Doubting Thomas

Prologue - The Tourist

Journal, 13 August

Location: Somewhere in the Scottish countryside

Two days now on these back roads somewhere around Glasgow (I think), and I'm starting to get frustrated. If I don't find the A9 again to get to Blair Castle, I'll miss the convention!

...

Calm down, Thomas. You still have another week to find your way there, although you may have to give up this "bicycle tour" idea and just take a train. Besides, we need the exercise.

...

It's kind of funny, talking to myself. But, what better way to record my journal while I ride, than with the voice-to-text program inside my laptop, hooked into my cell phone headset and overlay goggles? Portable computing, the way of the future. Huh? What's this? Dammit, I've passed this sign before! I'm going in circles! OK, left turn then, down this dirt road. Funny, feels like going back in time. Ah, the Old Country. Up... t-this... hill... whew! Cute little town down there, though. Nice view. Here's a sign... "Welcome to Hogsmeade." Hogsmeade? Hmm...

Command line: Map. Search: "Hogsmeade"

...

...

<>

Odd. Probably too small to be listed, or something.

Command line: GPS.

...

...

<>

Impossible. I can't be out of range, it's SATELLITES, for Christ's sake! Damn sunspots. Guess I'd better ask for directions in town, then. Could use a drink, too. Thank God for pubs!

Command line: Save. Exit Journal.

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With an exasperated sigh, Thomas switched off his goggles, flipping them up under the visor of his baseball cap. Despite the being totally lost part, this was a nice working vacation. Three weeks in various locations around England and Scotland, testing his company's "Augmented Reality" portable computing rig. Cell phone, maps, GPS, tour guides, everything a person needs to find their way around in an unfamiliar country. So far, it had worked perfectly. So much so, that Thomas had resorted to "challenging" the system by shutting it off, wandering aimlessly for a few hours, then switching it back on to help him find his way back. Two days ago, though, a "glitch" in the online maps led him into this seeming maze of country roads, and now even the GPS wasn't working.

"Maybe Z-Tech needs to iron out some more of the bugs before this goes to market, Eric," Thomas dictated into his email program. "Losing both the maps and the GPS in a remote area like this, out of cell range, could spell disaster for someone who was relying on this too heavily and doesn't know survival techniques. Signed, Thomas Duncan, Zettatech R&D. Save as outbound message." Getting off his bike to ease his cramped muscles, he walked down the hill towards Hogsmeade.

A cool breeze at his back lifted his spirits on the walk down the hill, as did the bright decorations on the street below. Orange banners read "Welcome Chudley Cannons!", while yellow and black banners said, "Welcome Wimbourne Wasps!" The streets, however, were strangely deserted.

"Must be some kind of event going on." mused Thomas. Indeed, a man in robes was locking the door on the pub Thomas had been approaching for directions, a placed called the "Hog's Head".

"Excuse me, sir, I seem to be lost, and I need directions." Thomas called to him.

"Oh? Can't talk now, the match will be starting any minute now! We're late! Come on!" The man stopped, closed his eyes, opened them again, and looked around strangely. "Eh? Can't seem to Apparate. Must be too close to Hogwart's. Guess we'll have to walk, then. Let's go!" Grabbing his arm, the man started off down the street almost at a run, dragging Thomas along behind him.

Chapter 1 - Some Kind of Odd Sport

All in all, Thomas thought, it was a gorgeous day. While still late August, a cool breeze kept the summer heat from being opressive. The sun burst through thinning clouds to shine over colorful banners fluttering from every tree, house, and building in this quaint Scottish village. Only two things marred the tranquil beauty of this scene.

First, everyone was gone, except for this man apparently dressed in green robes.

Second, said man was nearly dragging him along a twisting road to a rather odd looking stadium.

Must be some sporting event? Was all Thomas could surmise. If we need tickets, I hope they aren't too expensive... "Hey, wait! What's all this about, old man?"

The old man (surprisingly fit for his age), didn't even look back as he spoke. "Can't talk now, we gotta hurry! We'll miss the Quidditch match!"

"The who?" Thomas was sure he'd never heard the term "Quidditch" in that FAQ he read on Highland Games. Was it like soccer? "What's 'Quidditch'?"

