Parchment and Apologies
I remember reading somewhere that the level of a civilization’s development can be determined partially by its record keeping abilities. If that’s true, then the entire wizarding world should still be grunting around in caves and gnawing on tree bark or something because the state of The Department of Archaic Archives and Recent Records is abysmal. No, worse than that, it’s shocking and appallingly uncivilized.
I’m standing in a dimly lit and low-ceilinged room on Level One in the Ministry, about to embark on the investigation that prompted me to return to the magical world in the first place, the search for answers about my birth father and Robert Vance-Remington. Torches that cast a meager and sickly yellowish glow are hovering between the rows of mismatched shelves, drawers, and filing cabinets that seem to stretch into infinity in all directions. It’s dusty and hot and there are so many rolls of parchment piled onto shelves and falling out of drawers that I’m positive that if someone were to as much as belch after downing a shot of Firewhiskey, they’d set this place ablaze.
Seated at a cluttered desk in the middle of this collection of paper goods is the registrar, a small, frail-looking witch who looks as if she’s never seen the light of day. He skin is pale and crisscrossed with so many fine lines that it looks like she might’ve been paper mache-ed with very wrinkled and ancient pieces of tissue paper. She’s hunched over with her nose about three inches from the parchment on which she’s transcribing something.
“Excuse me,” I say clearing my throat, “I need to look up someone’s date of birth and possible date of death.”
She squints at me through her thick spectacles and points to the blank wall on her right, “Over there…behind that table is a Search Stone. Use that.” She hunches back over and begins muttering.
I glance over to the wall that she’s just pointed to and then to the table that’s sitting to her left and notice a dirty hunk of black rock that is sitting in front of it. Being that there isn’t another table or anything that could possibly pass as a Search Stone in sight, I make my way over to it, weaving around the bottles of ink pots, quills, and rolls of parchment stacked in teetering piles everywhere.
“Go on then, write the name,” she’s says with a wave of her ink-stained hand when she notices me standing there holding the broken quill that was sitting on the table and staring blankly at the rock. “Write it in the Search Stone.”
How is it possible to write in a stone? I wonder.
I notice a small smooth spot on it and settle for that instead, guessing that all these years down here must’ve addled her brain slightly.
I write, Robert Vance-Remington. The name glows briefly before it sinks into the rock. Then I hear a sort of rustling like bat wings or the pages of a book being shuffled through. Suddenly, a drawer under the table pops open, nearly breaking my knee caps. I bend over rubbing my legs and peer inside and find a scroll of parchment.
I pick it up and pause as I slide my fingers across the brittle paper. This man could be my birth father. Suddenly, the levity of the situation hits me. This could be the first step to finding explanation for the house-elf, for my magic, my birth father’s abandonment, or even lead me to him. The fact that Robert Thomas could’ve abandoned me and Mum to live happily with another family is a painful possibility that I usually don’t let myself dwell on, but lately I’ve found myself thinking about it more and more. Living as a wizard with a magical family would be a perfect escape.
My heart quickens. I take a deep breath and unroll it…and unroll it…and unroll it. I choke and barely suppress an incredulous snort. The scroll has got to be at least ten feet long and it’s filled from top to bottom and side to side with impossibly cramped and tiny handwriting. Marching down the page, in what seems to be in no apparent order, are names…hundreds of them.
DOB...........DOD............Name
2/10/1950...9/26/1956...Mr Alfred Faris Juspotts
10/2/1950...-----------...Ms Nertia Jane Casterlink
11/2/1590...-----------...Mr Ambrose Allen Duxbury
11/2/1095...19/1/1119...Mr Willoughby Showers
2/11/1059...4/4/1097....Mr Ignatius Fogmaker
Bloody hell, I think as my eyes scan the page before me that is almost black because of all of the closely spaced lettering, I’m going to have to read through this entire thing to find Robert Vance-Remington! But if this is what it’s going to take to get to the bottom of this and find “closure” (as Pug likes to put it) so I can get on with the rest of my life, then so be it. I squint and put myself to work.
Two and a half hours later, I’ve liberated myself from the bowels of the Ministry and am going back to my flat after making an emergency stop at the Apothecary in Diagon Alley.
What I’ve managed to find is that there was exactly one Robert Vance Remington on record who was born on February 11, 1950 and died on January 9, 1975. According to his birth date and the fact that he died five years before I was born, he can’t be my birth father. I also discovered that there are exactly sixteen wizards named Robert Thomas, three of which were born in the last century, two of which have just recently died at the ages of 80 and 98, one of which is apparently seven months old, and none of which come anywhere near the age to possibly be my birth father who was born on November 2, 1950.
