Sunday, July 6th, 10:30 AM

  The Harbour, Boscastle, Cornwall, UK.

  The group felt a sharp, irresistible pull behind their navels, lifting them from the ground and propelling them through a blur of colors and sounds. After a moment the world began to steady down. The landing was forceful, James, Iris, and Emily stumbled against each other, but remained standing.

  When their heads stopped whirling, (and James was very glad no one had to be sick), they looked around.

  "Umm..," Iris said tentatively. "Where's... Dad?"

  A Panama hat with a bright blue band came sailing through the air, twirling like a maple seed. It did a little loop-de-flop, and settled on the ground. Three heads went up as one.

  Dudley Dursley was bent across a branch of an oak tree, about forty feet up. His hands and feet were flailing in the air, and his face was turning purple. James was starting to worry, when suddenly the dangling man started bellowing laughter, his color improving immediately.

  His voice choking a little, Dudley yelled down, "You know I'm going to kill him, don't you, Em?"

  Emily put her hands on her hips, and called back. "If either one of you would give up on this ridiculous prank war, this nonsense would end!"

  "Give up?" thundered Dudley. "Me? Nev-ah!"

  The branch beneath him cracked.

  "Oh, bollocks," (Dudley! Language!). The branch broke, dropping him five feet, to land astride another branch. Dudley got his nerve back.

  "I shall have my revenge, or my name is not Dudley...!"

  Crack! "Bugger..." Drop. This last branch between Dudley and the ground was still thirty feet up. Dudley was hanging below it, one hand holding the branch, and one knee hooked over it. The other hand was clenched into a fist, one finger pointing like a Roman orator.

  "...Vernon...!"

  James touched Emily's hand. When she glance down at him, he whispered, "Should I try...," and mimed a Swish and Flick. She smiled and shook her head.

  "It'll be fine," she said, and looked back up.

  CRACK! "Crap." Drop.

  Then another Crack!, as a giant butterfly net appeared in mid-air and neatly caught Dudley. He landed flat in it, stiffly, refusing to bend. The mesh of the net started slowly stretching, lowering him foot by foot til he was on the ground. Then, with an entirely unnecessary BOING! sound, the giant net disappeared.

  Dudley was now laying flat on the ground, fist still raised, finger still pointed.

  "...DURSLEY!" he bellowed. "Iris, James, when we get home, I am calling a Council of War! It's Brain-Storming Time!" The children clapped and cheered.

  His wife smiled down at him. He rolled over and got to his feet, dusting his front off. Emily attended to his back with a feather duster she pulled from her apparently bottomless bag.

  Dudley shook his head to dispell the last of the dizziness, and said, "This aggression will not stand. Man," he looked around. "Where's my hat?"

  ***

  "I see a path through those shrubs!" said Iris.

  Dudley led the way, Panama hat firmly on his head, and tilted to the proper rakish angle by Emily. She collected a short kiss as payment, ignoring the gagging sounds coming from the 'tweens.

  As they were about to push through the shrubbery onto the path, they heard a fairly disgusting schlorrp sound behind them. They turned to see the last of the tall tree being sucked into a hole in the ground. Two wildly flapping birds got clear just in time.

  "Wow," said James. "Uncle George magicked up a tree and everything, just for a prank?"

  "He probably had to," said Emily, practically. "We're very near the sea. I doubt there's a real tree that tall within fifty miles of this spot."

  "Attention to detail," Dudley pronounced. "One of the things that makes him such a great partner!"

  "In addition to being an entrepreneurial git?" Iris asked innocently. "Or a greedy..." She stopped short and grinned at her Mom, whose lips were already pursed in disapproval.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  "Absolutely no idea what you're talking about, my dear!" Dudley said airily. "We just keep heading downhill, and this path should bring us out right at the entrance of the museum."

  And so it did. There was a bit of a queue, but who expected anything else on a British Summer Sunday? It was just a few minutes til Dudley was paying the admission fees, and they got to start exploring the rambling old building.

  James was determined to give the Dursleys their money's worth. Before they even entered the building, he pointed out the cartoonish silhouette of a witch riding a broom.

  "First off," he said. "That's not a witch, that's a hag. The nose and chin are dead give-aways. The other main ways to tell the difference are that they have four toes instead of five, and they're usually just chock-a-block with warts."

  "Can they do magic?" Iris asked.

  "Kinda-sorta. They can't use wands, but they have magic of their own, like trolls, or like kids before they get their wands."

  "And they ride brooms?" asked Dudley.

  "Don't know for sure." James shrugged. "I heard it both ways. I don't see why not. One thing for sure, that witch don't play Quidditch!"

  Emily grinned at him. "How can you be so sure of that, James?

  James scoffed. "That sad excuse for a broom she was riding? One square hit with a Bludger, an' it's kindling!" He looked back over his shoulder as they entered the museum. "Heck, side-swiping a Quaffle would probably do for it."

