The Woes of Using a Telephone
By Jollie Killjoy
A/N (not Author's Note, but simply Aggravating Nonsense... wow, that was a bad pun): holy crackers! I've actually gotten around to posting this! Haha, I wrote a lot of it on an airplane, but it needed some pretty heavy editing and filling out, so... yea. I pretty much have no point to that. Anyways! I would like to warn the reader (and hopefully, I have one): due to the fact that this is a total parody, some of the things that will happen in the fic will not make sense. I don't necessarily mean that it won't be canon (though I might forget some small details, please tell me if I do), but uh... it will probably have OOC moments and the like for the sheer sake of humor. So if you're incredibly concerned with getting characters one hundred percent right, you probably shouldn't be reading this. Oh, and did I mention possible omission of the laws of physics? That's always fun.
x x x x x x x x x x x
"Roxanne, would you care to make yourself useful and fetch me some treacle tarts?" Draco Malfoy snapped at his scantily clad secretary, twirling an expensive Cuban cigar between his fingers.
"Yes, sir," she replied resentfully, wondering why she hadn't become a stripper instead; it would certainly be less degrading.
"Quickly now! Treacle tarts are a very important matter, and Roxy, you know I must have them in order to concentrate," the platinum blonde added sharply. He examined the large stack of complaints in front of him: a Doxy infestation, a row with the Goblins, a Veela stealing some stuffy old witch's husband (again)... it was tedious, sometimes, to be the head of the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, but it definitely paid off. Draco rather enjoyed smiting furry little creatures, not to mention nature in general. It had no use, really. I mean, you couldn't get hair gel in the wild. It was like some kind of sick, cruel, fresh-scented form of torture. His adoring public needed him to smite it. Not to mention, the job came with a big swiveling chair. Draco loved his swiveling chair.
"Of course, sir." Roxanne gritted her teeth and strode to the door. Should've worn a nun's outfit and granny underwear to the bloody interview, she thought to herself regretfully as she opened the office doors and strode out, her obscenely tight skirt making it near impossible to do so in haste. But then again, I wouldn't put it past the bloody idiot to be into that sort of thing. Merlin, the things a person does in moments of desperation...
"Oh, and Roxanne!" Draco added, taking another puff of his cigar. "The mail, yes?"
"I wouldn't dare forget, sir."
Draco smiled smugly, sinking into his cushioned leather seat and taking a small spin. It's good to be in charge, he decided to himself, inhaling the chair's scent: it smelled like his French cologne. And of dead cow, being leather and all, but Draco chose to ignore that. He chose to ignore a lot of things.
Suddenly, the phone rang. Seeing as this meant real work, he couldn't choose to ignore it. Damnit. Why didn't he have a secretary for this?
"Head of the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, who am I speaking to?"
"You sound rather irate, Drake. Drink a cup of coffee or something."
Draco quirked a carefully manicured eyebrow. Coffee? Well, no question as to whom this was. "Blaise, what in the seven hells are you calling me for?"
"Interrupted your chair time, have I? Apologies, apologies. I simply thought you'd like to know about the mortal danger you're in," the Italian drawled.
"Danger?" Draco snorted. "Right. Now, honestly, get to the point. I have important tasks awaiting." He glanced at his door briefly; Roxanne should have arrived with the treacle tarts already. Blasted secretaries.
"I'm completely serious about the danger bit, actually," Blaise's tone suddenly lost its sarcastic quality. "There's some deranged former auror out there who believes the Dark Lord is still alive, and he's attacking all who have had some sort of affiliation with the Death Eaters, direct or indirect; seeing as the man was previously locked up in St. Mungo's, I suggest you join me in my grandfather's Italian manor until the Ministry arrests him. They presume he may possibly be a serious threat, but have kept the matter hushed, for the time being. The only reason I'm in on this is because I have some very elaborate connections with one of Mother's discarded husbands. Vince, Greg, and Pansy are coming along as well, you know," he added.
