The Bear and Barnacle

Q would like to take this opportunity to wish the patrons and employees of the Bear and Barnacle a very happy new year. He has arranged a special musical presentation for your enjoyment. It has a good beat and you can dance to it. Not that he expects everyone to actually dance, but he at least hopes that some of the more serious among you may find themselves inadvertently tapping a toe once or twice. If you’d like to dance however, please feel free. If you can’t find a partner, use a wooden chair!




Gods bless you Glenn Miller, wherever you are!

Q was busy studying Herb Lore and Craft of Ancient Britain and dutifully taking notes. His mind began to wander, because woad can only hold your interest for so long. But his pencil kept right on moving, not noticing or caring that it's owner wasn't paying a bit of attention to it. After a while, Q came back to himself and stared, horrified, at what he'd drawn, all unknowing.

*



He doesn't know art, but he knows what he likes, and he definitely doesn't like that! He crumples the paper and takes it into the kitchen, where he Incendio's it in the sink.

*Feeding by Ian Hart

You say it’s your birthday
we’re gonna have a good time
I’m glad it’s your birthday
Happy birthday to you!

Q sang as he came into the living room with his back pack. “Now John,” he said to the turtle, “I’m going to be gone four days. I’ll be back Sunday night.” He gently stroked John’s shell. “There’s a Beatles/John Lennon Movie Marathon and Festival in London, and I’m going to celebrate our birthdays. I’ve rigged it so you’ll have fresh food and water while I’m gone so you don’t have to worry about that.” He didn’t feel at all odd talking to a turtle. Not while he was alone. It made more sense than talking to himself, something he was wary of doing where other people could see (and maybe hear). “I don’t want you to get lonely, so I’ll leave the radio on low. That won’t bother you will it?” He didn’t expect an answer (not really) and he wasn’t disappointed. John just stuck his head further out of his shell and nibbled the lettuce Q had given him. Taking that as a ‘no’, Q shouldered his bag and left, singing:

I would like you to dance--Birthday
Take a cha-cha-cha-chance-Birthday
I would like you to dance--Birthday
Dance

He had just enough time to catch the early train into London.

Q, who has been keeping himself occupied with Severus' back issues of Brewers Monthly, now pokes his head round the door. He'd made himself temporarily deaf, as opposed to casting a silencing charm on Severus' lab with who knows what consequences, so he listens intently. Not hearing anything untoward (which isn't necessarily a good thing), he ventures out into the hall. "Severus?" he calls. He wanders into the living room. No one there. A peek in the kitchen. Also empty. The wards keep him from the bedrooms and he wouldn't go there anyway, so he heads out to the garden. He sighs with relief when he sees Severus sitting there. "Is it safe to come out?" he asks, sticking his hands in his pockets.

Q was in the kitchen cooking breakfast when a knock at the door startled him. Looking mournfully at the yolk oozing out of what was going to be a sunny-side-up egg, he sighed. "Guess it's scrambled eggs for me." He went to the door, singing:

Someones knockin' at the door
Somebody's ringin' the bell
Someones knockin' at the door
Somebody's ringin' the bell
Do me a favor,
Open the door and let 'em in.

Suiting action to lyrics, he swung the door open.

Q stepped out onto his front stoop and almost trod on the small package lying there. He eyed it, surprised. He automatically grabbed for his wand and looked around suspiciously. No one should have been able to get to his house without the wards sounding, let alone leave something. He didn’t see anyone and he knelt to inspect the parcel. It was small, wrapped in brown paper, and had his name in flowing script written on it. No address, so it wasn’t the regular post. Q prodded the thing with a finger. The paper crackled. Frowning, he ran his wand over it, checking for any hexes. Nothing. Gingerly, he picked it up. It was very light. He shook it gently. It made no noise. Recalling every spy movie he’d ever seen, he wondered if it might be a bomb. He discarded the idea immediately. It was much too flimsy for that and no one would be sending him a bomb. Still puzzled, he carried the package inside and set it on the table. It felt like there was something made of cloth inside. He debated whether or not he should do more sophisticated tests on the thing. Obviously it was meant to be a surprise of some sort, but who could have sent it and why? It was months away from his birthday and the only person who might give him anything certainly wouldn’t resort to anything like this. Oh well, only one way to find out. Holding his wand in one hand just in case, Q tore open the parcel with the other. It was a t-shirt. A blue one. “What on earth…” He muttered to himself. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong with it, so he picked up the shirt, unfolding it. His face lit up when he saw what was written on it. ( Read more... )

After a monumental struggle to get the DVD- player hooked up, Q was ready. Massive bowl of popcorn: check. Carbonated fermented malt beverages: check. He slid the first DVD from the pile on the table into the machine. Brief interlude to figure out the remote control and which was the volume button. Finally!

..."I remember every detail. The Germans wore gray, you wore blue.”

..."Let’s show this prehistoric bitch how we do things downtown…THROW IT!”

..."Pardon me, but could you help a fellow American down on his luck?”

..."I hope they don’t hang you precious, by that sweet neck.”