That did surprise the old man, but he only stumbled for a moment. "'What's Quidditch?', he says. Like you don't know! What d'you mean, ain't you never heard of Quidditch? Where are you from, anyway, dressed strange like that?"

Thomas was amazed he'd even noticed how he was dressed, as much as he was in a hurry, much less how he was dressed. "I'm from Virginia. America, that is," he said, trying to emphasize the "accent" he never knew he had, until he came here.

"America, eh? Oh, that explains it. I did hear once that they don't play much Quidditch in America. They go for that other sport, wossname." Feeling reassured, the old man seemed to redouble his pace, until Thomas almost felt he had to run to keep up.

"Baseball." He saw that they were nearing the stadium, and the old man led them to what appeared to be a service entrance on the ground level. Thomas wondered if they were going to sneak in without paying, when something the old man was saying caught his ear:

"...I like watching from field level, meself. Most people, like to look down on the action from the stands, but I feel it's more exciting, watching the players fly overhead. Why, a stray Bludger nearly flew down and took me head off, one time! Heh, heh, closest I ever got to being in the World Cup, lad!"

Overhead? Players flying?!? What kind of sport was this? "Hey mister, um, if you don't mind my asking, what sort of sport is Quidditch, anyway?"

As they neared a cloth flap with sunlight streaming behind it, the old man merely chuckled. "You'll see, Yank. You'll see."

Emerging from the flap, Thomas saw that they were on the sidelines of an immense field, ringed with stadium seating, which was filled with cheering people. At each end were huge metal hoops on poles, at least fifty feet high. Holy crap, how do you score in this game, catapults? Thomas wondered. No such devices could be seen on the field, only fifteen people and one ironbound chest, like in the pirate movies. Seven were in bright orange robes, while seven opposite them were in yellow and black striped ones. What really struck him as funny, was that they all were holding, of all things, brooms!

"Cannons versus Wasps... ah, this'll be a good match." The old man beamed.

Thomas was just about to ask his odd companion how this game was played, when a shrill whistle from a black robed woman next to the chest told him the game was about to start.

"PLAYERS, TAKE YOUR POSITIONS!" shouted the woman in an impossibly loud voice, which seemed to come from everywhere. Nice hidden PA system, thought Thomas.

It was when they straddled their brooms, kicked off, and rose into the air that made Thomas wonder if he had left his sanity back at that last hill. A faint buzzing sounded in his ears, drowning out the cheering of the crowd. To add insult to injury, the chest chose that moment to burst open, and three balls and a gold dot flew out of it to join the "players".

People flying on brooms, like cartoon witches. Everyone dressed in robes. Flying balls with a mind of their own. The buzzing grew louder. The ground seemed to lurch beneath his feet. "Waitaminute, how... t-this, this can't be... Gotta be some kind of special effect. It's impossible..." Thomas felt like he was either going to throw up or burst into uncontrollable laughter.

"'Ere now, are you all right? You look a mite strange, lad." The old man reached for a stick tucked into the belt of his robes.

Thomas looked at him, wildly. "No! Stay back! This is a trick, it's gotta be. It's impossible!" The fact that everything he knew about reality and physics was now being contradicted right in his face seemed to be an affront to him personally, as if God was having a big laugh at his expense. "What's going on here? Who are you people?"

The old man held up hs hands in a friendly gesture, but he still had the stick in one hand. "Now lad, it'll be all right. Just let me spell up some sparks to summon a medic, and they'll take care of you. You're probably just exhausted from riding on that Muggle contraption of yours."

Spell up some sparks? Muggle contraption? The words barely made it to his ears, but for the odd feeling in his head. "Magic? What do you think this is, some WB show?" Thomas managed to wave his hands at that impossible flying show taking place above the stadium. "Is that what you call all this? You're the one who needs a medic, if you expect me to believe that's what's going on here!" Thomas took a deep breath, then shouted at the top of his lungs, "THERE'S NO... SUCH... THING... AS... MAGIC!!!"

Then, as suddenly as it came on, the buzzing stopped, replaced only by a cool calm. Somehow, someway, the entire stadium went dead silent. Even the fliers on their brooms stopped in midair, as did the three balls.

