An Aptitude for Magic

Oliver had been standing in the same spot for the past fifteen minutes, staring contemptuously down into the metal cauldron before him. The pot was, at this point, supposed to be happily bubbling away with a light green foam rising to the top. To Oliver’s dissatisfaction (though not quite surprise), it had slowly congealed into a dark brown sludge. Oliver mentally checked through the list of ingredients and instructions which he was supposed to have followed one more time; first the two scoops of sweet-ander powder, then the five kektares of crushed mallontar, followed by five minutes to allow for boiling and gentle stirring, and then no more than three cups of crepitus solution.

He did this all without taking his eyes off of the mixture in his cauldron, which was slowly moving from brown to black. At this, his eyebrows contracted even further as the look on his face grew more and more confused. He had added the sweet-ander and then the mallontar, yes? Of course he had. He remembered almost dropping in the entire jar of sweet-ander as he had been scooping it out. Think then. Had he let the solution boil for too long? He could almost here Professor Trenkit, Master of the Potions Department, yelling at him; “The only way to ever learn to create a proper potion is through careful attention and dutiful focus. Two things in which you are sorely lacking Mr. Soren.”

Meanwhile, the cauldron began to make ominous rumbling noises.

So what had he done wrong then? It was a common enough question for him. He turned to glance again at the potions manual which he held lying open in the palm of his hand. Add two scoops of sweet-ander powder. Five kektares of crushed mallowtar. Five minutes to boil and stir. Oliver could hear birds chirping outside, and for a moment he wished that he was one of them. Perhaps one of them was one of his fellow classmates, transformed, watching him through the window as his last chance to get into Chickenpox School of Magic and Such boiled into a thick black sludge before his helpless eyes. And then Oliver noticed the exact wording on the last set of instructions. He had never been a careful reader, and it occurred to him at that moment that one should probably never skim the instructions when creating a fire-starter potion. The exact wording, unfortunately for Oliver, called for three drops of Crepitus powder. The cauldron, as if to emphasise the point, began to smoke.

A smarter wizard might have used what precious time was left to utter a few incantations of magical defence. A smarter person might have used the time to flee. Oliver, in a telling display of both his own personality and magical abilities, used the time to say three words.

“Oh of course.”

And then the entire tower was engulfed in a thick black smoke.

“WHAT IN THE NAME OF THE SEVEN SACRED SAPS DID YOU DO SOREN!” boomed Professor Trenkit as he waddled furiously up the hallway, his arms flapping madly and his customary robe billowing out like a bright pink sail behind him. Oliver had learned long ago that the very best and brightest wizards went on to work in high paying careers creating fellowships and instructing youngs Kings-to-be, and that Professor Trenkit, being worthy of neither adjective, had therefore become a teacher. Oliver also knew that if he was not about to be reduced to a smoldering pile of ash via Trenkit’s hate-filled stare alone, then he was almost certainly about to wish he had been once Trenkit finished listing the long litany of punishments which would be created specifically to torture him. Oliver took all this in with a quiet sort of acceptance, as if he had almost expected an outcome similar to this, even while a small part of his brain began screaming as it realized that he would soon have to explain this to his Uncle Landen, the great Lord and Master of the Astrological Arts.

“SOREN, I SWEAR TO ALL THAT FLOATS, FLIES, AND… AND … PWHUH. LISTEN HERE SOREN, WHEN I’M THROUGH YOU’LL … YOU’LL … FHWUUUUUH”, said Professor Trenkit, who was obviously having trouble with words at the moment. He had very nearly managed to make it to where Oliver was standing, and Oliver was sure that he was presenting a very unflattering sight at the moment. His hair was blown around him at all angles, soot covered his skin, and he was still clutching half of a burned copy of Elementary Potions. As Trenkit approached, several members of the school’s fast-response team, a necessity for any location where magic was being taught, had rushed into the room behind Oliver while hurriedly mumbling the incantations required for a water blasting spell and simultaneously waving their hands in the required steps.

“Sir, I-”, began Oliver before being cut off by an amazingly dramatic flail of Trenkit’s hands.

“Mister Soren, you were given thirty minutes to either complete one elementary potion in order to pass your L.A.R.K. exams or to give up. What part of that instruction led you to believe that blowing apart one of the school’s most expensive towers was required of you?”

Oliver paused a moment for dramatic effect, and to summon up his sarcastic courage.

“In all fairness sir, I did technically complete the assignment”, spoke Oliver, with a degree of feigned innocence which might have made even the fairest and most distressed of damsels blush in disgrace.

Professor Trenkit, for his part, was already blushing quite heavily, though this was perhaps due to him only recently receiving more exercise than he had in quite some time.

“Mister Soren, I have taught at this facility for nearly fifty years, and I have been alive longer than you have three times over. In that time, I can say with confidence that I have never, I repeat, never, seen a student as undisciplined, unprepared, immature, non-talented, and irrespectful such as you yourself are.”

Oliver waited for a time after Trenkit had finished his short speech to allow the man to catch his breath before responding, the sound of water hissing as it touched fire coming in muffled bursts from the room behind him.

“I believe, sir, that the more correct word is disrespectful.”

Trenkit’s mouth opened and closed a few times in disbelief, presumably still moving as a reflex while his brain puzzled out what to do next. Suddenly, a grim, self-satisfied smile spread across his wrinkled features. It was not, Oliver thought, a pretty sight, and seemed to be one that Trenkit seldom performed.

“Mister Soren, for the verbal abuse of your teachers, disregard for student safety, and the blatant destruction of school property, you are hereby summarily expelled from-”

“I do not believe that will be necessary, Professor Trenkit.”

