3: The Entertainer

Disclaimer: This story is based on a more-or-less logical expansion of concepts and characters set forth in the "Harry Potter" novels by J.K. Rowling, who is not me; therefore, I make no money from borrowing this universe, nor do I claim to possess any right thereto. Only the Jarvey is mine, and some original human characters. (I don't think anyone minds that I borrowed Dung for a bit.)

---

Chapter 3: The Entertainer

Reggie felt dizzy. It was different from the dizziness that came from riding a Portkey, and it left her so disoriented that she couldn't find the door of her cage for several precious minutes. Then it didn't matter, because the flat upon which the Jarvey cages were stacked was being levitated out of the hold and into a foggy, cold evening in a place that did not smell like New York. Or Los Angeles. Or anywhere Reggie had ever been before.

A whisper from an accent so heavy Reggie had trouble making out the words snapped her back to alertness. "Jarveys are over 'ere. Good job they've been Silenced for the journey, otherwise they'd be raisin' 'ell by now."

"Oh, that's what you think, is it, Fletcher? Bloody things would give us a bit of cover if they'd make some noise, what?"

"Not much time, then...thissiz brilliant, if I do say so meself. Get out the dead'un."

The other voice rasped in the darkness, offering a dissenting opinion. Reggie decided that, whatever these asswipes' differences were, they were no concern of hers. She finished picking the lock with her teeth, feeling a jolt of magic as she did so. Evidently the cage had magical as well as mechanical fastenings...though whoever had cast them hadn't counted on a magical creature of great determination working on them from the inside.

Of course, Reggie hadn't counted on a magical alarm.

"Run, Fletcher!"

"Thanks for tossin' me name out when there's an alarm, Grobarty!"

Reggie pushed her way out of the cage and looked for a way past the arguing men. Neither looked like someone you'd want to run into in a dark alley.

"What are you DOING?"

"Gettin' a Jarvey, you plonker!"

"Do it alone, Fletcher, I'm gone." A loud Crack! sounded.

It occurred to Reggie an instant too late that if someone wanted to steal a Jarvey, the logical choice would be the one OUTSIDE of a cage. The next thing she knew, a foul-smelling paw of a hand had her by the scruff of her neck, and she was being sucked into the dark again.

---

"Dejáme! Chingando Hombron! Lemme go, you stinkin', fuckin' asshole!"

The stinking asshole in question drew a wand to Stun Reggie, but she bit him...satisfyingly hard...and his aim went wide. He cursed (impressively, for a human), and yelled, "Uncle, take this soddin' beast before it bites me 'and off!"

A door flew open, and dim illumination crept into the hallway of the dreary building, as if even unthinking candlelight feared to dispute the darkness of the place. "Dung! You stupid pillock! That's not how to hold a Jarvey!" A less odoriferous paw snatched Reggie away by the scruff of her neck, and she found herself held in such a way that she couldn't bite.

Her new captor studied Reggie critically, with faded yet keen blue eyes. "Nicked, I'm sure. At least it looks weaned, though I expect it's asking too much for it to be house trained."

"Bet I'm more house-trained that you, you leaky old fucker!"

The blue eyes turned their sharpness back to 'Dung.' Reggie couldn't help but think the sorry bastard was aptly named, judging from his smell. "Damn you, Mundungus, this one talks like a show beast...someone'll be after it, and I'm too old to be put away for possession of a dodgy Jarvey!"

"Oi, swear to Merlin, I found it runnin' loose! And just in case, I left the body of your old Jarvey where I found this'un...wiv changes."

"Fine. But if the law darkens me threshold, don't expect me to leave your name out of it." He ducked out of the hallway and shut the door.

"You're very welcome!" came a muffled voice.

"Boy's an utter pillock," the man muttered, pulling a worn and slightly stumpy wand from his pocket.

"Don't you dare point that thing at me, old man!"

"I don't fancy being bitten by you, nor having you scream for your owner, and...why am I discussing this with you?"

