A stranger arrives

"Hello, I need a bouquet." Chet Brian walked into the flower shop and addressed the assistant arranging the flowers. "For an old friend who sadly passed away-any varieties you'd recommend?"

"Sir, may I ask who exactly the flowers are for?"

The assistant turned around, an expression of sympathetic grief on her face, and discreetly studied the unfamiliar customer.

A lightweight black suit, sneakers, black curls, a less-than-clean shave: an odd, handsome, but scruffy young man.

"My old friend, my best companion-the drums that were with me for five years. They shattered. Not a single piece left intact." Chet Brian sighed. "All I can do now is give them a decent funeral."

"Drums?" the assistant asked, bewildered.

"Drums." Brian nodded firmly.

All right, holding a funeral for drums might be strange, but something even stranger had happened to him the day before yesterday-and he still couldn't understand why.

During a performance, his drum kit had suddenly exploded into fragments in front of hundreds of people. It had been far scarier than a bomb!

Everyone there had shoved and scattered in panic-only Brian himself had stood frozen in place. He'd been holding his drumsticks between his teeth to look cool at the time, which meant his old pal had decided to blow itself up.

Only after three rounds of questioning had he been cleared of suspicion and released without charge. The white police officer questioning him had looked as black as coal with anger.

Meanwhile, his old pal's remains-a sack of drum fragments-had attracted a pack of ravenous reporters, who had already staked out his front door.

He'd had to contact the officer who'd arrested him again. It had worked beautifully: starting that morning, all the reporters had vanished as one.

Finally recovering, the assistant said gently, "Oh, sir, I understand. Sunflowers or tulips-they both symbolize companionship and friendship. Either would be a lovely choice."

Standing at his front door with two bouquets in his arms, Brian encountered another surprise: the door was unlocked, even though he was certain he'd locked it before leaving.

Even more absurdly, when he cautiously pushed the door open, he found a strange bald man sitting on his living room sofa.

The bald man wore a black suit just like his, but he didn't look like a reporter or a police officer. If anything, he looked like a guest attending his old pal's funeral.

Brian didn't remember inviting anyone.

"Sir, this is my home. Who are you?"

Brian felt his head beginning to ache again and asked as politely as he could.

The bald man, however, became astonishingly angry at the sight of the two bouquets in Brian's hands.

He sprang from the sofa, nostrils flaring violently, his bloodshot eyes bulging so far they seemed ready to leap from their sockets.

"Who am I? I'm the man cleaning up your mess! Chet Brian, do you have any idea how much trouble you've caused us?

"Three departments in the Ministry of Magic, over forty employees, all running themselves ragged and working twenty-seven hours of overtime just for you!

"And you actually have the leisure to hold a funeral for your stupid drums? You even have time to buy flowers and enjoy yourself?"

For a moment, Brian worried the man would lunge at him and bite him. As a child, he'd been knocked over by a strange large dog of unknown breed, which had affectionately washed his face with its tongue.

The dog and this bald man had exactly one thing in common: they both produced an awful lot of saliva. At least the dog hadn't had bad breath.

"I don't understand, sir. All I know is that what you just said makes me want to beat you up. Unfortunately, I'm a law-abiding citizen."

Brian calmly laid the two bouquets on a shelf.

"You clearly have a problem with me, but I don't know you. Please explain-including the part where you broke into my home."

"Playing dumb? Hmph. There's nothing to explain. Come with me to the Ministry of Magic. If you ask me, you ought to go straight to Azkaban and reflect on your grave mistakes."

The man advanced on him, raising a wooden stick and pointing it at Brian.

"Using magic in front of hundreds of Muggles, attracting a mob of Muggle police and another mob of Muggle reporters, you idiot-do you know how much work it takes to get all those people to settle down?!"

Ministry of Magic, Azkaban, Muggles... were those some new kinds of insults? What was any of this supposed to mean?

Brian listened in bewilderment. If he'd understood correctly, his drums had shattered because of magic. Was that even possible?

Besides, this was the first time he'd ever seen someone threaten another person with a skinny wooden stick. He nearly laughed out loud.

"I'm not going with you. My drums' funeral isn't over yet. Look, as it happens, I have a wooden stick too."

Brian grabbed a decorative wooden drumstick from the shelf, narrowed his eyes, and said in an unfriendly tone,

"Mine's bigger than yours, thicker than yours, and will do more damage if it hits someone in the head. Please mind your manners, sir.

"If you can manage that, I'm willing to serve you my best black tea. Otherwise, I won't be so polite."

This bald man clearly knew something.

But so far, he showed no intention of having a friendly conversation. If a threatening tone could make him calm down, Brian didn't mind using one.

"Ha! Are you resisting arrest?"

The bald man showed no sign of calming down. Instead, he suddenly grew excited, a hint of anticipation in his expression.

"Ha. I was only released yesterday, and now you want to arrest me again?" Brian genuinely couldn't understand the man's inexplicable reaction.

He suddenly felt as though he were arguing with a rock that couldn't understand human speech. What was the point?

Deflated, he shrugged helplessly.

"You should be grateful I'm so good-tempered, sir.

"I'm not going anywhere with someone who has no respect for others. You haven't even told me who you are yet. Oh, right-how do you know my name?"

