Author's note

Written for Season 6 of the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition

Round 3: '90s Nostalgia!

Team: Pride of Portree

Position: Chaser 2

Prompt: Furby

Optional prompts:

1. (dialogue) 'Pay attention to me.'
8. (word) grave
12. (emotion) fear

Word count (excluding author's note): 1,894

Betas: Sehanine, Story Please, sekdaniels

As a '90s kid myself, I remember Furbies all too well. I remember how everyone and their dog wanted one. I remember the little phrases they said in their Furby language. I remember how, not long after their release, kids starting telling stories about weird things their Furbies would say or do. I'm not sure whether any of these weird things were true or if we were all just having a collective fever dream inspired by the Gremlins franchise, but nonetheless, Furbies cemented themselves in pop culture as a cute but seriously creepy household item. It is in this respect that I have taken inspiration for this round.

The Trouble with Pygmy Puffs

'Mum, can I have a Pygmy Puff?'

'A what?'

'Look, they're so sweet…'

Ginny coaxed her mother over to the cage containing dozens of small fluffballs in shades of pink and purple.

Mrs. Weasley looked a bit as though she expected them to explode at any moment. 'What do they… do?'

'Nothing much,' George supplied. 'Roll around, eat food, make noises occasionally.'

'They're like regular Puffskeins, except dumber,' Fred added.

'That Puffskein that Ron had was dead easy to take care of,' Ginny said happily. 'All we had to do was feed it bits of toast.'

'And these little critters can live on mere crumbs,' Fred informed her.

'Please, Mum?' Ginny whined. 'I've never had my own pet before; everyone else has…'

Mrs. Weasley sighed and began digging through her bag for her coin purse. 'How much are they?'

'For our darling sister? We wouldn't charge a single Knut,' George beamed, sending Ginny a mischievous wink.

'Especially if they stand any chance at distracting her from other pursuits.' Fred fixed his sister with a pointed glare, referencing their prior conversation about her most recent boyfriend. Ginny huffed, ignoring a confused look from her mother, and busied herself searching the cage for her choice of Puff.

Ernie Macmillan sat down at the Hufflepuff table and greeted his friends cheerily.

'Morning Justin, Hannah,' he said. He quickly noticed that one of the usual attendees was missing. 'Say, Hannah, where's Sir Fluffington? He loves his morning crumbs.'

Hannah looked up from her porridge guiltily. 'Well, I decided to leave him in my dorm today,' she admitted.

'Aw, really?' Ernie pouted. 'But I love seeing his little pink snout pop out of your pocket during lessons. And I don't know how I ever survived History of Magic before we started setting up obstacle courses for him at the back of the classroom.'

'I'm just… a little worried about him.'

'Is he sick?' Ernie gasped. He stood abruptly. 'I'll go get Madam Pomfrey! Hold on, little fellow, we'll save you!'

'No, it's nothing like that,' Hannah assured her friend, gesturing for him to reclaim his seat. She exchanged a glance with Justin, who seemed to share her discomfort. 'I was talking to Lisa Turpin yesterday and she said that her Puff has been acting a little strange.'

'Strange how?'

'Usually it sleeps through the night in a little pile of socks on her nightstand. But lately she's been waking in the middle of the night to find it on her pillow… just staring at her.'

'Oh, come on,' Ernie scoffed. 'That's probably how they show affection.'

'That's what I thought,' Hannah said, 'but then Justin told me what Neville told him about Dennis Creevey's Puff.' She looked to Justin, her wide eyes urging him to repeat the gossip.

Justin coughed a little in his haste to swallow the bite of eggs in his mouth. 'It stopped eating toast. Now it won't eat anything except' – he leaned in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper – 'raw steak.'

A grimace crept onto Ernie's face. 'Okay, I guess that's a little creepy,' he acknowledged.

Soon the trio stood to make their way to Charms class, none of them noticing the pair of beady eyes peeking from Hannah's bag.

Patricia Stimpson entered her flat after a long day at work and collapsed into a squashy armchair. She closed her eyes and laid her head back until she felt the familiar tickle of her Puff, Button, climbing up her pant leg to greet her.

'Hey there, Button,' she cooed. 'How was your day?'

She scooped her pet up into her hands and lifted him to her face. Button emitted a series of squeaks.

'Hey, I think I've heard that one before. Does it mean something?'

Patricia stood and carried Button over to the bookshelf at the far end of the room. She retrieved a small phrasebook, a recent Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes release that purported to translate particular Pygmy Puff noises into their approximate English meaning. She moved Button to her shoulder to free up her second hand and flipped through the book's pages.

'Let's see… two long squeaks, one short squeak, and four clicks… ah! It means "Pay attention to me."' Patricia chuckled. 'Very well then, you can come join me in the kitchen while I make dinner.'

Button took a prime spot on the countertop to watch Patricia as she began to prepare a shepherd's pie. As she worked, he continuously crept closer to her cutting board, and she had to keep picking him up and returning him a safe distance away from her knife. 'Button, if you're going to keep doing that, I'll have to put you in your cage.'

In response, he made that same series of noises. Pay attention to me. He stayed put after that, but Patricia couldn't help thinking he looked a little angry with her.

