Dumbledore's Grid

Well, I apologize for being late with this story -- and for being well over the word limit. I had it 80% written when life happened and I couldn't get to it for a while. Without further ado... here is:



Mary Mancini, Pittsburgh Witch

The architecture of the Oakland section of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, might make one wonder about the sobriety of members of the local urban planning commission. A Greco-Roman style building stands across the street from a sort of shrunken version of St. Paul’s Cathedral, which bears up near a full-sized replica of the Parthenon, all of which lie in the shadow of a neo-Gothic tower of Tolkeinesque proportions. From the fourth floor of a rather ugly glass and steel building in the style of Pittsburgh’s 1970’s “Renaissance II”, a plain young woman gazed down disconnectedly upon the landscape of buildings, cars, busses, and pedestrians, twirling a feather quill absentmindedly in her fingers. She jumped a bit when the door of her office popped open. A plump, aging wizard poked his head into the room.

“Mancini,” he said. “’Jeet lunch yet?”

The woman – Mancini – glanced at her watch. “No, not yet, Maz.”

“We’re goin’ to Primanti’s. D’ya wanna come?” He had already changed out of his Wizarding robes and into muggle “street” clothes complete with Steelers sweatshirt. Mazeroski had no problem “fitting in” with the muggle population – he had all the appearance of a retired steelworker. But under that blue-collar persona was the Chief of Infiltration of the Pittsburgh division of the International Confederation of Wizards.

“No, I can’t. I’m totally overloaded with work…”

He frowned at Mancini, still standing lazily beside the window, quill in hand. “Yeah, I can tell Research and Development keeps you real busy.” He grinned. “I’ll bring ya’ a sammich, then?”

“Great. Thanks, Maz.”

He laughed and pulled the door closed behind him.

Truthfully, Research and Development kept her very busy. Busy proofreading scroll after scroll of Other Wizards’ research. Busy assigning patents and serial numbers to item after item of Other Wizards’ inventions. Mancini had come to the ICW fresh from Carnegie Wizarding Tech - the ink on her Gadgets and Gizmos Degree still wet – and she had assumed she’d be able to really Do Something. However, even in a “progressive” organization like the ICW, anti-witch and anti-muggleborn sentiment created a crystal ceiling of sorts. Ten years later, she sat in the same small office doing the same, low-paying job. Her non-magical parents could offer her no advice; they tried to understand, but talking to them of Magical things was futile.

But right now, Mancini’s mind was dwelling on some things she was dying to say… dying to share.

A gentle knock sounded on the door, and another wizard poked his head into the room. Mancini’s rather ordinary face broke into a bright smile.

“Tim,” she beamed.

“Hullo, Mare-“ said the man, easing his tall, stately frame into the room. “I was thinking about our date tonight.”

“You’re not canceling?” she said, panicking slightly.

“No, of course not.” He pulled her into a warm hug. Mancini laid her cheek against the lapels of his well-tailored robes, and inhaled the scent of his aftershave. She and Tim had been dating for three weeks. Three amazing weeks. Tim was intelligent and handsome - so charming with his British accent - the type of man Mancini thought herself incapable of “getting”. Most people in their office thought the same thing, and didn’t bother to keep quiet about it.
While Tim had worked at the office for several months, Mancini hadn’t even worked up the nerve to say hello to him until one particular meeting. She was assigned to cap off an already boring meeting with one of her boring monthly reports: number of patents, number of new inventions accepted, number of new inventions denied, and the rest.

Instead of simply giving the numbers and sitting back down quietly – as was her usual habit – she said, “I think we ought to start our own research and development department. Not like what we have now, where we simply take in other wizard’s research, but one where we actually do the inventing ourselves. I could start with a little –“ But she was interrupted by the meeting leader who said it was time for lunch.

Only Tim had been interested in her idea of starting an R&D department. In fact, he came to be interested in all facets of her job, and the inventions that poured into her office each month. They had a good many laughs over lunches, discussing the indoor sundial (tabletop and wrist-mount), a self-scratching back-scratcher, a collapsible, waterproof wand for beachgoers, and a self-flipping wig. Eventually lunches turned into dinners and dates.

“I thought perhaps we could just lie low and talk tonight,” he said. “I could make you one of my world famous omelets?”

“That sounds perfect.”

“Good.” He kissed her forehead. “Why don’t I meet you at your place around seven? I’ll bring everything. You just get ready for a nice long chat.”

She sighed. “That sounds perfect,” she repeated lamely.

“Ahem.” Maz stood in the open door, holding a white take out bag. “Your lunch, Mary,” he said, frowning slightly.

“Oh! Thanks.” Mancini broke free and crossed the room to take the slightly grease-stained bag.

“I’ll just… er… see you tonight, then, Darling,” intoned Tim. He slipped out the door, nodding slightly to Maz.

“Thanks,” Mancini said again, pulling out her wand to clear a place on her desktop. Maz stepped into the room and closed the door.

“Look, Mary —“

Mancini opened her bag and withdrew a long, heavy object from within. She unwrapped the foil and the sandwich fell into a soggy pile of bread, meat, French fries, and coleslaw. “D’you want half of this, Maz? It’s huge…”

“Well, I just ate – but, yeah, I’ll have some.” Maz pulled up a chair and severed a hunk of sandwich neatly with his wand. “Look, Mary. I know you really like this guy and all, but how well do you really know him?”

“What do you care?” she snapped, wiping cheese from her chin.

Maz watched her for a long minute. “Never mind,” he said, rising and popping a bite of sandwich into his mouth. “Just promise me you’ll be careful?”

She considered - for a moment - telling Maz what was on her mind. Telling him about her work – not scrolls and serial numbers, but her Real Work - the work that sometimes seemed to burn a hole in her mind with its intensity. But she never was any good at making friends, or at confiding in people. Didn’t Maz realize that was what made Tim so wonderful? There was no effort, no stretch beyond her comfort – Tim just was. It was like he could read her mind. They just clicked.

Instead, Mancini waved Maz off. “Yeah. All right. Listen, I’ve got work to—“

He was out the door before she had finished.

***

The doorbell rang at seven on the dot. Mancini had spent a hurried thirty minutes straightening up her small apartment and changing her clothes. She had finally decided on an outfit that promised (on the label) to “Make any witch appear ten pounds thinner. Instantly!”

