"The Tale We Weren't Told"

by Ipecac

Phillius Goodman sat in his armchair by the fireplace, nursing his drink. His hand shook as he raised the mug to his lips, and only by focusing intently for nearly a minute was he able to reduce the shaking to a tolerable level, drawing down the soothing liquid. These days he never could stop the shaking altogether.

The fire struggled in the fireplace with only a single log to fuel it, sending up a yellow bit of flame. The meager warmth filled the room but went barely noticed by Phillius as he huddled miserably under his tattered quilt. He wasn't cold, if anything he was too warm, but the quilt reminded him of his childhood before school, and therefore provided some distraction from his current state of mind.

A soft "whump!" caused him to start violently. Looking over to the dark window, he could see nothing but the black outline of the metal bars he had installed outside. The night beyond was impenetrable but Phillius was sure that if he mustered the energy to move to the window and look down, he'd see a mass of tangled feathers lying on the ground below. After a few minutes, the stunned bird would right itself and fly away, only to return some time later to repeat the event. He wondered if it was always the same owl, but he suspected not.

Across the fireplace from his armchair stood a full length antique mirror in a beautiful and ornate stand. The lovely chestnut brown of the wood and the precise, flowing curves gave clear indications of the mirror's age and value, but Phillius had long since given up any appreciation of its aesthetic value. He had pulled the mirror out of his bedroom weeks before to give witness to his slow descent. Phillius stared at his own reflection, marvelling that fate had brought him to this.

Not to his surprise, a scuffling sound from his front door came next. Squinting over at the dim entryway, he saw that a dark red envelope had been pushed under the door. The nerve! He looked quickly about for an alternative, but could see no way to avoid the inevitable noisy interruption without employing extraordinary means. As the envelope began to shake and rise from the floor, a loud voice started to screech from everywhere at once.

"Phillius Goodman, I . . ."

Phillius' lip quivered and his hand shook even more as he raised it, holding a 12 inch, finely wrought wand of mahogany with a center of manticore testicle.

"Reducto!"

The red envelope disintegrated, the ashes landing atop a rather large pile of older ashes, evidence of previous letters and their identical fates. Phillius dropped his wand to the floor distastefully.

He sighed heavily and pulled the last drops of hot pumpkin juice from his mug. He almost reached down to his wand to refill the mug but stopped the moment he realized what he was doing. He laughed at himself, a nervous laugh that recalled not humor but madness, and stood painfully from his chair, his quilt falling to the floor. He moved slowly to the kitchen.

To his annoyance, a glow around the doorframe testified that he had left the light on. As he pushed open the heavy oak door, he realized with a start that he was mistaken about the light. Standing in the middle of his kitchen was a beautiful, ghostly, silver fox whose eerie glow filled the room. Phillius and the fox stared at each other for a full ten seconds before the fox opened its mouth and began to speak.

"Phillius Goodman, I am . . ."

The ghostly creature got no further before Phillius bolted from the room, his shrill cry of despair cut off as he slammed the door behind him.

Phillius dove back into his armchair, his knees pulled up to his chest, the quilt forgotten. The eerie silver glow still leaked from around the kitchen door, but the fox had not followed him into the room. His entire body shaking, he breathed deeply, trying but unable to calm himself. His eyes moved quickly back and forth between his reflection in the mirror and the wand on the floor.

Another "whump" at the window startled Phillius. With a huge effort of will, he calmed himself enough to sit upright in the chair. Suddenly, the meager fire burst, a sheet of near-green flame roaring to glorious life. As he looked to the fire, his eyes betrayed a moment of surprise before a cool resignation settled over them. A young face, composed entirely of flames, stared out from his fireplace.

"Phillius Goodman, I am Miranda Temple. So glad to find you at home! I'm sure you remember fondly your days at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, class of '97. We're contacting all alumni to ask for your help in our current challenge, ensuring that Hogwarts continues to have the funding to offer the best magical education to all qualified children in Great Britain. Through the generous contributions of alumni like you, just last year we were able to replace the school's aging Cleansweep broomsticks with the latest Nimbus budget model. We offer several options for your gift or pledge, including a direct withdrawal from your vault at Gringotts!"

Phillius listened, his eyes wide. His mouth curled into a small smile as he slowly reached down and picked up his wand from where it lay discarded. With a flourish he raised his rock-steady hand and pointed the wand directly at the mirror where his reflection now sat up straight and tall, a gleam in its eye.

"Avada Kedavra!" Phillius yelled. A green flash illuminated the room, and Phillius fell back into the chair, dead, the smile still on his face.

The fiery image of Miranda Temple stopped her pitch and looked over at Phillius' body, her mouth opening and closing futilely, uttering no sound. Finally, she turned to the side.

"Professor, we've lost another one! Merlin's Beard, I hate cold calls!"

The fire went out.