Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine. If they were, I wouldn't be writing it on , now would I?

Please leave constructive criticism; don't just flame. And by the way, I'm only 12, and this is just a short fun story, so don't be expecting this to be a literary masterpiece.

Dawlish's End

Well her I am, Dawlish thought, nearing the Longbottom house. I'm going to get that crazy b*tch this time. She won't even see it coming.

"Alohomora," Dawlish whispered at the Longbottoms' door. With a brief flick of his wand and a blue flash of light muted by his undersized figure, and he heard the lock click open, and the door swung open.

Dawlish walked into the house.
The entrance room was lacking furniture; the only furnishing there was a dust-coated pale blue couch and two wooden stools across from it. Mrs. Longbottom and her grandson clearly weren't expecting company, much less an incompetent auror.

The old hag must drink a s*it load, thought Dawlish, glancing at a couple empty bottles of Irish-imported firewhiskey.

He noticed a faint light coming from the stairway on the right side of the room. The kitchen to the left was deserted.

Dawlish slowly began to creep up the stairs with his 11 inch oak wand drawn. He shuddered with ever step; the stairs creaked like Dawlish did after he had a few.

As he neared the top of the stairs, Dawlish entered a blue hallway to match the downstairs couch. There were several doors in the hallway, two of which had lights creeping under them.

Out of his pack Dawlish pulled an invisibility cloak and hastily threw it over himself, knowing someone could pop out and spot him any second. I'll try this one first, he thought, slowly opening the first door.

"HOLY MOTHER F*CKING GOD!" He nearly screamed, in fear of the monstrosity he had just uncovered. He would have yelled so loud the roof would fly up higher than when Hagrid farted, if not for the importance of his mission.
He had walked in on the Longbottom boy, coming off his seventh year at Hogwarts, playing with a rubber duck in a bubble bath. "Come here, Mr. Snookems," he was saying in a playful voice, like ones s use when speaking to a newborn, as if the baby can somehow understand them just because they talk in a funny voice.

Dawlish had seen enough. He quickly averted his eyes and backed out of the room.

He took a moment to collect his thoughts in the hallway. I haven't been so scarred since I saw a muggle in London take a s*it in those odd inventions they call urinals. What a funny sounding word.

That other room is the old lady's, I figure.

He was correct, he found, as he gingerly twisted the handle on the second door. Sure enough, Augusta Longbottom was curled up in bed with a copy of the day's Daily Prophet.
The final part of Dawlish's plan was set in motion at last; he would finally get her back for all the embarrassment she had thrust upon him.

He was right next to her, barely a meter away. Precision is key; he couldn't afford to miss.

Dawlish wasn't going to hurt her, he'd just give her a scare, enough that she would never get a laugh at his expense again.
He had begun to cast a whispered hex; he hadn't the magical competence to cast a silent spell.

But halfway through the spell, Augusta ed up her wand and yelled, "Protego! Stupefy!"

"Oh, John," she began, "you shouldn't have even tried to sneak up on me with an invisibility cloak as worn out as that one."

She was correct, Dawlish knew. The old invisibility cloak had been through a lot, and it was naïve for him to use it; the fibers of the cloak had begun to dissolve, thus the invisibility was not as strong as it originally was.

Augusta pulled the cloak off of Dawlish to look at him eye-to-eye. He was still wearing the dumbfounded look frozen on his face by the spell.

"Accio glass," she said. A glass flew into her hand from the otherwise empty bedside table, with the exception of a small lamp. She pointed he wand in the glass, "Aguamenti." The glass instantly filled with water, and the old woman took a sip.

"Just getting comfortable," she told Dawlish. "Now it's time for your punishment."

The Longbottom grandmother reached under the bed and pulled out a large black object. A frying pan. Dawlish could only wonder at what the loose cannon of a woman would do.

BAM! The frying pan hit Dawlish square on the nose. Blood slowly began to trickle out.

This woman is mad! Dawlish thought. Although his body was incapacitated, his mind was as sharp as ever, which isn't saying much. He had no clue how to get himself out off this corner.

The crazy woman continued to whack him all over the body. He began to feel lightheaded.

Blood was now unwaveringly rushing out of his head, and his consciousness was fleeting as his blood was, spilling onto the floor.

Is this how my crappy life is going to end? And without even seeing this month's Playwizard.

"BURN IN HELL, DAWLISH!" Were the last words he ever heard.

The Burrow

"Where is Dawlish anyway?" Ron asked. "Haven't seen him in a while." He glanced around the familiar table of the Burrow, looking to see which of his family members would answer first.

"Dunno," said Harry. Judging by the confused looks around him, everyone else was as clueless as he was.
"Whatever happened to that b*stard he deserved."Ron smirked.