Tim made a delicious omelet and they consumed it – and a bottle of wine – sitting cozily on the couch in her living room. After levitating the empty plates into the kitchen, Tim took her hand and kissed it tenderly. “Now,” he said, “I want to know everything about you…”

Mancini giggled slightly. Maybe it was the wine, or maybe just Tim, but she found herself telling him everything: her non-magical family, how lonely she had been in school, her unhappiness in her job, and how she felt like no one understood her work – her Real Work.” Mary paused, not sure whether she’d talked too much or not.

Tim poured another glass and looked at her shrewdly. “Tell me about your work, then. You’re “Real Work.”

Mancini fortified herself with a large swig of wine, then rose and moved to the gold-framed painting beside the front door – a gaudy vase of daisies. She tapped her wand quickly, on a succession of daisy petals, and the painting frame swung from the wall, revealing a secret compartment. Mary extracted a battered, old briefcase and returned to the couch.

“This,” she said, popping the locks, “is my Real Work.” A long, thin box lay encased in a velvet lining.

“Looks like a wand case,” Tim observed.

“It is.” Mary lifted the lid to reveal a highly polished, black and white wand. “Accio Thora,” she said, and the wand rose neatly from its case and soared gently into her right hand.

“I’ll be-“ Tim whispered.

“It comes when I call it. Watch this-” Mary walked to the farthest end of the room – which wasn’t far. “Disarm me,” she said.

Tim withdrew his own wand. “Expeliarmus.” Nothing happened.

Mancini pulled her own chestnut-colored, American elm wand from her pocket, and held it in her left hand. “Do it again.”

Time spoke more firmly. “Expeliarmus!” The brown wand flew from Mancini’s left hand. Tim was silent for nearly a full minute. “So, a wand you can summon at will and no one can disarm.” It wasn’t a question; it was more like a pronouncement.

“That’s not all!” Mary felt a thrill at her sudden recklessness. She had bottled her ideas and experiments up for so long, that it was wonderfully freeing to finally tell someone. “It can do any spell flawlessly.” She proceeded to disarm and levitate Tim and then, at his suggestion, perform a shrinking spell, jelly legs, incarcerating spell, and a tickling charm, all the while Tim tried his hardest to block each one. Not a single spell missed its mark. By way of demonstration, she tried the same spells with her own brown wand with rather mixed success.

“So,” clarified Tim while Mancini packed the black and white wand back into its case. “It never leaves your hand and never misses – have I got the gist of it?”

Mary laughed as she hid the case behind the painting. “Sound familiar?” Tim shrugged. “Oh. Well, I guess you might not know – you’re pure blood, aren’t you?” Tim nodded. “Thor’s Hammer - from Norse Mythology - it always returned to Thor’s hand, and never missed it’s mark. That’s why I call her ‘Thora’.”

Tim’s face broke into its charming smile, once again. “Well! You are full of surprises, aren’t you?” He took her hands and pulled her back toward the couch. “Come have some more wine with me…”

***

Mancini woke with a splitting headache. She lay sprawled sloppily across her bed, still wearing the “ten pounds thinner” outfit of the night before. She must have passed out, and Tim must have levitated her up here. Oh, she hoped he wasn’t angry; she couldn’t handle drinking that much wine, apparently.

Mary readied herself for work, wondering how in the world she would make it through the day. Even after a headache potion and several stomach-soother charms, she felt no better. This was worse than the hangover she’d had after Henrietta Warhol’s graduation party.

Coffee mug in hand, Mary gathered her things and prepared to apparate to the office. She opened her front door, and then paused. Backtracking, she came to stand in front of the painting. At first she thought a trick of the light – or perhaps her massive hangover – made the painting look odd. A second look made her sure of it. There were only ten daisies – not twelve. The painting had been tampered with.

Even before she unsealed the painting, she knew. As she opened the battered old brief case, she knew. No long, black box. No Thora.

Tim. She was such a fool.

She appareted in haste to her office building, greeting no one on her way to Tim’s office. The door stood open and the room looked completely usual.

“Where’s Tim?” she roared at the first person she found walking down the hallway.

“What?” a student intern cried, nervously.

“Where’s Tim Nott? The man who works in this office?”

“You mean that English guy?”

“Yes!”

“Someone said he left. Resigned or something.”

Mancini’s heart sank. There was nothing else do be done – within five minutes, she was sobbing in Maz’s desk chair, spilling the whole tale.

Maz lumbered across his office, deep in thought. “This is out of my league, Mare. But, I do know someone who just might be able to help.”

“Anyone,” she sniffed, pulling the last Kleenex from its box.

Maz moved to his fireplace and tossed in a handful of glittery floo powder. “Hogwarts Headmaster!” he called. Within a moment, the gray head of a very old wizard appeared in Maz’s fireplace.

The Chief Mugwump. His picture hung in the lobby of their office building.

“Hello, Maz,” smiled the old man. “How is your father? I still have that delightful autographed cricket ball he gave me-“

“Well, it was a baseball, but, never mind. He’s fine, thanks.” Maz took a deep breath. “Albus Dumbledore, I’d like you to meet Mary Mancini. She’s got a bit of a problem.”

Maz explained in just a few minutes the general gist of the situation. He was kind enough to leave out the part about the wine, and Nott’s physical appearance and charm. The headmaster listened thoughtfully and then turned to Mary to speak.

“Miss Mancini, did you make this – this “Thora” yourself?”

“Yes,” she answered, drying her face on her sleeve and moving closer to the fire.

“No one helped you?”

“No.” She knelt down on the hearthrug. “The idea for it sort of popped, fully formed, into my mind one day when I was taking a trolley ride into town. It was just a matter of collecting the right items, and putting it all together.”

“You gathered all the items yourself?”

“Yes, sir.” She felt a bit like being back in school. “It’s taken me several years, though.”

“And no Wands Craftsperson made the wand for you?”

“No, sir. I used an old wand-making kit.”

“And no one helped you to bewitch it?”

“No, I got the charms out of a variety of old textbooks.”

“And no one helped you seal it with defensive magical spells?”

“No. It’s the cores…”

“And no one – other than Timotheus Nott - has seen this wand in use?”

“No!”

“And now Timotheus Nott, most likely, has it in his possession?”

Thank goodness. He was finally getting it. “Yes,” she said firmly.

