The Black Forest or the Secret Diary of Prof. S. Quirrell

June 30, 1990

The reason I prefer “Apparate” to portkey is simple -- it's an issue of control. When I move by my own spell, I'm confident that I will end up where I want to be (I haven't had a mishap since I earned my license at sixteen -- even over great distances). But when you trust someone else's magic, anything can go wrong.

Take today, for example. Looking back on it now, it's funny, but when you're face to face with six frisky adolescent dragons, you're not laughing.

Thankfully, the little buggers were distracted by the Quidditch whistle I slipped out of my pocket, the first thing I seized on with which to defend myself. Foolish, I know, but it worked, as the creatures were fascinated by the color or by the noise long enough for a nursery assistant to rescue me.

“How the hell did you get in there?” she asked in a plain American accent.

“Er...” I held out the portkey. Honestly, I was still a little shaken. Dragon bites, even from juveniles, can kill.

“Weasley,” she said, sighing. “They should never put one of these things in his hands. Are you alright?”

“Yes.” I was in one piece, after all. “I'm fine.”

“Weasley's probably waiting for you at coordinates...42'57', so why don't I take you there?”

“Thank you, Miss-?”

“Jones. Mr. ?”

“Quirrell. Professor Quirrell, actually.”

“Oh, right! From Hogwarts! God, wait till I tell the kids back the Salem Academy that I saved a Hogwarts professor's life.”

I laughed with her exuberance. “Thank you.”

“No problem. That's what I came to Romanian for -- the excitement. God, a real Hogwarts professor. What do you teach?”

“Defenses again the Dar-”

“Dark Arts? My worst subject among a lot of worst subjects. That's the other reason why I'm here. Animals I can handle. We understand each other.”

We steeped out into the light and I realized we had emerged from a cave carved into a mountainside. In front of me about 50 meters away stood a stocky, red-haired man, matured from his slighter eighteen year old boy's body, although still as short as he was at his graduation.

“Hey, Weasley, you meant 42'57, yeah? Not 43'57'?”

Weasley's good-natured smile faltered for a moment, but as he saw I was alright, it quickly reappeared. “Where did I put him?”

“In the middle of my boys. It could have been worse. It could have been in the middle of a wall.”

“Figures were never my strong suit, eh?” He grinned sheepishly. “The brothers have the brains and I have the don, the shine.”

He looked me over. I applied both cleaning and repairing charms to my clothing before I left the forest, but he still was seeing me for the first time in more casual wear. I was apt to dress up in my school days -- that was how I was raised.

“Simon -- Can I call you Simon, now that we're away from Hogwarts?”

“I don't expect you to call me professor.”

“I could never get used to that anyway. In my last year, when you first started assisting, I still thought of you as Old Simon Can't-Sit-a-Broom.”

“Yes.” I didn't offer him more acknowledgment than that.

“There are only two ways in here, you know, flying of portkey. I thought you would prefer --”

“No 'Apparate'?”

“We don't get many here that are licensed to do it. In all of Romania, I think there are about 20,” Weasley shook his head, unbelieving. “I wish you'd been here a year ago. Times change, Simon.”

“My guide --”

“Levin?!”

“No, Todorov. Levin won't speak to me.”

“That's a relief. Not that Levin won't speak to you, but I was afraid for a moment she'd changed on us.”

“No, no. She won't talk.”

“They warned you about her?” Weasley looked at me sideways, analyzing my reaction.

“Yes. Several times.”

“Good. You can't be too careful. So, your guide -- Todorov - ?”

“Yes. He kept telling me about the dark days ahead for Romania.”

“Typical local. This place is going to be alright. It's the south I'm worried for. Thank Merlin the Carpathians are more suitable for our dragons than Mount Kopaonik or the Malesia e Malhe.

Dragons are like rats most times. They'll desert a sinking ship. We have new ones coming in here all the time. You should see them -- you will see them. Now, if you want.”

“After something to eat?” I was famished for food not magicked by myself.

The meal passed quietly, as if Weasley didn't know what else to say. Neither did I.

