How I Spent My Spring Holidays, By Prof. Severus Snape

Chapter Two: Naughty and Wicked and Bad

The climb of the motorcycle continued until I could see well beyond the city, and observe the network of railway lines, roads and canals that ran from all points of the compass, like clogged arteries feeding Manchester's barely-beating heart. I considered which direction I should follow. While the city of Bristol (and its Muggle apothecaries) had obvious charms, my natural inclination to visit there was, with great reluctance, suppressed. Should the Dark Lord learn of my unauthorised leave of absence, I feared that a Bristol apothecary's shop would be the first place my Master would search for me.

I opted for Foulness Island in Essex, a favourite haunt of mine, and leant on the motorcycle as one would a broom, willing it to turn east. The vehicle did not budge. I pulled at the handlebars, wondering if this would cause the motorcycle to turn. It did not. With increasing ire, I scrutinised the elaborate array of dials and buttons before me. It instantly became apparent that this was a contraption designed by a maniac.

There was no gauge to signify the speed of the vehicle. Rather, there was a dial which read: "Fast - Very Fast - Very, Very Fast - Rocketing." Other buttons had suggestions such as "Plummet, Spiralling Out of Control" "Plummet, Narrowly Avoiding Crashing," and one that simply said, "Crash." The only lever that might possibly help me to propel the vehicle was a small brass switch, which was labelled simply, "Outta Here." With trepidation I flicked it.

Thankfully, I am a superb flyer. A lesser broomsman would have been unseated by the sheer force of the wind as the motorcycle sprang into life, tearing across the sky with a roar like a wounded Graphorn. White-knuckled, I gripped the handlebars and attempted to look downwards, having absolutely no idea where I was being taken. The midday sun was to the south, beating strongly on my left shoulder. I deduced that I was heading west, against my will, and with no clear means of turning the motorcycle about.

The pace of my flight meant that I would soon be leaving Lancashire behind altogether, and heading out to sea. Able to do nothing else, I flicked the "Outta Here" switch again, and was nearly thrown off by the lurching of the diabolical machine as it turned towards the sun. Now I was heading south. Another flick of the switch, I surmised, should turn me east. But before my hand touched the control panel I squinted into the bright sunshine, and saw to my astonishment three figures on brooms, flying straight for me.

The most logical course of action at the juncture would have been to Disapparate. The motor cycle had proven to be no use whatsoever as a conveyance (although, as an irritant it was without parallel). However, I knew for a fact that the Department of Magical Transportation had agents posted the length and breadth of Great Britain, whose sole aim was to detect the Apparition points of wanted Death Eaters. As Public Enemy Number Two, I was certain that my arrest would immediately follow any Apparition I should choose to make. Therefore, if I wished to evade the broom riders (who were now approaching me rapidly) I would need to evade them whilst riding the infernal motorcycle.

Fortune favours the bold, they say. Fortune, alas, also bares its ample buttocks at reckless fools. Unable to predict the caprices of Dame Fortune, but equally unable to think of any other option, I closed my eyes and slammed both hands on the control panel, pressing as many buttons as I could manage. When I reopened my eyes I realised, to my displeasure, that the needle of the speed gauge was now pointing to "Rocketing" and that the "Plummet - Spiralling Out of Control" indicator was flashing.

Further, the motorcycle was doing exactly what its control panel said it would do.

I called down profanities on the memory of Sirius Black as I prepared to make violent contact with the earth. However, as the countryside spun like a whirling vortex, something large and white came into focus below me, looming very fast. Bracing myself for horrible injury, perhaps death, I was amazed to feel the cool brush of fabric on my cheek. Disoriented and bouncing, I rolled off the motorbike, and discovered that it had landed on the roof of a white marquee.

I thanked Merlin, Circe and Mighty Salazar that I had, against all odds, survived. Then I heard a loud ripping noise. The motorcycle fell ten feet through the roof of the tent and I fell on top of it.

Sitting up, monstrously dizzy and in considerable pain, the first thing I saw was a five foot tall, papier-mâché red toadstool with yellow spots. A rack of gaudy costumes hung before me, including several fur suits and oversized teddy bear heads. I guessed that some sort of theatrical presentation might be taking place, and evaluated the disguise potential of the teddy bear suits, should the broom riders track me down. I had just staggered to my feet and was about to don a furry suit when the sound of footsteps behind me made me freeze on the spot.

"Oh there you are," a man said, in a plummy, pleased-with-himself sort of voice. "I heard somebody banging about in here, and hoped it'd be you. This is props, by the way. Makeup's next door, backstage in the main tent - I'll show you."

Turning, I saw a pantomime dame wearing a full, horizontally striped skirt and a preposterously floral hat. He outstretched his hand, gripped mine and shook it vigorously. "Crispin," he said, as though it explained everything. "Crispin Bellows. Director." He ushered me briskly through a flap in the tent. "Although - Dave Hobbs has been in the bog since Thursday, so I'm also Mrs Skittle for today's performances. You'll be taking Geoff Blofeld's part - he's Sly the goblin - but he's still vomiting."

"A goblin?" I asked, trying my level best to make sense of this most confusing speech, and to keep my staggering to a minimum.

"See you've got your costume on already," Bellows continued, walking fast as he spoke. "Good man! Getting the agency to send you out at short notice's the first bit of luck Noddy in Toyworld's had since the lurgy laid us all low. But you'll need makeup too. The other goblins have green faces."