Dumbledore’s expression remained unchanged. He turned back to Maz, who was crouching – somewhat painfully – by the fire, too. “I know Timotheus Nott. Both he and his elder brother attended Hogwarts. Slytherin House, if I recall correctly.” Mancini had the distinct impression that Dumbledore always recalled correctly. He continued, “Tim’s nephew, Theodore, will be a sixth year when he returns to Hogwarts next week.” He suddenly looked very serious. “Given what I know of the family, I have every reason to believe that Timotheus Nott has not only taken this wand, but taken it with the express purpose of delivering it into the hands of Lord Voldemort.”

Maz swore loudly and had to grab onto a nearby chair to avoid toppling over.

“Exactly,” agreed Dumbledore. He turned to Mary now. “Miss Mancini, I have two questions for you, and the second one depends entirely upon how you answer the first.”

“Okay.” She leaned closer to the fire.

“Do you think that under the right circumstances, given the right tools and materials, you could recreate this wand?”

“Well-“ She thought for a moment, then nodded slowly. “I think so. I’d like to try, anyway.”

“Good.” Dumbledore smiled. “Now, have you ever considered teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts?”

* * *

The fact that Mary had never taught a class of any kind didn’t seem to be a hindrance to teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts. Indeed, the Headmaster seemed happy just to have found a warm body for the position. Minerva McGonagall, the transfiguration teacher, wished Mancini luck and said, “Well, I suppose as long as you’re not trying to destroy the school or kill a student, you can’t possibly be any worse than what we’ve had so far.”

Even the students seemed to be accommodating. After just a few weeks, Mary found that she received more enthusiastic responses to lesson plans with wands-on activities, so the classes became more of a PE-with-Magic class than her memory of Defensive Magic, but no one was complaining.

In the evenings, Mary had begun making a systematic list of everything she had done in the creation of Thora. The wand itself had been made from petrified wood. It happened to be the only bit of wood long enough to fit the mold from the wandmaking kit, but it had been a lovely black color. She found it on a family trip to Italy – the country of her family’s origin. The gamekeeper, a man named Hagrid, was good enough to get Mary a piece of silicified wood from the Fossil Forest in Dorset. It wasn’t black, as her piece of petrified wood had been, though she didn’t think it would matter.

She had purchased the Wand-a-Minit kit out of her fifteen-year-old allowance. Mary had done quite a business selling her decorative wands when she returned to her magnet high school that fall – The Magic School of Western Pennsylvania. The most popular ones were the rainbow designs, Smurf wands, and (among the muggle-borns) Donny Iris. Of course they had no real magical power, but it was rather a status symbol at the time to have your decorative wand sticking out of the back pocket of your jeans.

She placed the silicated wood inside the Wand-a-Minit contraption, turned it three times – as the directions stated, and removed a hollow wand-top. It wasn’t perfect, but Thora hadn’t been perfectly formed, either. She hoped it didn’t matter much. The wand-handle might be a bit trickier to procure. She had used a rather special and unusual bone the first time and wasn’t sure how important that part might be.

October at Hogswarts seemed to blow in similarly to October in Pittsburgh: the leaves fell, the wind turned cold, and the sky grayed. By Halloween, Mary felt like she was settling into a nice routine. She had written every week to her parents, who were quite pleased that she had somehow procured a teaching job. Teaching seemed to them a much more sensible job than Gadgets and Gizmos. She had several owls from Maz, as well. He was attempting to have Tim and Thora tracked through Britain. As far as he could tell, no one had seen any sign of either.

Mary was delighted with the old-fashioned delights of Hogwarts Halloween feast. Back home, Halloween was a weeklong event to rival the muggle Mardi Gras - held secretly in corn fields across the state. She rarely took part, though, as corn fields made her itch. She brought the wand top to the feast, intending to show it to the Headmaster, who had specifically asked her not to keep the creation of this wand a secret. As Dumbledore was engaged in deep conversation with a Shakespearean-looking ghost, Mary Ann sat down at her usual spot at the teachers’ table. The gamekeeper sat down beside her.

“Hullo there, Mary,” he greeted jovially. His cheeks were quite pink. “Enjoyin’ our Halloween Feast, are you?”

“Yeah, it’s great. Hey – do you want to see the wand so far?” She pulled it from a long pocket in her robes and set the long, hollow, stone-colored wand-top on the tabletop.

“Nice,” he said, touching it gently with his large finger. “That the bit of fossil I gave ya?”

“Yes. I molded it.”

“Don’t use handles on their wands in America, eh?”

“I don’t have the material for the handle yet. I need to get a piece of bone.”

Hagrid took a large drink from his tankard. “I can get you lots o’ bones. Just let me know what kind ya need.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.”

“So, what’ll you put in the core?” Hagrid said. “Or shouldn’t I ask?”

“No, it’s fine. Dumbledore doesn’t want this kept a secret. I’m going to need a sample from at least three different animals. The last time I used a bit of re’em tail-“

“I’ve got a re’em!” announced Hagrid. “Fer my seventh years in Care of Magical Creatures class. I can get you a bit of re’em tale any time you like.”

“Terrific! I don’t supposed you have any cockatrice feathers?” she laughed.

Hagrid set his tankard down hard. “Why, I do! I have a pair of ‘em. Tamed them myself. D’you need tail feathers?”

“Head feathers. I know they’re harder to get. I got my original cockatrice feather from a feeble one I found on the road one day – it had been hit by a muggle car. I nursed him back to health and he donated one of his feathers to my wand.”

Hagrid sat, thinking. “I suppose the male’d let me take a feather – seein’ how it’s me and all. As I said, I’ve tamed ‘em… a bit.” Hagrid beamed, looking immensely pleased at the prospect of helping.

“I’m almost afraid to ask, but do you happen to have any kneazle fur? That’s the last thing I need for the core.”

He looked thoughtful. “I don’t keep kneazles around, ‘cause I don’t like cats much. There is a kneazle in Hogsmeade. I’ll see what I can do.”

The next day, Hagrid was at Mary ’s office door, bearing re’em tail and cockatrice feather. There were faint red marks on his right hand, as though he had been pecked.

“Your cockatrice didn’t do that when you tried to take the feather, did he?” She nodded toward his enormous hand.

“Oh, no – no.” Hagrid slipped his hand into an oversized pocket on his moleskin coat. “That was the female that did that; the male’s tame. Quite tame. I found the kneazle in Hogsmeade. Remember? The one I told you about?” Mancini nodded. “I fed him half my stoat sandwich today, and I think he’s cozying up to me a bit. I reckon, in another few days, I’ll have that fur for you.”