  The museum displays were fascinating, even to James. Some things had him laughing out loud, they were just so wrong. Others were more subtle.

  Iris was looking at an antique illustration of a witch-burning.

  "The poor thing," she said. Then she noticed James beside her, grinning like a loon. "Surely you aren't that heartless, James."

  "Nah, Irie. It's just that you don't know what you're looking at. Try this." James had her cup her hands so they made a rough tube, "Now, then. Look through that, and move around so you can only see her face."

  James watched as Iris fidgeted around. He smiled triumphantly as the eye she was peering with went wide.

  "Tell me what you see," he demanded.

  Iris was gaping. "James, is she..., laughing?"

  "Having a right proper giggle, yeh," he agreed. "That there is old Wendelin the Weird, and a good likeness it is, too. Must be from before she had to go in for the heavy disguises."

  "Why in the world would she do such a..." Iris paused. James figured she was trying to figure out a way to say bloody stupid thing without actually saying bloody stupid thing.

  " ...such a foolish thing?" Iris finished. James shook his head.

  "There's a spell called a Flame Freezing Charm, keeps fire from hurting you. Wendelin liked the way it tickled her, so she'd get herself caught and burned. Must'a done it dozens of times. Don't ask me what the incantation is, 'cause I dunno." I'm right gagging to find out, though, James' mental voice said. Course I have to learn to spell up some fire before I learn to freeze it.

  "James, come here for a minute," Dudley said. "Look at this painting. Is that who I think it is?"

  James and Iris walked over to see what he was looking at. "Yeah, that's a goblin, just like at Gringotts. They don't have horns, or tails with arrow shapes on the end, though." James scratched his head, puzzled. "Least I don't think they do. Ain't never seen one starkers." He made a disgusted face. "Don't want to see one starkers!"

  Dudley bent down to read the information card. "Says here this is a Demon Imp, and witches used to summon them."

  "Well, that's just wrong," James said. "I've never heard of any real Demons, and Imps are just little jerks who play tricks on lost people. And I'm pretty sure you can only summon things, not creatures." James suddenly chortled.

  "What?" Iris said.

  James' grin was wicked. "I was just imagining somebody summoning Aunt Hermione's cat, Crookshanks. Wouldn't be enough left to sweep up!"

  "Is Crookshanks mean?"

  "Nah, he's great! But he don't put up with no silly buggers. Slice and dice, Irie, slice and dice."

  "Oh, ick!" This came from Emily, on the other side of the aisle.

  "What is it, Mum?" Iris turned to see. Emily was looking at a display of cauldrons.

  James looked around Emily's side to see. "Eww! Ick is right!"

  The various cauldrons were dirty, rusty, and/or thickly crusted with..., stuff.

  James didn't think he could have smelled them, as old as they looked. He held his breath just to be safe. "Woof!" he said, with what lung capacity he had left. Glad Kreacher can't see this. Or Mum. OR, gods forbid, Granma Molly!

  "James," said Emily, in a tone of disgust. "Am I right in assuming that no self-respecting Witch would give those things house room?"

  "Too right, Auntie Em! An' you'd have Detentions for weeks if you showed up with something like that for Potions Class at Hogwarts."

  There was a thump in the next room that caught James' attention. He glanced into what must be the gift shop. There was someone in a long blue swallow-tail coat, facing away from him. The person was bending over to grab a crystal ball he had obviously just dropped, before it could roll away.

  One of the sweet ladies that worked the shop came up, saying, "Now, young sir, don't you worry about that. Those balls are real crystal, they wouldn't take harm if you dropped them on a rock, much less a wood floor!"

  The person straightened up, talking in a low tone to the shop assistant. James could tell he was young, possibly still a teen. He handed the recovered ball to the clerk, then turned slightly, speaking audibly now.

  "That one, ma'am, and these two, if you would."

  As the pleased lady scurried off toward the register, the soon-to-be purchaser turned in profile. He was a tall, slender, light-skinned, mixed-race boy with high cheekbones and long, slanting eyes. His hair was a startling shade of white, shaved on the sides, and a mass of tight curls on top, falling away to the right.

  James was about to turn away, when the fellow suddenly glanced over at him. James and he locked eyes, for just a moment.

  James shivered. One of the young man's eyes was surrounded by an Eye of Ra design, either make-up, or a very dark black tattoo. His eye color was black as well, so dark that the pupil did not stand out. The sclera of his eyes were red, as if he had been crying.

  It was just a moment, but James could tell it meant something to the other, who broke the gaze and walked out of sight. The last thing James saw was the dismissive flick of a long-fingered hand, pointing toward, but not at him.

  On the forefinger was a silver serpent ring with emerald accents.

  that dirty. Artistic license, and all that. Go visit them!

  https://museumofwitchcraftandmagic.co.uk

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