"Stupid son-of-a-bitch. I was trying to escape from the shit-ass who bought me, on account of his attitude sucked. I couldn't give two fucks whether he lost money on me or not. And if you feed me, I won't have to bite your filthy fingers."

The old man snorted. "You'll find my fingers are clean and well-groomed, my foul, furry friend. I'm a respectable entertainer, I am. By your relatively fluent speech, I'm assuming that you've been trained as a trick Jarvey, young as you are..."

"I'm full-grown, shit head. Remember that, or I'll find plenty to say about your size."

"...and if you show me what tricks you do, why, we'll talk about food. Then we'll start on the tricks you'll need for my act."

"Tricks, my ass. You want entertainment, you fuckin' moron? Here's entertainment, highbrow stuff, no less." Reggie proceeded to recite the first thing that came to her mind: "Shall I compare thee to a Summer's Day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate..." For good measure, she followed up with, "My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun..." And she only used a modicum of profanity in the recitation.

Humphrey W. Fletcher had never in his life been more speechless. He shook his head, and went to pour a dish of milk for the Jarvey. "The first thing we need to do is get rid of that accent of yours," he said as he set it before her.

She gave it a sniff, deciding it wasn't too far gone to drink, especially for someone as hungry and thirsty as she was. "I'm not the one with the accent, pendejo."

---

Humphrey Fletcher frequently remarked that he shouldn't have been surprised that his new pet had mastered the slang and insults of the British Isles far more quickly than the accent. Reggie frequently responded that if he wanted to be an absolute berk, he could ask his no-good thievin' nephew to nick him another Jarvey that could speak two languages, recite almost half of Shakespeare's sonnets from memory, and take verbal instructions rather than needing to be trained like a dumb dog. He usually responded with a gravelly sound in his throat and a flick of his wand, setting the table with props.

Truth to tell, Reggie was studying the accent carefully, trying to sort out how she herself wished to speak. Old man Fletcher obviously used different accents depending on his situation. At home and with his associates, he spoke a bit like Mundungus, her stinking savior. When they practiced their stage act, he ran an entire gamut of speech patterns, from the refined to the ridiculous. Sometimes the gap between the two was negligible.

Humans puzzled Reggie. Everyone she'd ever been close to had spoken a little differently, so there obviously wasn't any agreement on how to speak English. She decided it was a good thing she spoke profanity. It seemed like the closest thing there was to a universal language.

Speaking of talking...

"Now, you're too small to do the stunts old Luke could perform. That act was getting stale, in any event. We'll be coming up with a new act, but if you feel like you can't talk proper, keep your gob shut. Unless I need you playing an obnoxious American." Reggie responded to that with the profanity it deserved, but heeded his explanation of their act, anyway.

After three rehearsals, Reggie was feeling frustrated. "That's your idea of a NEW act? Even for an old fart, you're way behind the times."

"Oh? And what, exactly, is in keepin' with the times, you little over-edyeecated runt?"

"Listen to this, you antique tosser."

Fletcher wore an expression of extreme confusion by the time the Jarvey was done.

"What in the bleedin' hell is blaze-ball?"

"Ah, fuck it, I forgot that wizards have different sports. Me trainer was partial to Muggle games, but he mentioned Clockpot and Quizzitch once."

"I don't know about the other, but it's Quidditch, you foul little flea-trap. I wouldn't expect a creature with such a barbaric accent to unnerstand the finer points of that ancient an' noble game, but..."

"Try me, wanker."

By the time Humphrey was finished diagramming a Quidditch pitch and positions on his charmed board and had animated them to describe the rudiments of the game, Reggie's whiskers were twitching with excitement.

"Look, fuckwit, don't you see...all we have to do is switch over the names of the positions...instead of 'First Baseman' say 'Chaser,' and so on..."

Humphrey grabbed a quill and ink and started scribbling on the back of a tea-stained program from a closed show.

---

If the state of Fletcher's rooms (dignifying the space with the name 'flat' was a bit more than even the old man's sense of irony could stomach) wasn't enough to alert Reggie to the fact that Humphrey W. Fletcher was no A-list entertainer, his performance venue erased all doubt. Or, more accurately, his reception by the venue's manager did so.

