The Marauders: Year Seven Part Two

Bowtruckles

In that way, Regulus thought, he could certainly identify with the thestrals most sincerely.

The night was falling, the sun setting behind the mountains beyond Hogsmeade, and Regulus knew that soon Kettleburn would tell him to go on to bed and that they'd see each other next day, if Regulus wanted to come by the paddock again, or else next week during classes. Regulus hated this part - the time of night when he had to return back to Slytherin common room, back to where the others were always watching him. Sometimes, he could feel Severus Snape staring at him from across the room and could almost picture him, circling Regulus mentally, like a vulture watching it's prey, waiting for the moment when Regulus let his thoughts down enough to allow Severus access to his mind... It was tiring always being on guard, as Regulus had to be 'round the Slytherins. Much more peaceful there in the barn, with Kettleburn and the creatures.

Kettleburn walked slowly, limping on his prosthetic leg, which creaked when he walked and was about a quarter inch shorter than his real leg, giving him a funny sloping gait. He lifted up a small cage, peered inside, then turned to look at Regulus.

"Would you like to help me with the bowtruckles?" he asked. 

Regulus nodded, eager to stay on with Kettleburn. "Sure!" he said, hurrying over and taking the cage. He looked through the grated door. Inside was what had to be twenty or thirty spindly green bowtruckles, big leaves poking out of their heads and beady eyes staring up at Regulus as their vine-like fingers twisted and coiled. "Whoa, cool," he whispered, staring at them.

"They are, aren't they?" Kettleburn sounded quite proud at the reaction his bowtruckles had elicited from Regulus.

"Brilliant," Regulus said as one of the bowtruckles crawled a bit closer, staring right back into his face, and slowly extended one of his tiny branch-like arms out between the holes in the grate to poke Regulus's nose. Regulus laughed and his breath knocked the poor bowtruckle right over, where he was caught by one of his mates and another of the creatures shook a tiny balled leaf (a fist?) at Regulus vengefully. "What do we have to do with them?" Regulus asked, lowering the cage.

Kettleburn's arm was extended again, grabbing his and Regulus's jackets from a neon-pink coat rack, which had a blinking eye and several feathers on the floor around it. "We must infest the trees, my boy."

"Infest the trees?" Regulus asked, curious.

Kettleburn nodded, "We take this crate of bowtruckles into the woods - there's a particular section of the trees that are wand wood quality. Bowtruckles need wand quality wood, yes, but few realize if you infest a particular wand tree with more bowtruckles than there are branches, they will migrate to nearby trees and cleanse the wood there to make more wand-quality wood."

Regulus was enraptured by Kettleburn's words. "That's amazing."

"Yes," Kettleburn nodded. "Wand wood can be quite rare, especially these days, with a headmaster like Dumbledore, who allows muggleborns to attend Hogwarts." He smiled. "Did you know that the trees here in our forrest, tended by Professor Sprout and Hagrid, and inhabited by my bowtruckles, account for nearly seventy-two percent of Mr. Ollivander's wandwood?" 

"Really?" 

Kettleburn bent to lift a big sack of woodlice and nodded as he led the way out from the stables and away from the paddock, toward the edge of the woods beyond Hagrid's cabin. "Why, my current wand was from a chestnut tree that I raised here on the grounds. Third wand made from Hogwarts wood," he added, proudly, "I do rather miss my second, I must say, though. It was made of white birch and was very whippy - even more so than this one I've got now. Eaten by a dragon," he explained, "Along with the hand that was holding it." He flexed his mechanical hand and it clicked menacingly. 

Regulus wasn't sure how to react to that story, and so he followed Kettleburn for a way in silence. 

They travelled through the dark woods, the pale blue-white light of the moon slicing through the treetops, Kettleburn's prosthetic leg creaking and his real leg thumping as they walked over the bracken and leaves that lined the ground. After a time, Kettleburn held up his wand. "Lumos," he said, and the light flooded the trees around the path that they were following, and Regulus found they were standing in a clearing, a perfectly circular clearing. In each direction there were different sorts of trees - walnut, chestnut, birch, rowan, elm, spruce... and in the branches there buzzed hundreds of twitching little forms... Bowtruckles, peering out from behind real branches, over thick leaves, and from knot holes in the wood.

"They can smell the woodlice," whispered Kettleburn.

Regulus looked around at all of them - hundreds, easily - peering out from the dark.

Kettleburn lowered the sack of woodlice to the forrest floor. "Release the bowtruckles from their crate, my boy."

Regulus nodded and bent down, opening the crate door.

The bowtruckles came out slowly, tentatively, their little branch-like arms twisting and curling like vines growing in fast motion. Regulus watched, fascinated, as one by one they climbed out of the crate and looked about at the trees, taking deep breaths of fresh air, their leaves unfurling wide and lush from their limbs. 

"Ah yes, there we go," breathed Kettleburn.

The bowtruckles were fluttering, funny gossamar wings hidden in their stick-like bodies unfurling and carrying them off a couple feet, as though they were testing their flight capabilities, before flying off into the trees, their whispy bodies floating with an untellable gracefulness that Remus reckoned had to be near to as beautiful as the thestrals. There was one little bowtruckle whose wings didn't seem to work properly, and Kettleburn nodded at him to call Regulus's attention, and he reached down a gentle palm and lifted the little bowtruckle up. The little creature wrapped his vines 'round Regulus's thumb as Regulus stood upright and stared into the tiny, beady eyes. 

"Hullo," Regulus said quietly.

The bowtruckle suddenly found itself and it fluttered, lifting off from Regulus's palm. He could feel the breath-like whisper of the air from the wings against his skin and he smiled as the bowtruckle turned and fluttered off to the nearby rowan tree.

"Very good, very good," said Kettleburn, smiling at Regulus.

Regulus beamed back. He couldn't wait to tell Maryrose about what had just happened, he felt a great welling of joy at the thought of her mesmerized expression - how excited he would be at learning about ---

His heart sank.

Regulus stared at the ground.

Kettleburn had untied the top of the bag of woodlice and was reaching in with his mechanical hand, scooping out great shovelfuls of lice and tossing them in a wide arch around the clearing, sending the little white dots every which way, making a quiet sound like rain. The bowtruckles needn't be invited any more formally than that - they swept down from their trees in a great rush, their wings flickering, glistening in the lavender-blue moonlight, flashing like they were made of sapphires...

And that's when they heard it.

The howl of a wolf.