01| HUNT FOR A PORTKEY
"Twig, stop tickling me."
He giggled.
"Twig, stop it!" she whispered. He brushed his thin, green arms against her ear again, making her twitch. "Honestly, it was a bad idea to put you there. Fiz, help me."
"He doesn't listen to anyone but you, Miss." replied the house elf, and she heaved an agitated sigh.
"Twig, should I send you back with Fizzy? She'll lock you up, just like Galleon." she threatened the bowtruckle. Twig shook his head rapidly and silently clutched the edge of her ear closer, receding to the position where he had originally been placed; behind her ear. He closed his teeny-tiny black eyes and curled his leaves and limbs so that he looked like a piece of ear ornament.
"That's better," she said, feeling the movement of his arms on her sensitive skin. "How much further, Fiz? Honestly, sneaking around in broad daylight is awfully difficult. Couldn't they have settled somewhere closer to a Portkey?"
"Complaining won't solve the problem, Miss," Fizzy said wisely. Twig nodded his little head in agreement. "We're nearly there. Just another alley, and then I'll leave you. Remember, the Portkey is a —"
"A punctured football, yes, I know. Black and white in colour, hexagonal patterns..."
"Correct," said Fizzy and tip-toed ahead, her black shoes clicking softly against the concrete. She wore a very pretty cotton dress which was light yellow in colour and didn't blend in with the shadows at all. But Fizzy couldn't bring herself to wear another dress; it was her favourite.
After much travelling in the dark parts of the streets, the queer-looking trio, at last, arrived at the end of the alleyway. Fizzy peeked round the corner, and upon observing that the street was clear, reported, "It's safe, Miss, and the Portkey is right there."
"Splendid," replied the girl, fidgeting with the little box in the pocket of the new denim shorts she was wearing. She turned to Fizzy, grunting under the weight of the huge bag the circumstances had compelled her to carry, "So you'll be leaving now?"
"Yes, Miss." smiled Fizzy, "Have a safe journey."
"Thanks, Fiz. And have some fun while I'm gone, why don't you? Go visit Dobby and the other elves. You can teach him your special recipe, and maybe he can come over and help you bake it for me sometime." she grinned. Fizzy's smile brightened, and she bobbed her head up and down vigorously. "Now, now, that's good as long as you take care of Galleon. Merlin knows what he'll get up to while I'm away..." She ran a hand worriedly through her hair.
"Let's hope he doesn't try to steal the sword again, you know how she gets when he messes with that kind of stuff. The woman loathes him already, I don't require her to go on a rampage." Adding under her breath (an 'impropriety' she had been told), "Given her history..."
"Yes, Miss," said Fizzy obediently. Then with a sweet smile and a bow, she disapparated from there.
"Well, Twig, it's just you and me now," said the girl. "Behave," she appended and Twig rubbed a leaf against her ear affectionately. Her lips curled into a discreet smile at the bowtruckle's actions and her fingers reached up and stroked him tenderly, making him purr.
Chuckling gently, she stepped out into the street. Hoping profoundly that some hormonal Muggle teenage boy wouldn't appear out of thin air and unsuccessfully attempt to charm her, she hurried towards a tree situated near a bygone park. She had found the Portkey, a punctured football lying inconspicuously at the foot of the tree, amongst some chamomile flowers.
She gasped softly and whispered under her breath to Twig, "Twig, look chamomiles!" Twig let out an equally surprised gasp, which was naturally so faint that it only reached her ears.
Twig loved chamomile flowers, and would always plead with her to fetch some for him whenever she went out, as those were one of the few flowers they didn't have. She too had always been quite fond of the little beauties. Their simplicity was what attracted her to them, but her favourite flowers would forever remain lilies.
"Do you think we could pluck some for tea?" she asked Twig, and he squealed, accidentally moving an arm in his delirium which caused a minor cut on her ear. She hissed at the stinging sensation, her hand instantly moving up to her ear to check whether the wound was bleeding. Bringing her hand back in front of her eyes, she spotted the tiniest drop of blood on her index finger. "God, Twig, I've told you to be careful with those knife-like hands of yours."
She muttered a few curses under her breath, and Twig emitted a whimper at seeing her so cross. Hearing this, she released a compassionate sigh. "Oh chérie, you know I don't like scolding you..."
Twig let out a sad squeak to apologise. She opened her mouth to say something, but her words were drowned by a husky voice, still ripening with adolescence, right behind her.
"Excuse me?"
Twig froze, and for a moment, so did she. But the bowtruckle slowly and skilfully twisted around her ear and shrouded the obvious details, and after ensuring that he had done so, she spun swiftly on her heel to face the intruder.
It was a boy.
She uttered a string of inaudible colourful words that made Twig's leaves unfurl in embarrassment. The boy was almost a head taller than her and wore a pretence of earnestness — which she easily caught on to, judging by how casually he had his hands in his pockets, and the way his eyes shamelessly roamed over her. She merely raised an eyebrow at him, a barely concealed hostile look blazing behind her cold eyes. He was standing closer to her than was considered friendly or polite.
"Can you touch my arm?" he said, and she could scarcely hide her disgust and bewilderment. But he continued before she could express her thoughts, "I want to tell my friends I was touched by an angel."
Her eyes closed as she thought of something civil to say, and she knew he was expecting the red colour to flood her cheeks. But she held great disappointment for him as she wasn't one of those sappy girls who fell for doltish chat-up lines. All she could think was 'He's such a troll,' — but she obviously couldn't tell him that. So she gave the thought a hefty push out of her mind and opened her eyes with much effort.
"Is that the best you could come up with?" she tipped her head to the side, unimpressed, and underlining her words with caustic humour, "Who's next in line? One of your boy toys?"