Draco pondered this for a moment. "And why would some old madman be after me, again?"
Blaise sighed in exasperation. "Drake, lets list the facts: your father barely got out of Azkaban with a clean reputation five years ago, and there are quite a number of fanatics who believe he still possesses Death Eater values; it has been brought to the attention of the media long ago that the Dark Lord himself ordered you to kill Dumbledore; and you still have the dark mark on you, not to mention the fact that you're in a position of power, which makes you rather vulnerable. Namely, your power is limited to fuzzy little beasts and a few dead people," Blaise snorted, marveling, yet againat his masterful grip on demeaning commentary. Why haven't I won something for this yet? he wondered, feeling a bit cheated, and decided to inquire his personal secretary about the matter. "So what do you say, mate?"
"Your treacle tarts, sir," Roxanne entered, careful not to stumble; after a year of working for department head, the required immorally high-healed boots still needed some getting used to. "And the mail."
Draco immediately hung up. Who cared about some raving lunatic who was after his head? He had pastries.
"Ah, thank you, Roxanne," he received his tray and stack of mail with much enthusiasm, popping a tart into his mouth. Hah, barmy aurors. Honestly. What was Blaise thinking? Always been slightly paranoid, that one. And anyways, Italy wasn't exactly the safest country on earth. Enrique Iglesias was from Italy, after all. Or was it Spain? Ah, same difference, Malfoy concluded haughtily. Yes, it is definitely a good decision to stay in England. Of course. We have Monty Python.
Taking a bite out of the last treacle tart, Draco decided to sort through the large stack of mail. Let's see... Mother and Father, Ted Nott, Playboy magazine subscription... Wait, what's this? Draco eyed a green envelope amongst the pile of tan and white. Pulling it closer, he examined it; Draco liked green. It was more of an olive than his preferred shade of forest green, but it was green, nonetheless. He turned it over to see who it was from, but instead of finding a return address, his eye were met with bold, black letters that said: FREE STUFF INSIDE. THIS IS NOT A BLATANTLY OBVIOUS SCHEME TO HURT YOU. NO, REALLY. Hm, no return address.Draco pondered for a moment. This can't be safe... can it? Oh well. It says 'free stuff'.
As Draco carefully slid his finger under the opening of the envelop, the world suddenly went into slow motion mode; a full orchestra materialized and, out of nowhere, started playing dramatic 'oh-shit-something-horrible-and-climaxy-is-totally-going-to-happen-right-now-so-pay-attention-folks' music (Slash of Guns N Roses, straight out of the 80's, materialized with them and started soloing like crazy, but the conductor kicked him out because he didn't like his hair). The lights in the office flickered and darkened, an array of thick smoke and multicolored sparks started spurting out of the envelop, and many other overblown clichés involving buildup to a very important event took place, when suddenly, Draco ate another treacle tart.
...And then he fainted.
x x x x x x x x x x x
Draco found himself lying under his table. Propping himself up a bit, he realized his temples were throbbing. And that he was seeing the world in smudges. A momentary horror swept over him as he realized he looked horrible in glasses.
The blond sighed. This was definitely embarrassing. He rubbed his eyes, but his vision refused to clear. Wonderful. Appreciative that no one had walked in to find him in such a state, he fumbled around to get out from under the desk, until --
"I've typed the document regarding Goblins, sir," the young voice of his secretary rang through the room, mingling with the click of her high heals. "Uh... if you don't mind me asking, what are you doing under there, sir? And the lighting in here is rather dim for work, isn't it," she remarked, raising an eyebrow, and wondered if there was a reason for the lack of illumination. She then asked herself if she wanted to know in the first place.
"I am meditating, Roxanne," Draco replied haughtily, hastily making up a lie. "I've decided to reach out to the merciful hands of Buddha and get in touch with my feminine side." Yes, believable enough. If anyone could sound condescending momentarily after finding themselves unconscious under a table, it was definitely Draco. He got out from under the desk, betraying no sign that he thought he was doing anything out of the ordinary.