"What do you want, Fletcher?"

Fletcher straightened his shabby robes with the air of a headliner arriving just in time to save the show. Reggie figured the velvet garment had been the height of fashion once. But that had been a lot of long-lost pile and several shades of rusting and purpling black ago. "Why, Mr. Huntley, you're beginning to worry me. Do you mean to say you've forgotten who one of your premier acts is?"

Reggie was impressed. Fletcher was using yet another way of speaking, one that could probably best be characterized as the poshest accent this side of mockery.

"With that terminal case of mange you call your familiar, you were a bit of variety on the bill. Without it, you're just another cut-rate comedian, and we've our quota of them this week. Why don't you see if there's a corner in Diagon Alley where they'll let you set up your hat?"

"Ah, good sir, it seems you were, indeed, hit with a memory charm by some scoundrel. Surely everyone has heard that I've remedied the sad loss of my former business associate, the estimable Mr. Lukas, and have a lovely new talent to accompany me on the stage."

It took Huntley a moment to register the presence of another living thing in the vicinity.

"What is that thing, Fletcher? An animate handkerchief?"

Reggie climbed out of Fletcher's breast pocket, bristling with a retort, when the old man quickly spoke over her. "Why, this dainty young lady? This is Miss Regina, my new assistant."

"I'm the bloody star of your act, I am," she corrected him. "And the name's Reggie."

Huntley eyed them both with a distinct lack of enthusiasm, but finally jerked his thumb towards the backstage area. "Better hit your 'star' with 'Engorgio' before going on. Some of the patrons are nearsighted."

"I'll hit you with something, you wanking ball-ache!"

Reggie decided that she needed to work on her intimidation skills, because this only caused the manager to turn and run a jaundiced eye over them both. "Are you sure that's a real Jarvey? It almost sounds like it knows what it's talking about."

"Look, pendejo, just because you never know what you're talking about..."

"Aha! You've found yourself an unregistered Animagus, haven't you, you sly old Kneazle! I'm impressed, Fletcher. I never realized Animagi could turn into magical creatures."

Fletcher cleared his throat. "Now, Mr. Huntley, no need to go accuse me of consorting with the criminal element."

Huntley gave a short bark of laughter. "That's rich, considering who your nephew is. Don't worry, old man, your secret is safe with me...IF you two keep the audience awake and amused."

"What's he babbling about, Gramps?"

"He thinks you're an Animagus."

"Talk some version of English, you pillock. Unless you learned Spanish when I wasn't looking."

"An Animagus is a wizard who can turn into an animal."

"Chingando hombron! Where does he get off calling me a wizard?"

"I know it's a mortal insult, Regina dear, but do try to contain your ire."

"Well, it's all right for you, old timer, you're human. I've got me furry pride, you know."

Fletcher chuckled. "I see you're finally learning to speak English. Had to go with that particular accent, did you?"

"Don't know what you're on about. I'm not the one with the accent."

"Not anymore, you're not."

---

Somehow, in all the times they had rehearsed their lines, practiced their gestures and motions, and tried on their costumes (even after Fletcher had adjusted the fit almost flawlessly, Reggie had nothing nice to say about her tiny Quidditch robes), it had never really occurred to Reggie that 'performing' meant 'doing this all in front of lots of other people.'

She peered around Fletcher's head of snow-white hair as they waited in the wings. At the sight and smell of the number of wizards in front of the stage, she blanched under her fur.

"Fletcher! Psst! Old timer, what the hell is that? A mob?"

"That, my dear, is our audience. Now, get into character and don't forget your lines. We're going on in two minutes."

"Fuck! What do you mean, 'going on'? The fucking WORLD is out there!"

"If only it were. Come on, Reggie! This is what puts food on our table, such as it is. Swallow your stage fright and come along, or that's about all you'll have to swallow!"

