Chapitre 18: Chapter 1: An Unexpected Reunion
It is a universally acknowledged truth that a wizard's second year at school is always worse than the first. For Henry Blunder, however, this particular truth was more a grim inevitability than a philosophical musing. After all, there were only so many ways one could follow up a year in which a dark lord was accidentally turned into a teacup and a school's house cup ceremony ended in what can only be described as a "sand-based explosion."
Now, as he lay sprawled on the lumpy, overstuffed couch in his family's living room, Henry was hoping, against all logic, that this year might actually be normal. Which, of course, was the worst thing he could hope for.
Henry's summer had been about as exciting as an old sock stuffed under the bed for six months, except the sock occasionally came to life and tried to eat him. After his eventful first year at Wibberflop Academy of Magical Knowledge, Henry had returned home to the familiar chaos of the Blunder household, where his parents, ever the eccentric pair, seemed blissfully unaware that their son had spent the last year dodging enchanted furniture and battling a dark lord who squeaked when he spoke.
No, for Mr. and Mrs. Blunder, the only notable change in their lives was that Henry was now spending an increasing amount of time avoiding his older brother, Clive, whose sole mission in life appeared to be tormenting Henry in increasingly ridiculous ways.
And this summer had been no different.
Just that morning, Clive had "accidentally" locked Henry in the shed with what Henry was fairly certain was a sentient lawnmower. Escaping that ordeal had taken a surprising amount of cunning, which Henry was not used to employing before breakfast.
"Oi, Henry!" Clive's familiar, sneering voice echoed from the kitchen. "Where's that sock of yours? You know, the one that tried to strangle me last year? I want to borrow it."
Henry groaned and pressed a pillow over his face, willing the day to be over before it had really begun. Last year's sock-related incidents were not something he liked to remember. And yet, no matter how hard he tried to forget, the sock, the blasted Sorcerer's Sock, had a way of reminding him it still existed.
Just a magical sock, he had told himself at the time, dismissing its odd behavior. Nothing to worry about.
And yet, in the back of his mind, Henry knew the sock wasn't ordinary. Not by a long shot.
The narrator's voice, dry and indifferent, cut in:
"Ah yes, the Sorcerer's Sock. A humble object of woolen mischief, dismissed by Henry Blunder as an amusing relic of his first year. Of course, we know better. We know that this sock, seemingly harmless, slightly scratchy, has far grander plans in store. But let's not spoil the surprise just yet."
Just as Henry was about to close his eyes and pretend he didn't exist, the doorbell rang. This, in itself, was not unusual. What was unusual, however, was the muffled voice calling from the chimney.
"Henry? Henry, mate, you there?"
Henry blinked, pulling the pillow from his face. That voice was unmistakable. Jonah Hill, his best friend from Wibberflop Academy, had somehow decided that the chimney was the most appropriate method of entry.
"Henry!" Jonah's voice echoed from inside the brickwork. "I think something's gone wrong with the Floo powder."
Henry sat up, now fully alert. "What do you mean something's gone wrong?"
"I'm in the fridge!"
Before Henry could respond, he heard the unmistakable thunk of the refrigerator door swinging open in the kitchen. He shot up from the couch and bolted toward the kitchen, only to find Jonah, halfway crammed into the fridge, looking bewildered.
"Mate," Jonah said, pulling a cucumber off his head, "this is definitely not how Floo powder is supposed to work."
Henry stared at Jonah, who was now awkwardly extracting himself from the fridge, wiping a layer of butter off his sleeve. Behind him, Mrs. Blunder wandered past with a tray of biscuits, entirely unfazed by the boy half hanging out of her kitchen appliance.
"Oh, Jonah, dear," she said absentmindedly, "would you like some jam with your butter?" She placed a biscuit on the counter before turning her attention to the microwave, completely ignoring the absurdity of Jonah's predicament.
"Uh, no thanks, Mrs. B," Jonah replied, shaking a jar of pickles out of his hair. He gave Henry a sheepish grin. "Your mum's still... you know... completely oblivious?"
"Completely," Henry muttered, rubbing his temples. "And how did you end up in the fridge?"
