Scare Tactics

Novelist Robert Raglan, creator of the Martin Miggs the Mad Muggle comics, scorned by book critics, but beloved of teenaged wizards everywhere, surveyed his gleaming new offices. He was early to work, he knew, but he just had to get out of the house and bask in his new-found legitimacy as an author. After all, cartoonists were barely tolerated by other artists and writers. Even in the Muggle world, they won no Pulitzers, appeared on no talk shows, held no signings for queues of devoted followers. Now he had the lot...well, not the Pulitzer or its wizarding equivalent, the Pittiman, but he wasn't greedy. He'd settle for fame, wealth, adulation. Take that, Gilderoy Lockhart, he crowed, wherever you are.

There was only one small snag. His publishing agent, Madam Plage, had mentioned to him the other day that there was actually someone out there accusing him of stealing their material. However, Madam Plage had assured him that there'd be no trouble. These kinds of things were de rigueur in the publishing world. A new talent burst on the scene, and everyone and his Hippogriff wanted in on the success story. She had installed a new secretary--dear, pretty Charlata--in his outer office with explicit orders to blast this particular fellow with a memory-wipe the moment he entered--if he was foolish enough to try such a thing. Robert bowed to her superior wisdom. Madam Plage had reams of experience in such matters.

Here in his citadel in a disused electrical plant overlooking the Thames, he could relax, untouchable. He made some small adjustments to his desk furnishings. He gently fiddled with his wand, which stood upright for all to see in a fancy bud-vase. The large, gold-framed photo of his wife was a tad off-centre. He angled it so that visitors would notice as they entered the office. Gladys had a sweet face and large, liquid eyes that belied her iron-fisted business savvy. She was a stunner--a real knock-out, and he paid a pretty Sickle to keep her that way. But she was worth it. After all, it was she who'd kept them going, building up her own small business after he quit cartooning to try his hand at a novel. A whole year it had taken him to find the right themes, the right words, but it had paid off...oh how it had paid off!

These thoughts touched off a small twinge of nostalgia for the old days when he was first struggling to make a name for himself as a cartoonist, bent night after night over his sketchbook in their little basement flat in Clapham Common. He'd always been good at drawing, and more than one teacher, exasperated at his inattention, had still grudgingly wished him luck with his talent even as they Banished his sketch pad into the classroom fireplace. His family was appalled--he seemed to be following in the degraded footsteps of his older brother Rapscoll...or 'Rascal' as they called him--but Gladys supported him staunchly, working days to support them in a little dress shop in town. At night, soft and warm next to him on the loveseat, having made them both coffee, she played secretary, writing his letters, editing his dialog, and later, when he'd "made it," reading his fan mail and putting out a newsletter for Miggs-addicts. Later on, as he grew popular, and demand for his Mad Muggle series moved it to the status of a weekly event, he sometimes found himself at a loss for plotlines. Even there Gladys was able to help out. She often gave him ideas, good ones that jump-started him into a frenzy of composition.

There was a sound in the outer office. Was it his secretary already? Maybe a fan or two looking for autographs? Or a journalist inquiring into his work-in-progress. He adjusted his collar, pulled at his cuffs.

Through the door walked two fellows, one comfortably-built like himself, the other much smaller, but both dressed stylishly in suits of dragon hide. The greenish scales glinted in the early morning light. The slighter of the two stood by the door staring at him with great concentration. The fellow probably never met a celebrity before. The other one, obviously more confident, approached him with a buoyant stride.

"Master Raglan, is it? We were so hoping to see you--my brother and I--before the morning rush. We know you're a busy man, but--"

Robert could not see how the two could be related. Besides the difference in bulk, the one shaking his hand had bright red hair, the other's was a dullish yellow.

Blondie squeaked from the doorway, "Yes, sir, we're very interested in your work, and we wondered if we might impose on your generosity."

"Well, all solicitations go through my secretary, Miss Swyndle, and if you want me to speak for your club or what-not, I'm sorry to say I'm booked solid at the moment."

"Oh, no, sir, we're not with any charity," said Red. "We just hoped you might autograph one of your earlier works for our brother who's--ah--indisposed. He's a great fan, you know. Has all your stuff in the original." He held out a much-thumbed comic book. It was a copy of the first cartoon Robert had ever published: A Mad Muggle Meets Magic.

This took him by surprise. "Well, all right," he said, getting out his quill, the nostalgia welling up once more. "What's the name?"

"Weasley--Ronald Weasley."

Robert smiled. He recognised the name. A boyhood fan who had written him a time or two.

"There you go." He signed it with a flourish, "To my friend and admirer, Ronald, Hope this finds you well, with sincerest regards, etc., etc. That okay?"

"Thank you ever so. May we also express our unabashed admiration of your latest coup--ah, your book--"

"Oh, have you read my book? What did you think of it?"

Blondie moved towards him. "We were intrigued--"

"Amused--" added Red.

"Amazed--"

"Horrified--"

"What was that?"

Red looked aghast. "Oh, did I say horrified? So sorry. I meant: angry, disgusted, sickened, bitter, resentful, repulsed, revolted, nauseated, and contemptuous--did I cover everything, Dennis?"

