The Quest for... Win?: White-Kettle Shufflepunk Reads Harry Potter

[Honka Honka Burning Love]

I think this is the most hater energy Snape has all series, and that includes the time he channels the power of murderous hatred to kill Dumbledore. Also, worth noting, Snape has what are ess

Snape isn't really wrong here. Dumble is just taking Blacks word for it.

 

[Replacement Account]

Dumbledore: PS, it has a tendency to get stuck on "pumpkins."

You know, Magrat turning Voldemort into a pile of pumpkins would probably deal with him in a pretty funny way.

 

[IridiumDragon06]

I often comfort children by telling them depression demons are obliterating someone's soul upstairs.

I mean, with ol' Voldy kicking around, "We've got a way to stop someone from being a threat that isn't even death, so they can't wriggle out from under it with dark magic." isn't the worst, especially if you're starting from the presumption that the weird freak who was pants at not being creepy both before and after the criminal record bit is actually guilty.

Also, worth noting, Snape has what are essentially mind reading powers, and he didn't bother using them on Sirius. That's how much of a hatin' ass nigga (with no bitches at all) he is.

One of the fun things as a storyteller is finding ways to make things at least plausible that, e.g., characters with super-senses don't ruin the plot early. The Marauder's Map is just a glaring plot-hole on reread, but Snape having secret mind-reading powers and barely using them actually does make perfect sense; we know that he is very susceptible to flattery, we know that basically no one actually likes him, and we can infer that him peeking under the hood and confirming that yes, everyone does hate him and wish he'd go away permanently, basically every time, has made it so that he shies away from using that power.

Harry Potter and the Eternalist Cosmology.

I will say that I am not a fan of time travel stories in general; either you man up and lead with a non-protagonist-centric uncaused event, or you stick with at least bidirectional causality and end up with awkward hanging loose ends to contextualize and recontextualize (the sound of the axe hitting the log, for example).

Time travel is one of those things that, while relatively easy to imagine, really falls apart fast when you remove the frame of the author actually controlling every tiniest interaction in the world to make it narratively interesting. There's just too much butterfly-effect bullshit. On the other hand, because what is done with this time travel is so incredibly bare-bones that I can't imagine Dumbledore quietly taking both actions himself, the story doesn't really turn (aheh) on it. And a very-limited-change, the-events-that-you-thought-happened-but-didn't-see-didn't-actually-happen-that-way is thematic enough that I don't hate it this time around.

Honestly, I could see the Ministry paying a regular salary for a job that only comes up a few times a year. And it's probably bigger than Arthur's.

"Hey, you know those Fantastic Beasts that devour wizard limbs like spaghetti? You get to deal with the most-dangerous, proven-homicidal of them! Up close! With an axe! With them being restrained by mundane rope and nothing more! No, this isn't a scheme to avoid having to pay out pensions, why would you possibly ask that?"

You know, Magrat turning Voldemort into a pile of pumpkins would probably deal with him in a pretty funny way.

I mean, it's not like there aren't honest-to-goodness actual vampire squash myths out there for him to inhabit. But yes, as That Fanfic points out, in a world with as much varied and fucked-up magic as the Potterverse, neurotically protecting yourself against Just Death actually just opens you up to Worse Things.

 

[White-Kettle Shufflepunk]

Now that Sirius and the Notorious B.U.C.K are free on the wind, Harry and Hermione have to make it back to the infirmary in time to take their past selves' place, lest they be doomed to die at Leela and Lars's wedding.

They slipped through the doorway behind them and down a tightly spiraling stone staircase. As they reached the bottom of it, they heard voices. They flattened themselves against the wall and listened. It sounded like Fudge and Snape. They were walking quickly along the corridor at the foot of the staircase.

“…only hope Dumbledore’s not going to make difficulties,” Snape was saying. “The Kiss will be performed immediately?”

“As soon as Macnair returns with the dementors. This whole Black affair has been highly embarrassing. I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to informing the Daily Prophet that we’ve got him at last… I daresay they’ll want to interview you, Snape… and once young Harry’s back in his right mind, I expect he’ll want to tell the Prophet exactly how you saved him…”

God, I'd pay good gold to read that interview.

"So, there was this time he tried to make his dick feel less small by feeding poison to my friend's pet."

“Hermione—what’ll happen—if we don’t get back inside—before Dumbledore locks the door?” Harry panted.

“I don’t want to think about it!” Hermione moaned, checking her watch again. “One minute!”

What will happen, actually? Seems like with your past selves fucked off into the sands of time, the risk of paradox is pretty low.

“I am going to lock you in,” they heard him saying. “It is five minutes to midnight. Miss Granger, three turns should do it. Good luck.”

Dumbledore backed out of the room, closed the door, and took out his wand to magically lock it. Panicking, Harry and Hermione ran forward. Dumbledore looked up, and a wide smile appeared under the long silver mustache. “Well?” he said quietly.

“We did it!” said Harry breathlessly. “Sirius has gone, on Buckbeak…”

Dumbledore beamed at them.

“Well done. I think—” He listened intently for any sound within the hospital wing. “Yes, I think you’ve gone too—get inside—I’ll lock you in—”

Harry and Hermione slipped back inside the dormitory. It was empty except for Ron, who was still lying motionless in the end bed. As the lock clicked behind them, Harry and Hermione crept back to their own beds, Hermione tucking the Time-Turner back under her robes. A moment later, Madam Pomfrey came striding back out of her office.

Ah, so what will happen is nothing.

“Did I hear the headmaster leaving? Am I allowed to look after my patients now?”

She was in a very bad mood. Harry and Hermione thought it best to accept their chocolate quietly. Madam Pomfrey stood over them, making sure they ate it.

Shock twist, Madam Pomfrey is actually a hag, and is fattening up the children so she can eat them.

“He must have Disapparated, Severus. We should have left somebody in the room with him. When this gets out—”

“HE DIDN’T DISAPPARATE!” Snape roared, now very close at hand. “YOU CAN’T APPARATE OR DISAPPARATE INSIDE THIS CASTLE! THIS—HAS—SOMETHING—TO—DO—WITH—POTTER!”

“Severus—be reasonable—Harry has been locked up—”

BAM.

Snape: ALBUS, ALBUS, the Potter boy just conjured a purple, polka-dotted elephant!

Albus: Would you be quiet, Severus, I'm trying to watch the Olympic Mens' swimming finals!

(Bewitched thread where after every post Iridium writes vividly about the horrors of being Darrin Stephens. And not just that his name is spelt weird.)

“OUT WITH IT, POTTER!” he bellowed. “WHAT DID YOU DO?”

“Professor Snape!” shrieked Madam Pomfrey. “Control yourself!”

“See here, Snape, be reasonable,” said Fudge. “This door’s been locked, we just saw—”

“THEY HELPED HIM ESCAPE, I KNOW IT!” Snape howled, pointing at Harry and Hermione. His face was twisted; spit was flying from his mouth.

“Calm down, man!” Fudge barked. “You’re talking nonsense!”

“YOU DON’T KNOW POTTER!” shrieked Snape. “HE DID IT, I KNOW HE DID IT—”

LITTLE SHIT HAS SAVED US ALL FROM DEATH TWICE NOW, HE CAN'T KEEP GETTING AWAY WITH IT!

“That will do, Severus,” said Dumbledore quietly. “Think about what you are saying. This door has been locked since I left the ward ten minutes ago. Madam Pomfrey, have these students left their beds?”

“Of course not!” said Madam Pomfrey, bristling. “I would have heard them!”