"I don't know! One minute, I was at the fireplace, you know, about to pop in through the Floo powder, just like normal, and the next thing I know, I'm here, face-to-face with a tub of margarine." Jonah pulled himself the rest of the way out of the fridge and adjusted his robes, which were now slightly sticky from a jar of strawberry jam. "Something must've gone wrong with the spell."
"Clearly," Henry said. "But, uh, why didn't you just take the train?"
Jonah opened his mouth to respond, but before he could answer, there was a loud bang from the other side of the kitchen, followed by an explosion of sparks. Both boys turned in time to see the microwave burst open, shooting out what looked like a rather confused elderly wizard dressed in a purple robe and slippers. He blinked at them, smoke rising from his singed beard.
"Oh dear," the wizard muttered, glancing around as if this sort of thing happened to him every day. "Not the chimney, is it? No, no... definitely not the chimney." He adjusted his wizard hat, which was slightly crumpled from the impact, and stepped out of the microwave with the air of a man stepping off a bus.
"Who... who are you?" Henry asked, taking a cautious step back.
The wizard glanced around, looking as if he hadn't expected to be asked such a direct question. "Ah, yes! Yes, terribly sorry about that," he said, patting down his robes. "I'm Bertie, er, Bertie Hill. Jonah's uncle. There seems to have been a slight mix-up with the Floo network. Always happens this time of year. Far too many wizards cramming into fireplaces, you see." He nodded toward Jonah. "Thought I'd pop by with him, but, well, things don't always go to plan, do they?"
Jonah groaned. "Great, now half my family's going to start popping up in your house, Henry."
Henry opened his mouth to respond, but at that very moment, there was another loud bang, this time from the wall vent. A second wizard, much younger and wearing what looked like pajamas with stars on them, shot out of the vent and landed headfirst in a pile of flour on the kitchen counter.
"Well, that's just lovely," the young wizard muttered as he brushed the flour off his face. "Gran told me this was the fireplace."
Henry exchanged a look with Jonah, who simply shrugged, as if this were the most normal thing in the world. But before either of them could speak, another loud thump came from the cupboard beneath the sink.
"Oh no," Henry groaned. "Not the cupboard too."
Sure enough, the cupboard door swung open to reveal yet another wizard, this one tangled in a mass of pots and pans, looking utterly bewildered. He grunted as he extricated himself from the mess, then looked around the kitchen with an air of confusion. "Is this not Jonah's living room?"
The narrator's voice returned, dripping with sarcasm: "Ah yes, the proud wizards of the Hill family, known far and wide for their remarkable ability to turn a simple spell into an unparalleled disaster. Perhaps it's hereditary, or perhaps it's just gross incompetence. Either way, the Blunder household was rapidly turning into something that would've made even the most eccentric of wizarding families shake their heads in disbelief."
Henry pinched the bridge of his nose. "How many more of your relatives are going to show up, Jonah?"
"Well," Jonah said thoughtfully, "there's probably Aunt Mildred, Cousin Ricky... and oh, Uncle Roderick's usually late, so he might show up in the oven."
"I'm sorry, the oven?" Henry asked, incredulous.
As if on cue, there was a faint ding from the oven, followed by a puff of smoke. Henry took a deep breath and looked over at the appliance, half expecting the worst.
The oven door swung open, and out stepped a rather small, round wizard wearing a floral apron over his robes. He glanced around, smiled warmly, and waved at Henry and Jonah.
"Good day, boys!" he chirped. "Anyone fancy a roast chicken?"
Henry stared at Jonah, who just gave an apologetic shrug. "Told you."
Before Henry could respond to the absurd sight of a wizard emerging from his family's oven, there was a sudden crash from upstairs. Henry winced, recognizing that particular sound all too well: it was the sound of Clive rifling through his room. Henry shot Jonah a quick glance before sprinting toward the stairs.
"He's in my room again!" Henry muttered, frustration bubbling up as he dashed up the stairs, Jonah hot on his heels.
The sound of drawers being yanked open echoed down the hallway as Henry skidded to a stop in front of his bedroom door, which was ajar. Inside, Clive was rummaging through Henry's school trunk, tossing out robes, textbooks, and, of course, the cursed sock from last year, which lay in the middle of the floor like a coiled snake, looking far too suspicious for a piece of footwear.
"Clive, what are you doing?" Henry snapped, storming into the room.
