Hellblazer: Hogwarts

Hellblazer: Hogwarts

Chapter 7: The Meaning Of Things As They Appear To The Others

Notes From The Field

Less than a week left before the term starts. This is about as far from what we did with Tim Hunter as it's possible to get. Somehow I don't think that nut job E was the sort to do lesson plans and assign essays. I'm not even the sort to do that, but I'm stuck with it unless I find something in the library first that'll get me home. I don't think I've ever seen so many grimoires just sitting there for anyone to come along and read. Librarian's a bit of a vulture on legs but Blodgett says Pince nothing to fear as long as you stick to the rules & don't do the books harm. Don't think she trusts me. Smart woman.

Have met nearly all the other teachers so far. D'dore probably oldest of the bunch except for Binns, who is actually dead. Binns=ghost, teaches History of Magic. Has power to make brain shut down, eyes glaze over, etc. Met Flitwick and Snape already, of course. Would make my life easier if Flitwick would leave me alone for one bloody day as the little bugger keeps tracking me down to exchange notes on that ill-luck bolt I threw, my world's magic vs. his, etc. EVERY. BLOODY. DAY. Better him than Trelawney, though. T. = one of two Divination teachers. Got all the actual divinatory talent of your average earthworm. Madame Xanadu could do better blindfolded with a casino deck missing the sevens. Has done, come to think of it. Dunno where the other Divination teacher is. Blodgett says he's a centaur. Must live in the Forest or something, castle doesn't strike me as a very good place for someone with hooves. If he's anything like traditional he probably teaches along with Sinistra. It's that or he's working with Sprout, since she does herbology and it's either stars or psychoactive fumes for your standard centaur oracularities.

Been too busy to meet the rest, or they've been too busy to meet me. I'll live.

***

The morning mail arrived, as usual, before Constantine was even halfway through with his breakfast; and as usual, the owls made a special point of aiming John's letters directly at his head. He'd about given up on teaching them not to do that. No one seemed to think setting fire to the damn birds' tails was a good idea.

"No Howlers this morning?" asked Blodgett in an amused tone. The grey-haired, beardless wizard was seated across the table from John, as he had been for the past few weeks. "You must be slipping."

John grunted, examining the envelopes the birds had left. Two from names he didn't recognise. One, sort of familiar looking, from somewhere in Hogsmeade. He'd deal with that last. "Not my fault if people can't put together a decent alibi to save their lives."

"Yes, John, but you're actively exploding those alibis, bad as they are. People are bound to resent that."

"Look," said John, scanning the first letter and setting it aside, "I'm doing 'em a favour. If they're too embarrassed to tell their mates they're watching Coronation Street on the Muggle television next door, but they're not fast enough to hide the binoculars, they deserve to get caught."

Blodgett nodded. "That's as may be, but still. You're going to upset someone if you keep this up."

John set aside the letter (a request for a meeting somewhere more palatable than the Head) and reached for the next one. "Thought I already did."

"I mean someone who'll do more than send Howlers."

"Feh. I'm getting out of the business anyway. Dumbledore doesn't want me odd-jobbing during term." He wrinkled his nose at the letter- same request as the last one - and picked up the final envelope. At the sight of the crossed needle-and-wand stamp on the back, he smiled.

Blodgett leaned forward a little, peering over his mess of scrambled eggs to get a look at the envelope in John's hand. "What've you got there?"

He held the letter up for Blodgett to see. "It's from Gladrags," he said. "They've finished my order."

"Oh, good. Planning on keeping the Muggle clothes?"

"I'm not wearing robes on the trip home, Caleb. There's not enough gold in Gringotts."

Blodgett laughed.

#

The robes were done, yes, but they still had to be paid for. Maggie Mumby at the shop had a half on order, half on delivery policy for bespoke tailoring. John's money was in his rooms, so when the meal was done he excused himself and headed back up to the fifth floor. He was starting to get used to the shifting floor-plan, and the portraits along the way had stopped doing more than calling out the occasional greeting. The ghosts who turned up along the way just nodded politely or murmured a 'hello, Professor' before going about their business. All very easy, all very simple.

And just like every scene in every movie where some idiot said it was 'quiet- too quiet'. How long had he been here? No disasters, no nameless horrors, not even a proper enemy- oh, sure, there was Snape, but he hadn't seen the man since the duel. Unless Snape was hatching some sinister scheme, which John doubted, that didn't count. No, so far as John could tell this world had no idea of his presence, and so lacked the ingrained resentment that his own seemed to harbour towards him. It was long past time for the hammer to fall.

