Hellblazer: Hogwarts

Hellblazer: Hogwarts

Chapter Four: I'm Just Standin' Here Sellin'

Notes From The Field

Got warned off gambling in strongest possible terms. According to Hagrid, most betting either run or funded by goblins. Little bastards get nasty when bets go wrong, dead clever @ detecting tampering (magical or otherwise) w/game, & find any excuse possible not to pay out. So just like home really, only kneebreakers much shorter & uglier.

Point is, haven't got enough money to make it worth their while w/o borrowing. Got no collateral either, so borrowing right out. Could come up w/something but right now not really looking for more trouble. Got better idea anyway after watching Hagrid fool about w/lighter trying to make it work. Fingers too big for job but still had trouble after watching me with it. Seems most wizard folk have no contact what-so-ever w/Muggles if can be avoided. Got classes in Muggle Studies here, also gov't branch for Muggle Relations, but no real comprehension of everyday things. Hagrid's curiosity, Tonks' comments re transportation gave me idea. Have borrowed ink, paper, quill from Hagrid. Signs should be up in Hogsmeade tomorrow.

***

Herbetha Riggs slipped into the Hog's Head, bag in hand. The place was grubby as they came, and the clientele was the very worst she'd ever seen- hags, werewolves, Merlin alone knew what else. Not the kind of place any respectable witch wanted to be seen in. Then again, Herbetha wasn't exactly on a respectable errand.

She sidled up to the grey-haired barman, eyes darting this way and that. He grunted, barely looking up from- well, she assumed he thought he was cleaning the pint glass, but she hardly saw how a rag so mucky a grey could be any kind of an improvement. "What'll it be?" he asked, setting the streaky glass aside.

Herbetha suppressed a shudder and held out the sign. The barman grunted again, jerking his head to one side. "Over there," he said; Herbetha's eyes slid in that direction, and the barman walked away. Well, she thought, I... I suppose he looks the part...

'He' was a man half-seated, half-sprawled at a table in the shadows. Unlike the other patrons, he wasn't wearing robes, but peculiarly arranged Muggle garments. The outermost seemed to be a- well, an overcoat, probably, but with a bewildering number of pockets and straps. His only concession to the unspoken dress-code of hidden faces and concealed identities was a battered grey hat, pulled down low in the front. Not a proper pointy hat, either, but some form of Muggle headgear she vaguely recalled seeing in a schoolbook long ago. There was a thin thread of smoke rising from under the front of the hat, though she could see no pipe.

The hat stirred a little. Herbetha realised that he'd seen her, and moved carefully to the empty seat at the stranger's table. Blue eyes peered at her from under the hat's brim. The stranger smiled; it sparked another shiver.

"A- a- are you- is this yours?" Herbetha asked, thrusting the sign at him. It read:

JOHN CONSTANTINE, MUGGLE EXPERT

CURIOSITY SATISFIED - DEVICES EXPLAINED

REASONABLE RATES - DISCRETION PARAMOUNT

ALL QUESTIONS ANSWERED - NO QUESTIONS ASKED

Call At The Hog's Head During Normal Business Hours

A soft chuckle rose from the shadows, and the stranger nodded. "Yep," he said, "that'd be me. What's your story?"

"Um-" Herbetha hesitated, half-in, half-out of her seat. "About those rates-"

"Ah, now, I can't quote you a price 'til I know what you're asking about." There was a definite streak of amusement in his tone. "Start talking. I'll stop you before you get to anything that'd cost you. Fair?"

"Well, I- I suppose..." Herbetha nibbled at her lip, glancing around uneasily. "It's- well, it's my husband, you see."

The stranger nodded, reaching for the glass of firewhiskey on the table in front of him.

"Lately, he's- he hasn't been coming home at normal hours. He works at Scrivenshaft's, you see. Right here in Hogsmeade?"

"Yeah, I know the place."

"A- a- right. Right, yes... at any rate, about six weeks ago he sent an owl saying he wouldn't be home at the usual time, only he didn't say he was working late. Just that he wasn't coming home. It kept happening, too- several nights in a week- and when I asked him about it, he said he was off on 'business', or 'taking some exercise'."

The stranger gave a dry chuckle. "I don't know that it's me you need-"

"Yes, yes, I know, it sounds awful, doesn't it? Only I found out last week that there isn't another woman involved. It's all men... he's found this- this group, and they- well, all the rest of them are Muggles, and he won't talk about them, and I don't know what they are!" The last word rose in a wail. "Just- well- look!"

Trembling, Herbetha reached under the table and pulled out her husband's bag. "He got this from them," she said, shoving the bag at the stranger. "And look here- I've got a photograph, a Muggle photograph mind you, of him and these Muggle friends of his. He dropped it-"

The man picked up the offered photograph and gave it a long look. Then he set it aside and took hold of the metal pull-tab on the bag, sliding it open with a zzzz. Figuring that catch out had taken Herbetha the better part of twenty minutes; seeing the stranger get it right on the first go- well, that spoke well for his Muggle credentials-

"Five Sickles."

"What?"

"You want an explanation, it'll cost you five Sickles." He tapped the table next to his half-empty glass. "Right there, if y'don't mind."

Warily, Herbetha nodded. She set the coins down on the table with as little noise as she could manage. The stranger's wand flicked briefly in the shadows, and they vanished from her sight.

"Right," said the man, leaning forward. "Here's your problem, ma'am: your husband's gone and got himself involved in the world of Muggle games. This is a regulation British Tenpin Bowling Association ball..."