THE PRIVATE DIARY OF ISABAEL RYANN MACDONALL
KEEP OUT!!!!!!!!
Warning to all trespassers: This book is protected by
The Jelly-Legs Jinx The
Leg-Locker Curse A Stunning
Spell Furnunculus The Cruciatus Curse
IF YOU READ
MY DIARY YOU WILL DIE A CRUEL AND UNNATURAL DEATH!!!!
Dear Cassandra,
It's raining today. I hate rain. It drips and drips and makes your clothes
sopping wet. Miserable. Mum loves rain. She goes on and on about how it
helps flowers and makes them grow. Personally, I think it's stupid. She
only plants annuals. I say, plant the stupid perennials and get it over
with. Not that I really care one way or the other. But I really hate rain.
It doesn't help that I'm eleven years old today, it's September 1st, and
I'm starting school at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry. My
da's flying me in on Mairy, our Aethonan. Da's made her invisible, and
I can't say I like that, either. I usually like flying, but up high, in
the cold and wet, is not my idea of fun. I can see King's Cross now. Da's
just dropping me off. Mum took a Muggle car, because she said Mairy couldn't
carry all my stuff. She's right. I wish I could've gone in the car, too.
It's a Jeep, and there isn't enough room. "Good-bye, pumpkin," my da says,
kissing me on the ear. "Get Sorted into Gryffindor!" I clamber out of
the saddle, stubbing a toe on the ground. I look around to be sure no
one'll see me, then let go of Mairy. I'm visible again. I look down at
my clothes. They're in worse shape than I'd thought. The rain has soaked
through my clothes, and now even my undershirt is wet. Hopefully it'll
dry on the train. And won't shrink.
A car drives into the station. It's one of those old, junky models that
you just can't miss. Never minding the fact that it's painted a rather
glaring orange. My da bought it years ago and hasn't let my mum buy a
new one since. Mum pulls up and opens the doors. She waves at me and I
walk slowly over. She lifts my big trunk and I pick up my wand and Persevina's
cage (It's invisible to most people, of course- you think Mum would let
me bring something not an "owl, cat, or toad?" Think again. Arianrhod's
cage bumps against it, but it's small enough that mum doesn't notice I
seem to be carrying more than one item in my left hand). I never use it,
but the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures
requires demiguise owners to have cages. It's cruelty to animals. She's
in there now, of course, but I can't see her without looking really hard.
She's visible when she's not with something she's scared of. Like automobiles.
Mum lugs the trunk through the barrier and I drag it onto the train. I
set it down in a small compartment that maybe people'll leave me alone
in. I look out the window and see Mum waving at me. "See you for Christmas,
sweetheart! Get Sorted into Gryffindor!"
The Hogwarts Express is pulling away from the station, and I settle down
into my chair to brood. What if I don't get Sorted into Gryffindor? What
if I get into Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff? Mum and Da would be so disappointed.
I don't really know the differences between the four houses. What I do
know is colored by Mum and Da's opinions- Ravenclaw is for the bookworms,
Hufflepuff's for the stupid people, Slytherin's for the just plain evil,
and Gryffindor is for the best and bravest. My family's Gryffindor way,
way back. Da used to swing me around, saying "The MacDonalls have been
in Gryffindor since time began, pumpkin! Just you wait 'til Hogwarts.
You'll be there too!"
Dear Cassandra,
The train is stopping now. I'm wearing my school robes, and I can't say
they make me look like a model. I'm thin, with yellowish skin that these
bloody robes just accentuate. I look sallower than usual. My hair is black,
but not Pocahontas-black. It's thin and cut around my ears, with annoying
curls that turn into tangles as soon as you've brushed them. I don't think
I'll ever have a boyfriend. Luckily, though, I'm all dry. We'll get wet
as soon as we get out of our compartments though. Life stinks. There's
no help for it.
A big man is calling "Firs' years over here!" I think I read about him
in the papers. The half-giant Rita Skeeter wrote about- Hagrid wasn't
it? Giants can't be as bad as the Ministry says they are, though. After
all, they gave demiguises an XXXX rating. I've got one for a "pet," and
I'm an underage witch. I follow the big man, and he tells us to get in
boats waiting for us at the station. This is just what I need. Water above
and water below. I just don't like water. I get into a boat, and, after
awhile, a fat girl gets into the boat. The boat sways a bit, but there
must be some sort of Floating Charm on it, because it doesn't sink. The
next kid to get on is one of those really tall people who should play
Muggle basketball. He is carrying a bag with the name Marc Kriomsky embroidered
on it. He has spiky brown hair that I'm afraid to go anywhere near. There
are four seats in the boat, but only three of them are filled when the
boats begin to move across the lake. I can see lanterns bobbing in the
front of the boats as we head towards Hogwarts. The fat girl seems scared.