“Well, there you have it, Severus,” said Dumbledore calmly. “Unless you are suggesting that Harry and Hermione are able to be in two places at once, I’m afraid I don’t see any point in troubling them further.”

So, did the teachers not know about the Time Turner business?

Snape whirled about, robes swishing behind him, and stormed out of the ward.

“Fellow seems quite unbalanced,” said Fudge, staring after him. “I’d watch out for him if I were you, Dumbledore.”

“Oh, he’s not unbalanced,” said Dumbledore quietly. “He’s just suffered a severe disappointment.”

“He’s not the only one!” puffed Fudge. “The Daily Prophet’s going to have a field day! We had Black cornered and he slipped through our fingers yet again! All it needs now is for the story of that hippogriff’s escape to get out, and I’ll be a laughingstock! Well… I’d better go and notify the Ministry…”

As you can see, Fudge's favour is gained and lost easily.

“And the dementors?” said Dumbledore. “They’ll be removed from the school, I trust?”

“Oh yes, they’ll have to go,” said Fudge, running his fingers distractedly through his hair. “Never dreamed they’d attempt to administer the Kiss on an innocent boy… Completely out of control… no, I’ll have them packed off back to Azkaban tonight… Perhaps we should think about dragons at the school entrance…”

“Hagrid would like that,” said Dumbledore, smiling at Harry and Hermione.

Well, I guess Black can't get into the castle if the dragons just kill everyone who tries.

When Harry, Ron, and Hermione left the hospital wing at noon the next day, it was to find an almost deserted castle. The sweltering heat and the end of the exams meant that everyone was taking full advantage of another Hogsmeade visit. Neither Ron nor Hermione felt like going, however, so they and Harry wandered onto the grounds, still talking about the extraordinary events of the previous night and wondering where Sirius and Buckbeak were now. Sitting near the lake, watching the giant squid waving its tentacles lazily above the water, Harry lost the thread of the conversation as he looked across to the opposite bank. The stag had galloped toward him from there just last night…

Ron: Wild that the Whomping Willow just let Severus hang himself from its branches. The kids encounter Hagrid in a slightly melancholic mood, who informs them that Snape told all the Slytherins about Lupin being a werewolf and his whoopsie daisy with the Wolfsbane Potion. As you might imagine, he's not coming back next year.

“This time tomorrow, the owls will start arriving from parents… They will not want a werewolf teaching their children, Harry. And after last night, I see their point. I could have bitten any of you… That must never happen again.”

I appreciate that even Lupin agrees a one strike policy regarding "forgetting to take your anti-murder potion" is reasonable. Although, given that so far the only DADA professors the school has managed to get have been a turncoat and an incompetent who stole people's memories for a living, and the next one is going to be a Death Eater in disguise (spoilers!) are we sure that a few kids getting magi-herpes isn't an acceptable trade-off?

“From what the headmaster told me this morning, you saved a lot of lives last night, Harry. If I’m proud of anything I’ve done this year, it’s how much you’ve learned… Tell me about your Patronus.”

“How d’you know about that?” said Harry, distracted.

“What else could have driven the dementors back?”

Harry told Lupin what had happened. When he’d finished, Lupin was smiling again.

“Yes, your father was always a stag when he transformed,” he said.

"Except that one time he turned into a guy called Paul. Chemical engineer, showed us pictures of his kids. Lovely man."

“Here—I brought this from the Shrieking Shack last night,” he said, handing Harry back the Invisibility Cloak. “And…” He hesitated, then held out the Marauder’s Map too. “I am no longer your teacher, so I don’t feel guilty about giving you back this as well. It’s no use to me, and I daresay you, Ron, and Hermione will find uses for it.”

"For a map screen in the video games, if nothing else."

“You told me Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs would’ve wanted to lure me out of school… you said they’d have thought it was funny.”

“And so we would have,” said Lupin, now reaching down to close his case. “I have no hesitation in saying that James would have been highly disappointed if his son had never found any of the secret passages out of the castle.”

"Also, you're nearly fourteen and you haven't even cracked the secrets of literal black magic!"

There was a knock on the door. Harry hastily stuffed the Marauder’s Map and the Invisibility Cloak into his pocket.

How big are those fucking pockets?

It was Professor Dumbledore. He didn’t look surprised to see Harry there.

“Your carriage is at the gates, Remus,” he said.

“Thank you, Headmaster.”

Lupin picked up his old suitcase and the empty grindylow tank.

“Well—good-bye, Harry,” he said, smiling. “It has been a real pleasure teaching you. I feel sure we’ll meet again sometime. Headmaster, there is no need to see me to the gates, I can manage…”

Honestly, I think Lupin knew about the jinx and is just glad he got the chance to resign.

Harry sat down in his vacated chair, staring glumly at the floor. He heard the door close and looked up. Dumbledore was still there.

“Why so miserable, Harry?” he said quietly. “You should be very proud of yourself after last night.”

“It didn’t make any difference,” said Harry bitterly. “Pettigrew got away.”

“Didn’t make any difference?” said Dumbledore quietly. “It made all the difference in the world, Harry. You helped uncover the truth. You saved an innocent man from a terrible fate.”

Terrible. Something stirred in Harry’s memory. Greater and more terrible than ever before… Professor Trelawney’s prediction!

“Professor Dumbledore—yesterday, when I was having my Divination exam, Professor Trelawney went very—very strange.”

“Indeed?” said Dumbledore. “Er—stranger than usual, you mean?”

I think this is the one time Dumbledore has ever been openly a little taken aback.

“Yes… her voice went all deep and her eyes rolled and she said… she said Voldemort’s servant was going to set out to return to him before midnight… She said the servant would help him come back to power.” Harry stared up at Dumbledore. “And then she sort of became normal again, and she couldn’t remember anything she’d said. Was it—was she making a real prediction?

Dumbledore looked mildly impressed.

“Do you know, Harry, I think she might have been,” he said thoughtfully. “Who’d have thought it? That brings her total of real predictions up to two. I should offer her a pay raise…”

Again, how the hell does being a professional Seer work if they don't remember their prophecies. Do they all just have someone with them all hours of the day?

“But—I stopped Sirius and Professor Lupin from killing Pettigrew! That makes it my fault if Voldemort comes back!”

“It does not,” said Dumbledore quietly. “Hasn’t your experience with the Time-Turner taught you anything, Harry? The consequences of our actions are always so complicated, so diverse, that predicting the future is a very difficult business indeed… Professor Trelawney, bless her, is living proof of that… You did a very noble thing, in saving Pettigrew’s life.”

“But if he helps Voldemort back to power—!”

“Pettigrew owes his life to you. You have sent Voldemort a deputy who is in your debt… When one wizard saves another wizard’s life, it creates a certain bond between them… and I’m much mistaken if Voldemort wants his servant in the debt of Harry Potter.”

I kind of suspect that Rowling had grander plans for this plot point, but changed her mind and just made Peter's death metal instead.

“I don’t want a connection with Pettigrew!” said Harry. “He betrayed my parents!”

“This is magic at its deepest, its most impenetrable, Harry. But trust me… the time may come when you will be very glad you saved Pettigrew’s life.”

"Pettigrew now has a vicious antipathy coating. It's very itchy."

“I knew your father very well, both at Hogwarts and later, Harry,” he said gently. “He would have saved Pettigrew too, I am sure of it.”

So he could give him a swirly if nothing else.

“I thought it was my dad who’d conjured my Patronus. I mean, when I saw myself across the lake… I thought I was seeing him.”

