Anyway, after a twenty-minute "flight" from darkest Romania, I
found myself sprawled on a patch of bare dirt in the sun, with
Charlie standing next to me, laughing his fool head off. I
rolled over onto my back, then knocked him off his feet with a
quick legsweep. As he went sprawling himself, I hopped to my
feet with a quick kippup and took a quick look around me.
The bare patch was actually part of a dirt road running through a
good-sized meadow. On three sides of us, the meadow was bounded
by lush old-growth forest; the road ran toward the forest in one
direction, and in the other vanished over a low hill that blocked
my view of anything beyond it. The sun was shining to beat the
band in a brilliantly clear, bold blue sky. It was warm, but not
uncomfortably hot.
Nodding to myself, I looked back down at Charlie, who had gotten
to his hands and knees during my glance around. "That," I said,
"had to be the single worst magical transport I've ever used, and
I've used some doozies."
He laughed and looked up at me. "Heh. Should have guessed you'd
never used a portkey before." He held out his hand. "Here now,
give us a hand up."
I gave him a dubious look. "If you pull me back down into the
dirt when I do, Charlie, I will *so* kick your ass."
He laughed again. "Would I do that?"
"In a heartbeat," I said. "I haven't forgotten who dunked me in
the camp cistern."
"I *told* you, that wasn't me! It was Tannenbaum!" Rather than
wait for me to offer a hand, Charlie climbed to his feet.
"Tannenbaum was visiting *Vrajitor lui alee* in Bucharest that
day, and you know it." As he straightened up to his full height,
I began slapping the dust and dirt off his clothes. Maybe a bit
harder than I needed to, but he deserved it. "If you'd decided
to blame someone who was actually *in* the camp, I *might* have
believed you."
"I swear on my mother's grave..."
"Charlie, two things. First, your mother's still alive, which is
one of the points of this visit. Second, you would swear on your
mother's grave that you were a 140-centimeter Swedish girl with
three legs if it would further one of your gags."
A thoughtful look crossed his freckled face. "Yeah, I suppose I
might, at that."
I whapped him on the back of the head, but not hard enough to
cause cranial trauma. "C'mon, Laughing Boy. Lead me to this
Burrow of yours before I decide to bury you out here up to the
waist -- head down."
As it turned out, the Burrow was on the other side of that low
hill -- which was only low on our side: when we crested the top,
I saw that it sloped gently down into a broad, low dell, in the
center of which was what I could only assume was a house.
It was either that, or someone had spent his life creating a
three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle out of building supplies using
an Escher collection as a guide.
It was, as best as I could determine, about three stories tall,
or trying to be -- but rooms and wings hung off the thing with
an arbitrary whimsicalness that made it difficult to determine
what floor they were supposed to be on. The lowest level looked
like it might once have been a classic British cottage or
farmhouse, but *so* many random architectural encrustations had
been applied to it that it was hard to be sure. At least one
part seemed to be *upside-down* and reachable only by an exterior
door and a crawlway past a working chimney. It was much larger
in the middle -- where I figured the second floor was likely to
be -- than at either end, but had no supports of any kind.
Despite this, it defied all logic by appearing to be rock-solid.
"And he built a crooked house..." I muttered to myself as I
stopped short at the sight of the place.
"Well, there it is, the Burrow," Charlie said as he came up
alongside me. "The Weasley ancestral home, the family's been
living there for... Merlin, I don't know *how* many generations."
He slapped me on the back. "What do you think?
"Charlie," I said softly, "I now understand you *far* better than
I did five minutes ago." I shook my head and snorted a brief
laugh. "Whoever built this house clearly was in a blood feud
with both physics and architecture. Either that or clinically
insane."
-- Bob
---------
Then the horns kicked in...
...and my shoes began to squeak.
found myself sprawled on a patch of bare dirt in the sun, with
Charlie standing next to me, laughing his fool head off. I
rolled over onto my back, then knocked him off his feet with a
quick legsweep. As he went sprawling himself, I hopped to my
feet with a quick kippup and took a quick look around me.
The bare patch was actually part of a dirt road running through a
good-sized meadow. On three sides of us, the meadow was bounded
by lush old-growth forest; the road ran toward the forest in one
direction, and in the other vanished over a low hill that blocked
my view of anything beyond it. The sun was shining to beat the
band in a brilliantly clear, bold blue sky. It was warm, but not
uncomfortably hot.
Nodding to myself, I looked back down at Charlie, who had gotten
to his hands and knees during my glance around. "That," I said,
"had to be the single worst magical transport I've ever used, and
I've used some doozies."
He laughed and looked up at me. "Heh. Should have guessed you'd
never used a portkey before." He held out his hand. "Here now,
give us a hand up."
I gave him a dubious look. "If you pull me back down into the
dirt when I do, Charlie, I will *so* kick your ass."
He laughed again. "Would I do that?"
"In a heartbeat," I said. "I haven't forgotten who dunked me in
the camp cistern."
"I *told* you, that wasn't me! It was Tannenbaum!" Rather than
wait for me to offer a hand, Charlie climbed to his feet.
"Tannenbaum was visiting *Vrajitor lui alee* in Bucharest that
day, and you know it." As he straightened up to his full height,
I began slapping the dust and dirt off his clothes. Maybe a bit
harder than I needed to, but he deserved it. "If you'd decided
to blame someone who was actually *in* the camp, I *might* have
believed you."
"I swear on my mother's grave..."
"Charlie, two things. First, your mother's still alive, which is
one of the points of this visit. Second, you would swear on your
mother's grave that you were a 140-centimeter Swedish girl with
three legs if it would further one of your gags."
A thoughtful look crossed his freckled face. "Yeah, I suppose I
might, at that."
I whapped him on the back of the head, but not hard enough to
cause cranial trauma. "C'mon, Laughing Boy. Lead me to this
Burrow of yours before I decide to bury you out here up to the
waist -- head down."
As it turned out, the Burrow was on the other side of that low
hill -- which was only low on our side: when we crested the top,
I saw that it sloped gently down into a broad, low dell, in the
center of which was what I could only assume was a house.
It was either that, or someone had spent his life creating a
three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle out of building supplies using
an Escher collection as a guide.
It was, as best as I could determine, about three stories tall,
or trying to be -- but rooms and wings hung off the thing with
an arbitrary whimsicalness that made it difficult to determine
what floor they were supposed to be on. The lowest level looked
like it might once have been a classic British cottage or
farmhouse, but *so* many random architectural encrustations had
been applied to it that it was hard to be sure. At least one
part seemed to be *upside-down* and reachable only by an exterior
door and a crawlway past a working chimney. It was much larger
in the middle -- where I figured the second floor was likely to
be -- than at either end, but had no supports of any kind.
Despite this, it defied all logic by appearing to be rock-solid.
"And he built a crooked house..." I muttered to myself as I
stopped short at the sight of the place.
"Well, there it is, the Burrow," Charlie said as he came up
alongside me. "The Weasley ancestral home, the family's been
living there for... Merlin, I don't know *how* many generations."
He slapped me on the back. "What do you think?
"Charlie," I said softly, "I now understand you *far* better than
I did five minutes ago." I shook my head and snorted a brief
laugh. "Whoever built this house clearly was in a blood feud
with both physics and architecture. Either that or clinically
insane."
-- Bob
---------
Then the horns kicked in...
...and my shoes began to squeak.