I bet she's a Muggle-born.
"What's your name?" I ask the girl. "I'm Isabael MacDonall." She looks
at me with brown eyes that seem like they're going to pour at any moment.
I can't stand people who have hysterics. She stutters "Eu-Eugenia M-Marsh."
I look at her for a long, long moment. She's honest-to-god terrified.
"You a Muggle-born?" I ask. "Just wondering." She nods her head wordlessly.
Yep. I knew it. You can spot Muggle-borns a mile away. It's their eyes,
I think. They're always surprised-looking. Having one of your companions
gushing faucets of water behind you is not very pleasant for an avowed
enemy of water, so I guess I'll just have to prevent that. "If you're
worried about friends, fitting in, grades or any of the other multiple
woes scientific studies have shown us preteens suffer from-" I got a watery
smile at that, "then you needn't worry, Eugenia. At Hogwarts there's a
friend here for everyone, even if you're the nastiest person on the planet.
And everyone comes here knowing absolutely nil. You'll do well enough."
The girl sniffs a bit, but then stops crying. The boy talks for the first
time. I don't like his voice, it's all reedy and annoying. If it were
up to me, I'd outlaw all such
voices. "I should have known better than to get on this boat. Stuck with
an ugly Irish milksop and a Mudblood. Yuck!" I really don't care about
his calling Marsh a Mudblood. She gets on my nerves, anyway. But to be
called ugly and a milksop in the same sentence (I can call my own self
ugly, but getting that from anyone else-) in that voice- that is just
not allowed. I've perfected a cold, scary voice over the years, to use
in plays and such when I'm cast as the villain. I use that voice now.
"Kriomsky. You have just made yourself an enemy who won't ever forgive
for that comment. When you are an old man, you will still rue this day."
I scrape my hand on the boat, and hold the trickleof blood over the lake.
"Thus do I swear." The fat girl looks frightened, her face wide in the
moonlight. Kriomsky looks about to sneer when we reach shore. No, Cassandra,
I'm not kidding. He will be my enemy from now on. No one calls me a milksop.
Or ugly. Sorry, people-who believe-in-innocent-eleven-year-olds.
Dear Cassandra,
The boat bumps ashore, and Eugenia scrambles out first. She disappears
into the crowd of first-years, probably hoping she'll never see us again.
That was a hard sentence to write. Putting Kriomsky and myself in the
same group even for a moment is horrible. He has an enemy. For sure. I
get out last, Kriomsky spitting in my direction as I get out. I avoid
the spittle, and now I am sure of what I'll do to him first chance I get.
A tall, thin, don't-mess-with-me sort of woman is standing at the door.
The giant-man greets her as Professor McGonagall. She thanks him and welcomes
us to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry. If you've ever been
welcomed somewhere, you know the drift. She leads us inside, and all of
a sudden we're in a huge room lined with tables. The rest of the school
is already seated. Why, oh why, do I have the impression that I'm supposed
to be terrified? Oh, I know now. All the school is staring at our raggedy
line, and unless you're one of those people quite immune to stage fright,
that's supposed to be scary. Right. Well, all the other first-years are
quite panicked. No one else with that peculiar immunity today, I see.
They're not eating- waiting for us, I guess. The ceiling's like the sky
outside- cloudy and gloomy and rainy. McGonagall lines us all up in front
of this slightly raised platform in front of what I assume to be the Head
Table. The only thing on the platform is a stool that looks like it would
break if Marsh sat on it. The Professor carries an old, battered hat onto
the platform. I think all the first years are supposed to look at it and
start having butterflies in their stomachs. I'm not scared right now,
though. I'll only have reason to be scared if the Sorting Hat doesn't
put me in Gryffindor. But hey, what's done is done and I'll be in whatever
House they send me to irrevocably.