In November, she received an owl from her parents, asking her to come home for Thanksgiving, but as the fourth Thursday in November was just like any other Thursday at Hogwarts, she had to say no. With a bit of help from the Charms teacher, Professor Flitwick, Mary now had a comprehensive list of spells to use on the wand. As far as she could remember, she had simply put every spell she came across on the wand; hoping one would “stick.”

It took quite a bit longer than a “few days” for the kneazle to finally cozy up to Hagrid. He brought a bit of kneazle hair to the DADA classroom shortly before Christmas. He also brought a very large bag of bones, which he emptied on the top of a nearby table.

“I just thought one of these bones might help you.”

“I don’t think so, Hagrid, but thank you,” she said after scanning the contents of the tabletop. “I used a rather sentimental bone, you see. I had a crup as a little girl – his name was Sparky. He died about five years ago and I followed Wizarding tradition of preserving his little forked tailbone. That’s what I used for Thora’s handle.”

“I had a crup myself, as a boy. Me dad bought him for my fifth birthday. Called him Merlin.” Hagrid looked uncomfortable for a minute, then nodded and brightened a bit. “Yeah. I got his tailbone, too. You can have it.”

“Oh, no! Hagrid! I wouldn’t dream of it. You’ve kept it all these years.”

“I’ll bring it up later,” he insisted. “Dumbledore thinks this is a really important task yer doin’ and he asked me to help you any way I can—“

“I’m sure he wouldn’t want you to give up a childhood momento like that. We’ll find another bone –“

Hagrid would hear no argument. He returned later with the crup bone, just as promised. By that evening, the wand was completely finished and every spell applied. Tomorrow, she would take it to Dumbledore’s office and see whether it worked or not.

But an owl from Maz arrived, which put a damper on her plans.

* * * * * * *
(flashback to August 31)

Tim Nott made his way up the grassy hill. There were no muggle sightseers about, for a change. They thought the moldering old abbey ruins were “haunted” and “cursed” – that’s what their tour books said – which made the place especially prone to tourists in the month of October. But October was still two months away. In reality, some great-great-grandfather Nott had placed such a strong series of concealment and repelling charms on it that they still stuck. As Tim crested the hill, the ruins shimmered slightly, then “came into focus” as a large, cold, stone abbey – not ruined, but just as it would have looked a thousand years ago.

Tim approached the door. He resented having to knock at the door of his own ancestral home, but even in the absence of his brother Tiberius – sitting in Azkaban with the other Death Eaters captured in the Ministry of Magic last June - Tim would still not be considered “Master.”

A stiff-looking house elf opened the door. “ Mister Timotheus. What a surprise.”

“Hello, Flinty.” Tim dropped his baggage and cloak at the feet of the elf. “Do get me something to eat, I’m starved.” Tim walked through the enormous front hallway.

A tall, thin boy descended the stairs. “Uncle Tim?” he frowned.

“Well, well, well! If it isn’t little Theodore? Master of the house now that Tiberius is off on holiday?” Theodore scowled, but said nothing. “Shouldn’t you be off at Hogwarts?” Tim asked.

“Tomorrow. September first.” Theodore crossed his arms and looked defiantly at Tim.

“Now, Theodore,” said Tim, jovially, “let’s have none of that. It’s you’re old Uncle Tim!” He placed a fatherly arm around the boy’s shoulders. “And you should be very glad to see me.”

“Should I? Where were you when my father was thrown into Azkaban?” he demanded.

“Come now, Theodore,” Tim led him into the nearby Library and closed the door. Tim perched on the edge of Tiberius’ large desk – it had been their father’s desk, and his father’s desk. He pulled a long, black case from his cloak and set it on the desktop with a flourish. “After you see what your old Uncle has here, Theodore my boy, I think you just might rethink your allegiances.”

The boy stopped scowling. “Why?”

“Because, you just may find that father doesn’t quite hold a candle to your old Uncle Tim.”

“What are you talking about?” spit Theodore.

“Oh, just this little thing –“ Tim lifted the lid on the case, revealing the gleaming black and white Thora, lying placidly in her lined case.

“A wand?”

“Oh, not just any wand, my boy. This wand is going to take me to the top. To. The. Top.” He smirked.

“You want to be head Death Eater?”

“Oh, no my dear boy. Your father’s pitiful aspirations aren’t high enough for me. Not when I’m armed with this. Why would I stop at being head Death Eater when I can be the ones the Death Eater’s worship?”

Theodore’s face went very pale. He moved forward to get a closer look at the wand. He reached out a hand to touch it. Tim slammed the case shut.

“No one touches the wand until I say so,” Tim said smoothly. “But…” he lifted the box from the desk, “If I were armed with a wand which came when I called it,” he opened the top drawer of the desk, “and a wand which could not be disarmed,” he dropped the case into the drawer, “and a wand which never misses its mark,” Tim withdrew his own wand and waved a charm over the drawer – sealing it, “no matter what spell I choose to use,” he slipped his own wand back into his cloak. “Well, I suppose I could do just about anything, couldn’t I?”

“That wand can do all that?” whispered Theodore.

“And more, my boy. And more.”

“You could get my Dad out of Azkaban,” he said quickly.

Tim laughed. He laughed a loud, sudden, raucous laugh. The laugh continued a lot longer than necessary. “Theodore. Oh, Theodore,” he snorted, “You won’t be so keen on your Daddy when you see what I can do.” Tim looked around, grandly. “I’ll be the master of all this – all this and more. You’d better just rethink your allegiances.”

Theodore made his face go deliberately devoid of expression. “I’ve got potions homework to do,” he said suddenly.

“Homework? Yes, that’s the boy.”

“I can’t quite get the Draught of Peace right. I’m too heavy handed,” he said.

“Potions, you say? That was one of my better subjects. Study well, then, Theodore. Study well and just maybe I’ll let you inherit this place after I’m gone. What with your father sitting in Azkaban, someone will need to be master around here…”

Dinner that evening consisted of no one but Tim and Theodore sitting at the enormous table.

“I’ve been thinking,” Tim intoned. “When I’m master here, we’ll have parties. You’re father was the absolute dullest man…”

“Is,” said Theodore darkly.

“What?”

“My father ‘is’, not ‘was’.”

