“I still don’t understand, H. If he had the right bloodline, why couldn’t he see the magic? How could his father keep it a secret?”
H crosses the room and roots around on the desk until he finds the old skeleton key. “I spent tha first few ‘undred years of my life as a gargoyle. I dunno who tha original discoverers were or ‘ow they married up tha ‘uman field wiff tha magical field. Wot I know from spendin’ time wiff yer grandda is this: One, you gotta ‘ave tha right bloodline. Iffen ya do, ya can put one of tha three skeleton keys into tha lock to make tha connection between yerself and tha magic.”
“So that’s why I couldn’t see you until I used the key.” I look at it, sitting there in H’s hand. Other than a slight glow, the object in question seems mundane.
I cross my legs, still deep in thought. “I’ve got so many questions; I don’t know where to start. The magic? This prefectus thing? Do I get a wand?” I spin to my desk, searching through the disarray. “Where’s my journal gone? I need to make some notes.”
Papers fly again as Humphrey leaps onto the desk, wings whipping my hair into disarray. “No notes.” He meets my eyes, his stern gaze holding me hostage. “Look, mate, ya can’t tell any muggins about our secret. Iffen ya want to stay ‘ere and work wiff magic….” I nod in confirmation, encouraging him to continue, “…iffen ya want ta be tha prefect, ya gotta keep quiet.”
I think about that for a moment. It feels wrong to keep a secret of this magnitude from my father. All those times he thought grandfather was inventing fairy tales, he should know the truth. “What happens if I tell someone… or if I say cheers, but no thanks?”
“We kill you.” The wyvern doesn’t blink as he says this.
“Kill me?” the words squeak out. “Seriously?”
When the colour drains out of my face, Humphrey breaks out full-on belly laughs. The falling to the floor type.
“Mate, yer face! You shoulda seen it. Kill ya? Ha hahahahaha. Iffen ya told somebody, wot would they do? They’d tell ya to get right into tha sea, that’s wot. No one would believe ya. And walkin’ away? Who would walk away? It’s magic.”
Still struggling to accept this is more than a figment of my imagination, I arch my finger, silently beckoning him to step closer. Hesitantly, I lean over, asking permission to stroke his wyvern forehead. Are wyverns slimy? I run a finger between his ears and am overjoyed to feel a dry, leathery skin.
“Are you purring?” He’s definitely purring.
Humphrey quickly straightens up and coughs. “No, of course not. That would be weird, bruv. Wot’s wrong wiff ya?”
I let him hold on to some semblance of dignity. “Can we get back to my questions? I don’t understand any of this. How does the Head of Ceremonies, of all people here in Oxford, end up as a magical prefect? Why isn’t it one of the professors or college principals?”
Humphrey hops back up on top of my desk, sits down and crosses his legs. “Listen up, missie. I been watching tha lads in this place fer four ‘undred years. Students and professors, assignments and long ‘ours studyin’. Ya can find that at any university. That ain’t wot makes Oxford special.”
I wave aside his explanation. “I get that, but you’ve got all this history and the buildings themselves. I grew up on stories about Oxford. There are plenty of things that make it stand apart from every other city in the world.”
He glares me back into silence. “Ya, we got all that, but think about it. Wot do people talk about years after they graduate? It sure ain’t tha buildins’. It’s tha ceremonies. Tha events. Tha parties. Them fancy ‘igh table dinners where they’re rubbin’ elbows wiff tha silk britches types.”
The wheels in my head are spinning as I connect the dots. “You’re telling me that there’s magic, and my events help it exist?” Leaning forward, I ask, “Wait a minute, do the people at Disneyland have magic? That would explain a lot.”
Humphrey frowns. “Tha only magic Disney ‘as is that tunnel system runnin’ under tha ground. This is real old magic, only found in two places in tha world - here and Cambridge.”
“Really?” I always wondered how they stayed on top of the rankings. Five hundred years is a long time to remain in the lead. But magic? My mind races as I consider how far the magic might extend. “What, specifically I mean, is magical here?”
“Wot ain’t magical at Oxford? There're gargoyles like me, ghosts, tha portraits…”
The angry old white man in Dr Radcliffe’s office springs to mind. I flash back to the meeting, remembering the feeling of a heated glare on the back of my neck. I knew that creepy portrait was staring at me!
“…books in tha library…hello? Nat? Are ya listening ta me? Ya gotta take this seriously.”
“Seriously? It’s magic! You’re a talking wyvern-cat-gargoyle who gave me a letter saying I’m a magical prefect. I don’t know whether to jump for joy or worry that there’s been a gas leak. How does a wyvern come to be at Oxford in the first place? And Humphrey? Where’d that name come from?”
“Please, call me H. Not ‘Umphrey. That’s a name not even my mum could love. As ta being at Oxford, I got way more ‘istory in this town than anything wiffin St Margaret’s walls. I started my days as a gargoyle, one of tha original carvings at tha Bodleian.”
I stare up at the ceiling as my mind races through the stories my grandfather used to tell.
“That’s the main library, right?”
“Flmphhh, ‘tha main library’ she says.” His head shakes in disgust. His barbed tail thumps until he is