“I'll take you back down to the nursery first. Jones can show you around. She knows more about the children than anyone else here. Rather surprising for an American, considering they depleted any kind of dragon population in their country a long time ago,” he shook his head sadly. “Well, I have two nesting mothers to attend to. Big old lady Longhorns, both of them on their fourth litters. Should be cake, but I'm training an apprentice.”

“Of course.” It was actually more comfortable for him to be gone. There were other memories knocking at my brain, begging to get out, that his presence unexpectedly gave rise to.

Thank the gods for Jones. All she wanted to talk about was the present.

“So basically I gave up college -- university -- to come work here. I'm proud I did it, mostly. I've take a little shit 'cause I'm a mutt, but that's really just a --”

“A mutt?”

Two baby dragons, a Welsh Red and a Norwegian Ridgeback, play fought in a pen at our feet.

“It's a big thing in America, actually. Me, I'm one part German shopkeeper, one part English witch, one part Canadian lawyer and one part Native American shaman. I've got magic blood and muggle blood and I'm proud of them both.”

“Proud?”

“Why wouldn't I be?” Jones smiled and took my hand. “ Now, pet the ridgeback right along here -- feel that? When those harden up at about 13 months, she can really do some damage.”

The Welsh Red nipped at me, but missed my fingers.

“Prydwen gets pissy when she hasn't been fed. Come on, let's get them their booze.”

Later, when I informed him of our conversation (finally a topic!), Weasley explained, " She's our fourth American since I've been here and I tell you, I've heard four different opinions on the Mug- "non-magic" issue from them. Jones is just the most vocal. She came out of California with a tri-colored Muggle Pride button and ran into some resistance in the Salem Academy. Don't ask her about it - She'll tell you! Apparently, New England witches and wizards are as obsessed with lineage as the most passionate Death Eater. Wizards in their South too, according to one boy we had from Alabama, and there's a whole debate about the mixing of African magic with European magic and the equality of their powers. Americans are in as much of a muddle as we are. Don't take Jones' word for it. All is not happiness and goodness and light."

"Right." I put another piece of steak in my mouth and chewed contentedly. When I think of leaving, I already miss the food.

"Say, Simon, now that we're no longer student and teacher -"

"Or older boy hopelessly floundering through flying class." I made the joke so he wouldn't.

Weasley smiled. "Or that. Tell me one thing. Why won't you use 'muggle'?"

"Really -"

"No, I would love to know!" Weasley interrupted my excuse. "My Dad, right, is obsessed completely with them. Muggle this, muggle that. They amaze him and sometimes I think he even respects their ingenuity. But he calls them what they should be called - muggles."

"I'd prefer not to -"

Weasley interrupted again, a habit no doubt honed among his six siblings. "I was told you came back in your 7th year barely choking it out and by the beginning of the winter term, everything was "non-magic." Come on, professor, a lot has passed since then. We've grown up, haven't we?"

"Somewhat," I blushed. I felt like a first year under his prefect.

"Somewhat? You've done better than anyone else in your class - as expected. What's past is past."

I wanted to believe him sincere. "You see, that summer -- before my seventh year - I met a girl - "

"Gods and monsters! Is that Simple Simon?"

The last person I expected to find in Romania was Skunk.

Weasley, a little put off, relented in his questioning. "You remember Feteo?"

"Just Skunk now, 'though just as adept at Potions as ever. How is old gaunt and greasy?"

Skunk sorted into Slytherin, but never seemed to be able to figure out why (everyone else did). He fancied himself a sort of Weasley twin, but his pranks had a nastier edge. Someone often got hurt, although no one did actually die while Skunk was there.

"We almost have a full house. Isn't Baxter, the one what shovels the dung, a Hufflepuff? Bring him up and we'll celebrate properly."

"Actually, I was thinking of turning in." I was - as soon as I could get away from them.

"Right," Skunk looked at me as if I were a loony. "Tomorrow come down to the infirmary and I'll show you how we get a 2 ton Hungarian Horntail to take his medicine."

Freedom. I read a little Dracula before writing this, but I couldn't concentrate. I can't admire the muggles as Weasley's father does, although they have some beautiful things - their mountains of literature, those peculiar stationary forms of art, even the primitive but affecting moving pictures.

Neither am I able to hate them or even look down on them no matter what I am entitled to as a pure blood. I could, but I can't.

Sometimes I hate her for it.

Q