And he wasn't. Of course not.
Concluding that the light must have gotten damaged somehow, he rummaged through the drawers in his desk. "Right then, here it is," he remarked unconcernedly, and picked a wand up. "Lumos!"
And in a dramatic moment of action-packed suspense, the wand did absolutely nothing.
Draco glared at the offending rod and cleared his throat. "Lumos!"
The wand seemed to shrug at Draco indifferently. In response, Draco fumed.
Suddenly, Roxanne emitted a small, startled gasp. Her eyes seemed to be fixed on an object on Draco's table, specifically a green envelop. The fair-haired man walked over to it and picked it up, wondering vaguely if Roxanne was fond of olive green (secretaries have no taste, frankly).
As he picked it up, unexpected memories of the smoke and sparks that previously burst out of the envelop flooded him, and orchestra music echoed in his mind. It was the orchestra music that sent him into a mild state of panic.
And then he realized that the bold words on the envelop had changed to say: VREI SA PLECI DAR NUMA NUMA IEI, NUMA NUMA IEI, NUMA NUMA NUMA IEI.
Romanian pop lyrics. Draco grimaced. Now he was sure he was doomed; Maybe Enrique Iglesias wasn't so bad after all.
But a Malfoy did not turn around and run in the face of fear. Well... not when the situation didn't involve ferrets. Or Unicorns. Or Blast-Ended Skrewts. Actually... Malfoys tended to do quite a bit of running. But in a rare moment of courageousness, Draco decided that he would grab danger by the horns and tell it to go fuck itself. With that pleasant thought in mind, he marched straight out of his office and into the Department of Mysteries.
x x x x x x x x x x x
Draco was standing self-importantly at the entrance leading to the Spell Damage Department of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. His mouth curling into a determined sneer that would surely make Lucius wet himself in pride (or tell someone else to do it for him), every bit of him appeared to be the aristocratic snob he was raised as. Inside, however, he was panicked sick; even the Mystery workers couldn't figure out where the letter had come from, or what it did. The only information Draco had regarding it was the fact that it disabled his powers.
...momentarily, of course. I will be fixed up in no time. Without a doubt. Draco rid himself of all thoughts that stated otherwise. He was rather good at ridding himself of thoughts. Especially if they disagreed with his general opinion.
"May I help you?" A sour looking witch with thick-rimmed glasses asked.
"I would like to see a Doctor regarding a certain unliftable and unidentified jinx," Draco declared to the secretary.
She raised an eyebrow that Draco thought needed a bit of plucking. He considered gracing the poor soul and taking her out for a makeover once he was finished with this whole disablement business.
"Your name?"
"Malfoy, Draco Malfoy."
The witch checked through a long scroll. "You do not have an appointment, Mr. Malfoy," she stated matter-of-factly, looking down on the man through her glasses.
Her swiveling chair seemed to be larger than Draco's. It was forest green, too. His wrath reached unimaginable heights; never doubt the wrath of a blonde.
Draco found himself with the urge to pound on the woman's desk. "Excuse me! Miss, this is a matter of life and death we are talking about! Am I, head of the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, undisputed ruler of the universe, and critic extraordinaire, being denied help at a time of crisis due to some miniscule lack of appointment?"
The secretary blinked for a moment. "Yes."
It was at that point in time that Draco decided that, putting aside bad hair, secretaries are the root of all evil.
x x x x x x x x x x x
I have been reduced to sitting on a bench. I have been reduced to sitting on - a - bench. Draco slowly took the idea in. Here he was, in the middle of London, powerless as a mere muggleand sitting on a bench. A bench on which commoners, petty crooks, and homeless people sat. I bet I could catch Malaria from this, he thought, grey eyes darting all over the wooden seat. Or AIDS, or Appendicitis, or SARS, or Merlin knows what. He clutched himself defensively. It was a wonder he wasn't dead yet. I will never survive this; my poor, delicate body will be found damaged on the side of the street and my adoring public will weep, weep for me...