"You forgot 'vengeful,' George."

"Oh yes--vengeful!" The fellow named George licked his lips and grinned in a rather dragonish way, his teeth glinting like the scales of his jacket.

"But I don't understand--" Robert stammered.

"Surely you do. You took our brother Ron's ideas--stole them, and built your paltry, nasty, slimy excuse for good literature around them for your own selfish gain."

"Uh--there must be some error--" Robert slowly backed towards his desk. "I'm afraid I'll be tied up all day--I can hear my secretary--she's coming now--" If he could only reach his wand. "Erm--Lots of dictation--you'll have to speak to my solicitors--" But the one called Dennis moved in quickly and blocked his way.

"Oh no, Master Raglan, we'll speak to--you--or--nobody!" He punctuated each word with a prod of his own wand into Robert's stomach. During this exchange, the other fellow sneaked up behind him, wheeling the desk chair into the back of his legs, and gave a great shove. Needless to say, Robert sat down--abruptly. Blondie--Dennis--waved his wand about the office. "Now we'll have some privacy," he crowed. There was a maniacal gleam in his beady little eyes.

"A Locking Spell--how dare you?"

"And even better," said the one called George, "a Mass Apparition charm. We're going for a little ride." The room gave a sudden lurch, and several items on the desk slid off it. George laughed...a nasty laugh. "Now we're not in London anymore, chum. We're hovering over the Channel about a thousand feet up. Well, we're either there or the North Sea. We've never been that good with coordinates. Anyway you'll know in a minute--if your bum freezes to that chair--"

"What do you want?" Robert cried.

"Compensation for Ronald Weasley's contribution to your noble work--a minor cut--say five percent--"

"For what? Being a loyal subscriber? Sending me adoring fan mail? Anyway, I only get five--"

"Well, then five percent of your five. With the books going for three Galleons a pop, a hundred-thousand-plus copies sold--that comes to about--seven hundred and fifty G's."

"This is preposterous! You've no claim--no claim whatsoever. My publisher--my wife--"

"This the Missus?" Dennis had picked the portrait of Gladys off the floor and waved it at him.

George ogled it salaciously. Robert longed to hit him for that. "You got good taste, Robbie old man. Say what? Robbie--Rob--perfect name for a damned plagiarist!"

But Robert Raglan would not be drawn. Talk about his wife stiffened his backbone. He'd face a hundred burly thugs rather than expose her to humiliation. "I'm sorry. Do with me what you will. Without proof that will convince my publisher and my solicitors--and myself--your brother's not getting a Sickle out of me." He crossed his arms and legs and stared straight ahead in tight-lipped determination.

"How's about we provide the proof," said Dennis. "For instance, we have the copy Ron made before he sent you the original stories. Right here." He brandished some parchment in front of Robert's face and meant to pull it away, but was not quite quick enough. Robert snatched and scanned the page. It seemed to have been much overwritten. He could only make out a few words.

"This is rubbish," he said, tossing it back. "It'll never stand up in the Wizengamot." Raglan's mouth snapped shut. He had the satisfaction of seeing a hint of uncertainty in Dennis's eyes.

"And," whispered George in his ear. "Did you know that you can do a Prior Incantato, charm on a quill, the same as you can with a wand? All you need is to touch it to another quill from the same bird and you can get the first quill to regurgitate every word it's ever written. We have Ron's quill, Master Raglan, the one he used to write those stories."

"What about the other one?"

"What?"

"The other quill. From the same eagle. I demand to see it. In fact, I demand a demonstration, here and now!"

"Well, it's only a matter of time before we find one."

"But you don't have one yet, do you?"

He could see the dismay in their eyes. This obviously wasn't going at all the way they'd planned.

"You're right, Master Raglan," blurted Dennis. "We don't have any proof yet, but it's out there, and we'll get it eventually."

"But you know that, don't you?" added George much more forcefully. "And you fear it. You've been getting letters from Ron ever since he was just a little kid, pouring out his heart, giving you his ideas. I daresay they weren't much when he was little, but lately his stuff's been getting better and better. And you took advantage of his naivety--lifted his plots right off the page and into your dung heap of a book. And he's stuck in a nasty little bed-sit with mountains of bills, and his wife's got a--ah--a scone in the fire and..."

While he ranted, Robert could see the other brother--Dennis--out of the corner of his eye, pacing about, looking at a square of paper he had in his hand--it looked a bit like a photograph--and shaking his head and muttering. Suddenly, he rushed forward and stared right into Robert's face. Robert thought the fellow might punch him, but he just shook his head again and said, "C'mon, George, he's a real cold fish. We'll just have to get our proof and take him to court." He waved his wand again.

Moments later, they were walking out of the office. Robert Raglan breathed a sigh of relief, then ran over and locked the door behind them. It was then that he noticed that one of the brothers had dropped the comic book on the floor. He picked it up. It was much thumbed and written over. He'd have to show it to Gladys. She'd get a kick out of the childish scrawl, young Ronald's earnest attempt at improving on the text. He was sure it would bring back memories for her too. He wouldn't say anything about his two awful brothers.