3Rotter Tales

The Backfiring Broomstick

Harry Rotter was in a foul mood. Aunt Petunia had insisted she scrub the kitchen floor properly this time, which meant without spells, potions, or shortcuts.
Harry scowled at the old mop leaning against the wall.

“You look like a broomstick in disguise,” she whispered to it. “And I bet you’d rather be flying than mopping up potato peelings.”

The mop, of course, said nothing. But Harry swore its stringy head drooped in agreement.

“Well then,” Harry decided, “let’s both get what we want.”

She rummaged in her pocket for her wand (which was really a chopstick with glitter glue stuck to it) and tapped the mop’s handle.
“Flycus-Broomus-Zoooomus!”

The mop gave a shudder, then sprang into the air with such force that Harry was flung onto it sideways. Before she could adjust herself, WHOOSH! The mop took off — backwards.

It zoomed through the kitchen, knocking Aunt Petunia’s teapot collection off the shelf. Harry clung on for dear life, her bottom sticking out like a badly aimed cannonball.

Out the window they shot, backwards through the hedge, startling Mr. McGinty the postman, who dropped all his letters into the pond.

“WITCHERY!” he cried, shaking his fist as envelopes floated past the goldfish.

The mop paid no attention. It zoomed backwards faster and faster, dragging Harry through a washing line where she collected a pair of bloomers on her head. Then it swooped low over Mrs. Crankshaw’s gnomes, knocking the poor stone creatures into hedges and flowerbeds. The gnomes retaliated by hurling their pointy hats like frisbees, which narrowly missed Harry’s ears.

“STOP! FORWARD! ANY DIRECTION BUT THIS!” Harry shrieked, thumping the mop’s handle.
But the mop had ideas of its own.

It careered down the high street backwards, crashing through a greengrocer’s stall. Carrots, cabbages, and three particularly furious turnips went flying. People ducked. One unlucky shopper ended up with a cauliflower on his head.

Then came the railway bridge. Box Privet was there with his beloved model train set, carefully laying down track. He looked up just in time to see Harry’s bottom thundering toward him.

“NOOO!” he wailed, but too late.
CRUNCH! The mop zoomed straight through the trains, scattering miniature carriages across the pavement. Box screamed so loudly, pigeons fell off the rooftops.

“Harry Rotter!” he howled. “You’ve destroyed the Orient Express!”

The mop, perhaps guilty, finally began to slow. It sagged into the air and then, with a feeble plop, dropped Harry into a puddle outside the chip shop.

Dripping wet and covered in laundry, turnip leaves, and tiny train wheels, Harry sat there in silence.

Aunt Petunia arrived, red in the face, brandishing her rolling pin. “That’s it, Harry Rotter! No more mops, no more brooms, no more cleaning implements in this house!”

Harry wrung out her sleeve. “That’s fine by me,” she said, trying to sound casual.

But just then, the mop shuddered once more. It trembled, sparked, and — with a final backwards WHOOSH — it flew off down the road without her, zigzagging wildly into the distance until it vanished over the hills.

Everyone gasped. Harry blinked.

“Good riddance,” Aunt Petunia muttered.

But late that night, as Harry looked out her window, she thought she saw a faint streak across the stars. The mop. Still flying. Still backwards. And, unless her eyes deceived her… carrying a passenger.

One of the gnomes had hitched a ride, grinning wickedly as it sailed bum-first across the moon.

Harry laughed. “Well, at least someone’s enjoying themselves.”