It seems like Robert Thomas never existed in the magical world, or at least his birth or death was never recorded. However, if my birth father, Robert Thomas, wasn’t a wizard, then how did that Com-mirror and the house-elf get in the attic? But more worrisome, is that if Robert Vance-Remington isn’t Robert Thomas, then what was his notebook doing in that hidden room along with a picture of Robert Thomas, Mum, and me and the rest of those other odd knick-knacks? Who is this Robert Vance-Remington and does he have anything to do with my birth father’s disappearance? One step forward, two steps back, I think to myself. Welcome to my world.
Along with this hard-earned information, I’ve also managed to acquire two little gnomes who have taken residence in my head and are currently banging their fists on the back of my eyes. It must’ve been the combination of that tiny handwriting and reading in virtual darkness that’s given me such a horrendous headache. Light seems to be encourage the gnomes to pound harder and faster so I concentrate on looking at the ground and keeping my eyes away from direct light as I rub my temples.
I’m just about to my flat when I accidentally run into someone. I glance up quickly and see that Pavarti is standing in the hall. “Sorry, Pa –” I stop myself as realization hits. It isn’t Pavarti; it’s the terror twin, Padma.
Recalling our last run-in that resulted in multiple injuries, I think it’s best to apologize quickly before she rips my face off, “Padma, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going. You aren’t hurt or anything, are you?”
She shakes her head and says, “No, no, I’m completely fine. Better than fine, actually.”
Thank Merlin for small miracles, I think to myself.
Padma pauses and a small, bashful smile spreads across her face, “Actually, I suppose I need to apologize to you.”
“Why?” I ask somewhat stupidly, “I’m fine.”
Padma sort of shuffles in place and frowns as she begins to chew on her bottom lip. My head throbs painfully and I’m just about to tell her that whatever she’s sorry for is no big deal, when she suddenly blurts out, “It’s just that I was completely terrible to you the other day.”
But before I can say anything else, she launches into a long-winded explanation about not being able to go back to work, being cursed, her boyfriend breaking up with her, and multiple trips to Egypt. Every time I think she’s might about be done she just inhales quickly and keeps talking faster.
It’s clear that she’s rather upset and feels bad about the Self-Folding Chest of Drawers incident. I’m sure if the circumstances of our reacquaintance were different – if I hadn’t left the dresser blocking their front door and if Padma hadn’t been feeling ill and already upset that day – we wouldn’t be flinging apologies at each other right now.
“Padma,” I say, “It’s fine, really. I know what it’s like to have a bad day.” Do I ever.
I think Padma is blushing for some reason as she begins to fidget uncomfortably. “I just don’t want you to think that I’m a nightmare of a neighbor, now that it looks like I’ll be sticking around for awhile.”
She thinks she’s a nightmare of a neighbor?
I’m thinking about this past weekend’s escapade at the Horse and Hound and the ruckus that I’m sure Tav and I made dragging Ernie out of the fireplace and then the noise I made trying to get Ernie back onto the couch every hour (I only dropped him a couple of times). In fact, I’m surprised that they haven’t already started a petition to get me removed from the building. I can’t help but gape at the dark-haired witch standing in front of me who is now staring fixedly at the floor like she’s done something wrong. In fact, it seems rather amusing and curiously flattering that Padma is concerned that she’s the nightmare neighbor, when I’m sure that I’m the one who should probably have that title hanging on my door.
“I don’t think you’re a nightmare,” I tell her, trying not to laugh.
A look of relief appears on Padma’s face. “Good,” she exhales as if she was holding her breath, “It’s just that we didn’t start out on the best of terms. If you ever need anything, don’t be afraid to knock.” Then she smiles the first genuine smile I think I’ve seen from her and says, “Just don’t leave your dresser in front of our door first.”
I can’t help but smile back. “Only if you promise not to scowl at me the entire time I’m in your presence.”
Padma laughs and I can’t help but notice that it’s different than Pavarti’s laugh. As she grows quiet, she tucks a strand of hair absently behind her ear and looks up at me. “Well, I suppose I should get going. I’ll see you around.”
She looks like she’s about to go into her flat so I step out of her way only to find that we’re still standing in front of each other. I move to the side as she does the same thing.
“It looks like we’re destined to keep bumping into each other,” I say, grinning, “better bring your helmet and eye protection next time.”
We both laugh as I turn to the side and she brushes against me with her arm in order to pass.
“Bye!” she says, glancing over her shoulder before turning down the stairs.