He dismissed the thought as he arrived at the door to his quarters. Dumbledore hadn't said anything about smoking in his own rooms, and none of the ghosts had even tried to pass his wards. Conjured fags were almost as nasty as transmuted ones, but-

On the other side of the door, something made a scuffling noise.

John froze. Silently, he drew his wand. "Alohomora," he murmured, and the lock clicked under his hand. He counted to himself- three, two, one- and shoved the door open, lunging inside with wand at the ready.

Had there been anyone else about he might have been embarrassed, but the room was as empty as when he'd left it. At least, it looked that way. He knew better than that; after a quick scan of his immediate surroundings he flattened himself against one wall and went silent, straining his ears for any hint of noise.

For a few moments, there was nothing. Just as he was starting to curse under his breath, though, there was a faint plep. Something soft, maybe, against the floor? And there, another one, and another. They sounded like the footfalls of something very small. . . .yes, definitely footfalls. Whatever it was had decided to go about its business. Which would've been fine with John, if that business hadn't taken the whatever-it-was into his sodding bedroom.

He took a long breath, running over several spells in his mind. If it had got this far inside the school, it was either extremely powerful or extremely lucky. Probably both. Whether it was native to this place or had followed him from home he didn't know, but he wasn't going to take chances.

A quick glance around the corner revealed nothing; the door to his bedroom was ajar, but he didn't have a line of sight on the creature. Bugger. He crept up towards the door, still listening; it didn't seem to have heard him. In fact, unless he was very much mistaken, it was humming to itself.

Even as he thought that, the humming went silent. He raised his wand-

It tapped him on the back of one thigh.

"Gyaaaah!" He whirled about on one heel and came knee-to-face with a pathetic, cowering creature. It had huge, protruding ears and wore wrinkled, stained clothing; that was all he could see of it, as it was huddling in a ball with both arms frantically protecting its face.

"Winky is sorry! Winky did not finish cleaning Professor's rooms in time!" squeaked a tiny, terrified voice from somewhere inside the ball.

"What the fuck is a Winky and why is it in my rooms to begin with?" he barked, keeping the wand trained on the thing. What little he could see of it looked entirely too much like an imp for his liking.

It moved one arm a little, and a huge, watery brown eye blinked up at him fearfully. "Winky is a house-elf, sir," it said in a trembling voice. "Winky has been cleaning Professor's rooms since before Professor came to Hogwarts."

John lowered his wand, staring at the creature. "You," he said slowly. "You're an elf?"

It nodded cautiously.

"Bloody hell."

"Winky is sorry," said the creature, lowering its arms. The saucer-sized eyes were matched by an equally outsized nose, the grayish skin of which was blotched and reddened like a bad tomato. It ducked its head submissively as it said, "Winky has been working with other house-elves on Professor's rooms, but she did not have help today."

"Others? You mean more of you have been traipsing through my rooms while I was out?"

It- she- gulped, nodding and hunching her shoulders unhappily.

"Quit that," John snapped, scowling. "How long have you been invading, anyway?"

"Winky hasn't invaded, Professor," the house-elf said weakly. She tried to straighten up, but after one look at John, she was cringing again. "House-elves does all the cleaning at Hogwarts. Winky was ordered to keep Professor's rooms because no one has been here-"

"I've been here!"

"Winky is sorry," the house-elf said, gulping.

"Did it occur to you to mention something when I moved in? Or to ask permission to go through my things?"

"Winky has only been cleaning! Professor's things are Professor's, and not to be touched! Dobby has said so!"

"Dobby? Who's that, another elf?" She nodded. "Good on him for that much, at least- but that's not the point!"

"Winky thought professors all knew." The creature hunched her shoulders so hard she gave the impression of trying to pull her head in, like a turtle. "Winky should not have presumed, she should have asked-"

"Damn right you should've," John muttered.

Winky nodded. "So Winky must punish herself," she concluded. She immediately turned and started pounding her head against the nearest wall. "Bad Winky! Bad!"

John stared at the house-elf's display, his conjured cigarette forgotten. This? This was an elf? Bloody hell, if he could videotape it he'd have blackmail on every sodding member of the race of Faerie from now until the end of time. Titania would-

Winky paused, turning to glance up at John. "Professor is not going to try to stop Winky?" she asked worriedly.

