My favorite Lego creation!
B.U.Z.Z
Website Links
Chapter 2
Never As They Seem
A lone silver fighter jet flew high in the air, the silver contrails spiraling behind it towards the horizon. The new experimental Phoenixfire AC-127 fighter jet was built for aerial combat. It was incredibly maneuverable, despite the titanium armor covering the body and the wings. Two machine guns protruded from the front of the plane. They were capable of firing ten bullets per second. Four lightweight, yet powerful, engines propelled the vehicle forwards, a silver sword piercing the blue sky.
Sitting in the cockpit was a male wearing a US Army flying suit. An oxygen mask was strapped to his face, providing extra life-giving gases to overcome the drawback of flying at high altitudes. Brown hair was barely discernable underneath his helmet, and his hazel eyes shone with excitement as he put his plane in a spin.
“Charlie Two, this is Control,” a voice blared over the radio. “How is she?”
The pilot loving patted the control panel. “Like a dream, Control. She won’t give us any problems.”
“Just be careful up there. A lot of people would kill to get their hands on that plane.”
The pilot kept one eye on the skies in front of him and one on the radar. “Control, have you heard any word from London?”
“Yes. Apparently, according to Polohov, the last pockets of resistance have crumbled. We probably have a month before the Russians come knocking on our front door.”
“Yeah, which is why—” Suddenly, the speaker noticed two red blips on the radar. “Control, two enemy fighters coming in!”
“Char…ple…peat,” was the garbled reply.
Cursing loudly, the fighter pilot when in a steep dive. They’re jamming me!
His two unknown assailants were hot on his heels. They were about twenty yards away when they opened fire. He heard the grinding of metal as the bullets crashed into his tail. He felt the plane shudder and shake. He saw the lights on his control panel winking out and the hard earth rushing up to greet him.
Panic swirled in his chest. He opened his mouth to scream, but his cries were lost to the crackling flames and the rush of the wind. His ejection button had been disabled. He was going to crash, and his remains would be instantly vaporized and lost to the wind…
If it wasn’t for a flash of white light.
* * *
The black-haired teenager’s eyes snapped open.
He was lying on a white bed, covered by white sheets, and staring up at a white ceiling. All around him were identical white beds with white sheets and white pillows. Looking at his body, he saw that his left arm, as well as his upper and lower torso, was swathed in bandages. Yet, he felt no pain.
Either I’m dead, dreaming, or I’ve taken a hell of a lot of morphine, the boy thought wryly.
Suddenly, the door one his right swung open, and his red-haired friend walked in. “You’re awake!” He exclaimed, rushing over to help his friend sit up.
The teenager stared. “Joe, what happened to you?!”
His friend, whose name was Joe Malia, looked nothing like the teenage boy he remembered: instead of armor and a machine gun, he wore black robes over black denim jeans and a black dress shirt. A thick stick was thrust through a loop on his belt. Even more shocking was the fact he looked clean: his hair was washed and combed, and all the vestiges of blood and grime and been wiped off his face.
Joe shrugged. “I had to fit in. Ginny will explain.”
“Who’s Ginny?!”
“You’ll meet her soon,” Joe replied. “Don’t you want to know what happened?”
“I’m afraid that story will have to wait for another time, Mr. Malia” an old lady wearing hospital garments interrupted. She bustled over and began checking the injured boy’s pulse and temperature. “My patient needs rest,”
“What is going on here?!” the clueless boy demanded.
“You’re at Hogwarts.”
All three people turned to look at the new speaker. She had hazel eyes and loads of freckles. Red hair cascaded down her back. Like Joe, she wore black robes, but hers bore a strange lion crest.
“And you are…?”
“Ginny Weasley,” she replied. “And you?”
“Gregory Henry,” was the gruff answer.
“Pleased to meet you,” the female Weasley replied before turning to the nurse. “Madam Pomfrey, Professor Dumbledore wants to know if Gregory is fit enough to be discharged.”
“I’m fine!” Greg protested as he flung the covers off. Ginny blushed and he realized that he was shirtless. Plowing forward, he continued “I’ve been through worse than this! I’m fine!”
Madam Pomfrey sniffed. “Metal shards in your arms and chest? Four broken ribs? That is not a definition of fine, Mr. Henry”
“It’s Harry’s” Ginny muttered, which caused Pomfrey to smile slightly.
“I’m FINE!” Greg shouted, getting to his feet. He stumbled, but Joe caught him by the armpits and held him upright. “I don’t need to be coddled!”
The matron glared at the bandaged boy critically before sighing, “He’s free to go.”
Greg gave a sigh of relief before slipping on a plain white shirt and following Ginny out the door.
* * *
“We’re here,” Ginny announced.
Greg stared critically at the gargoyle statue in front of him. On his way here, he had seen more people in robes, talking about things—The Weird Sisters, the Quibber—that he had no hope of comprehending. He saw portraits move, and a little midget with white hair levitating a 10-foot stack of books onto a shelf. He had little doubt that his tour guide was going to amaze him yet again. “How do we get in?”
“Lemon Drop.”
