The Will of Gil (Harry Potter)

Chapter 8

Disclaimer: If you recognise it, surprise, I don't own it.

Chapter 8– R&D.

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Finally, I have done it. I have learnt the vanishing spell, which is the key to me understanding all sorts of more intricate magic because I am not going near that man with a ten-foot pole until he is all cleaned up, and he is going to be my test dummy for the foreseeable future.

I brandish my wand at one of the countless fiction novels that past Gilderoy had filled his library with, and the books that have now come in quite handy as I have been using them for target practice.

Pointing my wand towards the book, I focus intently on the object I want to vanish, to completely disappear and turn into nothingness, and then I begin the wand movement.

First, I bring my wand down and then to the right, and then down and to the left and then down and to the right. Each time the length of my draw gets bigger, the movement is basically a squiggle that gets longer after each turn.

"Evanesco." I intone, making sure to pronounce it ev-an-ES-ko, which is critical. My other attempts where I did not say it correctly either ended up doing nothing or mutating the object into some weird new thing which just looked wrong. There is no bright light as is usual with most spells, not even a sound. The book is just there for one second, and then it is gone. Vanished.

I move with purpose to my next target. I see no reason to delay any longer with everything prepared. So, leaving the library, I move to my- to my dungeon? No, it is not a dungeon, but what else do you call a room where you hold people captive, where you keep prisoners? It is not a prison either, or at least I don't want to call it that.

I guess I will henceforth refer to it as the guest room where my guest stays. It seems much more elegant and neat that way. If I ever do mention it in passing when I am finally out of this house, then I can pass it off as just a regular guest and not the balding middle-aged fat man I keep locked in the spare room.

Opening the door, I am treated to the sight of Digby. D. Digworth sleeping, which was not what I expected. I totally expected to see him sitting there ranting and raving, cursing me to hell and back and barraging me with threats of all kinds about when he is finally free.

Hell, I even slightly expected him to be sat there weeping, and when he caught sight of me, he would start begging for forgiveness and for me to spare him his life, snotting all over the place and promising to be different from then on, that he would forget about this and never even think of it again.

Yet here, this toad of a man sits, slumbering away, snoring without a care in the world, completely covered in his own filth, bloody disgusting. He has not eaten or drunk anything for the past few days, he has been entirely trapped on that chair at the behest of someone that he had just tried to murder, and Digby has the luxury of sleeping when he should be worrying for his life like I feared for my life, it pisses me off.