Clive looked up, unfazed by his brother's outrage. "Looking for that sock," he said, casually tossing Henry's copy of The Inexplicable Art of Wand Waving over his shoulder. "You know, the one that attacked me last year? Figured I'd give it another go. It's not like you know how to use it properly anyway."
Henry stared at him, aghast. "It's not a wand, Clive! It's a sock! And it's dangerous!"
Clive scoffed, ignoring Henry completely as he bent down to pick up the sock. "Dangerous? You're just making excuses because you're scared of it."
As if in response, the sock gave a slight wiggle on the floor. Clive didn't seem to notice, but Jonah, who had just entered the room, did.
"Uh, mate," Jonah said slowly, pointing at the sock, "I think it's moving."
Clive rolled his eyes. "Yeah right, it's a sock. Socks don't, AH!"
Before Clive could finish his sentence, the sock sprang to life, wrapping itself around Clive's ankle and pulling tight. Clive let out a strangled yelp as he stumbled backward, trying to shake the sock off, but the more he struggled, the tighter it clung to him.
"GET IT OFF!" Clive screamed, hopping around the room on one foot, his face turning red as he tried to shake the enchanted sock loose.
Henry and Jonah looked at each other, then back at Clive, who was now crashing into furniture as he attempted to free himself. The sock was wriggling its way up his leg, twisting and curling like a snake, refusing to let go.
The narrator chimed in again, his tone dry and unimpressed: "Ah, the Blunder family's proud tradition of not learning from past mistakes. One might think that after being nearly strangled by a sock once before, Clive would have developed some sense of caution. Alas, some lessons are simply never learned."
Henry rushed forward, grabbing Clive by the arm and trying to help, but the sock seemed to have a mind of its own. It twisted tighter around Clive's leg, pulling him toward the closet door, as if it had decided that dragging Clive into a confined space was the best course of action.
"Oh no," Jonah muttered, backing up slowly. "Mate, I think it's trying to take him somewhere."
Clive's wild flailing only made things worse. He stumbled backward into the closet, arms flailing, and in one final, comically dramatic moment, he disappeared into the closet entirely, sock and all, leaving Henry and Jonah standing in stunned silence.
Henry blinked at the now-closed closet door. "Did... did Clive just get dragged into the closet by a sock?"
Jonah nodded, his eyes wide. "Yep. Definitely did."
For a moment, the two boys stood there, unsure of what to do. The room was eerily quiet, except for the faint thudding sound of Clive struggling inside the closet. Then, with a sudden CRASH, the closet door burst open, and Clive emerged, covered head to toe in what appeared to be several years' worth of dust and mothballs. The sock, however, was still firmly attached to his leg.
"Get. This. Thing. OFF!" Clive screamed again, this time managing to trip over a loose floorboard and land face-first in a pile of Henry's old textbooks.
Henry sighed, bending down to help. "Hold still. I'll try to untangle it."
But just as Henry reached for the sock, there was another loud bang from downstairs, followed by a series of muffled voices. Henry froze, his hand hovering over Clive's ankle.
"That... sounded like more of your relatives, Jonah," Henry said, dread creeping into his voice.
Jonah winced. "Yeah... I was afraid of that."
Henry gave up on the sock and stood up. "We'd better get downstairs before your whole family redecorates the kitchen."
Clive, still struggling with the sock, gave a half-hearted wave of his arm. "Don't worry about me, I'll just be here... being eaten by a sock."
The narrator returned with a final, dry observation: "And so, as Henry and Jonah prepared to return to the growing chaos downstairs, we leave Clive to his well-deserved fate: locked in a battle with a magical sock. There are few fates more humiliating... or more fitting."
As Henry and Jonah rushed downstairs, they were greeted by an even more chaotic scene than before. Jonah's Uncle Bertie had somehow become entangled in a tablecloth, and Aunt Mildred was standing on the kitchen table, swatting at the ceiling with a broom as though trying to catch something that neither Henry nor Jonah could see.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Blunder was chatting away to the small wizard who had popped out of the oven, as if nothing at all was out of the ordinary. "Oh, I do agree," she was saying, nodding sagely, "roast chicken is simply the best, especially on a Sunday."
Jonah's Uncle Roderick, the one who had emerged from the oven, was now sitting at the table, completely at ease, as though emerging from kitchen appliances was the most natural thing in the world. "I say, would you happen to have any gravy?" he asked cheerfully.
