Hocus Pocus, Toil and Trouble

Whiskeywarts School of Spells and Sorcery was the most famous school of its kind for a variety of reasons. These included the fact that three-quarters of the worlds whiskey produce was made here (illegally, of course), its exam results pass rate was an astounding seventy-two per cent higher than its closest rival, Vodkashot of Russia, and it had been free from controversial staff appointments for almost two years. Yet, regardless of these amazing details, the most likely reason for Whiskeywarts' extraordinary fame and popularity was due to one of its students, a boy named Prince Harry.

Now entering his penultimate year at the school, Prince Harry was reaching the end of his tether. A near-normal appearance gave away nothing of his peculiar past. Every year, since his arrival at Whiskeywarts, he had been the subject of numerous plots to kill him, all of which he had foiled. Seemingly decent fellows had a tendency to turn out to be undercover employees of the Sunless Forces, whilst many members of the magical community believed him to be an absolute nutcase, owing to immeasurable bad publicity courtesy of the 'Daily Clairvoyant', and wished for him to be sent to the wizarding hospital, St. Mango's for serious treatment. Prince Harry knew it was only a matter of time before he cracked, and that whatever St. Mango's had to offer would be completely helpless to his cause.

Crouching behind a statue of a flying pig, Prince Harry waited, wand at the ready, for a group of particularly dodgy-looking Ravenbore fourth-years to pass. Prince Harry had grown so suspicious over the years, he had long since reached the conclusion that he could trust no one, and now saw death-threats everywhere.

Breathing a sigh of relief as the last student turned the corner, he crept from his hiding place and along the end of the corridor, where he had a three hundred and sixty-degree view of the entrance hall at the bottom of the marble staircase. Before he had decided whether to cast an invisibility charm over himself, he spotted his two best friends, Ophelia Grange and Jon Weasel. At once, he dropped his vigilance and tore down the staircase, his great red ermine-trim cloak billowing in his wake.

'Ophelia! Jon! How pleased one is to see the both of you!' Prince Harry cried, as he embraced his friends as though he had not seen them only ten minutes previously. However, Jon and Ophelia did not share Prince Harry's enthusiastic greeting. Jon gave Prince Harry a worried look, and shook himself from the hug immediately, whilst Ophelia wore an appalled expression upon her face.

'Are you completely insane? Tearing down the stairway like that, does the phrase 'moving target' mean nothing to you? What would you have done if The-Bloke-Whose-Name-No-One-Dare-Say-'

'Oh, come of it Ophelia!' interrupted Jon. 'The Bloke's hardly going to be taking an afternoon stroll through the entrance hall, is he?'

'Jon, you asinine, intolerable-' Ophelia began, but was interrupted, once again, by her addressee.

'Of course, how stupid of me! Because Whiskeywarts is absolutely heaving with Sunless Wizards, isn't it?' said Jon, sarcastically, sharing a smirk with Prince Harry.

Ophelia raised an eyebrow, something that nearly went unnoticed due to the excessive amounts of bushy hair covering her face, and said, with satisfaction, 'Well, yes actually, it is' and pointed to the old, battered door leading to the dungeons.

Dragging an extremely large and bumpy sack was no one other than Prince Harry's archenemy, Dregan Malicio. As soon as he caught sight of the three Gryffindorks, his trademark sneer replaced a look of painstaking frustration.

'Ah, if it isn't old crownhead!' Dregan scoffed, referring to the crown-shaped scar on Prince Harry's forehead, a result of the first ever attempt to kill him, at the age of one, by the most evil Sunless Wizard ever to walk the earth: Lord Burrellmort. No one ever had the decency to tell Prince Harry how he had survived, or why Lord Burrellmort had wanted him dead, but he promised himself to one day discover the truth.

'One does suggest that your mouth remains sealed, Malicio, in the event that one becomes excessively angry and is forced to put a curse upon you' retorted Prince Harry, unperturbed.

'Oh la-di-dah, lets all bow down and worship he royal freak-ness! Ha!' Malicio sneered, before becoming rather serious. 'You wont be acting so clever later on, I'll bet. Enjoy breakfast, Windsor whilst you can!' and he turned away, laughing manically, and continued to drag the great sack behind him, in the opposite direction.

As soon as Malicio had disappeared from view, Jon and Ophelia turned to Prince Harry. 'He has to be the nastiest, vilest, most arrogant, Slymeball that ever passed though this place,' Jon snarled, his hand clutching tightly around his wand. Ophelia did not seem to hear Jon, as she stood, lost in thought. 'I wonder...' she began.

'What is it?' asked Prince Harry.

Ophelia still seemed to be in a state of deep contemplation. 'Well, I was just wondering, what on earth was he carrying in that sack that was so important to him... what I mean is, why would he do anything that involves straining more than his little finger? Why couldn't his cronies, Lobster and Gargoyle, do it for him?'

She left the question hanging; Jon however did not seem anywhere near as worried as Ophelia. 'Yeah, well whatever it is, I hope it somehow manages to kill him as slowly and painfully as possible,' he sighed with relish.

Prince Harry did not know what to make of either of his friends' words, and so did the safest thing possible: remained silent; Ophelia merely made a 'Hmmm' sound, before Jon made the suggestion of breakfast. Immediately, the three shared dark, suspicious looks, before realising that there was nothing at all sinister about cornflakes and toast, and began to make their way to the Great Hall.