Which was how, a minute and a half later, Reggie found herself clinging to the old man's shoulder for dear life, blinded by white light and assailed by an overpowering murmur of voices and odors from the shadowy throng in front of the stage. Suddenly, the sound died down, leaving only the glare and the smell. She was lost again, like a kit sold away from it's mum, adrift in the too-quiet, too-musty brightness.

Until Fletcher's voice cut the silence like a knife, tossing her a lifeline...in the form of the opening line. She clung to it with all her strength, her brain beginning to supply the correct answering words.

"Aren't you the Manager?"

"I most certainly am."

"Then you oughtta know the players' names."

"Of course!"

"Then, who's the Chaser?"

"He's one of them."

"Who?"

"Yes."

"Will you tell me already?"

"Who's the Chaser."

"That's what I'm asking!"

A few chuckles; the audience was beginning to catch on.

"No, 'What' is one of our Beaters."

By the time they got to 'I Don't Know's the other Beater,' Jarvey and wizard had to raise their voices to be heard above the din of guffaws. But Reggie was only peripherally aware of them. Her world was the voice of her master and partner, and they verbally danced around each other like a regular Astaire and Rogers. Sometimes she forgot a line, but Fletcher worked cleverly around it. She realized that sometimes he invented something to make it a little better, and she responded in kind, realizing with a thrill that the audience had no clue that this wasn't how it was planned.

"You know what, you barmy old tosser? I don't give a damn!"

"Say again?"

"Clean out your ears! I said, I DON'T GIVE A DAMN!"

"Oh, he's our Keeper!"

They brought down the house that night.

---

Humphrey W. Fletcher was a very happy wizard.

Reggie shared a bill with him as Regina P. Fletcher, in a nod to the widely held but unvoiced belief that his partner-in-comedy was an unregistered Animagus and likely another one of his disreputable relatives. Before the year was out, they were recruited away from that parsimonious bastard Huntley and his shabby dancehall to be given a couple of stylish new outfits and a spot on the stage of the Sable Animagus Club. The weekly pay was better than Humphrey had seen in fifty years, even without the occasional tips. He no longer had to avoid certain wizards quite as assiduously now that there was a decent chance he would actually have enough cash on him to start paying off a decade's worth of casual debts.

Normally, it wouldn't have bothered Humphrey that he was performing in what amounted to the lobby of the fanciest whorehouse in Knockturn Alley. He'd told his jokes everywhere from a street corner in Tangent Alley, when he was barely taller than his father's performing Jarvey, to the stage of the Merlinus Palladian, at the height of his career. However, he'd become rather protective of Reggie, and he suspected that even limited exposure to the ladies who performed beyond the curtains at the end of the hall was giving her an unnecessarily ribald sense of humor.

High-end houses of prostitution being what they were, all the better sort of wizards (in one sense, anyway) frequented the establishment...including Diagon Alley theater owners. One night, Reggie was slipped a note when she pranced amidst the clientele collecting tips.

"Oi, Humph...what's this about the Diagon Odeon?"

Just when I thought she couldn't surprise me any more... "You didn't tell me you could read, you sneaky little stoat."

"Well, I can't...not much, anyway. You gonna tell me about it or not?"

He filed away his partner-in-comedy's latest amazing ability for future reference. Perhaps they could work it into their act. "Seems there was a Mr. Barnaby in our audience tonight, and he has a share in one of the better theaters in Diagon Alley. Do well in our audition next week, and we stand a chance of moving up a bit more in life, me furry mate."

And so it was. By the following spring, Humphrey could actually toss out robes that looked like they'd developed terminal mange (or been hit with a Swiss-cheese jinx) and buy some new ones. A room in a better part of town...or at least, a less-filthy bit of Knockturn Alley...couldn't be too far off. All thanks to an incredibly clever little silver beast with a very big mouth.

Humphrey might actually have to thank that lazy pillock Dung for presenting him with what amounted to a key to a tidy little Gringotts vault.

Of course, the one catch was that Reggie was as sharp as a tack, in addition to being clever.

"Read to me, you old toss-pot," she said mildly, "or I might just develop a little laryngitis before tomorrow's matinee."