Henry was just about to ask why Jonah's relatives felt the need to travel via household appliances when the front door burst open with a loud bang, and in stumbled Norbert, Wibberflop's gameskeeper. Of course, Norbert never entered a room quietly. He had a way of making his presence known in the most chaotic manner possible, and this was no exception.
Norbert appeared to have crash-landed in what could only be described as a bathtub with wings, which skidded to a halt just outside the door, knocking over several garden gnomes and one very startled postman. His entrance sent a gust of wind through the kitchen, blowing papers, flour, and several biscuits into the air.
"Henry!" Norbert shouted, his scarred face breaking into a grin as he tripped over the threshold, one foot still stuck in the bathtub. "I'm 'ere to take ye back to school!"
Henry blinked. "In that?" He pointed to the flying bathtub, which was now leaking bubbles and steam from the handle.
Norbert waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, it's perfectly safe! Had a few kinks, but she flies like a dream now."
The narrator returned with his usual dry wit: "Ah yes, Norbert and his ever-growing collection of unconventional transportation methods. One might wonder why he never simply sticks to a broom like everyone else, but then, Norbert was never one for doing things the easy way. No, for Norbert, the more dangerous and ridiculous the method, the better."
Before Henry could respond to Norbert's unconventional ride, Jonah's Aunt Mildred suddenly screamed and fell off the kitchen table, swatting furiously at something above her head. "It's in the vents!" she shrieked. "It's in the blasted vents!"
"What's in the vents?" Jonah asked, sounding thoroughly confused.
"I don't know!" Aunt Mildred cried, her broom still swinging wildly. "But it's making a terrible squeaking noise!"
Just as she said this, a loud, high-pitched squeak echoed from the kitchen vents, followed by the clatter of tiny footsteps. Norbert, Henry, and Jonah exchanged a bewildered look before Norbert's face lit up with sudden realization.
"Oh, tha's jus' a teacup," Norbert said, waving off their concern.
"A teacup?" Henry repeated, incredulous.
Norbert nodded. "Aye! Little teacup's been wanderin' 'round for a while now. Got some life in 'im, that one."
Jonah's face turned pale. "Wait... Lord Gigglepants? The dark lord... in teacup form?"
The narrator returned with perfect timing: "Yes, dear readers, Lord Gigglepants, last year's incompetent dark lord, was, in fact, still roaming the world, albeit in the form of a rather squeaky, overly dramatic teacup. One could only wonder what horrors he might unleash... if he could ever figure out how to stop being a piece of crockery."
Henry opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, the teacup in question made its grand appearance by popping out of the kitchen vent. It rolled across the counter with a loud squeak, flipped dramatically into the air, and landed with a clatter next to Mrs. Blunder's sugar bowl. The teacup sat there, vibrating with rage, or perhaps with a sugar-induced tremor, it was hard to tell.
Henry, Jonah, and Norbert all stared at the teacup, which seemed to be trying its best to look menacing.
"That... thing tried to kill us last year," Henry muttered, eyeing the teacup warily.
Norbert grinned and waved at the teacup. "He's harmless now, don't ye worry. Jus' a bit cranky."
The teacup emitted a pathetic, squeaky noise, as if in protest, but no one seemed particularly concerned.
"Well," Jonah said, clapping his hands together, "this has been a thoroughly bizarre morning, but I think it's time we got back to Wibberflop before anything else pops out of a household appliance."
Henry couldn't have agreed more. Norbert clapped Henry on the back and motioned for him and Jonah to follow. "Come on, boys! Let's get back ter school!"
They hurried outside to where Norbert's bathtub-turned-flying-machine sat waiting, still leaking bubbles. As Henry clambered in, he couldn't help but glance back at his house, where Jonah's relatives were still milling about, and Clive was likely still wrestling with the cursed sock upstairs.
"Well, this year couldn't possibly be worse than the last," Henry muttered to himself as the bathtub lurched into the air with a sudden jolt, sending them soaring over the neighborhood.
The narrator's final comment rang out with a resigned sigh: "Oh, Henry. Poor, sweet, naive Henry. If only he knew that his second year at Wibberflop would, in fact, be considerably worse. Much worse."
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone