Back In The Day

  Over the years, Randolph had been the master of several shops. His first, pitiful as it was, had come about when his father had been done over badly by old Ellerby, whose machinations led to his father being turfed out of the company he had co-founded. The fact that Ellerby promptly ran the company into the ground was no comfort to Randolph's father, who was maintaining a bare living for his wife, and Randolph's younger siblings.

  But not Randolph himself. He was thirteen at the time, and shot out of the family home like a rabbit started by a ferret. He took the first job that accepted him, paying the bastard-princely sum of fifteen Knuts a week, a corner of the shop to sleep in, and surprisingly decent food. (After centuries of trial and error, The Family had finally figured out that employees will put up with almost anything as long as they are decently fed. Well, The Family excepting Third Cousin Georg, who could not understand why the occasional touch-up with a riding crop was such a big deal. It was the way his father had raised him, and hadn't he turned out fine?).

  Randolph built a small collection of decent quality tools over the next six years, until the night of the day she turned seventeen, and his life upside down at the same time. Virtually all of the tools had been paid for from his pitiful wages, (He was up to a Sickle a week, mostly due to his lack of complaints. The Extended Family realized they did not have to pay for repairs, save in favors to her father).

  But he flew away from those, too, without looking back. Absconding with a Daughter of the House, and the one bearing the Blood Curse, at that? Just the cost of doing business. Taking tools, no matter the provenance? That was a matter for the authorities!

  Stopping by his old home, he found his father had passed, which he knew from his mother's letters. And that she was quite ill, which he had not. His next youngest sister had married, to a man Randolph thought well of, and there was room in their household for his mother.

  The family was still at a loss, until his practical bride put forth some very practical suggestions.

  The family home, which had been paid off before the Ellerby debacle, was still, barely, free and clear. It was a fine old structure, and had good bones. It would be sold, there being an up market for such at the time, and the siblings would split the proceeds, with an extra share to the married sister.

  Randolph would not share. Instead, he would take his father's tools, all of them. In addition, he would send his sister ten percent of his before-tax income.

  Randolph had often chuckled over that. That money was still going out. His sister had cornered him at his mother's funeral, thanking him for his help through the years, and saying, "Now you can do some good for your own family with the extra money!"

  She was holding a babe at her breast, and a toddler by the hand. He picked his nephew up and held him. The tot was too young for speech, so he only had to guard his tone, not his words.

  Cheerfully, then, he said, "Ah never said a Damned word about stoppin' th' money should Mum pass, and Blast me if Ah'm doin' it now!" His West Country accent came natural around his kin. Besides, it made her smile.

  Tickling the youngster, he spoke over the giggles. "An' y' want t' share it wi' th' sibs, that's your lookout. They look to be doin' good for themselves, better than either of us. An' part of that is down to you taking such good care of Mum, tu. You were, and are a blessin', Sis. An' y' can't tell me it hasn't been rough, time t' time."

  She sighed, and spoke not another word. Instead she smiled, kissed him on the cheek, and whispered in his ear. "Y'r a right good 'un, Randy Spudmore."

  When told of the conversation later, she shrugged. "I never thought otherwise. As they say, 'You can't miss what you never had.' "

  Once the Firebolt money started rolling in, his sister took another stab at refusing the money, this time through his wife. And had much the same luck. At that point some of the bounty did start rolling over to the sibs. So there were three sets of well-meaning, but slightly bewildered millionaires in the old village, all of whom just did the best they could with what they had.

  And they were, in fact, doing fine.

  A couple of lean years, starting after he 'left without notice.' The first he set up was the little broom repair shop under the cramped little bed-sit that had been their first home together. The word 'shop' may have been a bit grand for the space, it being just a dug-out space under the downhill side of the block of flats. But it had a packed earth floor, walls made of left-over shiplap, four of the block's support pillars making up three of the four sides of the place. The fourth side wasn't a wall, just two massive doors running on huge steel caster wheels. They opened onto the scrap of waste land between the hill the block of flats was built on, and the road that ran behind it.

  The doors (almost) met in the middle, and there was a good strong hasp for a lock bridging the gap. That was good, because even a village like Ottery St. Catchpole had a modicum of ne'er-do-wells.

  The road serving the flats was on the other side of the building, up the hill. It didn't connect to the road behind the block for quite a distance in any direction. In fact, many residents came and went without realising the lower road's existence, there being no windows on that side. It was what served Ottery St. Catchpole as a 'Main Street' though not right in what was elegantly termed, 'Downtown.'

