Operation: Cheer Up Sir Reginald

Professor Pip wrung his hands, his brow furrowed in a way that Lily recognized as deep concentration, or possibly the early stages of a spectacular sneeze. "This is most peculiar, Lily-bean," he murmured, peering at the chronometer on the time machine's console. The dials, which had glowed with a brilliant, happy gold just moments ago, now flickered with a dull, disgruntled grey. "The temporal displacement field is… well, it's sulking."

Lily, perched on a stool that was far too ornate for the practical workshop she was used to, chewed her lip. The great hall, moments before bursting with the raucous laughter of a medieval feast, now felt strangely muted. A magnificent, albeit slightly dusty, tapestry depicting a surprisingly plump unicorn being chased by a very small dragon hung on the far wall. The remnants of the feast – platters piled high with what looked suspiciously like roasted peacock and goblets still brimming with what Pip had optimistically called ‘sparkling grape nectar’ – were scattered across long oak tables. And in the centre of it all, blocking their path to the shimmering portal of their return, sat Sir Reginald Grumbles.

He was, indeed, grumbling. A low, rumbling sound emanated from his chest, like distant thunder. His armour, polished to a gleam that defied the alleged dust, seemed to absorb all joy. His expression was a masterpiece of misery, his mouth turned down at the corners with the permanence of a carved gargoyle.