His stunned look said it all, and she didn't bother to control the slight tug at the edge of her lips. She pivoted curtly on her heel and took no more than a single step forward in direction of the tree when a hand grabbed her wrist roughly and pulled her back.
Anger spiked in her rapidly and spread through her veins like venom. Her hand that wasn't in his grip twitched to pull her wand out of pure instinct. But she reminded herself that he was a Muggle and that she would probably go to Azkaban for deliberately cursing him.
The location itself wasn't favourable. The withered and wilted leaves of the plants which weren't under the sun's warmth, and the desolate park were a clear indication that people seldom took this path. Hence, the Portkey had been placed there. However, it wasn't a good place to be trapped with a robust boy who was intent on achieving her as a trophy.
Turning to him sharply, she spoke in a tone of warning, "Leave my hand."
He didn't.
"I'm saying this in the most polite way possible; leave my hand."
He had the nerve to pull her closer, as a couple of hoarse voices sounded behind him. A group of three boys clambered into the street, catching the attention of the boy who was holding her wrist.
"Mate! What's the progress — ooh!" said one, spotting her standing in close proximity to their friend. "Well, well, Duncan, who knew you had the nerve?"
Duncan.
She scoffed loud enough for his approaching friends to hear, and while he seemed distracted in his gloating, snatched her hand from his loosened grip and stepped a considerable distance away.
"So Duncan, is it?" she said, and the next moment he was howling in pain, holding his bleeding nose where she had punched him. Examining her knuckles (which hurt slightly) with mild surprise registering on her features, she muttered to herself, "Huh, works."
Two of Duncan's friends cowered behind the third one who stormed towards her. "Why, you —" he started, but she cut him off.
"See, I'd love to stay and chat about how many more bones and ligaments I could break in your friend's body," she said, pulling out her vintage pocket watch from her pocket and checking the time, "but I'm in a real hurry." Her eyes widened a bit as she realised that only a minute was left for the scheduled time slot to activate the Portkey.
As she muttered the time under her breath, she heard Twig panic. He really wanted those chamomiles.
Duncan's raging friend growled and charged at her, his surplus fat making him look like an Erumpent. She gracefully stepped to the side and he tumbled forward as she discreetly extracted her wand and used a spell to trip him, her lips only just moving. He tried to rise, but she stepped on his hand, making him scream out in pain. Duncan was still moaning about his nose, his two cowardly friends had scurried off sensibly, not wanting to end up with the same fate as their other companions.
"I'll let you go on one condition," she said as he seized hold of her ankle, grunting and hissing pathetically. Having lost all stamina after a while, he looked up at her, his eyes begging for mercy. "Scram," she hissed, lifting her foot.
Both Duncan and his friend didn't need to be told twice. They scampered like rats until they were out of her sight.
"Oh no," she murmured, looking at her watch again. They had exactly seven seconds before the Portkey was activated. Twig, reading the time too, determinedly unfurled himself and hopped down on the road, prancing towards the chamomiles. She followed him hastily and saw a few chamomiles fall and disappear under the others as Twig used his sharp hands to cut them. Reaching the football, she bent down and grabbed it, and Twig barely made it to her with four chamomiles tucked under each arm and two clenched in his mouth.
What happened in the next few seconds, she hardly knew. One moment she was holding the punctured football, the next she felt an uncomfortable sensation like having a hook somewhere behind her navel; and then she was tumbling freely through the air, straight towards a hilltop.
Twig screamed a high-pitched, horrified scream. His chamomiles were falling down! But opening his mouth was a huge mistake, as the two he had held in his mouth had now flown away too.
Holding tightly onto him, she managed to whip out her wand and perform a quick spell, narrowly saving herself from what could've been a painful experience. When her feet touched the damp, green grass at last, it wasn't her, but Twig who heaved a sigh of relief. She laughed at his eagerness to meet the fresh soil, observing him slide down her arm and jumping off her fingertips to fall on wobbly legs on the ground. As soon as his body came in contact with the friendly green around him, he sprawled out amongst the blades of grass, closing his eyes, feeling thoroughly content.
"Someone doesn't like travelling by Portkeys," she commented, and Twig gave a persistent nod which was surprisingly visible through the mist that surrounded him. "Come on, get up," She bent down and offered a hand to him to climb on and he reluctantly obeyed, wrapping himself around her fingers. He climbed over her hand, then moved to her shoulder and eventually ended up in her soft, silky hair, sitting just above her hair tie. "Comfortable?" she asked, and hearing his squeak of approval, set off towards the two wizards waiting a little ways ahead, talking to each other unenthusiastically.
They were dressed as Muggles, but crudely. One could tell easily that there was something off about them unless one knew what they were. As she spotted the one wearing a kilt and poncho, she started chuckling uncontrollably, making Twig, who had been fixing chamomiles in her hair tie, climb down to her shoulder to see what had her amused. She pointed it out to him as he squeaked his question. The next thing she heard was his squeals of laughter at the wizard's poor attempt at dressing as a Muggle.
"Say, Twig, the Ministry workers sure have developed a new sense of fashion, haven't they? I wonder if Fudge will be sporting the same attire..." she said, and Twig only laughed harder. "Hush," she told him as they arrived within a few feet of the two men.
Still giggling, he returned back to his safe spot on her hair tie, planting the rest of the flowers systematically in her hair. She neutralized her features as her feet stopped right in front of the two Ministry officials. They stared with awe-struck faces at her and unwillingly, a grin made its way onto her face.
"Morning," she said, holding out the punctured football for them to take. "I was wondering whether you could point me in the direction of the campsite under the name Delmar?"