And then they fell from the sky.

Chapter 2 - Quidditch, Interrupted

Pandemonium.

Fearing an attack by Dark Wizards or worse, HIM, five hundred witches and wizards nearly trampled each other fleeing the stadium. Seemingly unable to Apparate this close to Hogwarts school grounds, Portkeys were being hastily charged and used to evacuate spectators, who were being organized into clusters of evaccuees by Ministry staff, while Hogwarts faculty tended to the injured. No-one noticed that the Portkeys, originally set for use after the match, had reverted to ordinary objects following the unusual outburst from the strangely-dressed man on the sidelines. Some, however, did notice when they got away from the medical tent where this strange man was being kept, they could Apparate, but they didn't dwell on it much past the relief of escaping what they thought was a Death Eater attack.

By key or on their own, eventually all were evacuated, and the residents of Hogsmeade went back to town, most agreeing that this would all look better on the other side of a few firewhiskys or Butterbeers.

In the medical tent next to the now-deserted Quidditch pitch, however, things were not so quiet. A small group of robed figures huddled over the bed where this supposed "Death Eater" lay. What mystifyed them, was that he didn't seem to be a Death Eater at all...

"Albus, what do you make of this?" said Professor McGonagall, holding up a strange helmet with what looked like goggles and earmuffs attached. Thin cords ran from the helmet to a black box on the man's belt. "Is it some sort of weapon?"

"I'm not sure, Minerva. Perhaps it's for protection, or seeing things..." Professor Dumbledore peered through the lenses of the goggles. "It doesn't seem to be working now."

"Professor," said Severus Snape, as he looked through the man's wallet, which he had found in a pouch next to the black box. "If these papers mean what I think they do... Well, look for yourself."

"Let me see those." Professor Flitwick reached up and snatched them from Snape's hand, earning him a quick glower from the Potions master. "Hmm... Passport, United States of America, so he's not from around here.... an odd little clear card, with a blue square, 'American Express'. Some kind of club? Ah, here's more. 'Virginia Driver's License', with his picture and everything." Flitwick tapped on the white card. "'Ere, the picture won't move.... Oh!" Flitwick jumped in recognition, as Snape nodded.

"My word." Dumbledore's bushy eyebrows rose meaningfully. "It seems, somehow, we have a Muggle at Hogwarts."

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Voices... hovering above him, swimming in and out of his awareness, were strange, disembodied voices. They seem to be arguing about something. Summoning what weak strength he had, Thomas managed to open his eyes a fraction.

Oh, my head. What happened? Who are those people. Doctors? The fuzzy shapes of people standing over him made Thomas think of hospitals. Maybe I fell off my bike. That would explain that weird dream I had, about people flying on brooms. "Magic." Yeah, right. Wincing at the pain in his back, Thomas sat up in bed, forcing his eyes to fully open.

What he saw, made him instantly regret that action.

"Crap," he mumbled to himself, "I'm still dreaming." Upon hearing this, one of them, a tall, greasy-haired fellow in black robes, pointed another stick at him.

"He's awake!" growled the dark man. "I thought you said you Stupefied him, Flitwick!"

"I did, or at least, I tried to," replied an old gray midget standing next to him, who was holding Thomas' wallet, "but it didn't seem to work right, so I had Hagrid hit him to knock him out."

Thomas broke out into a cold sweat. Muggers? Kidnappers! He's got my wallet, they just said they attacked me... I'm their hostage!" He tried to jump out of bed, grab the midget and get his wallet back when an immense hand from his other side pushed him back into bed.

"Awright, now, no sense gettin' all excited again, Mr. Thomas Duncan." The deep rumbling voice apparently attached to that hand seemed both friendly and not to be challenged all at once. "Yer not going anywhere 'til you answer some questions from the Professors."

The scene, of being held hostage by the odd looking men (and women, as Thomas happened to glance at a stern-looking old woman wearing a plaid dress and an iron face) struck him as so odd, somehow he found his voice. "What... what do you want from me? Money? My company will pay to get me back. Call them on my cell, it's in the bag on my bike."