Seeing that Brian had no intention of striking first, the bald man shook his head in disappointment and shouted irritably,

"Damn it! You don't get to question me... fine, fine! Neo Lester, an employee of the Improper Use of Magic Office. Satisfied? Then come with me!"

What kind of lunatic nonsense was this man talking? Did losing all your hair turn you into this?

Brian decided to stay up late less often.

Still, he offered a very well-intentioned suggestion.

"Mr. Lester, I mean no offense. But I now think I shouldn't go with you-you should come with me instead. I know a good psychiatrist..."

"Ha! A personal attack is still an attack. Finally, you've given me a reason!" Veins bulged on Lester's forehead, and his stick-wielding arm whipped through an arc. "Petrificus Totalus!"

An orange beam shot from the wooden stick in his hand, looking just like a nimble flying snake as it rushed straight at Brian-

Brian's eyes widened. For some unknown reason, his five senses had always been several times sharper than those of ordinary people.

He immediately picked out the beam and instinctively reached out to catch it. Half a second later, he succeeded.

The beam looked fierce, but it actually felt soft, warm in his grip-perfect as a hand warmer in winter.

Brian rubbed it between his palms until he managed to roll it into an orange ball of light.

"Mr. Lester, I have to admit you've got a nice magic prop."

Brian slowly raised the ball of light in his hand and said coldly,

"But you've used it the wrong way. Wow, your jaw looks about ready to dislocate. Do you need me to help close your mouth?"

This Lester fellow behaved like someone suffering from mania. He might genuinely have escaped from a psychiatric hospital. Brian was going to call the police, and hoped the coal-faced officer would answer.

It took considerable effort for Mr. Lester to bring his jaws together. He stumbled back a few steps, his voice trembling. "You! You... how did you do that?!"

Brian didn't understand why he was reacting so strongly. He merely took quiet aim at Lester's chest and tossed the ball of light with a little force.

"It's not difficult, sir. I'm a drummer. I have quick reflexes, and my fingers and wrists are very nimble. I've even caught a few bees that tried to sting me with my bare hands and shaken them dizzy before dropping them in the grass to let them go. Feel free to throw this ball back at me and try again."

Lester instinctively reached out to catch the ball of light, but he clearly had no experience as a drummer. The ball suddenly accelerated in midair, slammed hard into his chest, and mysteriously vanished.

He toppled backward onto the sofa, stiff as a board, landing with a crisp thump and lying completely motionless.

"...Where's the ball? I didn't blink... Mr. Lester?"

Brian hurried toward the sofa, curious.

"It's not bedtime yet. Please go back to your hospital bed to rest after your magic show, all right?"

At last, Lester stopped spewing incomprehensible remarks from that wide-open mouth of his. Quiet, he actually looked like a normal person.

He stared helplessly up at Brian with wide eyes. Brian saw nothing but panic and confusion in them.

"Uh, are you all right?"

Realizing something was wrong, Brian hurriedly slapped his face twice. It felt awful-Lester's face was harder than chicken bones that had been frozen for a year.

No, not just his face. His arms, chest, abdomen, limbs... Lester's entire body was as hard as wood, and the ball of light really had disappeared!

It seemed Lester now needed more than just a psychiatrist. Specialists in internal medicine, orthopedics, and dermatology would surely be happy to hold a whole conference about him.

Brian realized he needed to get Lester to a hospital for treatment as soon as possible. Rude and bad-tempered though the man was, he didn't want the world to have another funeral's guest of honor.

Fortunately, he'd bought a car that year. Secondhand, at a very tempting price.

"Hang in there, Mr. Lester."

As carefully as he could, Brian carried Lester out of the house and placed him across the back seat of his little blue car, then hurried into the driver's seat.

He had just pressed the clutch, ready to start the car, when someone beside him offered a quiet reminder. "Remember to fasten your seat belt when driving."

"No, I'm racing against the clock."

Brian muttered his reply, busy considering how he would explain the situation to the doctor.

If he told the truth, he might be taken for a madman. Then he'd have no choice but to visit that psychiatrist friend of his.

Then Brian turned toward the passenger seat in astonishment.

At some point, a kindly old man wearing half-moon glasses and sporting a thick silvery-white beard had settled comfortably into it.

The old man was smiling, his robes from the previous century utterly out of place in the modern world. Yet he had actually fastened his seat belt properly?

God only knew how much the transport department had paid him!

That wasn't important. What mattered was that Brian had absolutely no idea how the old man had appeared in his passenger seat.

He took a deep breath and calmly pressed the brake. Good, the car still obeyed him. No supernatural force had taken control of it.

Perhaps he shouldn't have believed that used-car dealer's nonsense. So much for never having been in an accident!

To check whether the old man was a ghost, Brian silently reached out and poked his shoulder. The old man smiled at him throughout.

Whew, a living person. The sensation beneath his fingertip was solid.

Having calmed down, Brian suddenly remembered that there was a seriously ill gentleman in his car who urgently needed a doctor.

And the old man before him apparently knew how to teleport.

So he naturally asked,

"How did you do that?"

Brian quietly moved his hidden hand closer to the car door.

If the old man said he really could teleport, Brian would politely ask him to take Lester to the hospital.

If the old man suddenly drew a bayonet from beneath his robes, Brian would swiftly get out of danger.

Under Brian's nervous gaze, the old man smiled and said, "Very simple-insert the hard end of the black strap into the buckle, and your seat belt is fastened, my boy."