"That's the problem with having an edyeecated Jarvey," Humphrey grumbled as he found his place in 'The Voyage of the Dawn Treader.' "Bloody things know how to negotiate."

"Damn straight," Reggie said, settling into his lap for tonight's chapter.

Ah, well. A few Sickles' worth of books, and a couple hours' reading a week, are a cheap enough price for knowing where your next meal is coming from.

But it was more than that, even if Humphrey didn't recognize it as such. He was back...not quite on top, maybe, but he had respect. He wasn't just another comedian on the bill anymore. An owl from Mr. Barnaby proved it beyond all doubt. He read it five times before Reggie interrupted his happy reverie.

"What's gotten into you, Humph? It looks like that piece of parchment set off some sort of 'grinning like a damn fool' hex."

"Start packing a satchel, Reggie, luv! We're gone from this flea-trap, and into a room behind the Odeon. At least, until we start touring next month!"

"Touring?"

"Barnaby's Headliners...the old boy's put together a show with his best acts, ourselves included! We're to be performing all over Wales, Scotland, and Ireland for the year, to end with a show in the Merlinus Palladium in Diagon Alley...and from there, Paris, New York, and MAYBE San Francisco!"

It took all of twenty seconds for Reggie to start cheering, darting around the house in a stream of liquid silver and joyous profanity.

Humphrey laughed until he had a coughing fit at her antics. "Me debts are history, little mate...pretty soon, it's diamond collars and caviar for you!" Together they went through a chorus of 'Today, the Kingdom...tomorrow, Paris, New York, and MAYBE San Francisco.' He was almost exhausted just watching her, so he poured them each a shot of Firewhisky (hers in a thimble) and insisted she take a moment to toast their good fortune.

"Forget diamond collars and caviar, you daft old dog. Get us some decent booze," Reggie said, pulling a face.

Yes, Humphrey might actually consider thanking Mundungus one of these days. As long as Reggie was well out of sight, so his no-good nephew didn't get any funny ideas about stealing her...again.

After all, the only thing rarer in show business than an educated Jarvey was one that could be your best friend.

---

Reggie had it all planned out. They would look for Toussaint while they were in New York, in case he had already found his dream and was back with Gramma, taking care of her in some nice neighborhood. Maybe he was doing well enough that they were in Hamilton Heights, or even in a brownstone in Brooklyn. Hell, maybe he'd hit the big time, and they had a place way uptown!

If he was still in school, they would catch up with him if... when...the tour had to be extended to San Francisco, it just had to...the tour reached California. Reggie and Humphrey had looked at the maps, and they both agreed that the dots for San Francisco and Oakland were almost on top of each other. Surely they could find him.

Once the tour started, she had much travel time in which to plan. Mr. Barnaby chartered a retired model of the Knight Bus and hired a driver/mechanic who went by the somewhat unpromising name (in light of the second aspect of his job) of Al Bodger. Some members of the company (particularly the trick flyers, who hated sitting still for any length of time) objected to this rather strenuously, but the company luggage made Apparating all but impossible.

"How d'you feel about the bus, little mate?" Fletcher asked her early on.

"As long as I'm fed and there's a sandbox somewhere handy, it suits me," she retorted airily.

In fact, it all suited Reggie just fine. The members of the company were at least as entertaining to travel with as to watch. A young man named Ambrose played the harp beautifully, and tried to teach Reggie to sing. She thought he succeeded rather well at it (though his seeing-eye-Crup felt differently, to judge by the howling). Reggie made particular friends with the Tumbling Tornadoes, who attempted to fly inside the bus until Bodger threatened to put them in body binds for the duration of each leg of the trip. Every three weeks they got a few days off, which were spent in the relative luxury of the cozy little rooms behind the Odeon.

Some new child acts came on for the summer. One of Reggie's favorites was a little blonde girl, delicate as a fairy. She toured with them for a few weeks during the summer, singing sweet old ballads under the name 'La Narcissette Noir.' One night, she took Reggie and Ambrose into her confidence over a shared bottle of butterbeer.