“Later, Padma,” I say as I unlock the door to my flat.
I step inside and deposit the potion from the Apothecary into my nearly empty medicine cupboard. Curiously, my headache is gone.
I’m standing in a dimly lit and low-ceilinged room on Level One in the Ministry, about to embark on the investigation that prompted me to return to the magical world in the first place, the search for answers about my birth father and Robert Vance-Remington. Torches that cast a meager and sickly yellowish glow are hovering between the rows of mismatched shelves, drawers, and filing cabinets that seem to stretch into infinity in all directions. It’s dusty and hot and there are so many rolls of parchment piled onto shelves and falling out of drawers that I’m positive that if someone were to as much as belch after downing a shot of Firewhiskey, they’d set this place ablaze.
Seated at a cluttered desk in the middle of this collection of paper goods is the registrar, a small, frail-looking witch who looks as if she’s never seen the light of day. He skin is pale and crisscrossed with so many fine lines that it looks like she might’ve been paper mache-ed with very wrinkled and ancient pieces of tissue paper. She’s hunched over with her nose about three inches from the parchment on which she’s transcribing something.
“Excuse me,” I say clearing my throat, “I need to look up someone’s date of birth and possible date of death.”
She squints at me through her thick spectacles and points to the blank wall on her right, “Over there…behind that table is a Search Stone. Use that.” She hunches back over and begins muttering.
I glance over to the wall that she’s just pointed to and then to the table that’s sitting to her left and notice a dirty hunk of black rock that is sitting in front of it. Being that there isn’t another table or anything that could possibly pass as a Search Stone in sight, I make my way over to it, weaving around the bottles of ink pots, quills, and rolls of parchment stacked in teetering piles everywhere.
“Go on then, write the name,” she’s says with a wave of her ink-stained hand when she notices me standing there holding the broken quill that was sitting on the table and staring blankly at the rock. “Write it in the Search Stone.”
How is it possible to write in a stone? I wonder.
I notice a small smooth spot on it and settle for that instead, guessing that all these years down here must’ve addled her brain slightly.
I write, Robert Vance-Remington. The name glows briefly before it sinks into the rock. Then I hear a sort of rustling like bat wings or the pages of a book being shuffled through. Suddenly, a drawer under the table pops open, nearly breaking my knee caps. I bend over rubbing my legs and peer inside and find a scroll of parchment.
I pick it up and pause as I slide my fingers across the brittle paper. This man could be my birth father. Suddenly, the levity of the situation hits me. This could be the first step to finding explanation for the house-elf, for my magic, my birth father’s abandonment, or even lead me to him. The fact that Robert Thomas could’ve abandoned me and Mum to live happily with another family is a painful possibility that I usually don’t let myself dwell on, but lately I’ve found myself thinking about it more and more. Living as a wizard with a magical family would be a perfect escape.
My heart quickens. I take a deep breath and unroll it…and unroll it…and unroll it. I choke and barely suppress an incredulous snort. The scroll has got to be at least ten feet long and it’s filled from top to bottom and side to side with impossibly cramped and tiny handwriting. Marching down the page, in what seems to be in no apparent order, are names…hundreds of them.
DOB...........DOD............Name
2/10/1950...9/26/1956...Mr Alfred Faris Juspotts
10/2/1950...-----------...Ms Nertia Jane Casterlink
11/2/1590...-----------...Mr Ambrose Allen Duxbury
11/2/1095...19/1/1119...Mr Willoughby Showers
2/11/1059...4/4/1097....Mr Ignatius Fogmaker
Bloody hell, I think as my eyes scan the page before me that is almost black because of all of the closely spaced lettering, I’m going to have to read through this entire thing to find Robert Vance-Remington! But if this is what it’s going to take to get to the bottom of this and find “closure” (as Pug likes to put it) so I can get on with the rest of my life, then so be it. I squint and put myself to work.
Two and a half hours later, I’ve liberated myself from the bowels of the Ministry and am going back to my flat after making an emergency stop at the Apothecary in Diagon Alley.
What I’ve managed to find is that there was exactly one Robert Vance Remington on record who was born on February 11, 1950 and died on January 9, 1975. According to his birth date and the fact that he died five years before I was born, he can’t be my birth father. I also discovered that there are exactly sixteen wizards named Robert Thomas, three of which were born in the last century, two of which have just recently died at the ages of 80 and 98, one of which is apparently seven months old, and none of which come anywhere near the age to possibly be my birth father who was born on November 2, 1950.