Greg glanced at Ginny as if she had three heads. “…candy is going to get us through a solid stone statue?”
The redhead smirked and pointed at the gargoyle. Greg turned…and saw empty space: the statue had moved aside, revealing a spiraling staircase that ascended towards the mysterious Professor Dumbledore.
“After you,” Ginny invited courteously. Greg slipped past without a word.
The room at the top of the stairs was…odd. Numerous little tables supported an odd assortment of silver ornaments. The walls were lined with dozens of painting of sleeping old men and women. A beautiful red avian was sitting on a golden perch, cooing softly at the approaching teenagers. A beautiful balcony allowed the two to stare out at the rapidly setting sun. Large bookcases held numerous artifacts, including a tattered sorcerer’s hat, a ruby-encrusted sword, and an old dairy with a hole burnt through the center. Ginny paled slightly when her eyes fell upon the final relic.
Sitting in front of the window, at a large mahogany desk, was an old man with half-moon spectacles. A spectacular white beard, which matched his flowing white hair, cascaded down his front over his red robes. His faced looked lined and haggard, like he had lived through too much.
“Ah, Miss Weasley, you have brought him,” he observed. “May you please wait outside?”
When the girl departed, Greg turned to face the old man. “You’re Professor Dumbledore.” There was a hint of accusation in his voice.
“Yes,” he replied softly, “and you are our mysterious visitor.”
“I am Gregory Henry,” Greg replied stiffly.
The two stared at each other for a moment until the old wizard broke the silence: “Am I right to assume you have numerous questions?”
“Where am I?” Greg demanded almost immediately. “I’ve seen moving and talking pictures, gargoyles that step aside at a spoken word, and I’m technically supposed to be dead right now. Where am I? How did I get here? How do I get home?”
Dumbledore looked at the confused lad. “You are at Hogwarts, a school of magic.”
Greg derisive laugh was more like a bark. “Magic?! There is no such thing as magic!”
Professor Dumbledore drew his wand from the folds of his robes. “Allow me to demonstrate.” Clearing his throat, he croaked “Petrificus Totalus!”
Greg gaped as a jet of light flew from the tip of the stick at him. He barely managed to duck out of the way, but he couldn’t stop: Dumbledore was sending more light at him. Greg managed to dodge the second attack and back-flipped over a third, but he was hit by the fourth jet and found himself upside-down in midair.
“PUT ME DOWN YOU BARMY OLD CODGER!” Greg hollered, his head pounding due to the blood rushing to his brain.
Dumbledore flicked his wand downward, and Greg twisted in midair as to land lightly on his feet. He remained tense, prepared to evade another spell.
“You have impressive reflexes,” Dumbledore remarked candidly.
Greg glanced away from those piercing blue orbs. “I need them…they keep me alive.”
After another moment’s silence, Dumbledore slipped his wand away and returned to his seat. Greg relaxed, but just a bit. “Mr. Henry…” the Headmaster of Hogwarts began softly, “I need to break into your mind.”
Greg stared. This old geezer is off his rocker! “You…what?”
“I need to read your thoughts,” Dumbledore clarified. “It is a relatively painless process.”
“Why do you need to do this?”
“I need to see what I am to do with you,” was the reply. “I’ll give you a few moments to prepare.”
Greg closed his eyes, letting all his memories wash over him. Fire…death…gunfire…No, I can’t be forced to relive that again. He forced those thoughts down deep, burying them upon layers and layers of other, happier thoughts. He decided to leave in the memory of how he was transported here; after all, maybe Dumbledore knew something about it.
“Ready?” Upon receiving Greg’s confirming nod, Dumbledore stared deep into the younger boy’s eyes. Almost immediately, Greg felt a foreign presence in his head, one that seemed to be everywhere yet in one specific place.
Memory after memory flashed by, but Dumbledore dug deeper. The painful images returned again, and Greg felt his head begin to pound. The feeling intensified as the Headmaster drilled deeper. Eventually, Dumbledore reached the deepest recesses of his mind and began to poke around…and then the foreign presence was suddenly gone.
Greg shook himself to return to normal and looked at the Headmaster, who had seemed to age at least another twenty years in the space of five minutes.
The door behind him opened, and Ginny walked in. “Professor, I need to return to class. Do you need me to do anything else?”
As if her voice was a shot of adrenaline, Dumbledore stood and pointed his wand at his fireplace, which subsequently erupted in flames. “Ms. Weasley, I need you to go shopping.”
Ginny’s face brightened considerably. “Of course, sir! What do you need?”
The old man chuckled. “Do not be so pleased about skipping Professor Snape’s class, Ms. Weasley. You’ll be accompanying Mr. Henry as he purchases his school supplies.”
Greg gave a start. “I’m…I’m going to be a student?!”
Dumbledore returned his gaze to the teenage boy. “Yes. You were sent here for a reason. You and Mr. Malia shall be Sorted in two weeks’ time. Ms. Weasley and Ms. Granger shall help you two get up to speed with the rest of the students.”
The Headmaster turned and strode to the door. “Be careful Mr. Henry. Things here are never as they seem.”