Of Squibs and Squid

Of Squibs and Squid

A Fairy Tale

Your name is Argus Filch. You have an awful job, cleaning up after packs of oblivious students at a wizarding school. You hate them. You'd do anything to be a wizard. Anything at all.

You've been sneaking into the library at night, after the miles of floor are swept, searching for a charm, a ritual, anything that will give you magic. Finally you notice an old book, bound with leather. It had fallen underneath one of the bookcases, but it twitched as you walked by, and you had to look inside. You find a message scrawled in a spiky hand:

He who spends seven nights in speech with the squid
will discover his heart's desire.

The squid? you think. Where can I find a squid? And then you realize that something lurks in the darkest corners of the moat. You've walked by, sweeping pathways or collecting fallen candy wrappers, and seen a pale flash underneath the water. You must go there tomorrow, find the monster, speak with it. This is your chance to own magic, to be truly alive. You've never found anything so promising, something that didn't require you to work spells already. This may be your last chance.

You spend the next day in a fever of anticipation, scrubbing frantically at toilets, throwing gallons of water at the stone floors. You barely hear the mocking voices of the ghosts, or the screaming children. They don't matter any more. You're going to be a wizard. You're going to show them all.

Finally evening comes. You finish your last chores and hurry outside to the moat. At first you don't see anything but the still, dark waters, filmed with pale green algae. "Hello?" you say. "Is anyone at home? I'm looking for the squid . . ."

For a long time nothing happens. You stand looking at the green-black lake, wondering if this is yet another trick, another of life's attempts to humiliate you. At last you see a bubble or a ripple, some sort of fold in the water. Something white lies just below the surface, quivering back and forth. The bubbles grow larger. The water swirls, filling with yellowy-white froth. Suddenly pale pink flesh breaks from the water. For a moment you think it's the curve of a human shoulder, but as it flexes and twists you realize it's a tentacle. Then the huge black eyes of the squid rise out of the moat, and you stand transfixed.

"Who are you?" asks a voice. It echoes and throbs, pulsing like the end of the monster's tentacles. "And what do you want with me?"

You take a deep breath and try to answer. "I wanted to talk to you," you say. "Just talk."

"And why on earth would you want to do a thing like that?" the voice asks, sultry, amused. "I'm a monster, you know. I could eat you."

"Because . . ." you say desperately. Can you admit that this is all about a pitiful attempt to make yourself a wizard? Will it eat you if you tell the truth?

"Because?" asks the squid. "I'm waiting."

"Because no-one ever talks to me," you blurt out. "Because I'm alone in a giant castle with nothing to listen but a cat. Because I thought you might understand."

You wait for tentacles to rise out of the moat and suck you in, for being helpless and worthless and rude. You wait for the huge voice to laugh and destroy you.

"Interesting," says the monster. "Tell me more."

So you do. You tell it about the miles of hallway, true stains and ghostly stains, and the children who follow after you destroying everything you've done. You tell it about the supercilious elves, who whisper after you pass and steal your supplies. You discuss Mrs. Norris, whom you found as a starved kitten, so angry that she bit everyone, even Hagrid. You even mention your own childhood-- you tell her about your excitement the morning of your eleventh birthday, and the tea your mother spilled on the rug the day the letter didn't come. You talk for hours and hours, and the monster murmurs and hums and barely says anything at all.

"But what about you?" you ask, finally. "What do you do in the moat?"

"Hide, mostly. It's late. Go home and sleep."

You obey. It's a reasonable command, as these things go. You don't dream, that night, and as always you wake just before dawn.

The next evening you're at the moat early. You've brought a broom, so you can pretend to sweep the walk. You wonder what will happen next.

The monster is slow to arrive. You sweep the same spot again and again until the stones are shining. By the time the squid heaves itself out of the water you're convinced that it will never come, that it's mocking you the way everyone mocks you. Everyone and everything. But you are wrong.

"So how was your day?" the monster asks.

You nearly can't answer, because nobody has asked you such a normal question in years, you might even say centuries. Maybe only a monster could talk to you. Maybe that's it. But you answer anyway. Somehow it seems that you can't stop yourself from talking. You talk about details, today, endless details: shades of a cat's tabby fur, layers of dust, the glinting of stones. Eventually you catch yourself, or maybe you just start to wonder what the monster is thinking, as it rests so quietly in the water and turns its black eyes toward you.