“An easy mistake to make,” said Dumbledore softly. “I expect you’ll tire of hearing it, but you do look extraordinarily like James. Except for the eyes… you have your mother’s eyes.”

Harry shook his head.

“It was stupid, thinking it was him,” he muttered. “I mean, I knew he was dead.”
“You think the dead we loved ever truly leave us? You think that we don’t recall them more clearly than ever in times of great trouble? Your father is alive in you, Harry, and shows himself most plainly when you have need of him. How else could you produce that particular Patronus? Prongs rode again last night.”

Themes!

Malfoy was furious about Buckbeak. He was convinced that Hagrid had found a way of smuggling the hippogriff to safety, and seemed outraged that he and his father had been outwitted by a gamekeeper. Percy Weasley, meanwhile, had much to say on the subject of Sirius’s escape.

“If I manage to get into the Ministry, I’ll have a lot of proposals to make about Magical Law Enforcement!” he told the only person who would listen—his girlfriend, Penelope.

Percy strikes me as a carceral urbanist.

Though the weather was perfect, though the atmosphere was so cheerful, though he knew they had achieved the near impossible in helping Sirius to freedom, Harry had never approached the end of a school year in worse spirits.

He certainly wasn’t the only one who was sorry to see Professor Lupin go. The whole of Harry’s Defense Against the Dark Arts class was miserable about his resignation.

“Wonder what they’ll give us next year?” said Seamus Finnigan gloomily.

“Maybe a vampire,” suggested Dean Thomas hopefully.

Wild vampires seem to be more integrated into wizarding society than the werewolves.

It wasn’t only Professor Lupin’s departure that was weighing on Harry’s mind. He couldn’t help thinking a lot about Professor Trelawney’s prediction. He kept wondering where Pettigrew was now, whether he had sought sanctuary with Voldemort yet. But the thing that was lowering Harry’s spirits most of all was the prospect of returning to the Dursleys. For maybe half an hour, a glorious half hour, he had believed he would be living with Sirius from now on… his parents’ best friend… It would have been the next best thing to having his own father back.

And that horrible portrait of Mrs Black could be your mum!

The exam results came out on the last day of term. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had passed every subject. Harry was amazed that he had got through Potions. He had a shrewd suspicion that Dumbledore might have stepped in to stop Snape failing him on purpose. Snape’s behavior toward Harry over the past week had been quite alarming. Harry wouldn’t have thought it possible that Snape’s dislike for him could increase, but it certainly had. A muscle twitched unpleasantly at the corner of Snape’s thin mouth every time he looked at Harry, and he was constantly flexing his fingers, as though itching to place them around Harry’s throat.

Oh, hey, I was right. The grades are made up.

Percy had got his top-grade N.E.W.T.s; Fred and George had scraped a handful of O.W.L.s each. Gryffindor House, meanwhile, largely thanks to their spectacular performance in the Quidditch Cup, had won the House championship for the third year running. This meant that the end of term feast took place amid decorations of scarlet and gold, and that the Gryffindor table was the noisiest of the lot, as everybody celebrated. Even Harry managed to forget about the journey back to the Dursleys the next day as he ate, drank, talked, and laughed with the rest.

Behold, the last time the House Cup matters even a little bit!

As the Hogwarts Express pulled out of the station the next morning, Hermione gave Harry and Ron some surprising news.

“I went to see Professor McGonagall this morning, just before breakfast. I’ve decided to drop Muggle Studies.”

“But you passed your exam with three hundred and twenty percent!” said Ron.

“I know,” sighed Hermione, “but I can’t stand another year like this one. That Time-Turner, it was driving me mad. I’ve handed it in. Without Muggle Studies and Divination, I’ll be able to have a normal schedule again.”

I'm guessing Hermione got the extra twenty percent for correcting the record about Frankenstein being a true story.

“I still can’t believe you didn’t tell us about it,” said Ron grumpily. “We’re supposed to be your friends.”

“I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone,” said Hermione severely. She looked around at Harry, who was watching Hogwarts disappear from view behind a mountain. Two whole months before he’d see it again…

"Not even the teachers! Thank God they all hate each other and never share notes!"

“Oh, cheer up, Harry!” said Hermione sadly.

“I’m okay,” said Harry quickly. “Just thinking about the holidays.”

“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about them too,” said Ron. “Harry, you’ve got to come and stay with us. I’ll fix it up with Mum and Dad, then I’ll call you. I know how to use a fellytone now—”

“A telephone, Ron,” said Hermione. “Honestly, you should take Muggle Studies next year…”

Ron ignored her.

“It’s the Quidditch World Cup this summer! How about it, Harry? Come and stay, and we’ll go and see it! Dad can usually get tickets from work.”

The Weasleys are only poor because the match once lasted two years and Arthur couldn't go into work.

This proposal had the effect of cheering Harry up a great deal.

“Yeah… I bet the Dursleys’d be pleased to let me come… especially after what I did to Aunt Marge…”

How the fuck are you still going back. At this point, the Dursleys could all commit suicide, and Dumbledore would still probably have Harry go there for the summer.

But it was late in the afternoon before the thing that made him truly happy turned up…

“Harry,” said Hermione suddenly, peering over his shoulder. “What’s that thing outside your window?”

Harry turned to look outside. Something very small and gray was bobbing in and out of sight beyond the glass. He stood up for a better look and saw that it was a tiny owl, carrying a letter that was much too big for it. The owl was so small, in fact, that it kept tumbling over in the air, buffeted this way and that in the train’s slipstream. Harry quickly pulled down the window, stretched out his arm, and caught it. It felt like a very fluffy Snitch. He brought it carefully inside. The owl dropped its letter onto Harry’s seat and began zooming around their compartment, apparently very pleased with itself for accomplishing its task. Hedwig clicked her beak with a sort of dignified disapproval. Crookshanks sat up in his seat, following the owl with his great yellow eyes. Ron, noticing this, snatched the owl safely out of harm’s way.

Crookshanks: Smart enough to aid and abet a wanted criminal, cat enough to still murder a mailman.

Harry picked up the letter. It was addressed to him. He ripped open the letter, and shouted, “It’s from Sirius!”

“What?” said Ron and Hermione excitedly. “Read it aloud!”


Dear Harry,

I hope this finds you before you reach your aunt and uncle. I don’t know whether they’re used to owl post.

Buckbeak and I are in hiding. I won’t tell you where, in case this owl falls into the wrong hands. I have some doubt about his reliability, but he is the best I could find, and he did seem eager for the job.

I believe the dementors are still searching for me, but they haven’t a hope of finding me here. I am planning to allow some Muggles to glimpse me soon, a long way from Hogwarts, so that the security on the castle will be lifted.

"People will naturally assume I have abandoned my murder quest in favour of hanging out in Brinsley."

There is something I never got around to telling you during our brief meeting. It was I who sent you the Firebolt—


“Ha!” said Hermione triumphantly. “See! I told you it was from him!”

“Yes, but he hadn’t jinxed it, had he?” said Ron. “Ouch!” The tiny owl, now hooting happily in his hand, had nibbled one of his fingers in what it seemed to think was an affectionate way.


Crookshanks took the order to the Owl Office for me.

Remember that comic where Sirius just wandered into the broom shop and stole the Firebolt in front of the employees? More sane than how it actually went down, it seems.

I used your name but told them to take the gold from my own Gringotts vault. Please consider it as thirteen birthdays’ worth of presents from your godfather.

Can--can you do that? Maybe that's why the Weasleys are poor; Lucius and his mates keep spending his gold! Even if we assume Sirius gave some kind of authorisation number, did nobody raise the alarm about Harry accessing his mass murderer godfather's back account?

I am enclosing something else for you, which I think will make your next year at Hogwarts more enjoyable.

"It's me and your father's other great creation. We call it a Death Note."

I, Sirius Black, Harry Potter’s godfather, hereby give him permission to visit Hogsmeade on weekends.

“That’ll be good enough for Dumbledore!” said Harry happily. He looked back at Sirius’s letter.

“Hang on, there’s a P.S…”

I like to think this is how Dumbledore broached the subject of Sirius being innocent to McGonagall.

I thought your friend Ron might like to keep this owl, as it’s my fault he no longer has a rat.

Ron’s eyes widened. The minute owl was still hooting excitedly.

“Keep him?” he said uncertainly. He looked closely at the owl for a moment; then, to Harry’s and Hermione’s great surprise, he held him out for Crookshanks to sniff.

“What do’you reckon?” Ron asked the cat. “Definitely an owl?”

Crookshanks purred.

“That’s good enough for me,” said Ron happily. “He’s mine.”

Aww, Ron gets a mid season Sentai upgrade as well. Not Hermione, though, boys don't buy the girl figures.

Harry read and reread the letter from Sirius all the way back into King’s Cross station. It was still clutched tightly in his hand as he, Ron, and Hermione stepped back through the barrier of platform nine and three-quarters. Harry spotted Uncle Vernon at once. He was standing a good distance from Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, eyeing them suspiciously, and when Mrs. Weasley hugged Harry in greeting, his worst suspicions about them seemed confirmed.

They're trying to steal Harry from us! She can't! Petunia hasn't let me touch her for months!

“I’ll call about the World Cup!” Ron yelled after Harry as Harry bid him and Hermione good-bye, then wheeled the trolley bearing his trunk and Hedwig’s cage toward Uncle Vernon, who greeted him in his usual fashion.

“What’s that?” he snarled, staring at the envelope Harry was still clutching in his hand. “If it’s another form for me to sign, you’ve got another—”

“It’s not,” said Harry cheerfully. “It’s a letter from my godfather.”

“Godfather?” sputtered Uncle Vernon. “You haven’t got a godfather!”

"This is a militant atheist household!"

“Yes, I have,” said Harry brightly. “He was my mum and dad’s best friend. He’s a convicted murderer, but he’s broken out of wizard prison and he’s on the run. He likes to keep in touch with me, though… keep up with my news… check if I’m happy…”

And, grinning broadly at the look of horror on Uncle Vernon’s face, Harry set off toward the station exit, Hedwig rattling along in front of him, for what looked like a much better summer than the last.

Every one of these books should end with Harry getting some new terror to hold over the Dursleys' head. Perhaps next year, he could receive a button which, when pressed, will irrevocably turn Dudley gay, or into a Guardian reader.

So, that was Prisoner of Azkaban. It very much feels like a cumulation of the first books, in that all Rowling's traditional flourishes and devices are present in their sleekest, most effective form. Not only that, but she manages to convincingly escalate both the emotions and the sense of complexity, giving us our first not-completely-happy ending, and not our last. Book good, not much more to say.

Join me very soon as we ring in the New Year with Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire! Trust me, it's going to take a lot longer than any of the first three books.

 

[Honka Honka Burning Love]

Well, I guess Black can't get into the castle if the dragons just kill everyone who tries.

"We have to put Buckbeak to Death because he harmed a student in an easily reversable way...but you know what we should have? Giant Fire breathing super violent lizards who are harder to kill and will murder students with fire"

 

[TheAmbiguousLurker]

Snape: ALBUS, ALBUS, the Potter boy just conjured a purple, polka-dotted elephant!

I bet anytime Snape stubs his toe he finds a way to blame it on Harry.

I like to think this is how Dumbledore broached the subject of Sirius being innocent to McGonagall.

I think McGonagall has just given up on questioning anything when it comes to Dumbledore.

Every one of these books should end with Harry getting some new terror to hold over the Dursleys' head. Perhaps next year, he could receive a button which, when pressed, will irrevocably turn Dudley gay, or into a Guardian reader.

I'm seriously disappointed that we never had Sirius dropping in to greet the Dursleys, just imagine how many ominous-but-not-direct threats he could make in casual conversation whilst Vernon is shitting himself.

 

[Honka Honka Burning Love]

I'm seriously disappointed that we never had Sirius dropping in to greet the Dursleys, just imagine how many ominous-but-not-direct threats he could make in casual conversation whilst Vernon is shitting himself.

"Petunia there is something off about the neighbors new dog...it keeps staring at me."

 

[IridiumDragon06]

What will happen, actually? Seems like with your past selves fucked off into the sands of time, the risk of paradox is pretty low.

Unclear! Although the vibe I get is that wizards who fuck with time-turners just...disappear, sometimes in mysterious circumstances and sometimes in clearly-fucked-up circumstances involving temporal clones and murder, but that any timey-wimey consequences from their fuckery just affect them. It does seem in-character for the wizards to go "OK, these things have like a 15% casualty rate for their first use, but sure, let's give a bright schoolgirl one! It will be educational all around!"

I appreciate that even Lupin agrees a one strike policy regarding "forgetting to take your anti-murder potion" is reasonable.

Yeah, it's a good send-off for him. Do we have any Lupin-crazed fanfic, where Snape made up a bad batch just for this night and included a tiny little delayed-action memory-modification charm to make him forgot he drank the ineffective potion? I could see Snape engineering some messed-up shit like that, if and only if he was sure that the only kids to be eaten were the protagonists.

One thing that I wish we had more of was why Snape didn't spill the werewolf beans before, and did now. The assumption is that Dumbledore had Words with him before, which were ominous enough for him to technically obey until he got his panties atwist at Sirius's escape. I also kind of wish we got to see Dumbledore turn around from his "No, there's wizardly bondage between you and the middle-aged man that's snuggled up next to your best friend every night, this is a good thing!" teacherly speech to Harry to telling Snape "Your retarded malicious ass literally just let one of Voldemort's servants return to him, retard."

I also wish we got a suggestion that snitching on a fellow teacher for something as inconsequential as the safety of the students over a mere werewolf lead to Snape going from Being Disliked to Dumbledore Needs To Be Stepping In Constantly To Stop The Other Teachers From Openly Snubbing His Ass. From a student's-eye view, it makes sense that the teachers always present a united front, but I think there would be some poignancy to later books if it was made clear that Snape's general existence was bad before and has gotten much worse now.

Behold, the last time the House Cup matters even a little bit!

And this is also pretty thematic. This is the first book that we are explicitly told to question if the things that we are told matter really do matter, and we will continue this theme hard in the next few books.

"We have to put Buckbeak to Death because he harmed a student in an easily reversable way...but you know what we should have? Giant Fire breathing super violent lizards who are harder to kill and will murder students with fire."

Yeah, there was pretty clearly Magical Beast Anarcho-Tyranny in the historic record, with the manticore that got away with violence because no one wanted to actually get close enough to put it down. Hippogriffs are in the awkward space of clearly dangerous, but reasonable enough that you can deal with them.

---

All in all, I was less impressed on reread knowing all the twists in advance that I was before. Still, I think the book was quite good, but I'm now curious if I'll find bits I enjoy more in some of the later books now.

Shit, we're nearly half-done with the series.

 

[PyrrhicRustle]

Shit, we're nearly half-done with the series.

By book count perhaps, by page or word count we are just under a quarter of the way. Phoenix alone very nearly matches the first three combined.

 

[Stab You in the Back]

Shit, we're nearly half-done with the series.

Look on the bright side: By page count, you're only 1/4 of the way through the series!

edit: beaten like Harry when he talked back to Aunt Marge.

 

[White-Kettle Shufflepunk]

Welcome to the second half (in terms of books only) of the Harry Potter series. I hope you're all comfortable and have plenty of provisions, because I suspect this is where we'll be spending the rest of our lives.

Goblet of Fire was a big milestone for the series. Aside from being the first installment released in the new millenium, it also was twice as long as the previous installment, clocking in at 636 pages. Remember, one of the hurdles Rowling faced getting the first book published was finding someone willing to market a children's book that was 223 pages long. For better or worse, Rowling had clearly gained a lot of latitude from her publishers and editors.

Goblet of Fire is arguably where Harry Potter made the jump from "big successful children's book series" to "Pokemon level, all consuming cultural juggernaut." The first three books had what are called "quiet releases." That is, they were shipped to bookstores on release day (first in the UK, then in America and other territories) without much fanfare. That's not to say there wasn't marketing or hype--there absolutely was--but put it this way. Percy Jackson was a big deal in its own right. Those books did great numbers, were critically very well received, and had (and still have) a passionate fan base of kids and bored adults on public transport. Do you recall people lining up around the block (in costume) to buy Percy Jackson and the Last Olympian at midnight? If you didn't have a kid or young relative who liked the books, or you weren't following the series itself, did you even know that was the name of the last Percy Jackson book?

Bloomsbury, meanwhile, arranged a midnight launch party at King's Cross Station with Rowling herself, following which she boarded a steam train specially repainted as the Hogwarts express and embarked on a three day tour of the UK, like she was Truman or Roosevelt riding the Ferdinand Magellan. For the first time, the book was released simultaneously in the UK and US, on a Saturday so kids didn't have to wait till after school to buy it. It was an event, is what I'm saying.

So, why go to all that expense when the more modest marketing campaigns of the first three books had done so well? If I were to guess, Bloomsbury and Scholastic probably just recognised a trend hitting critical mass. Maybe they wanted to help build hype for the first film, which was slated for release the following year--making this the last book to be written and released in a pre-movie context. I bet it helped that more and more people (including kids) were talking about the books on the internet, too.

Also, I just want to highlight this line from the book's Wikipedia page:

The tour generated considerably more press interest than the launch of the film Thomas and the Magic Railroad, which premiered in London the same weekend.

Good month for autism, July of 2000.

Like the first three books, Goblet of Fire received a bouquet of awards, including the Hugo Award for Best Novel. Not even best children's novel or something, just plain "best novel." In case you don't know, the Hugo Awards are basically the Oscars of sci-fi and fantasy--in that receiving one is a huge honour, and everyone and their dog agrees the voters are idiots who have no idea what they're talking about. There's been all sorts of stupid political and culture war squabbles surrounding the Hugos over the years, including that time L. Ron Hubbard's minions stuffed the ballot box to get the first Mission Earth book a best novel nomination. It lost to Speaker for the Dead, which of course means everyone lost. This was long before Harry Potter itself became particularly contentious (at least if you weren't a weird evangelical unable to distinguish fantasy magic from Devil worship) but some people did raise a stink about Goblet of Fire's victory. Some people were offended by Rowling not attending the awards ceremony, while others were annoyed that a piece of commercial children's fantasy managed to beat out books like George R. R. Martin's A Storm of Swords. If I were to guess, I'd suggest that the World Con attendees looked at the two books, and decided George's world building just didn't measure up to Joanne's.

(OH SNAP!)

But enough George Pirate Sound Pirate Sound Martin slander. Like the first book, Goblet of Fire opens on the viewpoint of a character other than Harry. Since Petunia's perspective would just be an episode of Bewitched where Samantha and Darrin actually are just a nice, ordinary couple, and Dudley's POV would just be the movie Gordy with more grunting, we instead open on the village of Little Hangleton.

The villagers of Little Hangleton still called it “the Riddle House,” even though it had been many years since the Riddle family had lived there.

"The Riddle House" sounds like a house a rich social media influencer filled with secret passages and traps. It went viral for two days when he first showed it off, then again when it burned down, taking him and three firefighters with it.

It stood on a hill overlooking the village, some of its windows boarded, tiles missing from its roof, and ivy spreading unchecked over its face. Once a fine-looking manor, and easily the largest and grandest building for miles around, the Riddle House was now damp, derelict, and unoccupied.

Not to be confused with Riddle Manor, which is a luxurious mansion that Voldemort tends to have in fanfic. Why he'd name such a place after his hated Muggle relatives and not say, his pureblood ancestors is beyond me.

The Little Hangletons all agreed that the old house was “creepy.” Half a century ago, something strange and horrible had happened there, something that the older inhabitants of the village still liked to discuss when topics for gossip were scarce. The story had been picked over so many times, and had been embroidered in so many places, that nobody was quite sure what the truth was anymore.

It's probably not surprising Rowling's first post-Potter novel was a social drama about secrets and hypocrisy running rampant in a small British village. That and miraculously unguarded vaginas.

The story basically goes like this, one summer morning, the Riddles' maid woke to find the Riddles and their adult son dead in the drawing room.

The police were summoned, and the whole of Little Hangleton had seethed with shocked curiosity and ill-disguised excitement. Nobody wasted their breath pretending to feel very sad about the Riddles, for they had been most unpopular. Elderly Mr. and Mrs. Riddle had been rich, snobbish, and rude, and their grown-up son, Tom, had been, if anything, worse.

Tom Riddle Sr, 1940s NEET. Honestly, the Riddles were lucky their grandson murdered them painlessly before their son could stab them for being more successful directors than him.

(God, the news has been dire the last few days)

All the villagers cared about was the identity of their murderer — for plainly, three apparently healthy people did not all drop dead of natural causes on the same night.

Vaxxed?

The Hanged Man, the village pub, did a roaring trade that night; the whole village seemed to have turned out to discuss the murders.

I love British pub names.

They were rewarded for leaving their firesides when the Riddles’ cook arrived dramatically in their midst and announced to the suddenly silent pub that a man called Frank Bryce had just been arrested.

“Frank!” cried several people. “Never!”

He was mad the courts gave the Riddles his house after that Extreme Home Makeover business.

Frank Bryce was the Riddles’ gardener. He lived alone in a rundown cottage on the grounds of the Riddle House. Frank had come back from the war with a very stiff leg and a great dislike of crowds and loud noises, and had been working for the Riddles ever since.

I bet there's drafts of those unmade fourth and fifth Fantastic Beasts films where Frank fought Grindelwald or something.

“Always thought he was odd,” she told the eagerly listening villagers, after her fourth sherry. “Unfriendly, like. I’m sure if I’ve offered him a cuppa once, I’ve offered it a hundred times. Never wanted to mix, he didn’t.”

“Ah, now,” said a woman at the bar, “he had a hard war, Frank. He likes the quiet life. That’s no reason to —”

“Who else had a key to the back door, then?” barked the cook. “There’s been a spare key hanging in the gardener’s cottage far back as I can remember! Nobody forced the door last night! No broken windows! All Frank had to do was creep up to the big house while we was all sleeping. …”

The villagers exchanged dark looks.

“I always thought he had a nasty look about him, right enough,” grunted a man at the bar.

“War turned him funny, if you ask me,” said the landlord.

“Told you I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of Frank, didn’t I, Dot?” said an excited woman in the corner.

It's like we're speedrunning Broadchurch. This is going to end with Filch leaping to his death from a cliff.

By the following morning, hardly anyone in Little Hangleton doubted that Frank Bryce had killed the Riddles.

But over in the neighboring town of Great Hangleton, in the dark and dingy police station, Frank was stubbornly repeating, again and again, that he was innocent, and that the only person he had seen near the house on the day of the Riddles’ deaths had been a teenage boy, a stranger, dark-haired and pale. Nobody else in the village had seen any such boy, and the police were quite sure that Frank had invented him.

Adam Stevens went down a dark path. I think he was offended by that failed sequel show that made him mortal instead of a warlock. Also, it thought he was older than Tabitha, somehow. But then, that show seemed to think Darrin and Samantha were married in 1950, so who knows.

The police had never read an odder report. A team of doctors had examined the bodies and had concluded that none of the Riddles had been poisoned, stabbed, shot, strangled, suffocated, or (as far as they could tell) harmed at all. In fact (the report continued, in a tone of unmistakable bewilderment), the Riddles all appeared to be in perfect health — apart from the fact that they were all dead.

They haven't even stopped demanding cups of tea.

The doctors did note (as though determined to find something wrong with the bodies) that each of the Riddles had a look of terror upon his or her face — but as the frustrated police said, whoever heard of three people being frightened to death?

Given how Tom Riddle the Younger murdered them, you'd think that the first one to die would've looked more perplexed:

"Why are you holding that stick, boy?"

As there was no proof that the Riddles had been murdered at all, the police were forced to let Frank go. The Riddles were buried in the Little Hangleton churchyard, and their graves remained objects of curiosity for a while. To everyone’s surprise, and amid a cloud of suspicion, Frank Bryce returned to his cottage on the grounds of the Riddle House.

“ ’S far as I’m concerned, he killed them, and I don’t care what the police say,” said Dot in the Hanged Man. “And if he had any decency, he’d leave here, knowing as how we knows he did it.”

It's a shame Dot was born too early to start a true crime podcast.

But Frank did not leave. He stayed to tend the garden for the next family who lived in the Riddle House, and then the next — for neither family stayed long. Perhaps it was partly because of Frank that the new owners said there was a nasty feeling about the place, which, in the absence of inhabitants, started to fall into disrepair.

Like all families in literature, the Riddles had no relatives with a claim to their property.

The wealthy man who owned the Riddle House these days neither lived there nor put it to any use; they said in the village that he kept it for “tax reasons,” though nobody was very clear what these might be.

Is this just a joke for the grown-ups, or are we to assume Voldemort bewitched some rich guy into keeping the house from being torn down in case he wanted to come back and bask in the nostalgia?

The wealthy owner continued to pay Frank to do the gardening, however. Frank was nearing his seventy-seventh birthday now, very deaf, his bad leg stiffer than ever, but could be seen pottering around the flower beds in fine weather, even though the weeds were starting to creep up on him, try as he might to suppress them.

Weeds were not the only things Frank had to contend with either. Boys from the village made a habit of throwing stones through the windows of the Riddle House. They rode their bicycles over the lawns Frank worked so hard to keep smooth. Once or twice, they broke into the old house for a dare. They knew that old Frank’s devotion to the house and grounds amounted almost to an obsession, and it amused them to see him limping across the garden, brandishing his stick and yelling croakily at them. Frank, for his part, believed the boys tormented him because they, like their parents and grandparents, thought him a murderer. So when Frank awoke one night in August and saw something very odd up at the old house, he merely assumed that the boys had gone one step further in their attempts to punish him.

Surprisingly sad little character piece.

It was Frank’s bad leg that woke him; it was paining him worse than ever in his old age. He got up and limped downstairs into the kitchen with the idea of refilling his hot-water bottle to ease the stiffness in his knee.

Always weird to hear the word cottage used for structures with multiple storeys. Frank sees lights flickering in the window of Riddle House, and assumes some local shitheads have started a fire.

Frank had no telephone, and in any case, he had deeply mistrusted the police ever since they had taken him in for questioning about the Riddles’ deaths.

Besides, this is Britain. I don't think whoever's in the house is upset about grooming gangs or thinks dicks are male. Franks enters the house:

At the very end of the passage a door stood ajar, and a flickering light shone through the gap, casting a long sliver of gold across the black floor. Frank edged closer and closer, grasping his walking stick firmly. Several feet from the entrance, he was able to see a narrow slice of the room beyond.

The fire, he now saw, had been lit in the grate. This surprised him. Then he stopped moving and listened intently, for a man’s voice spoke within the room; it sounded timid and fearful.

“There is a little more in the bottle, My Lord, if you are still hungry.”

Aww, Peter straightened himself out and had a kid!

“Later,” said a second voice. This too belonged to a man — but it was strangely high-pitched, and cold as a sudden blast of icy wind. Something about that voice made the sparse hairs on the back of Frank’s neck stand up. “Move me closer to the fire, Wormtail.”

A precocious kid!

“Where is Nagini?” said the cold voice.

“I — I don’t know, My Lord,” said the first voice nervously. “She set out to explore the house, I think. …”

“You will milk her before we retire, Wormtail,” said the second voice. “I will need feeding in the night. The journey has tired me greatly.”

Nagini is a snake by the way. In case you assume Rowling thinks snakes have titties (and eyelids) I think Voldemort means venom. Of course, if you believe the second Fantastic Beasts film, Nagini is not merely a snake Voldemort took a shine to during his time in the wilderness, but something called a Maledictus--a witch with the ability to turn into an animal, but cursed to eventually be mode-locked like the bird in Animorphs. I'm guessing in the fourth film she and Frank would have a tragic love affair.

“My Lord, may I ask how long we are going to stay here?”
“A week,” said the cold voice. “Perhaps longer. The place is moderately comfortable, and the plan cannot proceed yet. It would be foolish to act before the Quidditch World Cup is over.”

"We dare not anger the one they call Wood."

Frank inserted a gnarled finger into his ear and rotated it. Owing, no doubt, to a buildup of earwax, he had heard the word “Quidditch,” which was not a word at all.

No lies detected.

“The — the Quidditch World Cup, My Lord?” said Wormtail. (Frank dug his finger still more vigorously into his ear.) “Forgive me, but — I do not understand — why should we wait until the World Cup is over?”

“Because, fool, at this very moment wizards are pouring into the country from all over the world, and every meddler from the Ministry of Magic will be on duty, on the watch for signs of unusual activity, checking and double-checking identities. They will be obsessed with security, lest the Muggles notice anything. So we wait.”

"Also, I have good money on Bulgaria."

Frank stopped trying to clear out his ear. He had distinctly heard the words “Ministry of Magic,” “wizards,” and “Muggles.” Plainly, each of these expressions meant something secret, and Frank could think of only two sorts of people who would speak in code: spies and criminals. Frank tightened his hold on his walking stick once more, and listened more closely still.

Either that or they're just Pakistani.

“It could be done without Harry Potter, My Lord.”

Another pause, more protracted, and then —

“Without Harry Potter?” breathed the second voice softly. “I see …”

“My Lord, I do not say this out of concern for the boy!” said Wormtail, his voice rising squeakily. “The boy is nothing to me, nothing at all! It is merely that if we were to use another witch or wizard — any wizard — the thing could be done so much more quickly! If you allowed me to leave you for a short while — you know that I can disguise myself most effectively — I could be back here in as little as two days with a suitable person —”

You might think Wormtail is slightly reluctant to give the guy who saved his hide to Voldemort, but I think he's just worried it'll mean tangling with Ron again.

And so you volunteer to go and fetch me a substitute? I wonder … perhaps the task of nursing me has become wearisome for you, “Wormtail? Could this suggestion of abandoning the plan be nothing more than an attempt to desert me?”

“My Lord! I — I have no wish to leave you, none at all —”
“Do not lie to me!” hissed the second voice. “I can always tell, Wormtail! You are regretting that you ever returned to me. I revolt you. I see you flinch when you look at me, feel you shudder when you touch me.”

"I keep telling you, I don't want you to sleep with me!"

“I have my reasons for using the boy, as I have already explained to you, and I will use no other. I have waited thirteen years. A few more months will make no difference. As for the protection surrounding the boy, I believe my plan will be effective. All that is needed is a little courage from you, Wormtail — courage you will find, unless you wish to feel the full extent of Lord Voldemort’s wrath —”

Imagine being cowed by a fucking baby-thing you bottle-feed.

“My Lord, I must speak!” said Wormtail, panic in his voice now. “All through our journey I have gone over the plan in my head — My Lord, Bertha Jorkins’s disappearance will not go unnoticed for long, and if we proceed, if I murder —”

“If?” whispered the second voice. “If? If you follow the plan, Wormtail, the Ministry need never know that anyone else has died. You will do it quietly and without fuss; I only wish that I could do it myself, but in my present condition … Come, Wormtail, one more death and our path to Harry Potter is clear. I am not asking you to do it alone. By that time, my faithful servant will have rejoined us —”

“I am a faithful servant,” said Wormtail, the merest trace of sullenness in his voice.

“Wormtail, I need somebody with brains, somebody whose loyalty has never wavered, and you, unfortunately, fulfill neither requirement.”

"Everyone knows you need a fat, dumb minion and a skinny, marginally intelligent one!"

Also, shout out to the film which has said faithful minion already in the room with Voldemort and Pettigrew, as part of its quest to eliminate any trace of mystery.

“I found you,” said Wormtail, and there was definitely a sulky edge to his voice now. “I was the one who found you. I brought you Bertha Jorkins.”

“That is true,” said the second man, sounding amused. “A stroke of brilliance I would not have thought possible from you, Wormtail — though, if truth be told, you were not aware how useful she would be when you caught her, were you?”

“I — I thought she might be useful, My Lord —”

So, why did Wormtail bring Voldemort a random witch? Did he think colostrum would help?

“I — I thought she might be useful, My Lord —”

“Liar,” said the second voice again, the cruel amusement more pronounced than ever. “However, I do not deny that her information was invaluable. Without it, I could never have formed our plan, and for that, you will have your reward, Wormtail. I will allow you to perform an essential task for me, one that many of my followers would give their right hands to perform.”

I bet Voldemort wishes he had some proper Death Eaters to be his laugh track right now.

“I — I thought she might be useful, My Lord —”

“Liar,” said the second voice again, the cruel amusement more pronounced than ever. “However, I do not deny that her information was invaluable. Without it, I could never have formed our plan, and for that, you will have your reward, Wormtail. I will allow you to perform an essential task for me, one that many of my followers would give their right hands to perform. …”

“R-really, My Lord? What — ?” Wormtail sounded terrified again.

“Ah, Wormtail, you don’t want me to spoil the surprise? Your part will come at the very end … but I promise you, you will have the honor of being just as useful as Bertha Jorkins.”

“You … you …” Wormtail’s voice suddenly sounded hoarse, as though his mouth had gone very dry. “You … are going … to kill me too?”

“Wormtail, Wormtail,” said the cold voice silkily, “why would I kill you? I killed Bertha because I had to. She was fit for nothing after my questioning, quite useless.

Wormtail muttered something so quietly that Frank could not hear it, but it made the second man laugh — an entirely mirthless laugh, cold as his speech.

“We could have modified her memory? But Memory Charms can be broken by a powerful wizard, as I proved when I questioned her. It would be an insult to her memory not to use the information I extracted from her, Wormtail.”

I forgot how fond of bad jokes Voldemort was. Rowling is actually good at jokes, so I assume this is deliberate characterisation.

Out in the corridor, Frank suddenly became aware that the hand gripping his walking stick was slippery with sweat. The man with the cold voice had killed a woman. He was talking about it without any kind of remorse — with amusement. He was dangerous — a madman. And he was planning more murders — this boy, Harry Potter, whoever he was — was in danger —

Notice that in one chapter, Rowling has established that Frank--a very minor character--is devoted to his work, brave enough to confront younger, stronger boys in a burning house, and good hearted enough to be concerned for the lives of strangers. If Zoey Redbird was in his place, she'd probably assume this Harry Potter kid had it coming for having a dumb name and get back to talking shit about Frank for not remaining hot into his late seventies.

Frank is horrified when he realises a giant fucking snake is looming behind him, only for it to glide past right him into the room Voldemort is bitching out Peter in.

There was sweat on Frank’s forehead now, and the hand on the walking stick was trembling. Inside the room, the cold voice was continuing to hiss, and Frank was visited by a strange idea, an impossible idea. … This man could talk to snakes.

Frank didn’t understand what was going on. He wanted more than anything to be back in his bed with his hot-water bottle. The problem was that his legs didn’t seem to want to move. As he stood there shaking and trying to master himself, the cold voice switched abruptly to English again.

“Nagini has interesting news, Wormtail,” it said.

“In-indeed, My Lord?” said Wormtail.

“Indeed, yes,” said the voice. “According to Nagini, there is an old Muggle standing right outside this room, listening to every word we say.”

Frank screamed when he saw what was standing next to him:

“Invite him inside, Wormtail. Where are your manners?”

The cold voice was coming from the ancient armchair before the fire, but Frank couldn’t see the speaker. The snake, on the other hand, was curled up on the rotting hearth rug, like some horrible travesty of a pet dog.

Wormtail beckoned Frank into the room. Though still deeply shaken, Frank took a firmer grip upon his walking stick and limped over the threshold.

Shock twist, Voldemort remembers Frank fondly and wants to offer him a brandy.

“You heard everything, Muggle?” said the cold voice.

“What’s that you’re calling me?” said Frank defiantly, for now that he was inside the room, now that the time had come for some sort of action, he felt braver; it had always been so in the war.

“I am calling you a Muggle,” said the voice coolly. “It means that you are not a wizard.”

Surprisingly neutral explanation considering the source.

You’ve done murder and you’re planning more! And I’ll tell you this too,” he added, on a sudden inspiration, “my wife knows I’m up here, and if I don’t come back —”

“You have no wife,” said the cold voice, very quietly. “Nobody knows you are here. You told nobody that you were coming. Do not lie to Lord Voldemort, Muggle, for he knows … he always knows. …”

“Is that right?” said Frank roughly. “Lord, is it? Well, I don’t think much of your manners, My Lord. Turn ’round and face me like a man, why don’t you?”

“But I am not a man, Muggle,” said the cold voice, barely audible now over the crackling of the flames. “I am much, much more than a man. However … why not? I will face you. … Wormtail, come turn my chair around.”

Voldemort: I wanted one of those cool swivel chairs, but noooo...

And then the chair was facing Frank, and he saw what was sitting in it. His walking stick fell to the floor with a clatter. He opened his mouth and let out a scream. He was screaming so loudly that he never heard the words the thing in the chair spoke as it raised a wand. There was a flash of green light, a rushing sound, and Frank Bryce crumpled. He was dead before he hit the floor.

Two hundred miles away, the boy called Harry Potter woke with a start.

That's what qualifies as a long away in the UK.

 

[TheAmbiguousLurker]

Good month for autism, July of 2000.

Damn JK Rowling, taking jobs and attention away from hard working trains!

I love British pub names.

Varric let Kirkwall go to shit after Dragon Age 2.

Aww, Peter straightened himself out and had a kid!

"Wah, Wormtail. Wah. Baby requires nourishment."
"Yes, my little dark lord."
"We speak of this to no one."

"I keep telling you, I don't want you to sleep with me!"

"Why don't you look at me when we're making love?"

Imagine being cowed by a fucking baby-thing you bottle-feed.

Peter tried to resist at first, but he learned his lesson when Voldy Jr bit down on his nipple during breastfeeding.

I forgot how fond of bad jokes Voldemort was. Rowling is actually good at jokes, so I assume this is deliberate characterisation.

I find it interesting that Wormtail here is characterised as hesitant to commit terrible deeds even when it doesn't inconvenience him. All I remember of him is the movies having him as very gung-ho about being a back stabbing bastard so long as it didn't put him in danger.

 

[White-Kettle Shufflepunk]

All I remember of him is the movies having him as very gung-ho about being a back stabbing bastard so long as it didn't put him in danger.

I feel like this was a case of an actor having far too much fun. Hence doing shit like menacingly waving as he fucked off.

 

[Greedy Fly]

It was an event, is what I'm saying.

It's always funny to see troons insisting various other series were as big and popular as Harry Potter. I have to assume they weren't there for it. Not just the big, publisher-paid publicity events, but every tiny local book store in every town was throwing midnight release parties. For a book.

Book 4 was also nice because the hype was huge but the insane spoiler wars hadn't quite started yet.

 

[White-Kettle Shufflepunk]

It's always funny to see troons insisting various other series were as big and popular as Harry Potter. I have to assume they weren't there for it. Not just the big, publisher-paid publicity events, but every tiny local book store in every town was throwing midnight release parties. For a book.

They were all too busy reading Animorphs, I am assured.

 

[Jacknife]

I find it interesting that Wormtail here is characterised as hesitant to commit terrible deeds even when it doesn't inconvenience him. All I remember of him is the movies having him as very gung-ho about being a back stabbing bastard so long as it didn't put him in danger.

Wormtails defining traits are weakness and opportunism, not cruelty.

He switched to Voldemort because he considered him to be the soon de-facto ruler of the wizarding world, if he wouldn't have been unmasked at the end of PoA he would have died as Ron's rat, never giving a shit about finding Voldemort

Even in school he tagged along with what he perceived as the toughest crowd, he might have even convinced the hat to put him in Gryffindor so he could be with them.

His cowardice is even more substantiated by the fact that he is a competent wizard, capable of nursing Voldemort to health, performing the killing curse, becoming an Animagus and performing an powerful blast spell.

 

[Replacement Account]

His cowardice is even more substantiated by the fact that he is a competent wizard, capable of nursing Voldemort to health, performing the killing curse, becoming an Animagus and performing an powerful blast spell.

Yeah people tend to forget this, considering it was pointed out that he became an Animagus with help- but he was still able to do so as a student, and there are barely any Animagi in the whole country, and was then able to convince the world he had died whilst framing one of the few people who knew it was him.

I think the main reason is a) that his shabbiness and cowardice are usually mentioned and b) he's usually being overshadowed by even more powerful wizards who he often shares scenes with, which is a common problem because his boss is Voldemort.

---

Anyway, I've always liked Bryce. By virtue of being a muggle who's unaware of magic, he was probably doomed from the start, but his inner monologue shows that he's willing to stop trespassers in the middle of the night, and when he finds out it's some random creepy men, wouldn't want a boy to be murdered, even if it's a complete stranger- despite the fact his most common interaction with teenage boys these days is them vandalizing a property he's trying to fastidiously maintain, despite his old age.

 

[Kari Kamiya]

Frank was nearing his seventy-seventh birthday now, very deaf

So how was he able to catch (almost) every word said in their conversation, then? By "very deaf", did Rowling mean "selective hearing"?

Anyhoo I'm hoping your comments and quips will continue to entertain and not put me to sleep like the first third of this book does to me every time I pick it up. Rowling had to write the whole thing within a year, and it shows.

 

[Alabama Gamer]

So how was he able to catch (almost) every word said in their conversation, then? By "very deaf", did Rowling mean "selective hearing"?

I think we all know an old person like that. My mom does it, and she's not even that old.

There's been all sorts of stupid political and culture war squabbles surrounding the Hugos over the years, including that time L. Ron Hubbard's minions stuffed the ballot box to get the first Mission Earth book a best novel nomination.

I can't be bothered to check, but surely we've got to have multiple threads on the Puppies slates. Man, remembering that makes me feel old.

Not to be confused with Riddle Manor, which is a luxurious mansion that Voldemort tends to have in fanfic. Why he'd name such a place after his hated Muggle relatives and not say, his pureblood ancestors is beyond me.

Doesn't seem like Voldemort would be interested in opulence at all. In Deathly Hallows you get the feeling, especially from the movie, that he only chose the Malfoys' place as headquarters because it had a table that was just the right size for arraying all of your chief minions around so they can laugh at your jokes. And maybe so he could raid the fridge.

Tom Riddle Sr, 1940s NEET.

As I recall the Riddles are supposed to be rich landlords or something, so having a failson hanging about the place is entirely appropriate.

Surprisingly sad little character piece.

You mentioned at the start Rowling's skill at caricaturization, and I suppose that lends itself equally well to brief character vignettes.

Also, shout out to the film which has said faithful minion already in the room with Voldemort and Pettigrew, as part of its quest to eliminate any trace of mystery.

To be fair, we only ever see David Ten-Inch one other time before the end, so the essential mystery still remains intact.

Surprisingly neutral explanation considering the source.

Yeah, are you going to waste breath explaining in technical terms to your racial inferior just how retarded he is?

That's what qualifies as a long away in the UK.

They say that Americans think a hundred years is a long time, and the British think a hundred miles is a long distance. I imagine the same holds true for our sister colonies.

 

[IridiumDragon06]

If I were to guess, I'd suggest that the World Con attendees looked at the two books, and decided George's world building just didn't measure up to Joanne's.

But I want to know about the wizarding world's tax policy!

Surprisingly neutral explanation considering the source.

It feels...accurately turbo-racist. Like, 'mudblood' feels like the equivalent of, I dunno, 'porch monkey' or something similar. The insult is describing an attribute of the person that is bad (impure blood, bestial nature, whatever.) Just going for 'muggle', like nigger, spic, jap, turk, etc., is saying "There is nothing worse than this kind of person that you are that I can compare you with; comparing you to a beast or the mud beneath my boots would be an insult to beasts and mud respectively."

I do feel like he does become much weaker of a character and a threat the more we see of him. On reread, I feel like this is intentional; we know that Rowling can make characters maximally-hatable (see Umbridge), so I wonder if what she did with Voldemort (and to a limited extent, to Draco) was to make them deliberately walking the line between objects of pity and contempt, to say "Actually, being an evil sneering aristocrat (or dark lord) isn't cool.", and the various iterations of Draco In Leather Pants and Sexy Dark Magic are just missing the point of who and what they were meant to be.

But we will see more, and we have some fun events waiting for us when we rejoin the protagonist. And we've even got a neat little still-technically-within-Harry's-PoV with the dream sequence bit, which I like, because I am apparently autistic about consistent PoV in stories.