As they entered the Great Hall, they instantaneously saw the four Whiskeywarts' houses (Slymeball, Gryffindork, Ravenbore and Huffleduff) seated around their respective tables. Passing the Slymeball table, Gryffindorks rival house, Prince Harry was welcomed with his usual taunts and paper balls, all of which missed cleanly.

Taking his normal seat, Prince Harry instinctively looked up to the staff table. The Deputy Head and head of Gryffindork house, Professor Phillip, Duke of Wales, sat sternly, watching over the students before him. Next to him was Charles of Wales, the Whiskeywarts' gamekeeper and half-elephant. Charles has been stripped of his title after an 'incident' involving a group of servant elves and the crown jewels, not something that was very pleasant for any involved. His faithful pet boarhound, Camilla, was nowhere in sight, nor was the Headmistress, Professor Her-Majesty the Queen.

Pouring caviar over his cornflakes, Prince Harry was just about to question why Ophelia was fixated with several large, dusty books at once, when he felt a sharp tug on his cloak, followed by an ear-piercing squeal. Prince Harry tensed, and in one swift movement had wrenched his wand from the depths of his cloak and pointed it at a small, ugly looking creature that barely reached his kneecap.

'Boddy!' Prince Harry gasped, as he realised it was the servant-elf who had developed a rather disturbing obsession with him. 'What in heavens name brings you into my presence?'

'It is yo Headmistress da Queen! She is wantin' you in her office and you betta hurry! She aint wantin' to wait all day! Bo!' the servant-elf squeaked in its regulation, south-London accent.

'Yes, yes of course Boddy, lead me straight there,' Prince Harry said breathlessly, without question.

The elf and Prince Harry charged along the Whiskeywarts' corridors, and were soon outside the Head's office within seconds. Boddy gave the password, 'Christal Champagne', and the door swung open.

It was only when Prince Harry noticed that the elf was unusually quiet, sitting menacingly on the rotating staircase, did he realise that something was wrong.

All of a sudden, his scar gave an agonising throb, and at that exact moment, thin, bony arms seized his own, and a high-pitched voice cried, 'Yo Masta! I did get him, herre he is, now hand ova da loot and I get me goin'!'

The scene revealed to him when the servant elf removed its great big ears (it was obviously a distant relative of Charles of Wales) from his view, could not have been any more bizarre. Bound and gagged was Professor Her Majesty the Queen, sitting proudly nevertheless on her throne; pointing their wands at her where non other than Lucifer Malicio and Bellytrix LaStranger, two of the worst Sunless Wizards known to be in league with the evil Lord Burrellmort. It became obvious, now, what Dregan Malicio had been dragging along in the sack.

Prince Harry froze, his hand somewhere between the wand in his pocket, and the comfort blanket he always kept in his shoe. He could think of nothing that would make the situation any worse than it already was. Evidentially, he had thought too soon.

'Well done Boddy, I never knew you had it in you. Here, take your reward, two tickets to see Dr. Dre in concert,' came a high, cruel voice somewhere behind Prince Harry.

'Ow! I thank yoo, Buzzmort! Yo da bomb!' cried Boddy, scampering out of sight.

This cannot be happening, it is simply impossible. It is not even the end of the school year, thought Prince Harry desperately, without a care for the treacherous elf.

But it seemed it was happening. From the shadows emerged no one other than Lord Burrellmort, tall and menacing as he was in each of Prince Harry's previous encounters.

'Prince Harry... we meet at, er... we meet again!' Burrellmort hissed, recovering superbly. 'You'll never get them, you know!'

'Huh?' gasped the Prince, all sense of eloquence lost in the moment. 'What are you on about?'

'The letters, Windsor! You'll never get them!'

'Yes, Windsor, you shall never get them,' droned the two Sunless Wizards in unison, obviously drugged.

'Ok, you have completely lost one. Would it be at all possible for you to enlighten one?' Prince Harry asked, in his sweetest voice.

Burrellmort scratched his head in obvious confusion. 'The letters, y'know... the ones your dead mother left to me that the 'Daily Clairvoyant' wants?' Prince Harry showed no sign of comprehension.

'Er...' Burrellmort looked wildly around the room, searching for help that would never come. Suddenly, he appeared to reach a decision. 'Oh, Windsor, you haven't heard the last of me!' Burrellmort cried, before waving his wand to the call of 'Getusoutofhereus', the charm for magical transportation, and in a flash and a crack, the three Sunless Wizards were gone.

Scrambling over to the table to Professor Her Majesty the Queen, Prince Harry wondered what in the world had just taken place.

'Professor, what is it that hap-' Prince Harry began, but his words were drowned out as soon as he had removed the professors gag.

'Geddaway from me... One knows what your game is, you mangy cur... Hic! Oh, one remembers, back in the day, men were called gentlemen, and would ask before they gagged you... Hic!' Professor Her Majesty the Queen was drunk, her own produce the poison.

Prince Harry stared at his grandmother, unable to believe that once again, the evil Lord Burrellmort had escaped him, and that another day had passed without him discovering the truth.

Turning, so that his sombre look would be in perfect position had a camera been present, Prince Harry reached a conclusion. Lord Burrellmort may hold the letters, but the Prince would never, ever allow him to write a book, not if he could help it...