“A technicality,” said Tim dismissively. “Azkaban doesn’t leave much left, does it? Now where’s that bloody house elf?” Flinty appeared in the door, holding a small silver tray with a decanter and single crystal goblet, both filled with red wine. Tim grinned appreciatively. “See, Theodore, even your father’s house elf knows when the real master is here.” Tim waved Flinty forward. “He’s brought wine for the master in The Master’s Goblet.”

Flinty obsequiously proffered the tray. For the briefest moment, the elf’s eyes seemed to meet Theodore’s, and the elf seemed to nod, just the slightest.

“I’m off, Uncle,” said Theodore suddenly, rising from the table and striding to the dining room door.

Tim laughed disparagingly. “Still can’t get the hang of that potion, eh? Shall I give you some pointers later?”

Theodore stopped just at the door. “That won’t be necessary, Uncle. I think I’ve got it absolutely perfect now.” He strode out calmly, nodding imperceptibly to Flinty.

Tim turned to the elf, grasped the goblet, and downed the wine. A look of confusion passed briefly across his face just before it contorted into a look of intense pain. His body went stiff, his eyes closed, and his chin dropped roughly to his chest.

* * * * *

Dumbledore set down the letter and looked across his desk to Mary Mancini. “Timotheus Nott was discovered several days ago, in a private hospital in Devonshire. He was listed under an assumed name, and continues to be in an irreversible sleep. The Healers hold no hope for him.”

“What about the Thora?”

“There was no sign of any wand,” sighed Dumbledore. “The Healer said a house elf brought him in sometime in September. The hospital fees are being paid anonymously.” He sighed heavily. “How close are you to finishing the recreated wand, Mary?”

“Oh!” she said brightly. “It’s finished.” She pulled the wand from her robes and placed it unceremoniously on Dumbledore’s desk. “I thought I’d call her Thorasdottir – as in Thora’s Daughter.”

Dumbledore lifted it and examined the wand with his long, crooked fingers. “There is something of a crackling to it…”

The door of Dumbledore’s office opened suddenly and Hagrid stomped in, holding a small, wet-looking bag. “Professor, I’ve got the cockatrice droppings you asked fer—“ he stopped short. “Oh, I’m sorry. Should I come back later?”

Dumbledore waved Hagrid into the room. “No, Hagrid. You’ve been a great help to Miss Mancini. I think you should be here for the demonstration.” He returned the wand to Mary and took a step back, withdrawing his own wand and holding it at the ready.

“Expelliarmus,” Dumbledore said quietly.

Thorasdottir literally flew from Mary’s hand, spun itself across the room and landed roughly at Hagrid’s large, boot-clad feet.

“Oh dear,” frowned Dumbledore.

“Not good,” sighed Mancini.

“Why don’t you try it again?” suggested Hagrid, bending heavily to retrieve the wand. He was making a motion as if handing the wand back to Mary when it happened. With a whoosh like a tornado, every piece of heavy, ornate furniture of Dumbledore’s office scattered on a funnel cloud of wind, and blew up the fireplace. The wind died immediately. All three stood shocked and wind-blown in Dumbledore’s now completely bare office.

“Hagrid,” said Dumbledore slowly. “Disarm me.”

“Oh, no, Sir! I couldn’t!”

“Please disarm me, Hagrid,” Dumbledore repeated.

“Well, then.” Hagrid blushed slightly. “Expelly – yarmus” he muttered. Dumbledore’s wand flew swiftly from his hand and landed neatly in Hagrid’s right breast pocket.

“Well,” Dumbledore said thoughtfully. The room was silent for several moments. Finally Dumbledore spoke. “The wand cores?” he asked, turning to Mary.

“Re’em tail, cockatrice feather, and kneazle fur,” she answered.

Dumbledore’s eyes flicked to the bag still in Hagrid’s hand. “And the tail and feather Hagrid gave you?” She nodded.

“I got the kneazle fur, too, Sir,” Hagrid said quickly. “From the kneazle I made friends with in the village.”

“The wand itself?” Dumbledore asked Mary.

“Petrified wood Hagrid got me from Dorset –“

“Hagrid’s family home,” interrupted Dumbledore. “And the handle?”

“Crup bone,” sighed Mary. “From Hagrid’s pet crup, but I did the spells!”

“The spells, as any wand maker can tell you, only strengthen the core and the wand materials. They do nothing to bind the wizard to the wand. It is the wand materials and the wand cores which choose the wizard. And the wizard this particular wand seems to have chosen…” He didn’t need to finish.

The facts all seemed to dawn slowly on Hagrid. “So *I* can control this wand?” he whispered. “I can do any spell I want with it? I can call it to me? And no one can disarm me?”

“Let’s give it a try, shall we?” Dumbledore retrieved his wand from Hagrid’s pocket, turned and bellowed, “Expelliarmus!” Thorasdottir remained firmly in Hagrid’s large hand.

“Oh, my…” Hagrid whispered, his hand trembling. “Oh, my…” He turned toward the large picture windows and gave the wand a little shake in their direction. The glass shattered and flew out as though hit by a sonic boom from inside the room. “Sorry about that,” Hagrid said quickly. “I just wanted to see if I could open them.”

Dumbledore extended a hand. “Hagrid, if you would just let me…”

“Professor Dumbledore, Sir! Do you realize what this means?” Hagrid’s dark eyes went bright with excitement. “I could fight the Death Eaters! No – I could fight You-Know-Who!”

Dumbledore’s hand was still extended, “Hagrid, if you would just hand the wand to…”

“No! Professor! No!” urged Hagrid. “Don’t ya see? I could kill You-Know-Who, and Harry wouldn’t have to do it! Harry could be safe.” He turned imploring eyes on Dumbledore. “I could keep Harry safe, sir. I could do it all with this wand.” Hagrid took one half-step backwards – away from Dumbledore’s outstretched hand. “McNair, sir? And Malfoy! I could get them, Professor.” He took another half-step. “And that witch who killed poor Sirius…” Hagrid started moving toward the door. “No, Sir. I have t’do it, don’t ya see? I haffta.”

“Rubeus, my boy,” said Dumbledore quietly. “Give me the wand.”

Hagrid looked from Dumbledore, to the wand in his own large hand, then back to Dumbledore’s face. Hagrid dropped his chin sobbing, and then dropped the wand. It hit the floor and singed a three-foot hole in the Persian carpet.

