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

Chapter Three: Bollocks

We are horrid goblins and we do a horrid dance,

In our horrid goblin jackets and our horrid goblin pants.

In the back line of the corps de goblin I kicked up my heels energetically, wondering why any choreographer would have supposed the goblins species to be so enamoured with the can-can. I also wondered why Enid Blyton, the author of this play and (I assumed) the lyricist for the banal song that was blaring from the amplifier to my immediate right, appeared to be unable to recollect more than one adjective. I resolved to remove myself from the stage as soon as practicable.

The dance took an unexpected turn. Two of the danseurs alongside me executed cartwheels and, when it became apparent that I was supposed to do the same, there was an awkward pause as I folded my arms and flatly refused. The dance troupe formed a half-circle around me and clapped anyway, as though I had managed some particularly athletic maneuver. Gobbo the Muggle, who was upstage, turned around and glared at me.

"Oh Sly," he said testily, "you are a cheeky fellow!" He then engaged in some dim-witted banter with the audience, who responded in assorted high-pitched squeals. The spectators consisted of very young children and their mothers. Some of the audience appeared to still be wearing nappies, and a phalanx of perambulators surrounded the seating area. Gobbo seemed to be causing the infants undue distress, by suggesting that he proposed to steal a car owned by one "Noddy." I had little idea who or what a "Noddy" was, but a small yellow and red convertible was parked stage left. While Gobbo recited his threats I wondered how roadworthy such a car might be, and whether I had sufficient knowledge of Muggle meckanics to drive it.

Musing on whether the pedal to the left of a Muggle car was an accelletator or a brake, I completely failed to notice a character with an abnormally swollen head making its way back onto the stage. The green-faced Muggles, to a man, hid behind some plywood bushes, but I instead strolled nonchalantly towards the vehicle, trying to determine if it was possible to drive it away from this travesty of a drama. Meanwhile, Gobbo jumped out from the scenery and whipped the young audience into a frenzy by suggesting that Sly was about to do something especially "horrid" (that word again) to Noddy. I looked up and realised that the big-headed being before me, with an enormous, blue, tinkly-belled cap and pointed ears, was the "Noddy" of which Gobbo spoke, and then remembered that I was playing the part of "Sly."

"I was just sayin'," Gobbo said very pointedly, "for the third time, in fact," (his face, had it not been painted green, would probably have been turning a shade of puce), "that Sly is going to PULL OFF YOUR SILLY HAT, you silly, old Noddy."

"Oh no! Oh dear!" the blue-capped grotesquerie wailed. It ran about for a short while, clutching its vast head, but when it noticed that I was not in pursuit it stopped in the centre of the stage and cowered rather ineffectually, waiting for me to make my assault.

"Actually, I don't think I shall," I calmly replied. "You see, I am presently on holidays, and I can think of a whole host of things I would rather be doing."

The young audience cheered. Noddy appeared to be a favourite of theirs, and my decision to spare him met with universal approval. However, over the jubilation of the crowd another voice was also heard.

"IT IS HIM!" a young man shouted. "THAT VOICE - I TOLD YOU! IT'S SNAPE! GET HIM!"

Looking out over the sea of cherubs, I spied a bespectacled, angry, young man ploughing through the perambulators. Potter. His two friends tried to hold him back, but he barrelled into the seats recklessly, ignoring the pleas of the mothers who raced to snatch up their infants.

"SNAPE!" Potter roared as he barged towards the front row, upsetting chairs.

Quick thinking, I lunged at Noddy, who was still pretending to be mortally afraid of me. With a mighty shoulder charge, I pushed Noddy off his feet and rolled him over the edge of the stage. He landed, flailing, across the front row, his big-headed costume making it impossible for him to right himself. Pandemonium ensued, as the audience rushed to Noddy's aid, completely blocking Potter.

Gobbo the Muggle turned on me. "What's your game?" he hissed, utterly furious. "I've heard of ad libbing, mate - but this'll get us shut down!"

He strode towards me but, in a flash, I jumped into the convertible and turned its key. The engine jerked into life with a squawk like a startled Fwooper. I pressed both pedals at once, then one on the left, the jumped on the right pedal with all my weight. I crashed through a barrier of small, wooden shrubs and demolished a bright, papier-mâché toadstool, before driving through the curtains to the left of the stage. The backstage area was crowded with actors dressed as teddy bears, pink cats and toys. I scarcely know how I navigated my way down the ramp and out of the tent, save that I did it with as much speed as I could muster and that the whole corps de goblin chased me into the open field behind the marquee.

