She Who Could Not Be Zapped, Judy Colella [novel24 TXT] 📗

get his attention, and when he came down the steps and approached, I nodded at Miss Dylan. “This, Professor Hagrid, is the visiting aunt of one of our first year students, Worthington Belerophonius III (yet another span of moments wasted). She is here to audit his classes, but also has a question for you about a miniature goblin she somehow conjured in my class.”

Hagrid, who had been grinning at her, raised his brows and turned to me. “Whatcher mean, ‘somehow?’ She be a witch, ain’t she?”

“No, Hagrid. She is not.”

He looked back at her. “What are ya, then?”

She shrugged. “A normal human being, of course. I do at-home data processing for a company in London.”

I had no idea what she was talking about, and I’m positive Hagrid didn’t either. The way he was gaping at her was a good indicator. But then he shook himself and said, “How could ya conjure up a miniature goblin then?”

“I simply followed the instructions, mixed the ingredients, and this charming little cutie tumbled out of the pot.” She held out her hand in which the goblin was still sitting; having finished its meal, it was leaning back against her fingers, hands crossed over its tummy, and emitting occasional burps.

“Well, well, well, well, well…imagine ‘at.” Hagrid, like the phoenix, was on the verge of discombobulation. “I ‘ardly know what to tell ya. But why do ya need to know anything about wee goblins?”

“I plan to take this one home with me, and as the professor here was so kind to point out, I need to get more information – I suppose he meant about what to feed my new friend and all that.” She grinned up at Hagrid and shrugged.

“Erm, I, well…oh. Yes…I’ll put a page of instructions together for ye as soon as class is over, if that’s all right. But I’m not sure taking him out of a magical environment is such a good idea.”

“Hmm. Well, we’ll talk later. So! What do you teach here?”

That was when I took my leave, torn between reluctance and relief. Later, I learned that this remarkable young woman had wandered off at one point and run into one of the gigantic spiders that inhabit the woods. Did it eat her? No, it did not. Did she run screaming out of the forest and spend the rest of the day shuddering and horrified? No, she did not. Did she make friends with the blasted creature and all of its friends? Yes, she did. Or so Hagrid told me, looking like he was on the verge of falling in love with this mysterious muggle.

The rest of my day was as it always is – dull students being dull, clever students being obnoxious (although the true queen of obnoxious was yet to darken my door, one Hermoine Granger who arrived as a first year with Mr. Potter), lunch being tasty but boring. In fact, Miss Dylan was nowhere to be found during the meal, and I asked Dumbledore if he knew of her whereabouts.

“She seems to have wandered into one of the portraits and is having tea with – ”

I cut him off with a wave of my hand and a shake of my head. I simply did not want to know the rest.

Thinking the end of the day couldn’t come soon enough, I returned to my classroom as soon as I finished eating. A little peace and quiet seemed in order. As if that had been anywhere in the realm of fate. Alas.

When I was barely two feet from the passage leading into the lower parts of the school where my classes are held, I was stopped by a cheerful voice asking a question that made me feel anything but cheerful.

“Professor, who is this Voldemort character?”

Had I been chewing on something, no doubt I would have choked to death. “Please, Miss Dylan! I must insist that you not speak that name!”

She had caught up with me from wherever she’d been, and was giving me a raised-eyebrow stare that, honestly, rivaled my own. “Why is that?”

“He is…dangerous. Even speaking his name could bring trouble upon us.”

She nodded. “Bel told me you call him He Who Must Not Be Named, or some such thing.” Snorting, she added, “I think that’s perfectly ridiculous. ‘Voldemort’ is a name, not a nuclear detonator.”

I do believe a blink was all I could manage at first. “I…I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Really! Are all wizards so sheltered?” Giving her head a quick shake as if in disbelief, she continued her alarming observations. “Seems to me you’re giving this wacko too much credit. I mean, you’re pandering to him, and probably inflating his ego, which, from what Bel has said, is already too well-developed.”

“I’m afraid you don’t understand what you’re dealing with, Miss Dylan.”

“Yes I do. A bully. The best way to deal with bullies is to give back better than they give out. By the way, what kind of asinine name is ‘Voldemort’ anyway? Sounds like a growth on spoiled mushrooms.”

For the second time that day, I nearly passed out. Did she not realize she was about to bring destruction on Hogwarts? Ha. Clearly she did not. Was I wrong to fear the way she was bandying that name about? No, I was not. A moment later, all the candles in the castle flickered.

We were still standing in the entrance hall, somewhat to the left of the main staircase. So when the front doors blew in, slamming hard against the walls, Miss Dylan and I had only to turn a bit to face what had blasted them open.

Voldemort. I chanced a quick glance at Dia Miss Dylan, and I must admit I was not surprised to see her cross her arms, tilt her head to one side, and in no way appear frightened. Curious, I would say, and her words – yes, she spoke! – confirmed this.

“What happened to your face?”

For the first time in all my experiences with He Who – oh, forget it. Voldemort. For the first time in all my experiences with Voldemort, I saw his mouth gape open and heard him gasp with total, uncontrolled astonishment.