“I’m sorry, Professor!!” bellowed Hagrid, between sobs.

Dumbledore bent and took the wand. He strode quickly to an adjoining room, then back again. “I took the liberty of securing the wand in a very safe place!” He shouted to Mary to be heard above Hagrid’s wails.

“What does this mean for Thora?” she shouted. “My first wand? Does that mean no one can use it but me?”

“I think that is EXACTLY what it means!” cried Dumbledore.

“Carried away with me own power!” sobbed Hagrid.

Dumbledore placed a bony hand on Hagrid’s massive shoulder. “Hagrid! Please!”

* * * * * *
(another flashback – morning of September first)

It hadn’t take more than two spells for Theodore to unlock his father’s desk drawer. He had thought of the first one, but it had been Flinty who suggested the second.

“It doesn’t look like wand wood, Master Theodore,” said the elf, gazing into the wand case. “It looks like stone to me. Perhaps petrified wood?”

“Maybe,” replied Theodore, lifting the wand from its case. He gave it a wave. Nothing happened. “Incendio!” said Theodore, pointing at the fireplace. The stack of logs remained cold and still.

Flinty gave a snap of his thin fingers and a blazing fire erupted in the grate.

“Can you try to disarm me, Flinty?” asked Theodore. Flinty made a small motion with his hand. Thora flew from Theodore’s hand and skidded across the hearthrug. “The idiot!” cried Theodore. “It’s rubbish. It’s nothing but old rubbish wood! Did he think he was going up against the Dark Lord with this piece of crap? He’d be dead before he got a word out.” He picked up the rubbish wand and tossed in unceremoniously into the fireplace.

“You did him a favor then, Sir, with your potion?” Flinty smiled mischievously.

Theodore showed no emotion. “He never did me any favors and sure never did my Dad any.” He shrugged. “Am I all packed for Hogwarts, then, Flinty?” The elf nodded. “Good. I can’t wait to get back to school.”




And as an added bonus, I'll include another Dumbledore's Grid story in which is still in progress:



Mary Yoder, Amish Witch


Mary Yoder closed the wooden screen door behind her, and stepped out onto the whitewashed porch. She raised her hand to shield her eyes from the orange glare of the setting sun. Mary’s sixteen-year-old brother, Jacob, was pushing a small empty handcart up the gravel drive, kicking up small swirls of dust. He had been working all day at the produce stand at the bottom of the farm, at Route 422, which sped along the length of Grossdawdy’s property. Everyone in the New Wilmington area knew that the their family’s produce, meat, and baked goods were the freshest in the county, and that their furniture and quilts were of the highest quality, but most people came for Grossdawdy’s “Medicinals.” No mother in the county - Amish or English (the Amish term for the non-Amish) - was without his Headache Medicinal, or the Fever Medicinal, and more than a hundred babies had been saved by the Croup Medicinal over the years. The success of the day’s sales could be seen in the smile on Jacob’s face, and in his empty cart.

Although older than Mary by two years, Jacob was still unbaptized, and didn’t follow the Ordnung. He was in what Grandma called the Rumspringa - running around time. Jacob was good about manning the produce stand; he had neither the temperament nor the inclination to work with the animals, and he and Pop argued so often that Pop refused to let him in the woodworking shop anymore. However, in the evening, Jacob would be soon off in a car with his friends, traveling around the countryside, blaring their rock music and doing who-knows-what-else. Mary descended the porch steps and met Jacob on the driveway.

“What are you standing here for?” he asked, nodding at the egg basket tucked over her left elbow. “Mom's going to be after you if you’re neglecting your chores again.”

“I was just watching you, and thinking,” she answered, snapping out of her reverie.

“If you want to watch and think,” Jacob said, removing his straw hat and mopping his forehead, “watch and think at that.” He directed her gaze behind them, toward the east.

A dark cloud had been looming on the eastern horizon for several weeks. Unlike any normal, stormy weather pattern, it hadn’t dropped rain upon them and moved along. It was growing larger and growing darker, but remained there on the horizon, as though shadowing them.

“It might just be a storm,” she said in an unsure voice.

Jacob replaced his hat. “I might not be Grossdawdy’s personal assistant, but I’m smart enough to tell when he’s worried. And this," he nodded at the clouds again, "is worrying him."

"I'm not his person--" Mary began to argue, but she broke off as a window open noisily on the upper floor of the house.

"Mary!" cried Momly in an exasperated voice. "The eggs now once!"

"Sorry!" called Mary. She cast a look at Jacob, who smiled sympathetically, and then she lifted the front of her skirts and ran toward the hen house. She wasn't Grossdawdy's personal assistant. Whatever it meant, it sounded like she was special and Mary tried very hard not to be special. It's just that she loved Grossdawdy, and what Grossdawdy stood for, and wanted to be part of it. She pushed open the henhouse door and surveyed the several dozen chickens, sitting placidly on straw nests. It wasn’t her fault that Momly and Pop had named her Mary - Grossdawdy's mother's name. It wasn't her fault that Grossdawdy did seem to enjoy having her around - no, need her around. It was Mary who had always taken down his recipes, and kept his books neat, and his notes organized. She had been his "right hand man" for as long as she could remember, and even before she was baptized into the Order, Grossdawdy had been teaching her his craft.
"Stop making excuses!" she chided herself. "Take responsibility. Do your duty," she said, quoting Grossdawdy. Right now, her duty was to tend to the chickens, and bring the eggs to Momly.

She reached into the pocket of her white apron, and withdrew a long, slender wooden stick. Pointing it at the first chicken, she opened her mouth, but couldn't bring forth the proper words. She wracked her brains for a moment then, giving up, ran quickly from the henhouse to the largest barn. Pulling open the heavy door, Mary stepped into the shade of the red building. Unlike the other barn, this one didn't smell of mingled pig, horse and cow odors. This bore the unmistakable smell of sawdust - a scent which always reminded Mary of her father. She squinted slightly, allowing her eyes to grow accustomed to the slight dimness and then saw her father standing beside a jigsaw, studying it with a frown on his face. All of a sudden he nodded, smiled with satisfaction, and pulled a baton-like rod from inside the left sleeve of his blue shirt. Muttering something quietly in Low German, he tapped the blade, which immediately began humming smoothly. With another wave of the wooden rod, he stood a pile of wood up on their ends, and made them line up next to the saw. The first one jumped into the teeth of the saw, which began cutting and shaping the wood into a round tabletop.