The Hat opens it's mouth and begins to sing (it really doesn't have good
pitch. Not to mention it's putting some alarming F#s in there). I won't
record the whole song, but it boils down to this- Hufflepuffs are patient,
loyal, kind of like house-elves, but not to that extreme. Usually. Ravenclaws
are the really smart people in terms of schoolwork and book learning,
and kind of on the shy side. Slytherins are supposed to be smart, cunning
and planners. Gryffindors are brave, courageous and rash. I'm guessing
that stupid, toady people go
to Hufflepuff as well, stupid, nasty people get Slytherin, stupid, non-thinkers
get Gryffindor and stupid readers get Ravenclaw (You know- sit around
reading cheap romance novels to the exclusion of aught else. Let's see
what this song rules out for me- I'm not a Hufflepuff, 'cause I'm a lazy
bum and I'm not a toady. I can't stand books- unless I'm doing the writing,
and I am not that good at school work. That rules out any
hope of Ravenclaw (not that I want a raven as a mascot. What a cheery
thought). But I don't see myself as brave- I'm a coward at heart. And
I think enough, so- oh, god, please, no!- I don't see myself going to
Gryffindor. But that leaves Slytherin. As far as I can tell, I'm not plain
nasty, nor am I a manipulator. So, as to which House I get, I'm still
in the dark. I wonder if it is possible to render people unsortable??
The line is moving slowly. I can hear the grumbling bellies of the people
watching us. Finally, McGonagall's on M's. "MacDonall, Isabael." I walk
towards the Sorting Hat slowly. I think it has eyes. I know it's watching
me. It's a struggle to get on the stool- I'm not tall enough yet to just
lean back, as I'm 4'2. I put the Hat on my head, and it slips down over
my chin. Gryffindor must've had a big head. "Let's have a look at you,"
it whispers in my ear. "I remember your parents, and grandparents, all
the way back to the Founding- all of them I gave Gryffindor. Something
different for you, I believe." I clench my fists tight as I can and think
hard at the Hat. Gryffindor, please! Gryffindor, Gryffindor, Gryffindor,
please! It laughs mockingly in my ear. "You'll go where you belong. And
don't for a moment think your house is as bad as they say, or that you
don't deserve it. I say you belong in SLYTHERIN!" I remove the hat, place
it back on the stool, and trudge slowly over to the Slytherin table. McGonagall
looks surprised. Well, of course she does. She's the
Gryffindor Head of House. She probably knows my parents and grandparents
(who knows how old she is). The Slytherin table looks surprised, too.
And guess who else is here? I smile sweetly across the table at Kriomsky.
It's going to be a long seven years.
Dear Cassandra,
I'm going to have to tell my parents which House I'm in. They'll probably
never speak to me again. But that's not what I'm worried about. I'm not
worried about the kids here, either. I'll survive. I've learned how to.
I'm not worried about remembering the password, either. Right now it's
Cruciatus. Wonderful password, don't you think? You just say it to this
empty wall- it doesn't have a picture in front of it. The wall slides
open. It's my kind of place, I can see immediately. Dark and gloomy, where
you can just sit around and be left alone. I'd guess that any Slytherin
social gatherings going on either doesn't happen or happen somewhere else.
I'd guess the former, as they can't be such sticks-in-the-mud that they
don't throw a party for themselves once in awhile.
And my guess is right. It happens in a place that only a Slytherin can
access. It's like a quick test to discover whether the Sorting Hat really
Sorted you into Slytherin. I can hear a sixth year telling his sister
about that. Professor Snape welcomes us as our Head of House. "Welcome
back, those of you who have been here before. I trust you have all enjoyed
your summers. You all realise it is your responsibility to make sure none
of your housemates act in any way that is an embarrassment to Slytherin
House or myself. And without further ado, I would like to welcome the
new to Slytherin House. We have many House rules that you will be expected
to follow, but I will not detail them to you- you will have to read them
on your own. First, however, I would like to introduce you to the real
Slytherin common room. If for some reason you wish to be left alone, here
is the place to do it. But for the normal magic-users amongst us- Pericardium!"
the floor slides open right behind him. I can see a row of well-polished
stairs behind him. He gestures the second to seventh years away, and us
newbies make our way slowly down the steps, following Snape.
At the bottom of the stairs is a huge room, well-lit, and with all sorts
of things lining the walls. One long row of bookshelves is devoted to
books found only in the Restricted section in the Darkest of libraries.
Another wall is filled with advanced, legitimate, curses, spells, hexes
and charms. Not bad at all. And, my personal favorite, a huge row of books
right next to very precise potions accouterment. Have I ever said Potions
has always been my favorite subject (other than Magical Creatures and
Recess)? It is.
"This, not the room upstairs, is our common room. But because of some
of the- delicate materials in here, they are not stored in plain view."
He smiled unpleasantly. "Not even the Headmaster knows of this room, much
less the password, which is changed daily, always the next word in this
dictionary." Here the Professor held up a Dictionary of the English Language.
"If you speak of this room in the hearing of any person not in Slytherin,
you are an outcast, plain and simple. And I wouldn't trust that you'd
live much longer either." I believe him. After all, what's the use of
all these books if you don't know how to use them? Some Slytherins probably
know this library inside out and are not afraid to use their knowledge.
In addition, I don't think he's the sort of man to make idle threats.
Nasty, you know? He'd better teach Potions. Only a really good Potions
brewer would be able to make hair look like that. I wonder what his reason
is for liking greasy hair is. I know my uncle's reason. He thinks grease'll
make his dreadlocks grow faster."Also, use of the knowledge contained
here in a way revealing a deposit such as this before outsiders is punishable
in the same way."
Threatening. If I need lessons on threats, I believe my manager is to
be found here. I am going to have fun here. I might not have any friends,
but half the time they're just nuisances waiting to happen anyway.
Dear Cassandra,
My dormmates are all asleep. I'm sitting here, trying to write a letter
to tell my parents that their little girl isn't in Gryffindor. I think
I'll tell them at the end of the letter. I'll cushion it with every other
tidbit of information I can find.
Dear Mum and Da,
I'm having a lot of fun already. Maybe the rain isn't exactly
uplifting on the spirits, but it won't rain every day. The feast was
wonderful, but Mum- Dumbledore's crazy. Seriously. I don't know if
this is how he normally acts, but he sang the school song right along
with us, and sang it to the theme song of the American TV show Jetsons.
There's this awful boy I met, Marc Kriomsky, who called me an ugly
Irish milksop. Can you believe it? And no, I'm not overly excited by his
remark. He called this fat kid I was sitting next to, Eugenia Marsh,
a M*db***d. He got Sorted into Slytherin. I'm not that well acquainted
with the other girls in my dorm, but I expect I will get to know them
eventually. The Great Hall's neat, but it was raining today. See you for
Christmas.
Love,
Isabael
P.S.- Please don't freak, Da, and break the news to the family quietly.
I'm not in Gryffindor. I'm in Slytherin.
My parents are going to kill me. Ach, if I do survive, I dedicate all
my worldly goods to the largest orphanage in London.
Dear Cassandra,
There are five other girls in my dorm. One has a bed right next to mine.
She is waking up now. Her name is Linda Kinderlake. She's one of those
rich brats with everything. I imagine there are more of them here than
in any other House. She feels awful superior to me, I bet. It's because
her parents and grandparent and greats all the way on back are or were
Slytherin. Somehow the whole house seems to have discovered I'm
Gryffindor by birth. They needn't worry. If the Sorting Hat says I'm
either cunning or a stupid, nasty person, I'm determined to be cunning.
I refuse to be either stupid or nasty. I'm going to try to keep clear
of her. I think she's closer to the "stupid, nasty person" description.
I can live without stupid people messing up my life. It's messed up enough
already. Three of the other girls who live here are Cathy Miller, Julie
Macnair and Hortense Avery. Hortense is a horrible name, If you ask me.
Which is not eclipsed by the fact that she's really, really ugly. Not
that I should be talking, but she has the ugliest face in history, and
resembles a man (probably in more ways than I care to think about). Julie
is kind of out of it- I think she's the Slytherin version of a toady.
Miller is okay, I guess. She's pretty quiet, with short, frazzled hair.
But guess who the 5th person in this dorm is? That-idiot-Kriomsky's twin
sister! She's just scary. She couldn't be- not with Kriomsky as a brother-
but for some reason she reminds me of a veela. In both senses. Really
pretty, but for some reason I think she's going to turn into a feathered
snake. Her name is Alexandra. And I don't talk to snakes. So, basically,
if I aim to have friends at all, they're not Slytherin first-year girls.
First class today is Transfiguration, directly after breakfast. Ugh.
Why me? Iam abysmal at Transfiguring. My da says it's genetic. My mum
says he's being stupid because she got highest marks in her class for
Transfiguration. In York Wizarding Primary, we learned theories for most
of the stuff we'll learn here. I was bloody terrible at Transfiguration
Theory.
