It was purple, it was red, and it was angry. No two ways about it, Professor Arnifolou’s skin was weird. An incident on the outskirts of the school walls many years ago had given him a skin condition three separate dermatologists had described as ‘impossible to manage’. On the upside, it had also reversed his ageing, meaning he now appeared to be around 15 years old, with the exception of his long, grey beard.
The incident that caused his angry rash had become a tale of folklore between the University students for years; ever evolving and morphing year on year. When the University leaned right, it was an inappropriate incident with a dog in the nighttime. When it leaned left, it was a tale of youthful self-exploration with the previous years prize winning Arrgleblast, a beast not dissimilar to a goat, with the exception of the horns, which grew very straight, and very long.
Professor Arnifolou, or, thankfully, Geoff to his friends, had been given tenure around 300 years ago. There was, he would tell you, no chance of him quite placing precisely how many years ago that incident was, nor whether it was the Arrgleblast that he explored his body with, or whether it was the Arrgleblast exploring their body with him. Either way, he seemed to remember it had been a long night.
Geoff was hiding in the greenhouse behind the Horticulture block, pretending to tend to the Garlick Montephues, a plant known for two things; their overpowering odor once diced, and their immediate overbearing attachment to the person that did the dicing.
The reason Geoff was hiding was simple enough. He had accidentally backed into a very unforgiving neighbour’s pet duck several decades ago, and had never been allowed to forget about it. Partly, this was because ducks are a revered animal considered to be the holiest of pets to a wizard, but mostly it was because he had added some rosemary to it, roasted it for an hour at 200 degrees, and eaten it for his dinner.
Never, his mother had always said, let a good duck go to waste. Wise words, he thought.
The greenhouse door swung open and, standing in the doorway, Natalia Rentawhile was standing with her wand aimed between the professor’s ice blue eyes.
“Professor Arnifolou. I am here to avenge the duck of my ancestors. So it was written, so it shall be done,” she said.
You could tell it was rehearsed, but you had to admire the delivery.
“Ah. Yes. About the duck,” he said, lifting one finger in the air as Natalia stepped towards him. “Now hang about a minute. The duck started it!”
Natalia tilted her head.
“Yeah. She started it. Quacking at all bloody hours.”
“But Professor, was hitting her in the face with your car bumper not excessive?”
“Bump her? I hardly knew her,” came the reply.
Natalia rolled her eyes, then she blasted a hole straight through Professor Arnifolou’s hat.