2 Chapter 02

"Hmm, must be command-word activated, I suppose? Swordfish!" Nothing happened. "Melon! Rise! Up! Activate! Flight! Abra Kadabra!" Ten minutes later, with all the usual suspects attempted to no avail, Milo gave up.

"Detect Magic." Nothing. The broomstick, as far as Milo could determine, didn't have enough magic to power a Bard's cantrip. It was an ordinary, mundane broom. For sweeping things.

"Wha... what? Then how... Agh, my poor head." Nothing happening was making any sense here. Maybe if he found some non-cultist residents of this strange world, they'd be able to explain things to him. Shouldering the broom, he chose a direction completely at random and started walking.

o—o—o—o

Some time after 3 AM, the villagers of Hogsmeade were surprised to find a dirty, bloodied, half-dead (or rather, five-sixths, to be precise, since you asked) young boy stumble into their village before collapsing of exhaustion. He was clutching in his hands a Nimbus Two Thousand.

"Who is he?"

"Is he a Muggle? How did he get through the wards?"

"Is he a student?"

"Blimey! Is that a Nimbus?"

"If he had a broomstick, why was he walking?"

"Someone send for Dumbledore, this kid needs help."

"I'm right here in front of you."

"No, not you, the other Dumbledore."

"Oh," said Aberforth, slightly disappointed. "Nobody ever wants to send for me."

As the nearest medical facility was the hospital wing of Hogwarts, and, as the villagers reasoned, this boy was more likely than not some student from the castle caught up in one of their fool adventures, he was rushed with all possible haste to the care of Madam Pomfrey, and, more than likely, detention. It was a very surprised, and somewhat sleepy, Professor McGonagall who answered the door. She immediately sent a Patronus to wake the school's Headmaster before carrying the boy to the hospital wing.

"Minerva! What's happening?" Dumbledore (the right one, this time) said as he entered the wing. The Deputy Headmistress quickly filled him in about what the villagers at Hogsmeade had discovered.

Dumbledore frowned. "I don't recognize him, do you?" McGonagall shook her head.

"This is most unusual. He's clearly of an age that he should be just starting in Hogwarts, so if he's a wizard of magical Britain..." McGonagall said, trailing off in thought.

"Why don't we wake him and ask?" Dumbledore suggested.

"Poppy believes it best that we let him recover. He's suffered some fairly serious injuries—it looks like a particularly nasty fall, perhaps."

"Could he be a student of Beauxbatons—or Durmstrang? I'll owl Madame Maxime and Professor Karkaroff. In the meantime, keep me updated."

McGonagall sighed. She wouldn't give up being Deputy Headmistress for all the gold in Gringotts, but it did involve rather a lot more sleepless nights than she would have preferred.

o—o—o—o

Milo awoke to the sound of people talking quietly. The odd thing about whispers, Milo had discovered, is that they tend to catch the ear even faster than ordinary talking. There were curtains around his bed, so he couldn't place a face to the speakers.

"Minerva! I—I noticed something… well, something most unusual," the first voice (female, human) said.

"What's the matter?" inquired a second (also female, human).

"The patient, he… well, he recovered," the first voice said hesitantly.

"Surely, that's good news?"

"Well, yes, normally very good news, this being an infirmary, recovery is most appreciated. But… not normally with quite the alacrity demonstrated."

"Explain."

"After precisely eight hours of bed rest, the majority of his wounds simply vanished before my eyes," the first voice said.

There was a brief silence.

"Well, I daresay I'm impressed. How did you do it?" the second voice—Minerva—asked.

"I didn't do it!" the first voice said, her voice rising. "I hadn't actually done much of anything beyond cleaning and bandaging his wounds!"

"Then… perhaps he had some Charm cast on him when he entered? Or one of the villagers did something?"

"That was the first thing I checked! I think… I think the possibility should be considered that he isn't entirely human," the first voice said cautiously.

"Poppy, get professors Dumbledore, Snape, Flitwick, and Sprout—in that order," Minerva commanded. "I'll watch him until then, whoever he is."

Milo frowned. Why were they so confused? A night's rest resulted in healing a hit point per level. Everyone knows that. Had they never slept? Were they Constructs—or even Undead? Milo reached for his Belt of Hidden Pouches, where he kept (among rather a lot of other, useful things) his spellbook. He needed an hour to prepare new spells (which he doubted he'd get, but it was worth trying.)

His Belt was gone.

Milo sat straight upright and checked his other pockets. Nothing. He broke out into a cold sweat. Without his spellbook, he couldn't memorize spells. If he couldn't memorize spells, he had a mere four 0th-level spells and then nothing. He was a Commoner for the rest of time, or at least until he could make a new one.

Almost as importantly, Mordy was still in the belt. Milo concentrated on the empathic bond, to see if Mordy was all right. Hunger, Fear, Confusion.

Milo licked his lips nervously. He'd just begun searching for something he could use as an improvised club (not his preferred way of doing things) when the curtains were drawn aside.

"Who are you, where am I, and what have you done with my Magic Items?" Milo demanded, before they were even pulled all the way aside. In walked an odd duo. A pair of aging humans in robes (Venerable meant +3 Intelligence, Wisdom, and Charisma, so Milo made a mental note not to underestimate these two) who were obviously spellcasters of some sort. Great big white beard, half-moon glasses, wands… What is it with the casters here and wands? Milo wondered.

"If you are talking about your broomstick, young man, its right beside the bed. And I would suggest you mind your manners," said the lady, who was sporting a rather severe bun of hair.

"Peace, Minerva," said the man in the purple robes. "He's clearly been through some sort of ordeal." The old man turned his pleasant, grandfatherly face to Milo. "Now, if you would be so good as to tell us who you are…?"

"I am Milo Amastacia-Liadon," said Milo proudly. For those of you keeping score at home, Milo's parents, being cosmopolitan humans, decided to give him a Halfling first name and both of their (Elven) last names.

"And I," said the grandfatherly man, "am Professor Albus Percival Dumbledore." He said it like Milo was supposed to know who he was. Maybe he really was famous; it was Zook who had all the Ranks in Knowledge (Nobility and Royalty) in their party. "This, of course, is Professor Minerva McGonagall. You are in Hogwarts, school of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

"Wizardry? Oh, thank Boccob. You're Wizards, then?" Milo asked, feeling profoundly relieved.

Dumbledore looked slightly taken aback.

"Well, naturally we're wizards—Except for Minerva, of course, who is, in fact, a witch. You didn't take us for Muggles, did you?"

"What? Mug—look, I think we're getting slightly afield. Was I wearing a belt when I came in here?"

"I'd have to ask Madam Pomfrey to say for certain, but there is a belt on your bedstand," the old wizard said.

"Oh, thank the gods. Don't you know that it's terribly rude, not to mention a sign of hostile intent, to part a person from his Magic Items?" Milo grabbed the belt, which was covered in tiny pockets (and had many more besides, which were invisible) and quickly opened the snap on one of the hidden ones. Out crawled a very distressed-looking brown-and-white rat. "Not to mention a Wizard from his familiar."