Chapter 3- The Snowball Paradox

 

“Hmm.”

Marcus Ollivander held Peter’s wand between both hands, gripping it carefully from end to end. He brought it close to his ear and listened to it for several seconds, as though expecting it to whisper something only a wandmaker could understand.

Finally, he lowered it.

“The wand seems to have lost its true master,” Marcus said. “As far as I can tell, it belongs to Edward Black now.”

Black frowned. “I’ve disarmed Peter plenty of times during lessons. Maybe that’s why.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Marcus handed the wand back to Peter. “Too bad. I wish I could help you folks.”

Peter looked at the wand in his hand before putting it away.

He and Professor Black had spent nearly the entire week travelling from one healer to another, but none of them had been able to explain what had happened to him. They were finally in London now, and it had been Black’s idea to visit Ollivander before going any further.

Peter, however, remained fixated on finding Salazar’s shack.

“Can’t you help us at all?” Black asked.

Marcus shook his head and returned to his desk. “I don’t know where this shack of yours is. And frankly, I think it’s just a bunch of nonsense old boomers have been passing around for generations.”

Black gave him an unimpressed look.

Peter barely reacted. “I think I’ll go and see Mum before we go any further.”

Black immediately turned towards him. “Alright. If that’s what you want, we’ll visit her straight away.”

Marcus coughed loudly from behind his desk.

Both of them looked back.

“Pompey Pomp lost his powers four years ago,” he said.

“We know that,” Black replied.

“Well, since the two of you are so interested in busting myths, why don’t you bust another one?”

Peter frowned. “What’s the point?”

Marcus leaned back in his chair. “Because legend has it that Pompey Pomp got his powers back.”

Peter and Black immediately looked at each other.

Marcus shrugged. “But hey, they’re all just myths, right? Why don’t you pay him a visit? It’s not like he gets many fans knocking at his door these days.”

Peter suddenly had somewhere else he wanted to be.

Fortunately, Pompey Pomp still lived in London.

Peter and Black hurried out of Ollivander’s shop and caught the first bus they could find. They travelled deeper into the Muggle parts of London, passing through places Black had never visited before. He spent half the journey staring curiously out of the window at ordinary shops, traffic lights and buildings.

Peter barely noticed any of it.

For the first time in days, he had something that resembled hope.

Nearly two hours later, they reached a quiet neighbourhood beside a lake, far away from the noise of central London. A beautiful wooden house stood near the water, surrounded by trees and a neatly maintained garden.

“This is it,” Black said.

They approached the door and rang the bell.

Instead of footsteps, an automated voice answered them.

“Please state your identity and purpose of visit.”

Black looked at Peter.

“We’re Mr Pomp’s biggest fans,” Peter said, “and we’d like to meet him.”

“Sorry. Mr Pomp has no available slots for fan meetings. Kindly return with an appointment.”

Peter sighed. “I suppose we’ll have to make an appointment first, Professor.”

To their surprise, the door opened anyway.

An elderly woman stood on the other side, holding a diary in her hand.

“Oh, pardon that thing,” she said pleasantly. “The automated system is faulty. We’ve been meaning to get it fixed.”

Peter and Black exchanged relieved looks.

“Please, come in. He’d be happy to meet you.”

The inside of the house was warm and comfortable, painted in shades of pink and off-white. Everything was remarkably neat. In the kitchen, a young woman was preparing something that smelled delicious.

The elderly lady guided Peter and Black towards a sofa. From another room came the sound of a television, and Peter assumed Pompey Pomp was inside watching it.

The woman disappeared into the room. A moment later, the television went silent.

Then Pompey Pomp emerged.

Peter had seen photographs of him from his duelling days, but the man standing before him looked very different now. Pomp was a large, round elderly man with thin white hair combed backwards and a broad, bubbly face. His expression was friendly enough, although he looked permanently tired, as though they had interrupted a very good nap.

Peter and Black stood as he approached.

“Hello, sir. It’s an honour to meet you.” Black extended his hand. “I’m Edward Black, and this is my student, Peter Harrow. We’re huge admirers of your craft.”

Pomp shook both their hands and lowered himself heavily onto the sofa.

“Yeah? I’m Pompey Pomp. Let’s take a selfie and get this over with.”

Peter glanced at Black.

This wasn’t going quite as expected.

Nevertheless, they took the selfie.

“Alright,” Pomp said afterwards, pushing himself up again. “Thank you very much, folks. Lovely chat.”

“Mr Pomp,” Black quickly interrupted, “we actually came here because we need your help.”

Pomp sank back into the sofa.

“Help? What kind of help? Want someone dead?”

Peter and Black froze.

Pomp stared at them without the slightest change in expression.

Black forced a laugh. Peter joined him a second later.

“You’re very funny, Mr Pomp,” Black said.

Peter elbowed him lightly in the stomach.

Get to the point.

“Well, no, sir. Nothing like that,” Black continued. “My student here is an exceptionally talented wizard. He wants to become a professional duelling champion, much like yourself—”

“And you want me to refer him to an academy?” Pomp interrupted. “Sure. Can be arranged. I’ll expect some cash.”

Peter’s face twisted slightly.

“No, Mr Pomp,” Black said quickly. “That’s not why we’re here.”

Pomp waited.

“The problem is that Peter suddenly lost his magical abilities. Completely. We were told that something similar happened to you, and…” Black hesitated before finishing quickly, “we heard that you somehow got yours back.”

Pomp’s expression changed immediately.

The tiredness disappeared from his face.

He stared at Black, then slowly turned towards Peter.

“Are you serious?” he asked sharply. “What makes you think I got my powers back?”

Black realised immediately that they had touched a nerve.