"I'm not really French, you know," she said in a conspiratorial whisper. Reggie followed Ambrose's lead and looked politely surprised. Half the people in the company were foreigners pretending to be British or British pretending to be foreigners.

"I'm not ten years old, either. I just finished my fourth year at Hogwarts, but my...guardians...think I'll be more popular marketed as a child performer." That was a bit surprising. She really was a very tiny teenager.

It was a sad day when a man showed up insisting that he was the girl's father, and that the couple posing as her parents were actually her disinherited sister and said sister's disreputable boyfriend. Accusations of using the Imperius curse were bandied about, but ultimately, the man left with 'Narcissette,' a medium-sized bribe, and no further trouble. Reggie knew it was all bullshit; the girl had as good as told her they all thought it would be capital fun to 'join the circus' for a bit. Ambrose agreed, but added that she never would have been allowed to stay; her upper-class accent, unlike Humphrey's, was the genuine article. The chances were good that she was a pureblood of the highest order.

It bothered Reggie not at all that she was now billed as 'The Amazing Educated Jarvey' rather than 'Regina P. Fletcher.' Her pseudo-Animagus status was a draw in Knockturn Alley, but Mr. Barnaby didn't fancy even a breath of illegality around his company. To keep up with demands for her to prove her reading ability, she practiced for a while each day with the Man of 100,000 Faces, a mild-mannered Metamorphmagus who had immigrated from Italy as a child. Humphrey appreciated his assistance, since he himself was unable to read in a moving vehicle without suffering from motion sickness, though he warned Reggie against picking up any traces of Giovanni 's remaining accent.

Their acts evolved from town to town, as they learned what got laughs in each region. And they still found time to reminisce, Humphrey about his early days as a headliner, Reggie about her education in New York and, when the bus was stuck in the snow, about the lazy, citrusy heat of her 'childhood' in Los Angeles. All in all, it was a joyous adventure for Reggie, like a year-long holiday.

The company re-entered London in high spirits, ready for their big send-off to France. Rumors flew thick and fast about extending the tour to Orleans and the Riviera, and it was a foregone conclusion that it would have an extended run in America as well.

They couldn't have wished to put on a more flawless performance. The Tornadoes had a good-sized flat behind the Odeon, just off the rooming house used by the rest of the company, and invited everyone back to their place for a celebration dinner. There were good-natured arguments over choice of carryout and offers to pick up some champagne. Which made it all the more devastating when they went to their rooms behind the Odeon to find them being emptied out.

"Packing up for the continent already?" Giovanni asked uncertainly, his face shifting into that of a hopeful child of its own volition. No one else dared speak. A few were holding their breath. Somehow, it didn't look like packing for the tour.

"Tour's cancelled. And since one of the other partners in the company took sick and pulled out, there's no money to subsidize rooms for you lot. You're all to get out. Tonight," the wizard in charge said tersely. He turned his back as if they ceased to exist when he ceased speaking to them, levitating furniture for a pair of surly Squibs to guide. Several rooms' worth of furniture already decorated the pavement.

Reggie looked around. By the expressions on the faces around them, she and her master weren't the only performers ambushed by the news.

"I'm afraid we didn't hear you correctly, my good man..." Humphrey began in his most fluid, solicitous voice. The one that made him the leading member of the company, along with having nearly a century more performing experience than anyone else present.

"I said there's no international tour. Cancelled. Not enough interest in America in comedians and musicians. The Chinese Acrobats were just given permission to tour the country, and old man Slade overruled his daughter's request for our show when he found out he could book them. Same story in Paris...the damned acrobats are headed there next. This building's being sold, and the new owners don't need the furniture."

Reggie had forgotten that the bright new bed and dresser in their little flat behind the theater came with the room. She had a strange, irrational moment of fear for where they would find a comfortable bed for Humph's old bones.

It wasn't often that H.W. Fletcher looked old. He did now, and Reggie realized that, as old as Gramma had been, Humph was even older. Frail. Stooped. Worn. Without the light in his eyes, he wasn't the fiercely bright and plucky comedian, he was just a ragged old wizard with no prospects, no home, and no assets but a trunk, a repertoire, and a Jarvey.