"No," said John slowly. "No, I don't- you said 'must'?"

Winky nodded. "House-elves who disobeys their masters' will must punish themselves," she said.

"And I count as 'master', do I?"

"Winky had another Master once, but he gave Winky clothes," she said, plucking at her pathetically dirty dress. "So Winky had to come to Hogwarts with Dobby. All Professors are Master now."

John considered that. Masters dismissing bound servants with clothes, eh? Bit fairy-tale for his liking, but if that was a real banishment then it was probably some inborn thing. Probably meant the punishment was, too. He'd have to read up on that later. "Get it over with," he finally said. "I'm not going to stop you."

Winky nodded. In a grateful, almost respectful tone of voice, she said, "Master is of the old school." Then she resumed pounding her head against the wall.

Since the house-elf seemed to know what she was doing, John headed into his bedroom and did a quick scan of the place. Looked like the elf was telling the truth- his stuff was untouched, except by the removal of dust. Not that he exactly had much stuff to begin with, but it was the principle of the thing. His stack of books had been shifted a little to one side, but none of them had been disturbed, and his coat hung from the same peg he'd left it on that morning. Most importantly, his money was untouched, safely stashed in a black box that had once housed a bottle of Mad Jack Vozza's Finest Firewhiskey. He prodded the bed experimentally- nothing untoward there. Remembering at last that he'd been about to light up before all the mess began, he took out his wand and set off the world's smallest Incendio.

He was about halfway through the fag when the thumping noises from the next room stopped. With a sigh he got up; Winky had stepped away from the wall and was rubbing dizzily at her head. "Learned our lesson, have we?" he asked her sternly.

"Winky apologises," she said unsteadily. "Winky will not upset Master again."

"Good." He leaned back against the wall, looking down at the penitent creature. "Here's the deal, Winky. I've got too many things to do to be bothered with tidying up after myself. Promise me you won't fiddle with my stuff, turn up while I'm in here, or go into any of my drawers once I get a proper writing-desk, and you can keep cleaning these rooms. I won't go leaving any elf-sized clothes out, or shoes, or- or whatever it is that's a dismissal token for you lot."

Winky's head bobbed up and down in an enthusiastic nod. She smiled, the wobbly expression curling almost from ear to ear.

"I'm not that familiar with house-elves, though," John went on, tapping off a bit of ash. "Anything else I should know? Am I supposed to be feeding you?"

"House-elves is fed in the kitchens," Winky said. A bit shamefacedly, Winky added, "Though the other house-elves doesn't care to eat with Winky much. Dobby usually brings Winky food instead."

He decided not to ask. "All right. I don't have to feed you, I don't have to clothe you- I can live with that. As long as you don't show up when I'm around, or hang about so that you're still here when I arrive. You do your work, I do mine, and I'll let you know when you've done something wrong- fair?"

"Master is more than fair," murmured Winky, wringing anxiously at the hem of her stained garment. "More than Winky deserves."

"Just do what you're told and we'll get on fine."

"Yes, Master. Winky will do."

"And quit cringing like that, dammit!"

#

It was a grey, drizzly, foggy day outside, and the turf squelched under John's feet as he made for Hogsmeade. Not for the first time, he found himself considering getting a broom. If he had to make this trip with any kind of regularity- but no. No, even if he figured out a way to keep up the Muggle information racket once classes started, he still wasn't going to get on one of those bloody things again.

He paused at the lake's edge, facing the water. "All right," he said, "let's see what you've got."

The water, which had up to that point been stirred only by the wind, began to bubble and roil. As the furious frothing spread to every corner of the lake, the center of the water swelled alarmingly, shedding foam and weed left and right. The glassy greenish-black swell broke in a phenomenal surge of flying arms and suckers and tentacles that reared up against the sky before crashing down to the surface, scattering droplets everywhere. Then the tentacles shot up again, making snatching motions at the clouds, before finally smashing to a halt just shy of where John stood.

He grinned. "Now that," he said, "is a lot more like it. Nice job, you."

One of the tentacles lifted from the water and waved cheerfully before the squid dove back into the lake's depths.