Breakfast is yellow and orange. Eggs, toast and butter, waffles and cantaloupe.
Looks like I won't be eating much this morning. Cantaloupe gives me hives,
eggs give me awful stomach aches and I'm not that fond of
toast. Under the cover of getting eggs, Kriomsky drops a handful of flies
onto my waffles. Does he think I'm stupid enough not to have seen that?
One of Slytherin's rules is to always appear a team, no matter how much
you hate someone's guts. So a feud between two members of Slytherin House
during school is breaking rule #986. Kidding. Only rule #74. #986 is a
Quidditch foul Slytherins are not allowed to commit. Most fouls are allowed,
but none that compromise our "honor as members of the distiguished House
of Salazar Slytherin." I "accidentally" spill a potion I'd created an
hour ago for this purpose on his toast. His
food will soon be tasting like underarm hair. He doesn't see me. Fool.
Dear Cassandra,
The post owls are flying in. I sent my letter last night. I wonder what
my parents' reaction will be. Rejection? Support? Silence Treatment? A
Howler? A post owl comes flying towards me. I don't recognise him. He
drops a letter in front of me. I do believe my last guess was correct.
A red envelope, and it has already started smoking at the corners. Another
owl, and another owl and another owl are dropping red envelopes on my
lap. It seems my whole extended family has decided that I have shamed
my 5x great
grandparents. I let them all explode at the same time, my hands over
my ears. The people closest to me see my "gifts," and they, too, cover
their ears. It's a family fight during Christmas multiplied 2,000 times.
Go figure. The words are undistinguishable because of the number of voices.
I know what they're saying, though. A full minute passes before they're
all finished. My eyes see white flashes as the last Howler
explodes. I can hear my Mum's voice, as it concludes. " .....SLYTHERIN!"
Not, you know, what you'd expect from a Gryffindor, but hey! people aren't
always perfect, poor creatures. This must have come as a shock. It explodes.
The Great Hall is silent, as all the students stare. I am not going to
blush. Kriomsky is struggling with the urge to snort. He wins. Too bad.
I'd like to see that idiot break rule #74. That would make my day.
I head towards Transfiguration with the rest of the Slytherin first years
and the Ravenclaws. They're all looking at me funny. I see Marsh got into
Ravenclaw. Maybe she is smart. I wouldn't know. She looks at me with a
slightly hurt look in hereyes. What did I ever do to her? Maybe she's
disappointed that somebody who "stood up" for her got into Slytherin.
They probably tell ghost stories about Slytherins in the other houses.
With Slytherins running amok and making everybody else ghosts. Not that
some of my housemates wouldn't do that. What I'm really dreading, though,
is this class.
Dear Cassandra,
I sit, fiddling with my wand, as Professor McGonagall reads us a long
lecture on not goofing off, staying serious in class, and most of all,
paying attention. Then she turns into a cat, turns back, and says not
to try that at home. We spend the rest of class taking notes on Elementary
Transfiguration. My handwriting's horrible- if I ever need to look back
at notes, I'll be out of luck. Not that it matters, really. I'm going
to fail this class anyways. Diana Clearwater, from Ravenclaw, is studiously
copying notes in tiny, legible handwriting. She glances at my notes and
turns up her nose. Someday....... someday........... I promise myself.
Behind me, the Kriomsky twins are studiously ignoring each other. I think
each being the other's sibling for eleven years must be rather wearing.
Kriomsky the First is playing with a beetle that unfortunately stumbled
into his line of sight. He's poking it with his wand as it scuttles around
his desk. McGonagall sees him. She becomes silent for a minute, looking
right at him. Naturally, the rest of the class looks that way, too. He's
too absorbed by the stupid beetle. Her nostrils flare slightly, and her
mouth pinches.
"Mr. Kriomsky. I believe you were told to pay attention in my class,
were you not? Detention and ten points from Slytherin. Please learn to
pay attention when it counts." My mind races frantically. There's a rule
somewhere about standing up for a "fellow" Slytherin. Am I supposed to
raise my hand and say "But Professor..."
Never mind. I'm not getting my bum in trouble for Kriomsky. Miller, unfortunately,
does not have this idea. She raises her hand. McGonagall, looking like
she sees what is coming, stares at Miller with the iciest look I have
ever seen. The room goes cold. Another source of theatrical menace, perhaps?
"Yes, Ms. Miller?" I feel almost sorry for her. Cathy puts her hand down,
stuttering "N-never mind." Alexandra smiles at her, showing all of her
teeth. I just know she's going to turn into a feathered serpent.