  There was traffic though, mostly foot traffic. The area was not a fully magical town like Hogsmeade, but any Muggle attention was diverted by keeping some 'crafty' looking non-magic brooms hanging from the inside of the front doors, as if for tourists. It was a great source of amusement for the local magical community, which began to pay off in business for the actual shop. And every time one of the 'real' brooms sold, the Spudmores took the otherwise useless Muggle money, and treated themselves.

  During slow periods, Randolph worked on the space. It had started out as secure storage for building materials, and quite a bit of this and that were tucked here and there, both in and around the shiplapped area.

  Randolph leveled and sealed the main doors, put up real wood for the walls, and laid a real floor. He excavated back and to the side as far a the next row of pillars each way, and finished those in as well, effectively sextupling his usable space. That gave him storage and workshop area, freeing up the front for customers and a modest showroom.

  He mostly did repairs and upgrades, only occasionally doing full custom brooms.

  It was one of these that brought him to the attention of the Nimbus Racing Broom Company.

  Over the years, his shop became something of a gathering place for the local magic community. It was mostly men and boys, and some girls, talking brooms and Quidditch and local gossip. He kept no drinks for sale, just Pumpkin Juice and home-made Gillywater, or sometimes Lemonade. He didn't even put out a donation box, although if she sent down a batch of biscuits, sometimes he would find coins tucked under the empty platter.

  It was slow that afternoon, with only the McCormack girl watching him shave down an unfortunate burl on a used broom. The owner had not gotten the deal he thought, having bought the broom during an unusual dry spell in the area. When the regular mist and rain returned, he found the broom seeking to rise above any moisture in the area. The new owner got pulled above the cloud pack, and almost froze to death before he could find a clear area to put down.

  Randolph had pinpointed the problem, and, as was often the case in his work, was attempting to make a positive out of a negative. The McCormack child heard someone enter, and as was her habit, went forward to see if she could help, so Randolph could concentrate on the task at hand.

  The girl called from the front, saying, "Mr. Spudmore, it's a Mr. Whitehorn, askin' if 'e can 'ave a moment of your time."

  "Dear, I'm at a tricky bit I can't walk away from. Ask him if he would care to wait, either up there or back here, matters not. Oh, and see if he would care for a Gillywater. Herself made a fresh batch."

  Whitehorn, Randolph thought. Why is that name familiar? Something about auras? He shook his head slightly. That was ridiculous.

  In a bit, the lass showed a gentleman into the workroom, and led him to the stool she had been occupying. He was, indeed, holding a glass of Gillywater on ice, with a sprig of mint floating in it.

  Randolph took all this in at a glance, before looking back down at his work. "Thank you, Cordy, that looks a treat. Did you bring in that mint?"

  "Aye, sor. Mum made me pick y' a couple fresh batches, says y' deserve summat for puttin' up wi' me all th' time. I dropped one bunch wi' y'r missus, and brought th' other down."

  "Oh, I'd say we're in for a treat, then. Cordy, would you kindly make up a glass for me, and set it on the side table."

  The girl blushed and darted off and was back in only seconds.

  "Thank'ee Cordy."

  Mr. Whitehorn, cleared his throat, and added. "Yes, thank you.., Cordy?" The last word had an inquisitive tone.

  The girl beamed. "It's really Cordelia, sor. An' y'r quite welcome." She dropped a bit of a curtsey, which looked odd with her farmer's overalls and battered jumper. Probably rough clothes saved for an active child's active days.

  "Now, lass, are you up for doing a bit of work for me?"

  She straightened to a parody of Attention, making Mr. Whitehorn grin.

  "Aye, sor!"

  "I want you to take that Universal out and put it through its paces, and I mean the way that only you can. I'm interested in fast starts. complex turns, and especially stops from high speeds. I tried somethin' new on the Braking Charm, and I want to see how repeated braking affects it."

  Cordy suffused with pride. "I'll get m'notebook!"

  Randolph called after her. "Remember to stay in the bounds of the field. And the Muggle-Repelling Charms don't kick in til you get to the treeline."

  "I'll remember!" came the cheerful reply.