"It's nothing like that, I assure you, Mr. Duncan." said a voice that spread calm over the tense figures standing over him like cool waves over dry sand. The wizened, white bearded man who spoke reminded Thomas of both Gandalf and Grandfather Time. Clearly, this man was in charge for all the right reasons. "We simply wish to know what happened, and how you managed to cast such a powerful Dispelling Charm, especially since you don't seem to be carrying a wand."

At the words cast, charm, and wand, Thomas felt that odd buzzing again, but somehow, the calm way this man spoke kept it to a low drone, in the back of his skull. "A-are you s-saying that I, um, that I..."

Impatiently, the greasy-haired man grabbed Thomas by the shirt and hissed "Tell us how you cast that spell, Muggle!" Dizzy, Thomas raised his hands to defend himself when the old man shouted "Severus, release him!" But, this "Severus" guy had already let him go, snatching his hands away as if burned. A tingling cold lingered over Thomas' chest where he had grabbed him.

The old woman looked angrily at "Severus". "Severus Snape, can't you see he's just as scared of us as we are of him? I'm sure there's a rational explanation for all of this."

Snape looked doubtful. "By all accounts, he shouldn't even be here! How is it that a non-magical person just walks right into Hogsmeade, right up to the school grounds? Then, he sees us flying around on brooms, shouts something, and all fifteen brooms fail, Anti-Tamper Charms and all, simultaneously?" Snape pointed his stick at Thomas again. "Then, when we try to subdue him, our wands fail to work on him!"

"Wands?" Thomas sputtered. "As in, 'Abracada---hey!" With a stunned gasp, those two big, sweaty hands grab him, lifting him completely out of the bed and threaten to break him in two.

"Hagrid, stop!" shouts the old man. "He didn't say the Killing Curse, you misheard him!" Unceremoniously, Thomas is dropped back into bed with a massive FWUMP! Finally getting the courage to look over at his would-be attacker, Thomas was awed by the sight of the biggest, most hairy man he has ever seen in his life.

"Bigfoot?"

"Naw, they're no bigger'n the rest o' me."

Confused, Thomas shook his head. "Wait, wait, wait. Start over. Who are you people, and where am I? Then, I'll answer your questions."

Nodding, the old man sat in a chair next to the bed, as the others found chairs around the tent. "My name is Albus Dumbledore, and you are at Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I'm the Headmaster here."

"A magic school? Ummm, sure. OK." Either I'm losing it, or they are. "And your friends here?"

"Severus Snape," Dumbledore pointed to the glowering man with greasy hair, "teaches Potions. Minerva McGonagall," he indicated the lady in plaid, "teaches Transfiguration. Filius Flitwick there, teaches Charms."

"Charming," Thomas replied, smiling briefly at his little joke, but wilting under Professor McGonagall's frosty stare. Hmm. No puns allowed.

"...and Hagrid, there, is Keeper of Keys and Grounds." Dumbledore finished, pointing to the huge man towering over Thomas' bed. "And, since we've introduced ourselves, just as you asked, perhaps you'd tell us something about yourself, and how you found this place."

Oh man, where to start... "Well, sir, Mr., um, Bumblefore..."

"Dumbledore!" growled Hagrid.

"...Dumbledore, sorry." Thomas sputtered. "I'm from a computer company in America. They sent me here to test out our Wayfarer system..."

Snape interrupted. "Is that what caused our Quidditch players to fall from their brooms? What sort of Dark Device is it?" His lips curled into a sneer.

Thomas was utterly confused. "Fall? No, it's a guiding system, so people won't get lost. Look, I'd never even heard of this Quidditch thing until this afternoon, when this old guy dragged me to the stadium. And then those people started flying, and, well, I don't remember the rest. I think I blacked out."

Professor McGonagall looked at Dumbledore a moment, then asked, "People said they heard you shout something, just before... before the players stopped flying. What did you say, can you remember?"

Wincing at the migraine he knew was coming on, Thomas tried to remember what he said before he blacked out. Dumbledore was holding what looked like a lightbulb close to Thomas' ear, as if he were examining him, when Thomas remembered. "Oh! I said, 'There's no such thing as magic'!"

With a small "pop", the light in Professor Dumbledore's hand went out. Everyone gasped.

"What? What'd I say?" Thomas looked at the faces staring intently at him through the late afternoon gloom, as if he were some kind of monster.