Once in open terrain, I was able to drive even more quickly, leaving my pursuers far behind. Driving the Muggle way came remarkably easily to me - I suppose it must be an easy enough thing to do, or else how could mere Muggles manage it? With the wind streaming through my hair, I almost found the experience as enjoyable as flying (and vastly more enjoyable than flying an enchanted motorcycle).

I hurtled through a village, tooting the horn and hurling abuse at pedestrians, and reached a roundabout. Not knowing whether I wanted to take the A5 or the A41 (or, for that matter, why Muggles insisted on numbering their roads in such a meaningless and confounding way) I decided it might be prudent to depart Staffordshire altogether. I strongly suspected the Muggle Please Men of that county would soon be on the lookout for a green-faced male driving an undersized red and yellow convertible. Therefore, I followed a large sign which said I was heading into Shropshire and another, much smaller (and I hoped, less obvious) sign that pointed to Lizard Hill.

The car climbed the winding road, the woodlands becoming sparser as the altitude increased. I was slightly puzzled to notice that, the further up the hill I ventured, the stronger the taint of powerful and ancient magic cleaved to the stone walls and oozed from the hedgerows. Magic always leaves a trace, and to a wizard as skilled as I, that trace is clearly discerned. Finding this magical aura was particularly strange because Lizard Hill was not a place name that I would have normally associated with old magic. In Shropshire, the magical properties of The Wrekin are so notorious that even the Muggles have legends concerning the giant and merpeople communities that once dwelled there. Many other places on the Welsh border are steeped in witchcraft. But Lizard Hill was not a name that I recalled from my studies of magical history. Nevertheless, archaic sorcery had a profound hold here.

Another thing I observed was that concerted efforts had been made to keep Muggles away from this spot. Muggle repelling charms were everywhere. If I squinted, I could see the haze of Disillusionment Charms, placed on trees, which made them appear to have fallen and blocked the road. Signs on the roadside flashed with messages such as: Go Home! You Left the Gas On! and Private! Keep Out, or the Cow Will Eat You!. When I turned the final corner of the twisting road, a dilapidated wooden board proclaimed simply: Here Be Dragons.

Yet some intrepid Muggles must have braved all these deterrents, because at the very peak of the hill stood one of those supremely unaesthetic towers, bristling with hideous bits of wire, that Muggle position on all high buildings or natural formations. I believe they facilitate fellytone communications. The tower stood in stark and incongruous contrast to the serene and potently magic sandstone outcrops underneath it.

Something else stood in contrast to those rock formations. As the top of Lizard Hill came into sight, I clearly saw a man with a long, silver beard. He was sitting in a comfortable looking chintz armchair, directly underneath the Muggle fellytone tower. However, no sooner had I blinked than he, as well as the chair, vanished.

My interest thoroughly piqued by my surroundings (and the disappearing man) I stopped the car and walked towards the rocks. I was troubled to hear the distant sound of sirens, and peered back down the hill. Half a dozen Muggle Please Men vehicles were wending their way up the road, however the first in line appeared to have stopped at the spot where some of the Disillusionment Charms had deceived their drivers into believing the road was blocked. Nevertheless, it would not be long before the officers managed to clear the road of the non-existent trees. Even worse, looking up I saw a Please Man hellychopper coming my way. Even worse than that, three figures on brooms were also rapidly approaching.

Trapped. I reeled around, looking for a place to hide, or a means of defending myself. There was nothing. Desperately, I ran to the rocky outcrop, thinking that I could somehow conceal myself in the crags between the boulders. But my keen mind acknowledged that this was an utterly pointless exercise, and that my capture was imminent.

As I squeezed into a rough niche I was amazed to see that the stone surface before me had been intricately carved with ancient runes. The style of writing was centuries old, but the runes had been shielded from the elements and were well preserved. Thankfully, I am a proficient in the translation of those symbols. With ease, I read:

If further to my resting place you want to make your way,

You'll need to find a spoken key and one word you must say.

To make a start I will suggest you first begin beginning,

And next a sound of mild surprise will help you to be winning,

Two follow, both are quite alike and central to my silence,

Nought next, and see you've nearly guessed the word to gain your entrance.

Just add the name for briny deeps, tack on the end of tack,

The key concludes as rebus does, the same as start of sack.

Speak the whole word and speak it soon. I cannot wait all day.

If you would gaze upon my tomb the rocks will point the way.

"Bollocks," I muttered. If there was anything I detested, it was a daftly transparent riddle.

To my immense relief, the rocks before me immediately parted. I walked through the stones and let them close behind me.

TO BE CONTINUED...