"And you?" you ask. "How are you?"

"Ah, well, it's . . ." As the monster's voice trails off it leaves an empty space, darkness.

"It's what?"

"I caught a fish today, I suppose." Now the voice is lighter, more controlled, even laughing.

"No, really," you say. "I want to hear about you, as well. I don't even know your name."

"Heledone," it answers.

"Heledone. That's a lovely name." And it is lovely. As you speak the syllables roll off your tongue-- hel- eh- do- nay-- the way water falls. You think of your own name, and cringe, hating the stony, muddy world you live in.

The monster murmurs in response. You can't tell what it's saying, but you're almost sure it's not laughing at you.

You sit in silence for a minute, squid and squib together, and then the monster speaks again. It tells you about the underwater world, dark and green and close, and its longing for brightness, somewhere, anywhere. If you were a wizard, you think, you would offer it a torch, or even a star. But you're not, and so all you can do is light a match and look embarrassed.

Heledone does laugh, then. But somehow you don't mind.

It's nearly dawn before you leave the side of the moat, and the sun is rising as you wake for work, so that the whole day passes in a sort of haze. You almost feel that you're underwater yourself, pushing your heavy limbs forward.

Finally night comes, and this time the squid rises from the water as you approach the moat. You greet each other confidently now, as if you've known each other forever, and for a while you chat about inconsequential things: the best word for the dark blue sky, and whether it will rain. Suddenly, though, the monster's voice catches and stops.

"What is it?" you ask.

"Nothing."

"Tell me? Please?"

"I was just laughing at myself, thinking how lonely I must be, to care this much whether it rains tomorrow."

She's right, of course. Beneath the surface of the moat there is no rain. Drops hit the water and are forgotten. "I'm sorry," you say. You're sorry. How inadequate that sounds.

"Thank you," says Heledone. She shakes herself all over, and glinting water falls from her pale flesh.

You wonder when you began to think of the monster as female.

The rest of the night and even the next day go by like a dream. Soon you're beside the moat once more, leaning forward, talking quickly. You even laugh once or twice. You're astonished to hear such a sound from yourself. It's rough and gravelly, and nearly impossible.

As you laugh Heledone lifts a tentacle from the water, as if she can hear you better with her body in the open air. The tentacle is creamy and pale. When the moon comes out you see a hint of red, as if the tentacle blushes from within.

It's companionable, really, having Heledone's tentacle resting nearby. You feel like you're sitting in a comfortable chair, with a cat perched on the bookcase beside you.

The next night your sense that the squid's tentacle is catlike grows stronger. You find yourself reaching out to pet it, gently, and draw your hand back in embarrassment.

"I don't bite, you know," says Heledone.

You let your hand brush the tentacle. You're shocked to discover that it's warm. Heat rises from inside it, and the flesh is far softer than your calloused palm.

You set your hand firmly in your lap and try to continue talking, but for the first time the conversation is awkward and stilted, and you are not entirely sorry when the moon sets and you return to your bed.

The conversation is still awkward the following evening. You feel like you're saying the same things you've said before, the same things you've been saying forever. Maybe you just need some sleep, you think. Maybe tonight you should go home early.

Then you say something about being a wizard, and Heledone asks, "What would you do then?"

"What?"

"If you became a wizard. Where would you work? What would you do?"

You've never thought about this, not past the moment when you stand in the Great Hall holding fire in your hands, and the snickering, pitying children finally shut their mouths to listen. You don't even know what you would say.

Tomorrow

, says a voice in your mind, a voice that you're scared to listen to. Tomorrow you'll have to know.

"I . . ." you say finally. "I could move home? Buy a house with a garden?"

Your parents had a house in a tiny village, once, with gnomes in the garden. You wouldn't mind gnomes, not compared to children.

You say you might grow vegetables.

"Wizarding vegetables?" asks Heledone.

"Pumpkins. With stripes."

"If I could leave the water," says Heledone, "I think I would grow chrysanthemums."

You sit hand in tentacle for the rest of the night, mapping out a market garden.

As you wake up the next morning, you realize that something is wrong. You move your hand and a strange substance oozes from it. Your bleary eyes identify it as red, and you're almost ready to scream, "Blood!" when you smell the sweet, sticky scent. Your room, the hallway, and most of the classrooms are coated in strawberry jam.