  Mr. Whitehorn, whoever he was, understood a craftsman's need for calm, if not absolute quiet. Randall's conversation with Cordy hadn't sidetracked him from his patient work.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  The gentleman, (as Randall had pegged him), looked around the well set-up space. He noted the jobs in progress, obviously being prioritised. At the more remote workspaces, he saw custom work in progress, some decorative and some with an obvious eye toward improving performance.

  He returned his attention to the current focus of Randall's work.

  "That burl," he asked quietly. "It's not the result of an infection, is it?"

  Randall smiled without looking up from the job.

  "No sir, it is not," he agreed. "It is, however, sealing away something foreign, like."

  "It must have been almost invisible in the wood of the handle when you started."

  Not a 'wannabe' thought Randall. A 'dilettante,' she would say.

  "It was that. I found it by the distortion of the grain, like. I hardly had to shave down at all."

  Mr Whitehorn nodded thoughtfully. "You say there's something foreign sealed away?"

  "Yep. And I'd lay odds a man such as yourself could figure it out, given a hint or two." Randall looked up long enough to give the man a grin. He was pretty sure he had the man's measure.

  Whitehorn grinned back. "Try me then."

  Randall didn't look back up, but nodded. "I'll give you a symptom, and if that's not enough, I'll add a fact. That should be plenty."

  "What's the symptom?

  "Mist, fog, or rain, this broom will pull at the steering until it's above it."

  Whitehorn frowned, concentrating. Twice, he opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. Finally, he shook his head.

  "I'm missing something. What's the fact?"

  Randall's smile was positively beatific. "This wood isn't just oak. It's marsh oak."

  "Marsh." Whitehorn was almost whispering. "Of course. Dense, water resistant. Almost too resistant. It wouldn't take a lot to push it over the edge..."

  His scowl disappeared, replaced by a wry grin. "Cypress, by the Gods!"

  Randall nodded. "At some point, a tender young cypress sapling or branch got forced into a marsh oak branch that was a good deal thicker, but still tender in the bark. It grew around the cypress, eventually pinching it off. The bit inside lived, nurtured by the oak tree. But it was still foreign, so the burl formed around it."

  Whitehorn's smile showed grim satisfaction. "And there are very good reasons that we don't make brooms out of cypress."

  Again, Randall nodded. "An' that bit of cypress was just enough to push the marsh oak from water-resistant to water-phobic."

  A wrinkle appeared between Whitehorn's brows. "And you think you can fix it? I would have thought it would be a complete write-off."

  "Writing things off isn't something folks hereabouts can afford, much. Make do, use it up, or do without. The lad got rushed into a 'good deal,' without time to have me check it out, the which I do for free. Which is also why a certain breed of broom-trader gives Ottery St. Catchpole a wide berth. Closest they come to me is the Races in the Meadow, as I have no pull there, savin' my good name."

  Randall's grin was that of the Trickster as he straightened up from the workbench. "And, sir, I'm not so much fixing it, as side-stepping the need to fix it. How is your feel for magic, sir? I mean, th' way magic flows through a broom?"

  "It's not bad," Whitehorn admitted. "I see you've figured out I'm in the business myself. Not hiding it, mind you. We just haven't gotten there yet. I'm considered a dab hand at finding breaks or blocks in the flow of a broom's magic."

  "So what can you tell me about the flow here?" Randall ran his hand down the broom's shaft, then stepped aside. Whitehorn took his place. Running his hand along, much as Randall had, he spoke quietly, as if to himself.

  "It's a good shaft, good indeed. I can see why your lad may have thought it was his lucky day. This broom would be quite a competitor, depending on the rider. The right rider could take it to national level competitions. If the weather was perfectly dry."

  He concentrated on the section with the exposed bit of burl. "But here's the literal rub. I can feel the interference, here, even with the little bit of moisture in the air. I can feel it... pushing?"

  He stopped talking, frowning as he ran his hand down the shaft, and then back up. He repeated the motions several times, eyes getting wider with each repetition.

  "What in the world?" He turned to his unfinished Gillywater and fished a piece of ice out. Holding it over the burl, he waited for the warmth of his hand to cause the ice to melt.

  A fat drop quivered, broke free, and fell. When it got within about a foot, it disappeared. The same happened to the next drop, and every successive one.

  "Is it Vanishing them?" Whitehorn asked, baffled.

  Randall's smile was almost that of a child, delighted at a successful prank.

  "No, sir," he said. "It's just happening too fast for you to see."