Before them both, seemingly appearing from out of thin air itself (and considering magic he very well may have), stood the tall and imposing form of Headmaster Ingmethorpe. Oliver had rarely seen the man outside of his office, which was on the highest floor of the highest spire. It was said that he had once taken over the British government for a day through the use of bewitching charms just to see if anyone would notice, though it was also said that he taught dragons to sing in his free time, and yet still others said that he was an immortal, citing eerily similar historical photos as proof. He had a stern face, one that seemed capable of being either upset or joyous with the same expression. He was wearing a long and flowing purple cape, the kind that only the most important wizards wore, decorated with glowing blue stars, and a bright green pointed hat that added an extra foot to his already towering figure. The astute reader should have noticed by this point that magical fashion did not hold subtlety in the highest regard, and Headmaster Ingmethorpe stretched even those already near non-existent boundaries. The Headmaster, Oliver could now see, also had one blue eye and one green eye, because of course he did. Oliver had never noticed this before, but it was hard not to miss when the two all-seeing spheres had been turned to him to bore through his soul.

Professor Trenkit, perhaps due to sheer anger, though probably due to a now common state of confusion and loss for words, stared blankly at the Headmaster’s form for a few seconds before responding. He was unused to having so many interruptions to his regular tea time, and the shock of it all was beginning to take its toll on him.

“Headmaster, I was just about to expel young Mister Soren here. I’m not sure if you’re aware, but-”

Professor Trenkit was cut off mid-sentence yet again, something that no other person at Sherrinford Secondary School for the Magically Gifted would have ever attempted. Neither Professor Trenkit nor Oliver had any time to process this thought however before Headmaster Ingmethorpe spoke again.

“I’m quite aware of the circumstances surrounding Mister Soren’s proposed expulsion Professor Trenkit,” said the Headmaster without even bothering to turn in Professor Trenkit’s direction, “but due to certain circumstances which I was just about to inform Mister Soren about, I simply cannot allow it to go through.”

“And what,” sputtered Professor Trenkit, now regaining his courage, “could these circumstances possibly be, sir?”

“Oliver, have you ever felt that you were different from your schoolmates?”

Oliver took a moment before answering. The Headmaster’s stare was intimidating, that he could easily admit, but it wasn’t unkind, nor angry. It was simply interested, inviting almost. What really disquieted him, a feeling which a person like Oliver, who was so used to letting the world pass him by without much trouble, was quite unfamiliar with, was the fact that the Headmaster seemed to be heading into some sort of dangerous territory. Oliver knew that he wasn’t about to be punished, but he also knew on some intrinsic, some might say magical level, that something even more important was occuring.

“I wouldn’t say that I ever felt different sir. I just always felt like I didn’t belong.”

The Headmaster’s piercing visage softened slightly at this, and Oliver could have sworn that he saw the ghost of a grin flash across his face.

“And why, Mister Soren, do you suppose that is.”

Introspection was not one of Oliver’s strong suits. He had learned at a very young age that it often lead to sadness and anger and sense of displacement that he would have liked very much to avoid. Philosophy, for that reason, had the bane of his existence ever since he had begun taking magical courses. It was hard to find a teacher who didn’t begin every one of their classes with a line from Aristotle or Erasmus, and every time it took a strong show of self-discipline to prevent himself from rolling his eyes. But it was clear to anyone what the Headmaster was talking about, as the better part of the countryside knew about Oliver’s magical misadventures, beginning with his self-levitating spell disaster in the sixth grade. The shame of having Rose Minton laugh and point as he gave himself a wedgie still burned its way through his nightmares on a weekly basis.

“Well, sir, everyone seems to have a specialty. Tyson is good at transformation for instance. And everyone knows that Eliza is a master at creating love potions. But me… I… well I’m not very good at anything. At most I’m maybe average at most things.”

“Don’t you see though Oliver!”, said the Headmaster laughing, in a deep and self-amused chuckle which was almost more terrifying to Oliver than his stony face had been before, “Don’t you see it at all!”

“I for one certainly don’t see any potential in the boy at all. He said it himself, average at best”, spoke Professor Trenkit in a smug, over confident tone, the kind that schoolyard bullies employ when they want others to believe they are correct.

“And that, Professor, is more of a judgement on you than it is on anyone else,” spoke the Headmaster with contempt.

Oliver meanwhile was still trying to process the Headmaster’s words and actions, which together had created a very confusing picture for him.

“But what are you trying to say about me sir?”

“Oliver. Dear, brilliant, ignorant Oliver. I know all about your dreams of going to advanced universities, and I’m going to tell you now not to bother with that nonsense. Trenkit went to one of those places and look what it did to him. No, I’ve got a much better plan for you. If you’d like, I want you to become my apprentice.”

Oliver had been hit by a stun charm before, more times than he would care to admit, but none of them had felt like his. Ingmethorpe’s apprentice! The man who had spawned so many legends that no one was quite sure which was truth and which was lie and which was some odd mixture of both! Overall though, Oliver was mostly confused. This, at least, was an emotion which he could at last understand and put into words.

“Why me sir? Out of anyone, why me?”

It was, at least, an honest question.

“Because, my scintillating soon-to-be protege,” shouted the Headmaster over his shoulder as he turned to stride down the hallway, laughter in his voice as if there was some inside joke that only he knew, leaving a slack jawed and fuming Professor Trenkit and an eager but befuddled Oliver in his wake.

“Because, unlike every other student at this school, you are unique! You don’t have an aptitude for potions or charms or any one specific thing. You can do anything you set your mind to! You have an aptitude, my dear boy, for magic!”

And with that, the Headmaster motioned for Oliver to join him, and Oliver in turn sprinted down the hallway to run after him.