Miss Dylan turned to me. “Is this Voldemort?”

I could only nod, expecting at least one of us to be blasted into eternity within the next few seconds.

“Huh. Should have called him ‘Snake-a-mort,’ or ‘Cobramort.’ Hope he never gets cotton mouth – ha!” She turned to face Him again. “You know,” she said, loudly enough this time for Voldemort to hear her, “you aren’t impressing anyone by acting all big and bad. All you did was ruin a perfectly good set of doors, and since this isn’t even your castle, I’d say that was rude in the extreme. You need to grow up, Voldemort. You really do.”

His eyes had gotten wider and wider during her remarks and now he began to glide closer to us. I think I may have gulped, my hand sliding into the pocket of my robe to grasp my wand. This was not going to end well.

“And who are you, you insolent wench?”

I hadn’t thought this woman could shock me any more deeply than she already had that day, but what she did next accomplished the task.

She laughed. “A what? Who writes your lines? No one says ‘insolent wench’ in real life, you goof-ball!” She laughed again.

With a loud cry, Voldemort yanked his wand from his pocket, pointed it at Miss Dyland, and shouted the avercadavera curse.

“Seriously?” She curled her lip. “Why does it sound so much like abracadabra?”

A black top hat appeared on Voldemort’s head and he coughed, his wand nearly slipping from his grasp, but he managed to regain a grip on it after some fumbling. “What?”

“Okay, that’s bizarre.” Miss Dylan gave the hat a strange look. “Huh…well, it’s unimportant.” She went to Voldemort and snatched his wand.

I have no words to describe what went through my thoughts at that moment. Expecting her to explode in a ball fire or worse, I was instead treated to the sight of a mortal female muggle shaking Voldemort’s wand in his face like an irritated schoolmarm.

“Someone needs therapy! Do you honestly believe pointing sticks at people and using nonsense words at them makes you important?”

“M-my…”

“Your what? It’s a stupid, gnarly twig thing, Mr. Voldemort. Maybe because you have no nose, you feel inadequate or something. I don’t know. But…all right. I’ve heard some of the kids around here saying weird things while swishing their sticks in the air, too, and all of them – including you – sound insane.” She turned away from Voldemort, waved his wand at the staircase, and said, “Um, waterfallium…rowboaticus!”

Turning back, she shoved the wand back into Voldemort’s trembling hand and stormed outside through the semi-shattered doors, muttering something about idiots in black nightgowns.

A second later, a deluge burst from the floor of the landing, turning the staircase into a waterfall. As I gaped at the foamy water swirling around my feet, a bright red rowboat slid down the cascade, whereupon two of the students…wait. I forgot to mention that while this bizarre exchange with Voldemort was taking place, the students and teachers, who were just leaving the main dining hall, had stopped, gathering into frightened groups at the foot of the stairs and flattened against the walls.

Thus, two students were close enough to the rowboat to jump in and start rowing with frantic speed past Voldemort, screaming in terror as they went.

Voldemort, in the meantime, had raised his wand and was staring at it, transfixed, oblivious to the rising water around him. And then, as if suddenly awaking from a dream, he looked down, shouted in horror, and ran…well, sloshed…out the door.

I followed, as did the entirety of the school’s residents, sure this time that he would do something dire to poor Miss Dylan.

Ha. Poor Miss Dylan, indeed. She had by this time, gotten a good distance down the path toward the forest, and Voldemort bellowed at her to stop. She didn’t, but all the students did. Dumbledore, on the other hand, who I hadn’t seen anywhere in the crowd before that moment, strode past Voldemort and caught up with Miss Dylan at the archway.

I couldn’t hear what he said to her, but I did see him hand her his wand. She looked back, her eyes widened, and a second later she was laughing hysterically. By then, the water had almost reached her and Dumbledore; she wiped her eyes with the back of one hand, then raised the wand, and shouted, “Plugium, er, drainus…faucetia offus.” She giggled.

And the water stopped. She handed the wand back to Dumbledore. He said something else into her ear, she nodded, and then beckoned to Voldemort by crooking a finger at him.

Have I mentioned that I was convinced I’d suffer a stroke before the day was out? Or that I’d nearly soiled myself at least twice during that span of what – fifteen minutes?

Voldemort was growling. I could hear him, yet somehow I had to stop myself from chortling. Why was I finding this funny? I have no idea.

“You know what I think of you, sir?” Miss Dylan said. “I think you’re a bully. I also think you’re…” she waggled all ten fingers at him, and in a deeper, exaggerated kind of voice said, “ridiculosa! Now go away and stop pestering everyone. Oh, and go see a dermatologist for heaven’s sake, will you?” She then announced she had things to do, and exited the main grounds, heading, I learned later, for the forest again.

I wouldn’t want to speculate about what Voldemort had been thinking at that moment. Especially since as soon as she said, “ridiculosa” the back of his head (which Miss Dylan couldn’t see) was beginning to sprout thick, curly orange hair. But then Dumbledore, who had been staring at him with an uncertain look, clapped a hand over his mouth.

This was too much, dear diary. I had to see what was going on. Rushing forward, I went to stand in front