With dinner ready, Patricia set herself up as usual: perched at the dining table with a book propped up against the centrepiece vase. Usually Button would sit on the table and happily accept the tiny pieces of food she would offer him. Today, however, he seemed preoccupied with trying to climb up the pages of her book.

'Hey, Button, stop that. You're going to tear the paper.'

But no matter how many times she pulled him away, he always returned to his endeavour with his rallying cry: Pay attention to me!

Finally, after saving the vase from a near spill, Patricia had had enough. 'What has gotten into you today?' She carried a struggling Button over to his cage and locked him inside. His incensed squeals followed her back to the dinner table, where she tried to ignore the noise and enjoy her meal in peace.

Pay attention to me. Pay attention to me. Pay attention to me.

All evening, Patricia's efforts to relax were hindered by Button's loud protestation. Finally, she decided to retire to bed an hour earlier than usual. Button's cries were muffled by the walls between them, and she lay in bed relishing the silence.

Just as she was about to drift off to sleep, she was roused by a scratching at her door. Her eyes opened wide in fear as she heard the telltale squeaks from the other side.

PAY ATTENTION TO ME.

With trembling hands, Patricia covered her ears and prayed for sleep to come.

Penny Haywood was in her garden, watching over her young son, Brent, as she tended to her plants. Brent was tottering about, trying clumsily to catch the little lilac Puff that was skittering around the yard. The Puff came to an abrupt stop next to Penny, sniffing at the soil she was working with. When Brent reached the scene, his sudden halt cause him to stumble and fall. His cries filled the small garden and Penny hurried to his rescue.

'Oh, dear,' Penny murmured, picking him up to bring indoors.

'Hello, love.' Penny greeted her wife by swooping down to peck her on the cheek as she passed by with their distressed toddler.

Jane looked up from the mail she was sorting and smiled fondly. 'What's the matter now?'

'He just took a little spill. I'll clean him up. Princess is still in the garden, though; could you go fetch her?'

Jane acquiesced and shooed their pet Kneazle, Juniper, from her lap in order to stand. She stepped out the back door, pausing to enjoy the afternoon sun. She looked around for a moment – why does Penny have to pick all these flowers that are the same colour as Princess? – before finally spotting her at the edge of the vegetable patch. She approached to find the Puff busy scrabbling in the dirt with her little paws, making an indentation in the soft earth.

'Aw, you wanted to help Mummy, did you?' Jane laughed. She bent to pick her up, but Princess displayed a heretofore undiscovered level of agility in dodging her owner's hands, then quickly returned to her pursuits. After a few such failed attempts, Jane sighed in defeat, cast a simple ward to protect the little creature from predators, and returned to the house.

'Princess has a knack for gardening, it would seem,' she told Penny, who was just finishing with spelling Brent clean. 'I'll go fetch her later, after she's tired herself out.'

One thing led to another, and a busy day of catching up on chores while keeping an eye on a toddler with an agenda all his own kept the two witches occupied all day. It wasn't until the wee hours of the morning that Penny shot up in bed, interrupting her sleep with the sudden realisation that she had no idea where either of their pets were.

She made a beeline for the garden, the last known location of at least one of the critters. 'Lumos,' she muttered as she stepped outside. She quickly spotted Juniper, standing stock still at the edge of the vegetable patch she'd been working on this morning. As she crept closer, the light from her wand revealed what the Kneazle was so fixated on – a sizeable hole in the ground that hadn't been there before.

As she stared, a flash of lilac caught her eye. 'Princess?' she called.

When Penny reached the hole, she saw Princess inside. She was looking up at Juniper intently, letting out a low growl. It sounded almost like a taunt.

She marvelled at the scene before her. The hole wasn't enormous, but given the size of the Puff's tiny paws, it represented a Herculean effort. Without the bulk of her fur, Princess was the size of a child's fist, and yet she'd a dug a hole large enough for…

Penny's stomach dropped. She realised in horror what it was she was looking at.

It looked a lot like a grave. A Kneazle-sized grave.

Fred and George sat side by side on the floor, leaning against the front door of their flat in tense silence. Seconds ticked by loudly on the clock hanging in the kitchen. Finally, George spoke in a harsh whisper.

'We've got to do something.'

'But what, George? We've been having this conversation 'round and 'round for days. There's nothing we can do. They've infiltrated too deep.'

Slowly but surely, the twins had learned of the Pygmy Puffs' aberrant behaviour, both from customers' complaints and from firsthand experience. But by their calculations, they had sold hundreds of Puffs, and who's to say how many more had come into being in the homes of wizards who had bought more than one?

Though it was midday, the flat was bathed in oppressive darkness. Pygmy Puffs were stacked in every window, edge to edge, blocking the daylight and reminding Fred and George that their every move was being watched.

Fred peeked gingerly into the kitchen, and the poffle of Puffs in there broke into an angry hum. He recoiled quickly to the isolation of the entryway.

'If we make one wrong move, mate, they'll deploy, and every Puff in Britain will wreak havoc in its home. And not to mention, we'll be goners.'

George buried his face in his hands. Fred was right. The Puffs had positioned themselves across the country in a devastating, unnoticeably genius move, and now it was too late. There was nothing they could do.