…”I hate snakes Jock. I hate ‘em.”

…”We’re gonna need a bigger boat.”

…”I think I must have one of those faces you can’t help believing.”

…”All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”


Popcorn gone…run to the nearest take away for an extra-large chicken tikka.

…”Just what do you think you’re doing, Dave?”

…”Take your stinking paws off me, you damned dirty ape!”

…"Ad hoc, ad hoc and quid pro quo! So little time! So much to know!”

…”You rush a miracle man, you get rotten miracles.”

…”Sorry about the mess.”

…”You know how to whistle, don’t you Steve? You just put your lips together and…blow.”

Before he sent Horatio back to Mr Malfoy (with profuse thanks and an extra-large bag of owl treats) Q had another note to send. It had been surprisingly difficult to write. He wasn’t much of one for letters in the first place and getting the proper tone had nearly given him fits. He’d decided to go with almost formal and hope that it didn’t sound too stiff.

To Mr Sirius Black-

Sirius,

Forgive me for being presumptuous, but I would very much appreciate it if you could join me this evening at the Bear and Barnacle. I have something I wish to discuss with you. If you can make it, around 7 would be an acceptable time. I look forward to seeing you and thanks.

Sincerely,

Quirinus Quirrell

“An owl, an owl, my kingdom for an owl,” Q muttered to himself as he headed for the pub. He wondered how many different ways that particular quote had been paraphrased since Shakespeare wrote it. He shook his head. Off on another tangent again. He needed an owl and he’d been told that Lucius Malfoy might have one available. So, he was going to go see if he could get one. And maybe have a drink while he waited. Q walked into the pub, waiting a moment for his eyes to adjust, though it was scarcely darker inside than out. He didn’t see Malfoy so he headed for the bar and ordered a Guinness. He didn’t really care for the stuff, but no one could drink it quickly and it wouldn’t seem strange if he was there for a while. He perched on a stool where he could see everyone and settled in to wait.

There are quite a few songs about letters. Some are happy (My Baby She Wrote Me a Letter) and some are sad (Please Mr Postman and Return to Sender), but nothing can quite convey the giddiness one feels upon first seeing that owl and parchment (or the envelope). Good news or bad? You can’t ever really know until you open and read the thing. And sometimes, what seems like some of the best news ever can go so abysmally wrong you just can’t credit it.
( Read more... )

The thing with Voldemort was hardly a secret. Q had no idea how many people actually knew about it, but it wasn’t the sort of thing you could keep from talking about if you did. Anyway, most of those who did know about it thought he was dead, so that was all right. He’d do his best to keep his continued existence a secret from the Wizarding world, thank you very much, speaking of secrets. Things like the fact that he slept (when he could sleep) with the light on now, or that he couldn’t swim or had a morbid fear of snakes, they weren’t really secrets, they had just never come up. Same with climbing into his bed at Hogwarts, closing the curtains and crying for hours when he’d heard John Lennon had died. Not secrets, just things no one had ever asked him about. And Q would answer truthfully when and if anyone ever did. But the secret he did have was buried so deep he wasn’t even aware of it.

"Now that is a tough act to follow," Q thinks to himself as he makes himself go up front. Still, someone has to go next and he'll get points for guts if not for brains. He picks up the microphone. "My name is Q! How do you do!" he announces and starts right in.

Quirinus Quirrell walked out of Bookman’s on Northdown Road clutching a largish paper parcel. He’d taken advantage of the ten books for ten pounds special that the man ran frequently. Bookman guaranteed that the books had all their pages, but that was all. You got what you got and too bad if you didn’t like it. However, Q was interested in quantity, not necessarily quality. Replacing all of his books, especially the magical ones, was quite impossible, but he had to start somewhere. He opened the parcel and rummaged inside without looking, vowing to read whatever his hand closed on first. He pulled out a massively thick volume, gave a satisfied sigh, and began reading, the parcel tucked up under his arm. He retained just enough presence of mind to not step out into traffic. Sure you have. Sure. I never forget a face. Come on over here and let me shake your hand! Q walked and read, oblivious to where he was going. Tell you somethin’: I recognised you by the way you walk before I ever saw your face good. You couldn’t have picked a better day to come. . The back of his neck prickled and Q rubbed it absently, his fingers straying to the ragged hair on the back of his head that would never completely grow back. Again the prickle, as if he was being watched. Q glanced around, not recognising the street he was on. His mouth was suddenly dry. Was he being watched? He closed the book on his finger and swallowed nervously, his eyes darting up and down the block. He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, just rows of flats. He opened his book again. Can you sit a spell with me? Over here on the steps will be fine. Q inadvertently looked at the steps of the building he was passing. Did he see a curtain twitch? "Stop being such a ninny," he muttered to himself. "No one’s watching you. You don’t even know this street." But an icy shiver ran down his spine. Q shut the book and put it back in the bag. He’d read it later. Right now he figured he’d best keep his wits about him. He patted his pocket, feeling for his wand. He started walking again. He couldn’t be too lost, he reasoned. He’d just walk to the beach and go home from there. Everything would be fine. Just fine.