"No they don't," I disagreed. I was unsure how this person knew about goblins, but, assuming he was a wizard, he should have known that goblin flesh was greyish and pale.

He pushed me into another tent, where a row of six green-faced men, in black breeches and top coats, were sitting on a long bench. Each wore a pointed hat and each had black, shoulder-length hair, not unlike my own.

"Oooh!" exclaimed one of the green-faced men delightedly. "Hello, new boy!"

"Here's our Sly, in need of a bit of greasepaint," Bellows explained, slapping a pointed hat on my head before he flounced across the room like a ship in full sail. "Now, if you will all excuse me, I'm due onstage for the Pixie Picnic dance number."

"Pixies?" I asked the back of Bellows' departing skirts. "Are they caged? You don't want pixies flying loose when -"

"Hold still," another green-faced man said. He smeared an oily, olive green sponge across my nose, breaking into song as he worked. "On with the motley, the paint and the powder. The people pay thee and want their laugh, you know." His voice trailed away to a hum before he added absently, "Like your wig... very realistic... it hangs all nice and limp." Then he stood back to survey his handiwork.

Another man patted the bench and smiled at me. "Sit over here, sunshine, and I'll run through the script. We're on for our first song in a few minutes."

"But I thought we were supposed to be goblins," I protested, standing my ground. "Why should we sing? For that matter, shouldn't we have abacuses, or something? Scales for weighing gold?"

"First time in a Noddy show, is it?" the man with the sponge asked sympathetically. "You seem a bit lost, dear. Done much children's theatre?"

"I have not the slightest inkling as to what a Noddy show might be, but I am no stranger to the craft of Thespis," I retorted. "In seventh year, I played Crapaud in Malecrit's Helas, j'ai Transfigure mes Pieds."

"Malecrit?" the man with the sponge asked. "French, is he? I've not done much continental stuff, but I played the tree in the Basingstoke Players' Waiting for Godot."

They're Muggles, I realised. The talk of pixies and goblins had temporarily rattled me, but now there was no doubt that I was in the company of non-magical, albeit very peculiar, folk.

I was escorted to a place on the bench and a tattered sheaf of cheap, Muggle paper was thrust into my hands. "You're Sly," one of the Muggles stated. "I'm Gobbo. We come on, stage right, when the "Naughty and Wicked and Bad" song starts playing. That's just after Martha Monkey steals the sandwiches and Noddy exits stage left. We do our little dance - stay in the back row - you'll pick it up soon enough. Then you walk upstage and say: "I'm naughty and wicked and bad, I'm a horrible goblin lad, I make all the children sad -"

"Naughty and wicked and bad?" I interjected. "Is that grammatically acceptable? I would have thought the first "and" was otiose, and an Oxford comma should have been used -"

"Grammatically what?" the Muggle who wished to be known as Gobbo countered. "What're you - some sort of school master?"

"If this is a theatrical production for young children, we should at least attempt to educate them," I responded hotly.

Gobbo the Muggle eyed me as though I were ever so slightly mad. "Tell you what," Gobbo said quietly. "We'll skip that line for the matinee. Not fair on you, since you've just arrived and all. Just wait on the chorus line while I say me piece, and then when Noddy comes back onstage you pull his cap over his eyes and I steal his car."

"No wonder Muggle society is utterly degenerate, when plays for small children are so full of crime," I observed. "If you will excuse me, I do not think I shall remai -'

I had risen to my feet and turned to leave the tent when a voice from without stopped me in my tracks.

"It was Sirius' motorbike," the voice said. "Don't ask me how I remember it, Hermione, I JUST DO!" The tent flap was thrown back roughly and Harry Potter stood, directly before me. I held the script in front of my face.

Hermione Granger had followed him. I peeked at her from behind the sheaf of paper. "We shouldn't even be here," she warned, her shrill voice setting my teeth on edge. "This is backstage -"

"Too right it is, luvvie," said the man with the sponge.

Potter was undeterred. "Has anybody seen a motorcycle?" he asked rudely. "It fell out of the sky... just near here... I know that sounds... daft..." Then his jaw dropped open. "S-SNAPE!" he sputtered. I again raised the pages in front of my face, while Potter continued raving, "You're all dressed as Snape - green-faced Snapes!" The hot-headed youth whipped out his wand and reeled around, pointing it indiscriminately at the Muggles.

"Please, Harry," Granger whispered, lowering his wand arm. "They're just actors. The sign said something about an Enid Blyton play - something stupid - Noddy, I think."

The green-faced men rose as one. "OUT!" Gobbo the Muggle shouted. "Ticket holders are supposed to enter through the main gates of Weston Hall."

Peering over the script again, I saw the gormless features of Ronald Weasley looking through the door. "Weston Hall - that's just near Weston-Under-Lizard. See, told you we're still on course of Ravenclaw's Tomb. Now let's get a move on."

Granger grabbed Potter's sleeve and dragged him out. She muttered crossly, "No need to hurry us along, Ronald. If you'd passed your Apparating test, we'd have been there by now."

"Or if you knew how to fly a broom without closing your eyes all the time," Wealsey argued, taking Potter's other sleeve.

"But -b-but," Potter objected as he disappeared through the tent flap, "It was Sirius's motorbike!"

The green-faced men did not have time to remark on the rudeness of the young Gryffindors, because the music emanating from onstage changed drastically. "That's our cue," chirped a Muggle, putting down his sponge and adjusting his hat. They all lined up to climb the stairs to the stage.

Fearing that Potter and company could still be waiting outside, I joined the end of the actors' queue.