"Pop!" called Mary from the doorway. Her father glanced up and smiled. He deftly slipped the wooden baton back up his sleeve as he crossed the barn to meet her.

"I'm in trouble again, Pop," Mary cried. "I can't remember the incantations for the chickens, and Momly's waiting."

"Oh, Mary," sighed her father kindly, "you would do to pay as much attention to Momly's lessons as you do your Grossdawdy's." Mary looked down meekly. "But still, never mind," he put a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Heil - health. Fäle - plenty. Toofrädenheit - contentment."

"Toofrädenheit!" Mary exclaimed. "That's the one I always forget." She bolted from the barn, calling a quick danke back to her father. When she had cast her spells on the chickens and gather their eggs, Mary wandered to the farthest corner of the coop. The large bald eagle, which had been roosting there for several days, had apparently returned to its owner - no doubt bearing Grossdawdy's return message. The truth was, Jacob was right. Grossdawdy was concerned over the growing storm in the East. Apparently, many other Bishops were as well, as Grossdawdy had received an extraordinary number of messenger birds over the past several weeks, and not just the normal owls. Mary had cared for the bald eagle, a large black raven, and once, what she was sure was a pink flamingo. Apparently people from all over the country had been sending letters to Grossdawdy, because he now spent hours each day in his library, reading and writing replies.

The unmistakable sound of an automobile on the gravel driveway brought her from the henhouse. A yellow and black taxicab had stopped in front of their house and a non-Amish woman emerged from the car. The woman, who wore a neat, plaid-lined trench coat over a dark-colored dress, set her matching plaid satchel on the ground in order to pay the driver. Mary hurried over, watching the woman struggling slightly with walking in heels on the gravel drive. The woman waited for the taxi to drive away before speaking."

"I have come on most urgent business. I need to speak with Isaiah Byler immediately," she insisted, in an accent Mary had never heard before.

"He's my Grandfather. I'll get him," Mary ran toward the house, stopped short, and ran back to the woman. "Um… come with me," she corrected, and led the stern-looking woman up onto the porch and into the house. Mary ran across the wooden hallway, rapped quickly on Grossdawdy's library door and got no answer. She opened the door and put her head in. He wasn't there. Leaving the woman to stand, rather stiffly, in the hallway, Mary flung the parlor doors open. She had forgotten. Tonight was the quilting bee.
The parlor was filled to capacity with brightly colored quilts, stretched on frames. At least two-dozen women hovered over the quilts, wands drawn, supervising the rapid stitching of several hundred tiny needles. The needles flew magically over the surface of the quilt, making rapid and perfect stitches. They always reminded Mary of honeybees hovering over a field of clover. Grandma stood gossiping in the middle of them, her white hair pulled tightly under the stiff white cap.

"And then," Grandma tittered, her aged face wrinkling in laughter, "she said 'I don’t know how you Amish do it all without electricity, it's just like magic!'" Grandma and several other women giggled unrestrainedly.

"I don't think they ever will catch on, you know," said one plump woman, whose white apron threatened to burst loose from it's pins.

Mary was about to ask Grandma as to the whereabouts of her husband when footfalls could be heard on the stairs. Mary turned to see her grandfather descending. He was a short man, not particularly thin but neither was he fat. Mary didn't honestly know how old her grandfather was, but placed him at about eighty, although the neighborhood stories seemed to indicate he had been around almost forever. Grossdawdy was dressed in traditional Amish garb: dark trousers, a blue shirt and black suspenders. His gray hair - unusually thick and full for his age - was cut in a bowl-shape and slightly long in the back.

The woman moved forward. "Bishop Byler?"

Grossdawdy didn't answer. Instead, he moved forward and closed the parlor doors, leaving the laughter and curious eyes behind them. Only then did he turn to the woman.

"Yes, I'm Isaiah Byler," Grossdawdy said, a slight frown on his usually jolly, round face.

"You are, I believe, the - er - leader?"

To Mary's surprise, her grandfather smiled. "The man who claims to be the boss in his own home will lie about other things as well," he quipped.

The woman relaxed slightly and seemed to almost smile. "My name is Minerva McGonagall," she began, "and I come with a message."

Grossdawdy's eyes flicked briefly to Mary and then back to Minerva McGonagall. "It's all right, you may tell me now once."

The woman glanced at Mary, who still stood in the middle of the hallway, then back to Grossdawdy. "I'm to tell you - er -" she paused, looking extremely uncomfortable. "I'm to tell you that - well - that 'Dumbledore has run out of your delightful Blackberry Medicinal, and finds himself in need of more'," she quoted quickly, as though she felt what she was saying was very foolish.

Grossdawdy threw back his head and guffawed. The woman frowned sternly, but said nothing. Then Grossdawdy extended a hand to her and said, "Please join me in my library, Miss McGonagall." He led her across to the door and opened it, standing back for the woman to pass through first, then turned to Mary. "Bring our guest something to eat and drink please, Mary," he smiled then closed the door behind him.

Mary delivered her eggs to Momly in the kitchen, and then prepared two large trays with no more explanation to her mother than, "Grossdawdy said." When she entered Grossdawdy's library, he and Minerva McGonagall were in deep discussion.
"Dumbledore knows that we will always refuse to take part in war of any kind-" He glanced up and waved Mary into the room. She levitated the two trays onto a square table and began pouring coffee for two. Mary held a plate to Minerva McGonagall.

"Whoopie pie?" she asked, offering her two thick, cake-like cookies which were sandwiched together by a generous dollop of whipped cream.

"Er…thank you," said the woman. Grossdawdy allowed the woman a minute to eat and drink while he closed the library door.

"I assume that Dumbledore told you our position, Minerva," he continued. "We refrain from being part of either world." He looked at Mary. "Not the English world." Then he looked at McGonagall. "And not the Wizarding world. We are in the world, but not of it." Grossdawdy sat down heavily and took the cup of coffee that Mary had poured. He looked weary.

"Dumbledore knows you have a long tradition of neutrality on matters of Wizard, Muggle, and English," she said. "But he also knows that you have a long tradition which, I believe, you see as your solemn duty, to protect and care for all non-magical peoples." McGonagall set down her coffee cup, looking solemn. "I myself passed your stand on the road which, I believe, sells foods and potions which you have made in order to protect muggles - er, English - from disease and malady and which, in fact, promote long health and happiness. Dumbledore tells me your wife descends from a long line of those gifted in brauching and that she is the most celebrated midwitch in your area."

