This story emerged from the world created by J.K. Rowling, and has been tempered with the help of the staggering brilliance of Edward Lear. I don't own anything.
[Note: Here 'Telephone' is pronounced Tel-uh-foh-nee]
.
.
I.
A Malfoy and a Granger went to sea
In a beautiful Slytherin-green boat,
She took a beaded bag made of gunny, and he plenty of money,
Five thousand Galleons stuffed in the pocket of his coat.
"Why on earth did you think we'll need all that money?" Hermione asked for the thirtieth time, "It's far too much!"
"There's no such thing as too much money, Granger."
The night was a quiet one, a pretty one by all accounts. Twinkling stars and an almost full moon were glowing against a marbled sky made of billions of shades of plum and dark blue… the sea was a glorious swirling mess of reflected colours, gently rocking them as they floated on…
But Malfoy had spread himself across three-fourths of their tiny little boat; his long legs forcing Hermione to crouch at one end, hugging her knees.
"Could you keep to your side, please," she growled, while consistently reminding herself that no, jettisoning Malfoy into the sea was not something their boss would consider appropriate, or find amusing.
Malfoy looked up to the stars above,
And bemoaned as he puffed on a Cuban cigar,
"O painful prissy! O prissy little ghoul,
What an unbearable priss you are,
You are,
You are!
What an unbearable priss you are!"
"Put out that repulsive cancer-stick at once!" Granger shrieked.
Oh, but Granger was always shrieking. And Draco steadfastly ignored her. It was, after all, the only way he'd survive this wretched mission.
They were looking for a needle in a haystack. The Department of Mysteries had unearthed a tattered parchment from their archives, which spoke of a legendary artefact: The Ring of Telephone, the forgotten sister of Persephone. For some reason, Granger found the whole thing hilarious. Well… she'd found it funny a week ago when they'd just been told about it. Now, after seven days of aimless drifting, she'd become a right crotchety hag.
If only she looked like a hag, too.
But no. It was all this water affecting his brain. The sea fucked with your mind, it was a documented fact. Sailors went mad, seamen got delirious, and Draco was a mere sheltered landlubber. He wasn't going to survive this, he realised with a sudden rush of panic. This quest would be the end of him. Here lies Draco Lucius Malfoy, killed tragically while hunting down the fabled Ring of Telephone. What an awfully sensational way to go; not at all befitting a man of leisure. He was meant to die at the age of a hundred and seventy. While lazing in bed. And drinking champagne.
"We're..." he began tremulously, "Granger, we're going to die here!"
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II.
Granger said to Malfoy, "You're absolutely foul!
How alarmingly loud you whinge!
O I'm so terribly harried! too long we have tarried:
But when shall we find that ring?"
Why him? Of all the people in their department. Why Draco Malfoy?
Hermione pictured him dying, right there on their boat. He'd be clawing at the air, crying 'The horror! The horror!' as his heart of darkness slowed to a stop. What beautiful imagery.
"Why are you smiling?" Malfoy demanded, looking appalled.
Hermione's smile faded at once, and she regretfully muttered, "You aren't going to die."
A breeze rushed by, swinging her hair forward to tickle her face. She sneezed.
"Are you cold?" Malfoy asked, his stupid shiny hair dancing tamely.
"No."
She reached into her bag and pulled out the overly helpful map they'd been given by the Ministry.
"You are dreadfully off course," drawled the map, "Travel 300 nautical miles west, and take a left at the abandoned lighthouse."
"Point me," Hermione snapped at her wand. Apparently, they'd been steadily going south-east for the past... hell, goodness knows how long.
"Fuck. Me." Malfoy howled, "We're going to die here."
They sailed away, for a fortnight and a day,
To the land where the Plangentine-Tree grows
And there in a wood an anthropomorphic Billywig stood
With the ring clenched between his toes,
His toes,
His toes,
With the ring clenched between his toes.
Yeah, of course.
Why wouldn't they, after fifteen days of being tossed around in a glorified canoe, have to contend with a giant blue insect in a smelly grey overcoat? It was perfect really, just like the rest of Draco's magnificent fucking life.
The Billywig was a head taller than Draco. The wings on top of his head were oddly wilted, making the fact that they had to be at least four feet long (each) slightly less intimidating. His sting was broken. He reeked of gin. The ciliated toes that curled around the ring were so horrifying that every cell comprising Draco's body shuddered.
Granger whimpered, and seemingly involuntarily slipped her (small... so soft...) hand into Draco's. The Billywig fixed his enormous, cloudy, orb-like eyes on her. His pincer-mouth opened with an eerie little click and he asked, "Wotcher want?"
She swallowed, mustering some of that aggravating Gryffindor-ness she possessed.
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III.
"Dear Billywig, are you willing to sell for one Knut
Your ring?" Said the Billywig, "I certainly will not."
"Um, please, Mister Billywig," Hermione entreated, "It's really important that we have it. How about a sickle then?"
"No."
Malfoy huffed irritably. His hand remained in hers.
She swallowed. "How much –"
"I'm a lonely ole Billywig, I am. I find meself in need o' companionship. If I give yer this ring, yer must become me wife."
Hermione blanched, choking on the words she hadn't been allowed to speak. Malfoy's fingers tightened around her.
"Twenty Galleons!" he bellowed.
"Nah. I need a lass. I'm bloody well a lonely ole Billywig, wiv no muckers, no children, i'n it? Give us the bleedin' tart, yer can 'ave this 'ere ring."
"FIVE THOUSANT GALLEONS!" Malfoy shouted, madly pulling the coins out of his pocket with his one free hand, "WILL YOU SELL US THAT RING FOR FIVE THOUSAND GALLEONS?"
Said the Billywig, "I will."
He flung the ring off this manky, hairy toe and tossed it towards them. Then he gathered all the money that lay in a heap around them with his great wings, before disappearing into the woods.
Hermione and Malfoy stood staring after him for a moment, panting... the ring momentarily forgotten... their hands still clasped...
"I told you all that money was necessary."
So they took it away, and utterly weary they lay
By a birch tree on the rim of the beach.
A magical tree from whence, lilting music did commence,
Which had them swaying to the beat of the tune;
The Ring of Telephone was a dull fucking ring. A plain bronze band with a single scuffed garnet: Boring. Ugly, really. But Granger was gazing at it like it was the most fascinating thing; her eyes were brighter and prettier than any gem Draco had ever seen.
The wind swept across the beach, the leaves on the birch tree rustled, adding charmingly to the haunting music it was emitting.
"Aparecium," Granger whispered, and it revealed nothing. "Revelio. Specialis Revelio."
"Do you think," Draco asked as he stretched his arms above his head, "That maybe it's just a plain old nothing ring?"
Granger scowled. "I think it might be. Just think," she exclaimed agitatedly, "We went through all this trouble for a trumpery bit of Ancient Greek bric-a-brac."
"What was Telephone the goddess of again?"
"Distances."
Draco couldn't help but smirk. "Well she certainly got us far, far away from home."
"Hardy har."
The breeze picked up, and so did the music. It really was something ethereal – unlike anything Draco had heard before. He'd call it a siren song, but his senses felt as sharp as ever. It wasn't intoxicating... it was invigorating.
"Forget the sodding ring," he told Granger, "Look at the moon."
She looked, and a soft smile spread across her face. Then she stood up and offered her hand to Draco; that soft smile was now a wide grin.
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.