His spirits considerably lifted by the giant squid's performance, John made the rest of the trip to Hogsmeade in record time. There were a few owls here and there, dropping off late bits of post; as for people, there weren't a lot of folk about. He nodded to a few of them, but for the most part they ignored him, and he ignored them right back. Dumbledore had been pretty firm about the side jobs, and he wanted to get those signs down before term started. He didn't need the Muggle explanation business any more, anyway. Between the school salary and his accumulated pile of Sickles, he figured he'd be able to get in a wager or two if he needed anything extra.

As he was pulling down the last placard from the wall to which he'd pasted it, a flash of red caught his eye. He leaned over to have a better look- yes, he was right. Skinny, pale, red hair, old robes, and hurrying towards the Hog's Head. "Oi! Ginger!"

The other wizard stopped abruptly, glancing uncertainly in John's direction. Then he smiled- or beamed, rather; John had never known the redheaded fellow to be anything but enthusiastic in his presence. It was a little weird. "Ah, there you are, John!" he said, veering from his course. "Excellent, excellent, I was just on my way to see you."

"Yeah?" John pulled the last scrap of paper from the wall and debated scouring away the torn bits that remained. Aaah, not like anyone would notice. "What've you got this time?"

"Not sure, really, but it runs on batteries. About-" The man's face screwed up in concentration. "This long?" he hazarded, indicating an object some nine or ten inches long. "Shaped a bit like a wand, but a good deal thicker, and bulgy at the end that hasn't got batteries in. Got a switch towards the bottom, says 'off, low, medium, high'."

John whistled. It was easier than trying to keep a straight face. "All right," he said. "I . . . think I can tell you what that is."

"Really? Just like that?"

"Oh, yeah, pretty sure. They're dead common- only I'm not going to talk about it here." He nodded towards a couple of older witches, who were staring at his Muggle clothes with a distinctly disapproving look. "Gimme a bit, will you? I've got to go pick up an order at Gladrags. I'll be along to the Head just after."

"Splendid." The redheaded fellow beamed. "I'll be waiting for you, then."

John shook his head as 'Ginger' walked off. He wasn't sure where the bloke came up with his Muggle items, and at this point he didn't especially want to know. He'd had the impression that most of what the man brought to the Hog's Head had been retrieved from rubbish tips, or something. He just hoped this particular find had been soaked a few hours in the wizard equivalent of Lysol, because he sure as hell wasn't going to trust Scourgify to get it clean enough to handle.

Fortunately, Gladrags was on the next street over. He ducked yet another late-coming owl bound in the opposite direction- they seemed to positively enjoy making him duck- and made for the shop at double speed. The invisible bell over the door tinkled as he entered. "Hullo?" he called.

A middle-aged, mousy-haired witch- Maggie Mumby, the current proprietor- poked her head out from the back of the shop. "Right here, ducks- oh, it's you, Mr. Constantine. Come to pick up your order, have you?"

"Y'know, I'm not really sure of that," John answered with a smile. "Starting to think I'll miss having everyone over the age of forty-five look at me as if I were here to pillage their women and burn their sheep."

Maggie laughed. "Of course, of course. Just a moment, Mr. Constantine." She pulled away for a moment, emerging a little later with a bundle of cloth draped over her arm. "Here you are. Sorry they took so long, but it's not exactly a normal design for robes, is it?"

"I should hope not," John muttered, shrugging off his coat. "I've seen what some of the people up at the school wear."

"Different generations, different tastes." Maggie smiled as John ducked into the shop's changing-room. "Most of them buy at Madam Malkin's, anyway. She's a bit. . . how do I put this? Old-fashioned."

Given the amount of explaining he'd had to do to get this damn set of robes to look like they belonged somewhere other than the back row of the House of Lords, John thought that comment a little much- but he said nothing. He'd seen Maggie using Accio to summon straight-pins during a fitting, and he hadn't paid her yet.

"Almost done in there?"

"Just about." He tugged at the belt a few times, then nodded. That would do.

"Come on, then, let's see how they look on you!"

The answer, much though he hated to admit it, was 'really not bad'. Maggie had flat-out refused to do a one-for-one copy of his coat, but she'd come close enough in the outer robe's design that he felt pretty sure he wouldn't have to turn in his Trenchcoat Brigade membership card after all. True, the fabric was a lot lighter and looser, and probably wasn't waterproof. But she'd got the colour right, and it hung like a proper coat, not like some priest's skirt or something. "There's a hood," she noted, looking him over with a critical eye and making a few adjustments here and there. "Rolled into the collar. If you just touch it here you can pull it out."

