I do not own anything having to do with Harry Potter.
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"We don't know what we want, but we are ready to bite somebody to get it."
-- Will Rogers
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"This is rubbish."
Harry Potter, often referred to as The-Boy-Who-Lived, The Chosen One, the Savior of Wizardkind, Patronus-Caster Extraordinaire, The Second One He Ever Feared, and/or Scar-face, gave an immense groan and in his annoyingly frustrating frustration promptly turned one of the squishy armchairs in the Gryffindor common room into a parakeet. Unfortunately, the particular armchair he chose to demonstrate this impressive bit of transfiguration with happened to be the one he was sitting on. Or had been sitting on, until he fell to the floor with a burst of yellow feathers and a squawk of indignation from the squashed bird.
Harry could tell it was going to be a very long night.
Hermione Granger, often referred to as The Brains of the Golden Trio, ignored his antics completely in a remarkable feat of self-control—she didn't even crack a smile. "This is rubbish, Harry," she repeated, jabbing her wand at his History of Magic essay.
Harry, having picked himself up off of the floor, was busy gazing dejectedly at the rather compressed parakeet at his feet. Sighing, he conjured up a tiny coffin for the tiny corpse and levitated it into the fire for a fittingly tiny burial service. After checking to make sure that he wasn't about to squish anything else, he sat on a different chair.
"Well I don't blame it for being rubbish, actually. If I were a History of Magic essay on a topic as ludicrous and dull as the drawn-out evolution of the Goblin banking system I would be highly tempted to end up as rubbish, too," said Scar-face—er, Harry, as he magicked the remaining feathers, all that was left of the short-suffering parakeet, into the blazing fire.
Ron Weasley, often referred to as… well, Ron wasn't usually referred to as anything besides "Ron," lamentably, snorted from his seat by The Brains of the Golden Trio. "He's right, Hermione. Binns has reached new levels of boring subject matter. Suicide inducing, in fact."
Hermione knew that this was true. She may have been The Brains of the Golden Trio and notorious for enjoying all types and categories of schoolwork, but she was not so high-and-mighty as to try and refute what she knew could not possibly be refuted.
Yes, the drawn-out evolution of the Goblin banking system was indeed boring. Suicide inducing, in fact.
Just then, rescue from the tedious predicament of the drawn-out evolution of the Goblin banking system came in the form of a distraction. Two distractions, actually, each with a distracting shock of distractingly red hair and a rather distracting way of leaving intensely amusing (and distracting) pranks in their wake. All in all, Fred and George Weasley, often referred to as Gred and Forge, the two most successful pranksters in the history of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, were very distracting people.
"Hullo, ickle Ronnikins!" said Fred—or perhaps George, as no one could quite tell the difference—as he slung his arm over his younger brother's shoulders. Ron, now often referred to as ickle Ronnikins, grimaced.
"Care for a treat?" asked George. He produced a rather harmless looking pastry, holding it out in the palm of his hand for all to see.
Every single person within a ten-foot radius scooted back in his or her seat at least four inches.
"No?" Said Fred.
"Shame, that is."
"We made them ourselves."
"Took a lot of work."
"Up all night, weren't we, Forge?"
"Yes, Gred. We are deeply aggrieved that in such fine company no one is willing to taste our lovely pastry."
"Insulted!"
"Disgusted!"
"Appalled!"
"Aghast!"
"Dismay—"
"ALL RIGHT!" shouted Neville Longbottom, often referred to as The One Who Was Almost The-Boy-Who-Lived. He simply could not take the racket anymore, and it was making his Mimbulus Mimbletonia very fussy. "I'll try your bloody pastry!"
Two equally wicked grins spread over the otherwise innocent-looking faces of both Gred and Forge.
Harry watched the blood drain from Neville's face as he realized what he had just volunteered for. The twins were very persuasive people and eventually, despite his protests, The One Who Was Almost The-Boy-Who-Lived took the tiniest nibble off the edge of the pastry and very quickly proceeded to sprout large scales that completely covered his arms and legs. Fortunately everyone was quite used to these sorts of happenings when the two most successful pranksters in the history of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry were present, so no one spared much time gawking and thus had more time to complete their homework assignments. No one paid much attention to poor Neville, either, and he was left to wallow alone in all of his scaly glory.
The Golden Trio gazed at Neville briefly with faint frowns on their faces, but soon Hermione, the official slave-driver of the Gryffindor common room, gave a great sigh and insisted that they get back to work. "Well, if you two aren't interested in your essays, at least we should try to work on…you know…The Plan," she whispered, glancing furtively around the room as she rifled through an immense pile of parchment sheets.
"The Plan?" asked ickle Ronnikins.
"Yes, The Plan. Ah, yes, here it is." She produced a large sheet of blank parchment and laid it on the table that the three of them were sitting around.
They looked. They pondered. And they looked again.
Ron furrowed his eyebrows.
Hermione bit her lip.
Neville slithered.
Harry made a very confused sound. "Is this really all we've come up with so far?"
"Well, seeing as I've had absolutely no help from you both, I should think I've done rather well!" Hermione snapped, her eyes flashing.
Ron sputtered. "But…But it's The Plan! We're The Golden Trio! We're supposed to be good at this!"
Hermione suddenly burst into tears—this was quite a regular occurrence, so Harry and Ron weren't overly concerned—and stood up as if to leave. "Well, I'm sorry if I can't be absolutely perfect! I may be The Brains of the Golden Trio, but I can't do everything! I'm under a lot of stress! With exams and everything coming up, it's…"
And then something happened that no one had ever thought could happen. Ever.
Draco Malfoy, often referred to as The King of Slytherin, Arch-Nemesis of Harry Potter, The Slytherin Sex-God, and/or Ferret-boy, climbed through the portrait hole and entered the Gryffindor common room. Draco Malfoy was in the Gryffindor common room.
Draco. Malfoy. Was. In. The bloody GRYFFINDOR common room.
"OY! How'd you get—"
But The King of Slytherin was not paying attention. His hair, slicked back on his head, looked like a white-blond motorcycle helmet. His chin,a bit stubbly and rather pointy, was set firmly in determination. His skin, pale as a fish's underbelly and just as soft, was glowing alarmingly whitein the dim light of the room. His eyes, gray like the majority of the other gray things in the world, were riveted on one person.
"I CAN'T BLOODY TAKE IT ANYMORE, GRANGER!"
And then the Arch-Nemesis of Harry Potter rushed at The Brains of the Golden Trio and kissed her. Hard. On the mouth. Like in the movies, only not.
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"This is like déjà vu all over again."
-- Lawrence "Yogi" Berra
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Author's Note: Wow… this is completely and utterly silly. Yay for randomness! My first attempt at real humor… cringes I have no idea what the reaction to this is going to be, so lemme have it.
No, of course this is not over. There are at least several more chapters to go, I'm afraid. The torture is not over yet! Mwahahaha…
Oh, this is so much fun.
If youhadn't guessed,I am making fun of D/Hr fics in this chapter. It's all in good fun; I for one adore D/Hr fics and am planning to write one in the near future. (I hear you all snorting a "Ha. Good luck with that one," in the background. I HEAR YOU, DAMNIT!)
Note the first line of this fic, not counting the quote. 'Nuff said.
Also, if you enjoyed this (maybe?) check out my other HP fics, "The Third Law" and "Counting." They are both completely different from this and each other, but whatever. Knock yourselves out.
Thanks for reading!