  He unclamped the broom from the work bench and took it over to another, sturdier bench in the corner of the room. A bit of the wall panel was missing, showing one of the massive beams, sunk in bedrock, that supported the block of flats above them. A thick metal collar went all the way around the beam, bolts piercing through front to back, and side to side. Chained to this was a spring mounted on a sheet of steel with graduations marked on it. The spring was both massive, and massively magical. To the other end of the spring was attached a crossbar, depending from which were two chains ending in strong hooks.

  "Ah!" said Whitehorn delightedly. "You've made yourself a torsion-meter! Nice work! What is that spell on the spring?"

  Randall stopped setting the broom into the retaining loops on the bench, and gave Whitehorn a considering look.

  He finally said, "I believe the word I'm searching for is... proprietary?"

  Whitehorn bellowed a laugh that seemed totally unsuited to the proper gentleman he appeared.

  "Indeed it is, Mr. Spudmore! Indeed it is!"

  Once the hooks were attached to the foot rest of the broom, with an additional slack chain attached to the shaft itself, Randall laid a hand on the fore-end of the broom. Mr. Whitehorn was stationed back by the spring and scale.

  "What weight is the spring calibrated for?" he asked. "Standard fifteen-stone?"

  "I use twenty," Randall replied. "Not a lot of my custom are professional racers, and some of them are right big 'uns. Nothing worse than a gallus big lad complaining he ain't getting the speed he was promised, like."

  Whitehorn snorted a laugh, then called, "Ready!"

  Randall urged magic into the broom in the normal way, 'accelerating' smoothly. He took it up till he could feel just the slightest strain from his magic, like the broom was saying, Look, I can go faster. But you better be sure that's what you want!

  He backed off smoothly, letting the broom settle into its rests.

  Whitehorn said, "Just as I thought. National level at least, with the right rider. I'd have to have someone check the flight characteristics..."

  Randall shook his head. "Cordy's put it through its paces. It's right." He grinned at the raised eyebrow he got. "I'd peg that girl for a world-class broomwright, if she didn't have World Cup Chaser written all over her."

  "Not Seeker?" inquired the man.

  He shook his head again. "Not patient enough. Got to be doing every second she's in the air. Village team has been lying about her age for two seasons already."

  Whitehorn hmpfed. "How does her mother feel about that?"

  Randall shrugged. "Gets her out of the house."

  Whitehorn snorted. "I've got one like that. Now, what does this torsion meter have to do with that burl?"

  "Your problem was that you weren't using enough water." Randall picked up his watering can, a standard broomwright's model. It was used to moisten the twigs when an alignment was needed.

  The burl was located just ahead of the footrests and behind the seat area. With the hand of a master, Randall started the waterflow as a slow drip. Again the water drops just disappeared, but the broom quivered, no longer clamped down. As the drips became a trickle, the broom edged forward, chains clinking. It came up off its rest until it had the slack out of the chains. The water disappeared just as readily. He waved the stream in and out of the area of effect, with the trickle splashing to the floor about a foot either side of the broom's shaft.

  Whitehorn looked on, fascinated. "And you're using no magic on the broom. I could feel it if you were. Is the broom eating the water, for magic?"

  "Not even close." Randall increase the trickle to a stream, and the broom started straining at the chains in earnest, spring quivering before the scale.

  "Well, where in Hel's Name is it going?"

  Pointing with his chin, Randall said, "Look at the beam."

  Whitehorn turned his head and looked where the apparatus was attached. The metal collar and the area around it were... damp. And there was something speckling the damp surface, like... raindrops? Very... forceful raindrops.

  He looked to the empty air in front of him. Or was it empty? He raised a hand...

  "Stop!" Randall snapped as he cut the flow. It was too late.

  Whitehorn snatched his hand back. It burned like fire for just a moment, then started easing back into a normal, almost welcome pain.

  "Terribly sorry. I should have warned you, did the same to m'self, once."

  While Randall spoke, Whitehorn was examining the back of his hand. It was covered in dozens, possibly hundreds, of tiny, perfectly circular blisters, filled with what looked like plain water. Some, though not all, were becoming tinged pink with blood. Most were slowly draining out the small punctures they had been forced through.

  "It... is still repelling the water. But forcefully, and in only one direction."

  Randall nodded. "Now, stay clear, and watch the gauge." He toed over a short, wide stool and stepped up on it. Gradually increasing the flow, he got it up to what might be comparable to a summer shower. Whitehorn watched the marker on the spring creep up the scale to about half the peak level reached with Randall's magic.

