Chapter Two
The Simple Minions

For the answer to what had happened that day, and all of the days that had led up to this moment, we should ask old Merlin Dumbledalf, for there is no better person to ask, and he was the mover of all that was achieved, but since that fateful moment he has been too busy laughing, drinking, flirting and smoking dope in that great pipe of his, and we will have to look elsewhere for the answers. Fortunately, it turns out that the unlikely characters of Jeremiah (Jams) Potts and his nephew Hapless were keen diarists and chroniclers, and have sought to establish the full truth and write it down in a book, which they entitled ‘The Demise of the Wielder of the Doughnut of Doom and the Appointment of the new Vice Chancellor of the University of Middle England, as recorded by Jeremiah and Hapless Potts of Gresford’. A rather cumbersome title that could easily have been simplified to something like ‘The Half-Baked Prince of the Torus’.

Nevertheless, from this painstaking work, we learn that the beginning of the story dates right back to the ninth century, when a monk working alongside the philosopher Geber first discovered the astonishing properties of osmium which, when it becomes dissociated with iron in the presence of taegidium, has a calming effect on the mind, which then becomes susceptible to suggestion. How old Geber came by the element none now can say, but his pronouncements were not readily received by his peers, who coined the term ‘gibberish’ to describe their understanding of his theories. That is not to say he had not hit on something special, but it was not a science accessible to the intellect of an average Daily Mail reader.

In philosophical circles, the properties he had identified were studied, and knowledge refined by many students of the art, but it was not until much later, in the seventeenth century in fact, that Isaac Newton himself refined the process, giving him great powers over other minds, including that of the king. At this time, the secret Brethren of the Brilliant was formed, remaining largely unheard of for hundreds of years. Rowling learned of this organisation in 1986, after seducing the flamboyant Welsh scientist celeb ‘Bryan’, and stealing his osmium-taegidium torus. Rowling himself, although undistinguished in his own field of paleoglossiphysiology, nevertheless possessed considerable skills in engineering, and developed a new torus in secret, which had the property of atomising the phased ion particles into an aerosol that could be dispersed by pumps or sprays, or in ventilation systems. This gave him considerable power over audiences, who commonly wept with emotion at his lectures, even though in both communication and scientific terms, they were dull as ditchwater and as intellectually rigorous and socially relevant as an edition of Evan Davies’ The Bottom Line, a combination that became fashionable in some circles, including as a feature of acceptance speeches by film actors.

At the same time as Rowling was secretly developing his use, and misuse, of the osmium-taegidium torus, he maintained the pretence of following his studies on paleoglossiphysiology by means of a series of lecture tours and supporting scientific papers, the most notable of which was Rowling and Booth 1976. ‘Paleoglossiphysiology – a bit of a tongue twister’ Journal of Ancient and Inebriated Texts 14 129-133. He was careful, of course, making sure he was never filmed while speaking, and that he had personal contact with editors of journals, and their peer reviewers. He was widely criticised but, despite this, he had a core of supporters who were loyal to him. The papers themselves were written for the most part by students and post-doctoral researchers, or directly plagiarised from others, but he was careful to ensure that he was always the primary author listed on the published papers, by means of a considerable talent for Maltbyism*

The end result of this was steady promotion, appointments to committees etc. and general acclaim. He even went on Blue Peter, for which he was given a badge, and once or twice was invited to be a guest host on Have I Got Trivial Drivel For You? where his confused expression was considered funny and even engaging enough for him to be considered as a potential candidate for the post of Mayor of London. Ultimately, he found himself in a position within range of the Vice Chancellorship. This rapid rise to prominence Rowling achieved with skill and consummate ease. His servants saw to it that he was elected to the appropriate committees. They completed all the work necessary for him to gain great esteem and an enhanced reputation, and hence progress to more powerful and senior management groups. On television it was arranged for him to be assigned the make-up girl with the big cleavage.

He had privately ordered the resignation of the incumbent Vice Chancellor (who had meekly obeyed), and secretly had secured the support of all members of the Court so that, at the forthcoming meeting of the Senate, he should unanimously be chosen as the next Vice Chancellor. All, that is, except for Professor Albert ‘Merlin’ Dumbledalf who, when told of the proposal, called it, “an unfortunate political decision”. This one awkward and interfering old busybody appeared to stand in Rowling’s way at every opportunity, and could not be persuaded or removed. Unfortunately for Rowling, Professor Dumbledalf enjoyed the utmost reputation, both intellectually and ethically, which defied attempts at sullying his name, despite his albeit whispered reputation for swinging. He had fingers in every pie, sometimes several at a time, and had certainly written on a wide range of subjects with apparent authority. Worse, he seemed somehow to know something of Rowling’s secret work. Rowling suspected that he may even have knowledge of or have been connected with the Brethren in some way, at least historically.

Yes, Dumbledalf was an irritant, but it was not until that day that Rowling had realised just how much of an obstacle Dumbledalf had been. He wished, as he had mused previously, that some sort of accident might befall Dumbledalf, perhaps involving his only widely known weaknesses, those of a social nature and in his hobby of pyrotechnics. Rowling would have been astonished to have watched Dumbledalf’s face at the moment that all of Rowling’s careful plans crumbled into dust: his expression was happy, exuberant even, but strangely, not gloating. Rowling, however, would never know the course of events either before or after his attempted coup in the University.

Note *Named after a late professor of geography at the Royal Holloway College, University of London (and tragically later at the University of Liverpool – tragic for the University at least), Closely related to plagiarism, Maltbyism is the name given to direct stealing of others’ written works by putting one’s own name at the top. Usually achieved by bluff and bullying of subordinates, it enables the Maltbyist to quickly reach positions of authority without having done any real work. For examples, see such published works as Maltby and Dickens (1867) A Tale of Two Cities, and Maltby, Crick and Watson, (1958) The Double Helix.