McGonagall's giving out assignments now. I do think they're rather large
for our first day in her class. My book is looking tired. Maybe it sees
long use in the future. Books have a great deal of consciousness when
it comes to themselves. Next class is Herbology. With the Hufflepuffs.
I wonder what they're like. I am well-acquainted with Gryffindors, marginally
less acquainted with Slytherins, and have met several Ravenclaws. I don't
believe I've ever met a Hufflepuff.
Dear Cassandra,
Professor Sprout - she's the Herbology teacher- reminds me a lot of Mum.
Professor Sprout just has more time, I guess, to muck around in the mud.
Both of them have short nails, with dirt already finding a home under
there. They both wear clothes that I, personally, think should have been
thrown into the rag bag years ago. You know the type- covered with dirt
stains, old and new, grass stains, little rips and tears from
thorns, rather burned bits of cloth from encounters with plants I'd rather
not think on. At least this is going to be a hands-on class. No theory.
I hope. It's ever so hard to remember. We have an assignment already.
These teachers don't believe in giving us poor students a chance to adjust,
or adjust back to, school schedules. We're supposed to read the first
hundred pages of Magical Herbs and Fungi and be prepared for a quiz on
the information. She assures us that it is only a test of our abilities
and will not count towards our final grades. If I knew worse words, than
"idiot" and "stupid," I'd insert them in the blank _________. I leave
it up to your imagination, Cassandra. Never trust those words from a teacher.
Dear Cassandra,
I wonder if it's safe to eat any of this stuff- I mean, it sure looks
all right, and everybody else is eating it with apparent relish- but for
some reason, I think Kriomsky suspects poor, innocent me of thoroughly
destroying his breakfast. He's right, of course, but am I going to tell
him that? Not on your life. I push the blueberries around with my fork-
ah, there. Those were once blueberries. Something has- been added. No
lunch today. And don't you agree, Cassandra, Kriomsky needs a bit of a
present.
I glide past him and drop a few bits of my "blueberries" onto his plate.
He doesn't notice- too busy staring at a very buxom Ravenclaw. She's gotta
be at least five years older than him. Dark eyes flash in my direction
as I drop those fateful blue blobs. Alexandra is smiling. A real smile.
I think she despises her twin as much as I do. What's that saying about
the enemy of your enemy being a friend? Nobody else noticed, though.
Dear Cassandra,
We've got a free period at the moment. Poor, poor Kriomsky. He's missing
out on all the fun. He's in the hospital wing now. His hair is purple
with nasty green streaks, and his skin is polka-dotted orange. Was that
supposed to happen to me? I'm glad it didn't. I'm reading our Herbology
assignment right now. Or rather, I just finished. Two Chapters all together-
Australia, The Native Desert Fungi of, and Northern Europe, Hardy Herbs
of. Boring, boring, boring. Mum has half these plants. Well, looks like
the test should be pretty easy. Now what to do? Persevina's out exploring,
Arianrhod is asleep and I couldn't convince Mum to let me bring Mardian.
Sweetest little Crup you ever did see.
After the free period, we're going to have Potions. Yes, Professor Snape
does teach it. But it's still a half-hour left until then. Explore the
real common room? Nah, not nearly enough time for the in-depth exploring
I'd like to do. Hmmmm a little voice at the back of my head whispers maybe
make sure your equipment's all ready and spotless? It's supposed to be
new, y'know. I walk over to my trunk (I still haven't unpacked anything)
and withdraw one of my favorite boxes in the world. It doesn't look like
much- a tin box with a small dent on the left side, from a game of Exploding
Snap, and a series of white scratches froman exploding concoction I made
up and didn't do anything but that- explode. And give me a small white
burn at the base of my thumb. It didn't hurt when I got it- I was more
worried about the vial I'd mixed it in, but after that I left it bandaged
up for days.
I open the box and survey it's contents- racks and racks of refilled
bottles and packets of ingredients, all of which are labeled in my best
handwriting- which is pretty bad, if I do say so myself. A couple of the
basic "tools of the trade" are in there too, but my glass and stuff is
at home. Da thought it might break in the trunk. He was probably right.
I look at the clock on the wall above Miller's bed. The right hand is
dangerously close to "Potions," written in large green letters at six
o'clock. I close the box again, grab my cauldron, and negotiate my way
down to the dungeon