Even in his frantic situation, Draco was able to recognize a solution that countless beforehand had found whilst in the murky depths of misery: it was time to hit a bar and get smashed. Really, really smashed.
x x x x x x x x x x x
Draco slammed his mug down. "Freddy my man, gimme a... red sunset with, ah -- with a some Bacardi or somethin'... what ya call 'em... 'em things... pink flamingos..."
Freddy sighed in exasperation. "We don't have any of those tonight. In fact, they don't really... exist."
"Well a, get me one anyways, you bloody, you..." Draco racked his drunken brain for insults. "Turnip!"
The bartender carelessly got back to filling a particularly large mug with Budweiser; three years of working at a bar kind of numb one's sense of shock.
Draco didn't care that the bartender wasn't listening. "I, I used 'ta be a wizaaaaard, you know, a wizard I says!" he slurred, waving his arms around dramatically. "With them magical stick things, you know, those wavy sparkly... sparkly..."
"I understan' ya, mate," a large man in a sharp, tailored suit suddenly piped up. "I... wanted to become a ballerina... Mummy never did want me to... to be a ballerina..."
The two men broke into agonized sobs. In an outburst of sympathy, Freddy rolled his eyes.
Meanwhile, two shabby-looking men in the back of the bar were discussing a rather sinister matter.
"He took our spot, the blonde one," muttered the first man, attempting to thoughtfully stroke his untamable red beard. "I never thought anyone could do it. He must've tapped into some kind of mysterious force of indignity, indignity I'm tellin' ya!" he added for the desired ominous effect. He thought himself rather good at being ominous.
The second man smoked a pipe that let out a rather questionable-smelling smoke. "We must defeat this intruder, once and for all. Knights of the bum table!"
The two hit their mugs together. The smoker then cleared his throat thoughtfully.
"Now, let us review our stance: we have vast beer bellies. He has gelled hair. This gives us an advantage."
"He called the bartender a turnip, though," the bearded man mused. "The closest I've ever come to was a squash."
His companion in their noble war considered the idea. "You have a point there, Bacchus. What do you suggest we do?"
"I say we --"
"-- have sex with him!"
The whole bar collectively turned towards the entrance, to spot two people arguing with an exceptional vehemence. A few blokes near the telly started chanting for a brawl.
"And why should I believe that you didn't have sex with him! I clearly saw you pick up undergarments from his apartment yesterday --"
"Ron Weasley, you are possibly the most ignorant, pigheaded, rash idiot I have ever met! I am most definitely not shagging Marcus Flint, and I did not have a threesome with two Irish immigrants! And how would you know where his apartment is, anyways? Were you following me, or does someone have a bit of a crush on dear Mark --"
"YOU TAKE THAT BACK, HERMIONE!"
"You wish!"
It was then that Malfoy snapped out of his sloshed fury, and suddenly recognized the people at the entrance to the bar: Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, and -- his former rival and a devoted Gryffindor, no less -- Harry Potter.
The blonde considered his options. He could not go crawling back to Blaise, for the highly caffeinated Italian would, without a doubt, mock him until the end of his days or, even worse -- make him do the dishes in a flowery apron and a hairnet. The rest of his old school friends would most likely ridicule him as well (possibly in a less sadistic manner). He was not going to reveal his weakness to his people from the Ministry seeing as they would undoubtedly use it against him, going back to his mother's and father's was unthinkable, and Roxanne... was a secretary. Thus far, secretaries have been confirmed to be some kind of occultist force sent from the fiery depths of hell to torture him.
The do-gooder triad, however... maybe they had a spare room or something...
No. He would not do it. Ever. Ever.And another one for good measure.
...would he?