Snape drew his wand. "Lumos." A light flared at the tip, casting deep shadows around the tent. "Say it again, Mr. Duncan."

"What, that there's no such thing as magic?" The light dimmed, wavered, but held fast. "Because it's true, you know. It's all tricks. No such thing."

Pop. As if the first statement had wounded Snape's spell, the second statement had finally proved too much for it.

Even Professor McGonagall's hand strayed to her wand, now. "Albus, what does it mean? A Muggle somehow wanders into a village that isn't supposed to be found by non-magical folk, and he dispells enchantments with a few words!"

The kind old wizard's eyes softened as he put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, then narrowed into piercing intellect as they focussed on the mysterious Muggle. "I'm not sure, Minerva. But, we have two weeks until beginning of term to find out."

Thomas gulped. "I guess this means I'm your prisoner here, then."

It was Professor Flitwick who answered, "Prisoner? Nonsense lad. You'll be our guest. But you've got a dangerous talent there, and we can't let you wander off and do Merlin-knows-what until we can least figure out a way for you to control it."

Thomas considered Flitwick's words. Well, they don't look too dangerous, except for that Snape fellow. "Can I at least call my office, tell them I'll be indisposed for a while?" Thomas reached for the cell phone in his saddlebag.

"By telephone?" McGonagall looked doubtfully at the small silver object Thomas drew from the canvas bag. "I'm afraid your technology won't work around..."

Thomas let out a small cackle of triumph. "Ha! Got a signal!" The wizards were puzzled. In a place like this, with so much magic, Muggle devices simply failed to function, or worse, burnt themselves out in a shower of sparks. The professor who taught Muggle Studies was always complaining about being unable to bring in any recent Muggle artifacts, aside from a few simple mechanical devices. And here was this little telephone thing, and he was talking into it, plain as if he were on a London street!

With a shrug, they found themselves doing what any third party would do in the presence of a cell phone.

They eavesdropped.

"Yeah Eric. What? How long? At least two weeks. No, nothing wrong with the Wayfarer system, aside from my e-mail I sent. You got that, right? Ok. Where am I? Umm..." Dumbledore gave him a warning look, and Thomas guessed he couldn't tell them about Hogwarts. Who would believe him, anyway? "Um, some little village in Scotland. I don't even think it's on the map. Yeah, like I said, REALLY lost. Look, I'll be ok. I got money, and I can still stay in touch. I'll e-mail you later, ok? Just cover for me with the boss. Ok, catch ya later. Bye." With a flourish, Thomas snapped the phone shut. "See? 21st century. How do you guys communicate, anyway? Crystal balls?" Being reassured that his gadgets still worked seemed to empower him, somehow.

Snape glared at him, challenging Thomas' newly found patronizing tone. "We have our means. We've gotten along quite well in our own way, without those..." he sniffed at the phone in Thomas' hand, "trinkets, you Muggles depend on for everything."

The fear and uncertainty was fading, replaced by iritation and anger. This stuck-up reject from a Ren Fair was lecturing him about silly trinkets? "Ooh, you're so full of yourself, waving that stick around..."

Snape drew in a flash, pointing his wand right between Thomas' eyes. "It's a wand, 'Mister' Duncan, and if you don't watch your tongue, we'll find out what spells will work on you."

Thomas jumped out of bed, strking a boxing stance. "You wanna take me on, tough guy? Come on! Marquis of Queensbury's Rules, or whatever you Limeys say! Put 'em up!"

Snape actually had to keep from laughing. "I think not. Petrificus Totalus." The blue bolt flew from Snape's wand, slowed as it neared Thomas' chest, then struck. But it had no effect. Thomas sneered. "See? Just lights and tricks. Now, my turn." Drawing back a fist, he prepared to drop this Snape character like a bad habit...

Fire exploded in the back of Thomas' head, and he fell into uneasy darkness.

Catching Thomas' unconscious form, Hagrid looked sheepishly at Dumbledore, who was shaking his head.

"Well, you see, Professor, it wouldn't do for Professor Snape to have a black eye at start of term. Students'd be asking questions, like."

Snape tried not to look shaken. If Hagrid hadn't hit him in time...