You spend the day mopping, and cursing everything Weasley. You hate Fred, George, strawberries, summer, and the color red. And even when you're done, when the last speck of jam is scrubbed from the last corner, you still stink of strawberries. Sweat and jam. You hate everything.

You wonder if you should avoid Heledone. She shouldn't see you like this, not angry and sticky and utterly hostile. But she'll be expecting you. You don't want to leave her waiting in the dark.

You compromise by showing up late, and snapping at her. When she reaches out a tentacle, confused but sympathetic, you recoil.

"What's going on?" she asks.

"Damn strawberries," you say.

"I don't understand."

"Weasley twins. Mocking me. Mocking sanctity of life. I hate strawberries."

"Calm down," Heledone says. "Tell me."

Her tentacle twists out of the water again, and this time you hold it. She's clean and smooth, utterly removed from the world you hate. You tell her the story of your day, and by the end you're clutching at her tentacle with all your strength-- because the jam did look like blood, and you've cleaned real blood off Hogwarts walls before.

"Shhh," says Heledone. "Breathe. It's all right." Another tentacle curls about your shoulders, like an arm laid quietly across the back of a chair. It's still wet. Water drips down your back, and you begin to feel that the stickiness might, some day, be washed away.

"It's all right," Heledone says again.

You try to speak, but you can't. All day you've been restraining yourself-- you could have tracked down the Weasleys and have told them that they had no sympathy, no moral fiber, and not a shred of humanity, but you were polite and did your job without violent retribution, and suddenly it's too much. You can't even spit words out. You're shaking.

"You'll be all right," Heledone tells you. "You can be angry. It's going to work out." Her tentacles wrap around you, cradling you. You shake.

After what seems like hours on hours you can lie still and breathe again. You'd like to thank Heledone, but you don't know how. Finally, you take the curling pink tip of a tentacle and kiss it. It's a chivalrous thing-- Heledone's as much of a noble lady as you will ever see.

You hear a low, thrumming sound. The tentacles about you vibrate with the noise. After a minute you realize that this is Heledone, laughing in a way you've never heard her laugh before.

"I'm sorry," you say, embarrassed.

"No, don't be," she hums. "It's just . . . Just reaction, I suppose. You scared me, a little while ago."

"But this? You don't mind?"

"No. It's good to touch someone, sometimes. It had been so long . . ."

She's right. At least you have a cat. Heledone has been living in the cold, dark moat, for years upon years.

"You're so warm," Heledone says. A tentacle cups your face. You turn your cheek into the touch.

"You're warm, too," you say. And it's true. Underneath the soft wet skin you can feel her almost burning.

You feel yourself growing tense again, but this time you're not angry. The fabric of your pants suddenly feels rough. You shift in Heledone's embrace.

"Am I holding you too tightly?" she asks. A tentacle draws away from you, but slowly, sliding across your thigh.

"Yes . . . No . . . I don't know," you say.

"So very long," says Heledone. "You don't mind?"

You shudder, clinging to a round, curved tentacle, as she undoes your belt. She's like a rose, a white petal blushing with fire. She's holding you, everywhere.

"Please," you say. "Please." You don't know what you're asking for, and you don't care.

Her touch is wet, and yet not cold at all. You slide against her. She is everything and every place. You kiss her arms.

Heledone laughs again, or throbs, or purrs, and you can feel the sound through her, through her touch. You strain toward her, and her tendrils respond. You laugh with each other now, entwined. She is smooth and impossibly close, and warmer than anyone has ever been. She is everything you want, everything and everyone, forever. You feel your thoughts break into sweet, warm salt as you whisper her name.

And then you're lying on the ground in the arms of a woman you've never seen. Her hair is white and there are wrinkles about her eyes.

"I don't understand," you say.

"I'm Heledone," the woman answers.

The seventh night is over. The sun is rising.

You leave Hogwarts together, you and Heledone. You buy a small farm, together, and grow vegetables. You're the same age, you discover, and the lines about her eyes crinkle when she smiles.

You don't mind that you're not a wizard, not really, not any more. But some mornings, when you're watering the garden before dawn, you find yourself missing the smooth white skin and the soft rose blush of the squid.