“Mr Pomp, we’re sorry if we offended—”

“This isn’t a joke,” Peter interrupted.

Pomp looked at him.

“Until a few days ago, I was completely fine,” Peter continued. “I could duel. I could cast anything I wanted. Then one morning, I became nothing.”

His voice softened.

“If there’s anything you know—anything at all—even a small piece of advice would help.”

Pomp gave a bitter laugh.

“So you want your magic back? And what good will that do you? What difference are you going to make?”

Black stood up. “We should leave, Peter. It seems the shack is our only option after all.”

Pomp’s eyes immediately moved towards him.

“What shack?”

Peter stood as well. “There’s supposed to be an old shack beside a lake in Salazar’s Quiver. According to the stories, Salazar Slytherin’s spirit still haunts it. We think he might be able to help me.”

Pomp made a strange face, as though they had just said something ridiculous.

“I don’t know. Do whatever you want,” he muttered. “Just leave my house.”

Peter and Black began walking towards the door.

Peter stopped.

“Well,” he said casually, “I suppose there’s no chance of me putting Karkaroff back in his place now.”

Pomp immediately looked up.

“What did you say?”

Peter turned around.

“Karkaroff.”

Pomp’s eyes narrowed. “Ivan Karkaroff?”

“Yes. Don’t you know? He’s at Hogwarts.”

“What is he doing there?”

“The Triwizard Tournament has returned,” Black explained. “Ivan is Durmstrang’s Champion.”

Peter watched Pomp carefully.

“And if he wins,” Peter added, “he’ll probably become more famous than ever.”

That did it.

“That little prick!” Pomp snapped. “I lost my reputation because of him! My fame, my respect—everything! And now he’s going to become even more famous?”

Peter folded his arms.

“Well, what can you do about it? You can’t use magic anymore.”

Silence.

Pomp stared at him.

Peter stared back.

Slowly, Pomp realised what Peter had done.

He sat back down.

“Alright. Alright!”

Peter and Black exchanged a victorious look.

“I have my powers back,” Pomp admitted. “And I’ll tell you how I got them back. But not one word about this leaves these four walls. Understood?”

Both nodded.

Pomp leaned forward.

“There’s a spell called Potentia Transfundere. There have been a few recorded cases throughout history where a witch or wizard suddenly lost their magical abilities—during battles, duels, sometimes without any obvious reason at all. It’s extremely rare.”

Peter listened carefully.

“I ordered hundreds of books. Spoke to historians, wandmakers, healers—anyone who might know something. After years of research, I found that spell.”

Peter’s hope returned.

“But there’s a catch,” Pomp said.

His excitement disappeared again.

“Potentia Transfundere transfers the caster’s magical power into the person it is cast upon. But the recipient must already be non-magical—a Muggle, a Squib, or someone like us who has lost their magic.”

Peter understood immediately.

Someone else would have to lose their powers for him to regain his.

“But who would willingly do that?” Black asked.

Pomp looked towards the elderly woman who had welcomed them inside.

“My wife.”

His voice changed when he said it.

“She sacrificed her magic for me.”

Peter looked towards the woman, who gave Pomp a quiet smile from across the room.

“You need to find someone willing to do the same for you,” Pomp continued.

Peter thought for a while, but there was nobody. His friends were children. Black had his own life and responsibilities. Asking any witch or wizard to surrender their magic forever would be unthinkable.

“My mother is a Squib,” Peter finally said. “So she can’t give me something she doesn’t have. Besides her… I don’t think there’s anyone.”

Black looked at him helplessly.

Pomp sighed. “Then I suppose you’re left with that shack of yours.”

Peter looked towards Black.

Black understood the look immediately.

They had run out of alternatives.

“Thank you, Mr Pomp,” Black said as they stood. “We can’t tell you how grateful we are.”

Peter shook Pomp’s hand as well.

“And don’t worry,” Black added. “Your secret stays with us.”

They had nearly reached the door when Pomp spoke again.

“One more thing.”

Peter and Black turned around.

“Be careful with that shack story of yours. I’d say there’s about a fifty percent chance you’ll find what you’re looking for there.”

Peter waited.

“And a ninety-nine percent chance you’ll come back dead.”

Black’s expression changed.

Peter frowned. “What?”

“A giant lives near that exact place,” Pomp said. “And he doesn’t particularly like strangers.”

Peter and Black exchanged a look.

“I know because I’ve been there myself. Barely made it back alive.”

Black suddenly seemed far less enthusiastic about the journey.

Peter, however, nodded. “We’ll take care of it.”

Pomp looked directly at him. “You are all alone, kid.”

Then he turned towards Black.

“And you—keep an eye on him. Look after each other out there.”

“We will,” Black said.

“Good luck.”

Once outside, Peter took a deep breath and looked towards the road.

“I think we should go straight to the shack.”

Black looked surprised. “What about your mother?”

Peter hesitated.

“I want to try one last thing before I tell her. If this works, maybe she never has to know how bad things got.”

Black didn’t seem entirely convinced, but he understood.

“Come on,” Peter said. “Let’s catch the bus.”

He started towards the road before noticing that Black hadn’t followed him.

Peter turned around.

Black was standing outside Pomp’s house with his wand raised.

“Accio Broom!”

A few seconds later, a broomstick came soaring through the air and landed neatly in Black’s hand.

Peter grinned.

“We’ll get there faster this way,” Black said as he climbed onto it. “Hold on tight, Harrow.”

Peter climbed on behind him and wrapped his arms around Black.

“Try not to kill us, Professor.”

“No promises.”

The broom shot into the air.

From the window of his lakeside house, Pompey Pomp watched the two figures disappear into the distance.