Numbly, they trooped over to the Tornados' flat and ate in silence. The celebration had become a wake. No one would have gone there if they'd had anywhere else to go.

Reggie alone would not hold her tongue, though she kept her voice low in deference to their friends.

"We could go back on the road, Humph. Just us. They loved us in some of those places," Reggie argued. "We can't fucking give up now! You told me the show must go on...were you full of shite when you said it?"

Fletcher snorted and aimed a swat in her direction, which she dodged easily. But it wasn't until they wandered out into the street at a very cold, very empty four a.m., that he actually answered her.

"Watch your language and look sharp, Reg! You hold still long enough and that no-good nephew of mine'll nick ya again!" he said. They wandered back to the Palladium in the company of Ambrose and his Crup. Humphrey claimed his trunk from backstage, 'Reducio'-ed it, and stuffed it in his pocket. Reggie scampered up to his shoulder and they prepared to seek out their next engagement.

---

For another year or so, they managed well enough. Then the troubles started.

Fletcher remembered war; the Grindelwald debacle had been grim, even without a Muggle dust-up happening at the same time. But it hadn't been too hard on entertainers. A good laugh was in short supply, and you could always work for food.

This time it was different. For a long time, it was almost limited to rumors... a Muggle-born witch killed here, some Muggles harassed there. But it didn't take long to escalate. The enemy inspired so much terror that people refused to call him by name. Fear seemed to have everyone in a tight grip.

Theatergoers stayed at home, and gigs were impossible to come by. Fletcher couldn't even set up his hat on a corner of Diagon Alley. There weren't enough shoppers to make it worthwhile. With his small stash of cash dwindling, Humphrey feared it would only be a matter of time before he was obliged to ask Dung to start nicking groceries. Until one day when an anonymous owl arrived with an advertisement.

Smart Jarveys in demand for a variety of projects deemed too dangerous for wizards. Register your Jarvey with our breeding program and get up to 10 Galleons per usable kit!

It was wrong. Reggie was his best friend. She was like family to him. It would be like selling his own nieces and nephews. She was also reduced to hunting rats so that he wouldn't have to feed her so much. Reluctantly, he told her about the letter.

Reggie was quiet for a long time. Then she left, to return with the smell of rat on her breath.

"I was probably too little when I was taken from me mum, you know."

"I know."

"I've grown a bit, but I'm still no more than two-thirds the size of a normal Jarvey."

"Yeah."

"We're up shite creek, aren't we?"

"By the end of the week, I'm going to ask Dung to nick us some groceries."

"Well... if they can find a nice bloke for me... I suppose I could give it a go."

---

"That's the first time I've ever seen Jarveys what needed to chat each other up beforehand."

Humphrey overheard the grumbling. He didn't care if the man at the stud Jarvey outfit thought he was barmy. He refused to put Reggie down in one of the breeding pens to have the males brought to her one by one, in hopes something would take. Instead, he carried her carefully from cage to cage, letting her speak to each one.

Finally, Reggie sighed. "It's no good, Humph. I don't feel crap. I mean, there's some nice-lookin' blokes here and all, most of 'em dumb as a Quaffle, but a few who can hold up their end of a conversation. Still... nothing's going to happen. I can tell. I don't know how, but I know I can't get anything out of fucking with them. Maybe it has to do with me being a runt."

Fletcher picked her up with a sigh. "It's okay, Reggie, luv. I didn't much fancy the idea of havin' to sell your little'uns. Nor of you having it off with some strange beast. It's like givin' me own daughter away to some cad."

"I guess it's back to work for us, then."

"Yeah," Fletcher said, his expression faraway yet worried. "Finding work's the trick..."

They managed to make their way back to his room without incident. There was just a sip of Firewhisky left in the bottle. Reggie politely refused it, munching on half of a slightly stale scone and washing it down with weak tea. Humphrey felt a curious sense of peace and lightness, watching her carefully polish her whiskers when she was finished, her eyes sparkling softly. She needed no diamonds; he had seen ladies both fine and wealthy in his day, and none of them had been adorned in jewels more glowing than Reggie's bright black eyes.