"I didn't ask for that, did I?"

"No," said Maggie, stepping back to get an overall look, "but you said you wanted something dramatic, didn't you? Pull up the hood and change the colour, some nice crimson or black or something like that, and you'll get all the drama you could possibly want."

John laughed. "Have I told you lately that I like the way you think?"

"You're just saying that." But she was smiling as she said it. "Now, about the second half of the price."

"Ah, right." He dipped into one of the inner pockets, next to the one she'd sewn in to fit his wand. "How much do I owe you?"

Lips pursing a bit in concentration, Maggie produced a sheet of paper and started to run her finger down it. "Let's see, now, that was half down, so-"

A tremendous BRRRABOOOM! thundered through the shop, shaking the walls and rattling the door on its hinges. "What was that?" Maggie cried- but John was already halfway out the door. He knew that sound, oh, God, he knew that sound. . .

The damp, soggy cross-street was full of smoke, billowing outward from the direction John had come. There were flecks of ash and dust roiling in the mess- feathers, too, sinking and spinning slowly under the weight of the ongoing drizzle. People were pouring out of businesses, staring and pointing and calling out to one another. None of it mattered, he expected all of that, it was natural for people to do that. Where was the-

Oh. Yes. There.

The smell.

It was a weird, burning reek, riding on the grey wind unhindered by the rain. A dreadful chill had seized his stomach at the sound of the explosion; he'd been hoping, wordlessly hoping, that it was only the wizarding equivalent of a gas cooker gone wrong. But it wasn't- not with a smell like that, oh, no. It had the horrible tang of air-bags and synthetics, of accelerant-fueled fires: a sharp, stabbing odour that never happened by accident. What it was, exactly, he couldn't say. He didn't need to. He knew.

"It's a bomb," he said to Maggie, who had come up behind him to see. God, his mouth was so dry. "Someone's set off a bomb."

She shook her head wordlessly, starting forward towards the smoke. He grabbed at her shoulder. "Don't."

"But someone could be in there! What if-"

"Go ring the police, Maggie." His eyes were still on the cloud, trying to make out the source of it all. "Tell them what's happened."

"Police?" she asked, sounding baffled.

John stared down at her suddenly ashen face. "Don't tell me you haven't got police!"

The crowd had begun to gather about them, no one quite willing to enter the smoke zone. Maggie swallowed. "Well- there's Magical Law Enforcement in the Ministry-"

"Get them, then! But don't you go in there!" He looked up at the ring of people surrounding them. "Nor any of you, either! Like as not whoever planted that one's got another set to go off when the help arrives-"

"It's his doing," said someone in the crowd, too low to locate but just loud enough to be heard. "It's got to be."

A general murmur of assent ran around the gathered people. John found his hand going to his wand pocket. "You think I-"

"Not you," said Maggie, licking her lips. "You-Know-Who."

The murmur was louder this time. Most of the people gathered started nodding. No one said the name, no one was willing to do that- but John remembered the conversations with Hagrid well enough, and the other professors talked of such things at meals. Voldemort. "That's what he does?" he asked of the first person he saw, a blonde, round-faced fellow with horn-rimmed spectacles. "Lies low months at a time, then blows up-"

He was going to say, "random targets," but the words died in his throat. The wind had lifted just enough for him to catch sight of a blackened bit of wood that had once been a sign, bearing a still-recognisable hog's head. And overlaid on the explosive reek was another, far more dreadful stench: a smell very much like that of meat on a grill . . .

Ginger- the word flashed through his mind. Shit!

Forgetting everything he'd just said, he turned away from the startled wizard and bolted through the crowd. Sure enough, the smoke (blacker and heavier now, and tinged with the odours of scorched wood and liquor) was pouring out of the place where the grubby bar had once stood. There was still a roof, at least- part of one, anyway, and what remained was on fire. The windows had fountained outwards, painting the street with radiating stripes of black and grey. As he weighed whether or not to cross the threshold, someone touched at his elbow- Maggie again.

"I've called the Aurors," she said softly. "Mr. Constantine, I- are you- all right?"

He exhaled, long and low. Looking at the remains of the door-frame, he said, "I was supposed to meet someone in there. Right as soon as I got done with you."

"I don't-" She faltered. "I don't think you'll be meeting anyone today."