"We call them mid-wives," said Grossdawdy.

McGonagall's voice became low and somewhat desperate, "We are even now, Isaiah, engaged in a war against the most grievous kind of evil."

"This, I have foreseen, Minerva," he said, glancing toward the East-facing window.

"Then you must know that it is not only the Wizarding world in danger, but the Muggle world as well!" she said.

"The English world? How so?"

"Only last year a Muggle family was attacked - kidnapped and hung in the air. The woman was exposed and the children tortured -"

Grossdawdy stood, now angry. "Tortured?"

"In heinous ways."

"And what does Dumbledore want from me?" he asked quietly.

"Dumbeldore needs your expertise. He needs you to come with me, to create potions - your Medicinals - which we can use to protect Muggles across Britain from attack by Death Eaters."

"Death Eaters?"

"That is the name Voldemort's followers have given themselves."

Grossdawdy rose and moved to the window, speaking under his breath in Low German. He turned to Mary and said, in English, "Verily I say unto you, that there be some of them that stand here, which shall not taste of death, till they have seen the kingdom of God come with power." Mary had heard that particular Bible quote many times before, but Grossdawdy seemed to look as though he was only now hearing it for the first time. An expression of sadness crossed his face, and then one of strength and resolve. He nodded, at first imperceptibly so, but the nods grew strong. He smiled reassuringly at the look on concern on Mary's face and then sat and, to her surprise, took a whoopee pie, eating it in two bites.

"Can you stay for a few days, Minerva? We're having a barn raising tomorrow and the Stoltzfus are coming. They're notorious for a most fancy display of magic," he said, though not critically. "And my son-in-law Aaron is preaching on Sunday, so it should be an exceedingly short service--"

McGonagall looked uncomfortable. "While your invitation sounds delightful, Isaiah, I'm afraid Dumbledore hoped you might be able to come today."

"Today? Well," he glanced at Mary, "we'll have to make sure your mother can spare you, Mary."

Jacob was storming around the summer kitchen where Momly was cooking apple butter over the open fireplace. "Why in the world Mary gets to go and I don't-"

"Jacob, I've told you-"

"This is a war I want to help fight-"

Momly raised her voice, to be heard above his. "Then that is even more the reason not to go!"

The shouting had drawn Aaron Yoder from his work in the barn. From the doorway of the summer kitchen, Mary watched her father pause at the outdoor sink to wash the dirt and sawdust from his hands. He walked slowly and purposefully toward the scene of his wife and eldest son engaged in verbal battle.

"I can go and you can't stop me!" yelled Jacob.

Pop entered the summer kitchen. "You are unprepared and completely unequipped," he said in his calm, quiet voice. "You have no magic, my son. You are unbaptized. You are not under the Ordnung. You are untrained and without a wand, and your sister, is not."

Mary remembered the summer day three years ago when she was baptized in that plain and simple church in the middle of Grossdawdy's cornfield. It was her entrance into the magical world - the Amish world. After the baptism, she and Grossdawdy had walked quietly into the wood behind their farm, Pop following them with an axe over his shoulder and Momly carrying a small basket. Grossdawdy had her place a hand on several different trees: a tall oak, a stately pine, and even - ad Pop's suggestion - a small, wiry sassafras. Whatever it was Grossdawdy thought would happen apparently wasn't happening because he continued to shake his head and lead them farther into the forest.

They had searched for what seemed like hours and Mary had begun to grow tired when suddenly she lost her footing, and had reached out to grasp a sapling to steady her. To her surprise, the wood filled with song. It wasn't birdsong, as Mary had first thought, nor was it a human voice - it was something of spirit, or of earth, or both. It was as though the trees themselves were singing. From the look on everyone's face, that had been what they all were waiting for. The sapling was her wand tree.

The sapling turned out to be a Sugar Maple, which had disappointed Mary muchly. Momly's wand was Apple and Pop's was Black Walnut. She thought Sugar Maple was completely boring until Grossdawdy told her that the Sugar Maple was the only tree in the wood which waited until the earth was covered in darkness before it brought forth it's finest gift. Pop had felled the sapling in one quick stroke of the axe and as it fell Momly rushed forward, catching something that seemed to float down from the top of it. It was squirrel tail which, they said, was to make the magical core of her wand.

"Squirrel tail?" Mary had said, dejectedly.

"Not any squirrel tail," her mother had announced, "but Delmarva Fox Squirrel tale. It's very fast and agile - and quite rare."

"Sounds like our Mary," Pop had said.

Pop had spent the afternoon constructing her wand and Grossdawdy had placed the squirrel tale into its core. They had presented it to her at supper that evening. It had been a huge event, done outdoors, as big as any barn raising she had ever seen. She started her formal magical training with Grossdawdy the very next day…

Mary absentmindedly fingered the wand in the pocket of her apron. Jacob had been surly that day, too. He was beyond surly now, though. He was livid. He knocked the cauldron of apple butter to the ground, spraying hot, brown sauce all over the floor and the hem of Momly's dress, and then stormed from the building. Mary made to go after him, but Pop held her back.

"Give him some time," Pops said. "He'll get over it. He always gets over it."

But Jacob didn't get over it. Mary and Grossdawdy had spent the afternoon packing Grossdawdy's potion-making supplies and books, not to mention their clothes, and she saw no sign of Jacob. Minerva McGonagall was able to charm all the packages so they would disappear from Pennsylvania and appear in Hogsmeade - a small town outside the Hogwarts School where Dumbledore was headmaster. At supper that night, for which Minerva McGonagall joined them, Jacob was conspicuously absent. That evening, after the sunset, Grossdawdy, McGonagall, and Mary were saying farewell when one of the cousins hurried downstairs with the news that Jacob's room was empty and he was gone without even leaving a note. Mary was distressed, and didn't want to leave, but Grandma reassured her that Jacob would surely return soon and before she knew it, McGonagall was giving her instructions on how to use something called a Port Key. Minerva McGonagall extracted a gaudy-looking gold bust of someone called "Robert Burnes" and charmed it. At the same time, McGonagall, Grossdawdy and Mary placed a hand firmly upon it. Mary felt a pulling sensation in her middle and was soon travelling through space.




That's it! :)