"Sing a bit for me, Regina, dear."

"I don't know many songs, except some from the show."

"Humor an old man, there's a luv," he said softly, sipping a little Firewhisky before settling back into the rocking chair with the glass on the table at his side.

Reggie started with 'Lydia the Tattooed Lady,' then followed up with 'Beautiful Dreamer,' obviously picking up on his quiet mood.

"The Entertainer is taking a bow," Reggie sang cheerfully, her voice startling him as it intruded upon his consciousness. Had he fallen asleep? He must have; she'd started another song, and he could tell he'd missed some of the lyrics. Humphrey focused on her silver fur, admiring how the dim candlelight shimmered on it.

"...does his dance step and sings his song

even gets the audience to sing along..."

She really began to throw herself into the performance, closing her bright eyes and belting out the words as loudly as her tiny lungs allowed.

"With his snappy patter and jokes,

he knows what pleases the folks,

the Entertainer, the star of the show!"

The room began to gray around the edges. Funny, I don't recall being this aware of falling asleep before.

"...with all the singers, dancers,

acrobats and clowns..."

He closed his eyes before the beauty of Reggie's silver fur could be dimmed as well.

"There was a dancing bear,

even a dog act there..."

A sweet fragrance came into his awareness.

"Now the curtain is going down

On the Entertainer, the artist, the pro...

He was put on this earth

To bring us laughter and mirth,

The Entertainer, the star of the show."

His last thought was that Reggie's voice suddenly sounded much clearer and purer than he had ever realized.

---

Author's Notes:

As mentioned in the previous chapter, the 'Who's On First' routine was performed by Abbot and Costello many times over their career, and they were said to have improvised and ad-libbed their way through it each time. In honor of that vaudeville tradition, the adapted version of the act has not been copied directly from any of the transcripts of those performances, but reconstructed entirely from my memory of the various versions I've heard and read over the years. (My personal favorite is the version from 'The Naughty Nineties,' though one of the renditions from their T.V. show was pretty good as well.)

A 'bodger' would be someone who cobbles things together, makes makeshift repairs. Not necessarily a name to inspire confidence when looking for a mechanic...

Is 'La Narcissette Noir' really who you think it is? Well, if she were, there is no reason to think she would remember Reggie specifically after several decades, though I imagine such an experience might prepare her to think more kindly of Jarveys than might otherwise be imagined.

'Lydia the Tattooed Lady,' by Harold Arlen and Yip Harburg, is an absolutely hilarious song. It's probably best known from Groucho Marx's rendition thereof in the movie 'At the Circus.' It became a signature song of Groucho's, and was such a favorite of the late, great Jim Henson that he had it performed by a Muppet chorus at his funeral.

'Beautiful Dreamer' by Stephen Foster was one of my grandfather's all-time favorite songs, which I played and sang for him whenever I visited Grandma and Grandpa's house.

'The Entertainer' by Scott Joplin is probably best known as 'that song from the movie The Sting' (1973). Ironically, The Entertainer...written in 1902...was no longer popular by the 1930s, the time period during which The Sting is set. 'The Entertainer' actually has lyrics, some of which Reggie sang in this chapter. These particular lyrics are from the version sung by Milton Berle near the end of the Muppet Show's run. The full version of the song is a celebration of Vaudeville in its heyday (yes, Vaudeville is specifically mentioned in the lyrics), and the 'entertainer' in question is a true Vaudeville headliner, a person whose talents range from comedy to emceeing to singing and dancing...a person not unlike Humphrey W. Fletcher. And not unlike Reggie.

Humphrey Wilberforce Fletcher was so named in honor of the character Wilberforce Humphries on 'Are You Being Served?' Mr. Humphries was portrayed (delightfully, I might add) by the late John Inman, who died not long after I started work on this particular chapter...so that the name is no longer merely an appreciative nod, but a tribute. So the curtain falls on yet another entertainer.

Up Next: The Fairy God-Jarvey.