  "More water, more speed." He demonstrated, varying the rate of flow, the marker surging out and back obediently.

  "More force, more speed." Keeping the flow the same, he gradually increased the height he was pouring from. The marker moved, but not as much.

  "And now, for the test I've been waiting on!" Randall's grin was a little manic. "If I have it the way I want it..." The grin disappeared. "Ah, sir? Mebbe you should, kind of, step back a bit? And, ah, if y'know any good Shield spells...?"

  A shimmer appeared in front of Mr. Whitehorn. "Auxiliary Auror," he said shortly. "Am I to assume you have had issues before?"

  Randall tilted his head back, as if he could see through the beamed ceiling into the block above. "Last time, I spread the rumor it was an earth tremor." He shook the moment off. "Ah, weel. Aftershocks happen."

  He started pouring, steadily increasing the amount. His magical watering can showed no sign of running empty, or reaching a maximum flow. When it was about the level of a decent thunderstorm, the marker had already passed the high point set earlier. They had almost reached mild monsoon level when the support timber gave out an ominous CREAK!

  Randall backed off slowly, storm to shower to stream to trickle. He climbed down from the stool. Together. the men examined the scale. The free-sliding pointer pushed along by the marker was almost where the marked gradiations ended. They looked at the beam, whose pitted surface looked as if it had been sandblasted. The more durable metal of the collar had been polished till it gleamed.

  They stepped back and regarded the broom.

  "Absolutely amazing," said Whitehorn.

  Randall nodded agreement. "That it is."

  "Nobody could touch it."

  "Indeed not."

  "And absolutely, positively useless."

  "Aye."

  "One in a million freak of nature."

  "One in a billion. In several billion."

  "No commercial value."

  "None what-so-ever."

  Whitehorn sighed. "So, what's the plan?"

  "The lad is a good 'un. He knows he can't race it, except the once."

  "The once?" Whitehorn raised an eyebrow. Randall met his gaze steadily.

  "I believe I said something about a certain type of broom-trader?"

  A grin spread over the other man's face. "Why, you know, I believe you did."

  "And they hold the Races at the Meadow, rain or shine."

  "Well, of course they do. What sort of broom racers would they be, otherwise?"

  "And the feller what gave the lad such a 'good deal' fancies himself exactly that sort of racer."

  "Pride goeth..."

  " 'Deed it do."

  "So, once that racer sees this broom, knowing what he knows..."

  "What he thinks he knows."

  "Oh, of course, of course. So, the next wettish Race Day... Are you going to bet against him?"

  "Not a betting man. Struck gold with th' Missus, and I don't care for aught else. However, this 'un is a betting man, and I'm willing to say that he will bet strong on himself." Randall's smile was cold. "And that will be good enough for me."

  "And after that? The broom, I mean."

  Randall sighed. "I'd like to get the lad his money back. At least some. I heard some new company in the city is havin' a competition for custom brooms. Might get him a bit, like."

  "Pfft!" said Whitehorn. "I'd be willing to give him double the first prize money, just to give someone else a chance. And get that damned broom out of the public eye before it becomes infamous."

  Randall side-eyed the man.

  "It comes t' me that I never inquired th' purpose of your visit, Mr. Whitehorn."

  "Ah. Yes. We did elide over that part, didn't we? Can't have that."

  He straightened, looked Randall straight in the eye, and said, "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Devlin Whitehorn, President and Owner of Nimbus Racing Broom Company. One of my bright young men came in with a custom broom he had bought while visiting family in the wilds of Devon. Once we understood that it was not some kind of prank, and he was not suffering brain fever or Confundment... Well, I set off to find you, and, much like that broom, get you out of the public eye before you become infamous. Or, worse, competition."

  "Nimbus," muttered Randall. "That's why I was thinking 'halo.' "

  "What?"

  "Nothing," said Randall. "So, offering me a job, then. Well, let's go up around and talk to the Missus. Nothin' goes without her say-so. Got one condition before we bother her, though."

  "And it is...?"

  "If I come up with it on my own time, not somethin' you set me to, mind? It's mine. You'll always get first refusal for th' rights, but I own it."

  Devlin frowned. "That goes against most standard contracts in the field. I would certainly be willing to hear your arguments against that, though."

  Randall looked mulish, as only a West Country-man can. "My arguments are three words." He paused.

  "Ellerby and Spudmore."