand back to John. It had been the first page once, by the look of it- a date in early September, the class title, and the instructor's name: Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. John looked up at that.

"Dumbledore's the only professor as didn' want t'see me expelled," Hagrid said gruffly. "Only class I was much good at, either, 'cept fer Care o' Magical Creatures. I dunno 'ow much good it'll do yeh, but I figger there's bound t'be summat in there ye'll be able t'use t' replace those- things- Snuggles ate. Won't las' long, probably, bu' yeh don' need those things t'last long, do yeh? Jus' long enough t' burn all th' way down."

Staring, John accepted the bundle of notes again. "Thank you, Hagrid," he said, much subdued.

"Yeh're welcome. Don't lose 'em."

"I'll copy-" He stopped. "Hagrid," he said at last, "why are you doing this?"

"Huh?"

"Loaning me these."

Hagrid blinked. "Well, that's obvious, innit? I don' want yeh goin' after Snuggles when I've got my back turned-"

"That's not it, is it, Hagrid?" John stood up, though it made very little difference compared to the other man's overall height. "Not the real reason, I mean. There's something else."

"I- I don't know what yer talkin' about." Hagrid turned abruptly, reaching for the kettle.

"Oh no?" John almost smiled, but caught it in time. "I think if it were my pet monster-"

"Snuggles isn't a monster!"

"-that someone else'd threatened to kill, I'd be snarling at him like nobody's business. And yet you didn't even take a swing at me in the forest; you brought me right back home and gave me these, just so I could resume a habit you don't approve of. They're obviously important to you. . . Give it up, Hagrid. What's your game?"

Hagrid shifted his weight uneasily from one leg to the other; the floor creaked.

John waited.

"It's the giant thing," Hagrid said at last. "Yeh spotted it firs' thing, in King's Cross, but yeh didn' seem t'care abou' it-"

"Should I have?"

"Well- yeh- everyone 'ere does. I dunno what it's like where yeh come from, John, bu' giants here- well, they've got a bad reputation-"

"What, fee fi fo fum, grind his bones to make my bread, kind of bad?"

"Yep," said Hagrid unhappily.

"Earned it, did they?"

Hagrid sighed. "'Fraid so."

"Right. And this carries over to you?"

"Most o' th' time, yep," said Hagrid. "The reputation, anyway. Bin like that me whole life, really. . . most o' th' professors were afraid o' me 'cos o' that, y'see."

"But not Dumbledore."

"No," said Hagrid. "Not Dumbledore." He finally set the kettle back down. "Said it didn' matter what me mum was, it was how I acted an' th' things I did that mattered- got 'em to let me stay on after third year. He didn't care. You don't either."

John looked at the papers in his hands. "I. . . see."

There was silence then, the uncomfortable sort that comes when there's really no excuse to putter around doing things that signal the end of a conversation. John was the first to break it. "Ah- Hagrid- got one more question for you. . ."

"Hm?"

"Have you got any idea how a man with one Sickle and seven Knuts to his name would go about making enough money to buy himself a few more books? I don't want to wear your notes out, after all."

Hagrid beamed.