It seems like Robert Thomas never existed in the magical world, or at least his birth or death was never recorded. However, if my birth father, Robert Thomas, wasn’t a wizard, then how did that Com-mirror and the house-elf get in the attic? But more worrisome, is that if Robert Vance-Remington isn’t Robert Thomas, then what was his notebook doing in that hidden room along with a picture of Robert Thomas, Mum, and me and the rest of those other odd knick-knacks? Who is this Robert Vance-Remington and does he have anything to do with my birth father’s disappearance? One step forward, two steps back, I think to myself. Welcome to my world.
Along with this hard-earned information, I’ve also managed to acquire two little gnomes who have taken residence in my head and are currently banging their fists on the back of my eyes. It must’ve been the combination of that tiny handwriting and reading in virtual darkness that’s given me such a horrendous headache. Light seems to be encourage the gnomes to pound harder and faster so I concentrate on looking at the ground and keeping my eyes away from direct light as I rub my temples.
I’m just about to my flat when I accidentally run into someone. I glance up quickly and see that Pavarti is standing in the hall. “Sorry, Pa –” I stop myself as realization hits. It isn’t Pavarti; it’s the terror twin, Padma.
Recalling our last run-in that resulted in multiple injuries, I think it’s best to apologize quickly before she rips my face off, “Padma, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going. You aren’t hurt or anything, are you?”
She shakes her head and says, “No, no, I’m completely fine. Better than fine, actually.”
Thank Merlin for small miracles, I think to myself.
Padma pauses and a small, bashful smile spreads across her face, “Actually, I suppose I need to apologize to you.”
“Why?” I ask somewhat stupidly, “I’m fine.”
Padma sort of shuffles in place and frowns as she begins to chew on her bottom lip. My head throbs painfully and I’m just about to tell her that whatever she’s sorry for is no big deal, when she suddenly blurts out, “It’s just that I was completely terrible to you the other day.”
But before I can say anything else, she launches into a long-winded explanation about not being able to go back to work, being cursed, her boyfriend breaking up with her, and multiple trips to Egypt. Every time I think she’s might about be done she just inhales quickly and keeps talking faster.
It’s clear that she’s rather upset and feels bad about the Self-Folding Chest of Drawers incident. I’m sure if the circumstances of our reacquaintance were different – if I hadn’t left the dresser blocking their front door and if Padma hadn’t been feeling ill and already upset that day – we wouldn’t be flinging apologies at each other right now.
“Padma,” I say, “It’s fine, really. I know what it’s like to have a bad day.” Do I ever.
I think Padma is blushing for some reason as she begins to fidget uncomfortably. “I just don’t want you to think that I’m a nightmare of a neighbor, now that it looks like I’ll be sticking around for awhile.”
She thinks she’s a nightmare of a neighbor?
I’m thinking about this past weekend’s escapade at the Horse and Hound and the ruckus that I’m sure Tav and I made dragging Ernie out of the fireplace and then the noise I made trying to get Ernie back onto the couch every hour (I only dropped him a couple of times). In fact, I’m surprised that they haven’t already started a petition to get me removed from the building. I can’t help but gape at the dark-haired witch standing in front of me who is now staring fixedly at the floor like she’s done something wrong. In fact, it seems rather amusing and curiously flattering that Padma is concerned that she’s the nightmare neighbor, when I’m sure that I’m the one who should probably have that title hanging on my door.
“I don’t think you’re a nightmare,” I tell her, trying not to laugh.
A look of relief appears on Padma’s face. “Good,” she exhales as if she was holding her breath, “It’s just that we didn’t start out on the best of terms. If you ever need anything, don’t be afraid to knock.” Then she smiles the first genuine smile I think I’ve seen from her and says, “Just don’t leave your dresser in front of our door first.”
I can’t help but smile back. “Only if you promise not to scowl at me the entire time I’m in your presence.”
Padma laughs and I can’t help but notice that it’s different than Pavarti’s laugh. As she grows quiet, she tucks a strand of hair absently behind her ear and looks up at me. “Well, I suppose I should get going. I’ll see you around.”
She looks like she’s about to go into her flat so I step out of her way only to find that we’re still standing in front of each other. I move to the side as she does the same thing.
“It looks like we’re destined to keep bumping into each other,” I say, grinning, “better bring your helmet and eye protection next time.”
We both laugh as I turn to the side and she brushes against me with her arm in order to pass.
“Bye!” she says, glancing over her shoulder before turning down the stairs.
“Later, Padma,” I say as I unlock the door to my flat.
I step inside and deposit the potion from the Apothecary into my nearly empty medicine cupboard. Curiously, my headache is gone.