Yesterday was the big Quidditch match and the debut of Harry Potter as Gryffindor seeker and boy, oh boy, was that stadium packed. The celebration began early in the common room, students enchanting signs to glow and display messages of support and enthusiasm. Girls swarmed in packs, primping each other and assuring their fellow vixens that their matching gloves, hat, and scarf combo was totally hott. The guys wagered over the breakfast table - 'Five Galleons that Slytherin loses!' 'Seven Sickles that Harry catches the Snitch before they score!' - as they shoveled bacon and black pudding. I, however, sat nervously at the edge of my four-poster, wondering where in the hell Jill and Neville were.
After the failed first meeting of DOPES, I had given up on teaching my fellow students to appreciate the natural beauty of the scientific world and had instead focused on selling them herbal delights in exchange for some serious bank. The problem was that I had no idea where to acquire such things at this school for the deaf, dumb, and magical. Had I been on my home lot, in the back of the Y, I could have sat on the broken down wooden bench with white knee socks, and an old Seville with a driver wearing sunglasses would fix me up with whatever I needed for a wad of twenties. But now I was on different turf, and I had to play by its rules. Who would know the psychedelic properties of this realm's flora and fauna?
Neville Longbottom.
I approached him one night after dinner, catching him on the second floor and pulled him behind a statue of Sir Germantoly, Slayer of Wereponies and Dodo Birds. 'I need a favor,' I said to his blank, freckled face. He looked at me with the indifference of a grazing cow. 'Aren't you that kid that drugged Oliver Wood?' 'Yes,' I conceited, 'and if you don't help me I'll do much, much worse to you.' What Neville needed to understand was that I was brought up not to feel shame. My mother would drag me with her, bi-monthly, to the local Sam's Club where I would perform a series of monologues from soap operas, Christmas carols and dramatic reenactments of Calvin and Hobbes comic strips, wearing a sign that said 'Not allowed home til the groceries are paid for' and a empty coffee can at my feet. She would stand nearby, yelling notes that I was expected to incorporate into the act immediately, until enough shoppers would feel sorry for me and drop enough money into the can to pay for the cart full of Lucky Charms, frozen chicken wings and Baileys. 'Fine,' he said begrudgingly, 'what do you need?'
I explained the operation to Neville and Jill over a table in the Restricted Section. Neville was in charge of the research, Jill the acquisition, and I would take control of moving the product. An hour later, Neville handed us a small scrap of parchment with plant names and their ideal habitats. Soon enough, Jill was off to the Forbidden Forest and returned with an armful of Arbuscula Evanesca, a plant whose stalk is filled with a hallucinogenic liquid and whose leaves can be smoked, causing the user to feel a state of mental and physical euphoria. The next morning, we would head off to the Quidditch stadium to sell small bags for Ten Galleons under the Slytherin bleachers. Jill and Neville would work the crowd, informing others of my location and I would be in charge of distribution.
It was thirty minutes before the game started before Jill burst into my dormitory, breathlessly. 'Sorry!' she apologized. 'I was at breakfast and Squirrel was eating a croissant. He takes such little bites! It's so adorable.' I asked where Neville was and Jill informed me he had already taken off for the game and would meet us there.
When we arrived at the stadium, it was already packed. We could see the Gryffindor team take the field. 'I'll be suprised if Harry can still ride his broom today,' Jill snickered. If all had gone according to plan, Harry had found himself at Hagrid's disposal the night before and the salty sea captain had given him the biznazz after knocking him out with some Arbuscula Evanesca. I took my place under the bleachers and soon enough, students from all houses were in line to snag some shwag.
'Oy! You lot! What's going on here?' It was Percy Weasley, the Gryffindor prefect. Everyone scattered, the way we used to do in prison when Big Jamal starting looking for participants for the Christmas pageant. I took advantage of the chaos and ducked under the heavy tapestry behind me, climbed my way into a section of Ravenclaw students and immediately swallowed the two remaining bags I had on me. For a brief moment, I felt the wind on my face, my eyes squinted to stare at a parcel of sunlight tearing through cloud. Upwards, fourteen dazzling players soared and swerved on broomsticks. It truly was an amazing sight, something I would have never seen had I not been accepted into Hogwarts. I thought about my parents. Had they ever seen a Quidditch game before the Carnival cruise disaster? I did not pursue the sentimentality long, the liquid core of the plants was beginning to kick in. Sky met earth in trippy folds, and the crowd began to scream. Harry Potter was spinning erratically, jerking uncontrollably, a chaotic dance with the ever-changing scenery. It may have been the drugs, but in my mind, his movement was perfectly choreographed to Jamal's rendition of 'Good King Wenceslas'.
My instinct told me to get the hell out of a public setting and I set off discretely for the castle. It was empty inside, save for the Headless Hunt, who barreled through the wall of the Great Hall, sending me on a tear up the nearest flight of stairs. Pursuing me at a steady canter, I raced up flight after flight, pleading with every portrait I could see to open and reveal a safe passage. Without knowing why, I barricaded myself into a room I had never visited before. My ear to the door, I determined the Hunt had passed as was ready to leave when I saw a mirror out of the corner of my eye. I determined I should check to see if my eyes were red in case I ran into Filch. And that's when, Diary, I peered into the mirror and saw myself, not standing as I was, but sitting on a posh stool in front of a well-stocked bar. There was bottle after bottle of Patron, Bombay, Seagrams, and fifty different beers on tap! O, what a splendid heaven! I reached for the glass, thinking that perhaps I could reach in and make myself a whiskey sour. The mirror did not give way, however. My dream still unattainable, I left in a huff. 'Piece of garbage,' I thought to myself, kicking the door open.
I'm going to show the mirror to Jill and hope that maybe she can figure out how to unlock the liquor within. And in the meantime, there's a stash of coins in my pocket that I can't wait to spend.
xoxo
Chris.
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