--**Short memories, look here**--
Disclaimer: You know what? I own a lot of this story. Ha! Yay for me. But I do not own Harry Potter. OK? Happy?
Title: Next Big Hit! or Lipstick! or NBH! I'm going to be like those countries who change the movie name. I'll have three titles which will make me more powerful but less popular coz I'm confusing you. Hmm ...
Rating: It's rated R ... if you're Australian that's your basic M - MA 15 +, so don't get all niggly. It's very tame. If you don't like tame vacate the premisis. You know, that word could go on for a long time ...
Chapter One:
Bugger It
You seem to think that everything's as normal as can be when suddenly your life changes. You can be walking down the street, thinking about that wonderful chilli stir-fry you had the night before, when suddenly a piano falls on your head. Well, not directly on your head, it could fall at an angle and then the wind blows it in your direction and then it falls on your head. You must be thinking I am very depressing person talking about pianos falling on heads and chilli stir-fries, when the truth is I am not usually this thoughtful. I will, occassionally, take the time to think, occassionally. I will, occassionally, take the time to muse over last night's dinner, occassionally. And I will, occassionally, fall in love, er, occassionally.
I used to hate falling in love, I used to hate receiving roses, and I used to hate talking to someone on the phone and wasting precious pounds, when I could easily drive the thirty kilometres to his places and talk to him in person. If there is such a word, people would be calling me a lovist. Then I would reply that there was no such word and give them the money to buy a dictionary. As you can tell, I'm not exactly the best person to hang around for more than five or ten minutes. Er ... better make that seconds.
I was a witch until eighteen. Actually, I am still technically a witch, but I had grown up by that time, also outgrowing memorizing spells and practicing enchantments. My friends didn't seem to have the same views. Harry Potter -- the Elvis Presley of the wizarding world -- was, at twenty-six, one of the most highly-paid and successful Aurors employed by the Ministry of Magic. He had captured twelve-hundred-and-seventy-eight Death Eaters, excluding the ones that had died after the tormenting they had endured. I heard from him a few times after I had left Hogwarts, and my wand, behind me, but soon the letters stopped coming. That was when I saw him more in the papers. Yes, I still read the Daily Prophet. I can't get away from it actually; the subscription that I bought when I was in my teens doesn't run out until you drop dead. Well, that's what is says on the contract.
Then there's Ron. Ron, who I would like to say is blissfully happy and in the Daily Prophet and married and rich and all that junk that's supposed to make you a better person, but he's not. He's a toilet cleaner in the wizarding world, which is terribly unfortunate since the lavatories there have a tendency of spitting up chemicals that are not up to par with their taste buds. I feel terribly sorry for him. It all rested on his N.E.W.T.S. some time ago, and I made him study for as long as he could keep his eyes open. But he flunked on Potions, Herbology and Divination, while I partly blame myself for, since turning my back on the subject in my third year, I wasn't much help while I was trying to help him prepare for it. Still, his parents were still proud he had managed to scrape through with higher marks for his better subjects, and he decided to stay in the wizarding world and join Harry to become an Auror. Of course, the Ministry turned him down, a result of his poor marks in subjects that would help him later in his career.
Still, Ron was resiliant, and was determined to make the best of a bad situation. He stayed in the wizarding world, and still lives with his parents. However, his free time makes him a wonderful pen pal and his letters are always full of joy and cheer even though I can tell he is horribly unhappy. I've offered many times for him to move to London and live with me, but he is far too stubborn and too sure he learnt something at Hogwarts and he's not going to let that go to waste. Silently, I think it already has.
Now, I'm twenty-six, living in a horribly untidy flat run by my two cats, Alpo and Albus. I managed to get a job at a magazine, Lipstick! which specialises in embarrassing the unfashionable and cheering on the celebrities who actually has a stylist with style. It's fun. It pays well and you get to do profiles on Hollywood bigwigs and such. Currently I'm working on an edge-of-your-seat thriller: 80's Fashion -- In or Out?
My editor, Alice Grimshaw, determined to frost the world with her sugary sweet smile approaches my desk. Born and raised in Savannah, Georgia, she moved to London almost ten years ago. She took over Lipstick! by offering the heads fourteen-million dollars. And the rest they say is history. "Hermione," she says with a smile, "how are you?"
"Fine, Alice, and now, that you've come along things have just gotten a whole lot better," I reply, my eyes never leaving my laptop.
"Oh, stop it," she says. "You're just so fun!" Note to self: Alice has absolutely no idea what the meaning of sarcasm is. "Now, how are you coming along with the 80's story?"
"One more paragraph to go."
"Oh, you're such a doll! Now, us at Lipstick! magazine have come up with a new column and I think you would be the perfect journalist for the job."
"Alice, you couldn't call me a journalist, could you?"
"Of course, I could! Honey, you're the best thing we've got going here. Please, say you'll do this for me." At that, she pouts and I can see exactly where her real lips end and her silicone ones begin.
I sigh. "What's the column?"
"Picture this: three little words NEXT BIG HIT written in neon lights across the page. Then we have picture, profile, snappy little interview and we're done. We find the found and make them bigger. You remember when we did that profile page on Gwyneth all those years ago?"
"Er ..."
"Of course you do! Now, look at her! Wasn't that View From The Top a hoot?" She laughs. "Anyway, what do you think?"
I ponder for a bit, then say, "What if the neon lettering doesn't fit across the page?"
"We write NBH for short," Alice replies. "Look, Hermione, do you want to do this or not?"
What have I got to lose? Except for the reputation for encouraging bad actors that they're the next James Dean or Grace Kelly. I wince. "All right."
Alice screams, then hugs me tightly. "You will not regret this!" She then turns on her Prada heel to pester someone else.
Why do I have the horrible feeling that I will regret the simple two words I had uttered previously. Oh dear. I think I might just have to pay a visit to the vending machine, which of course in a place like this only stocks imported water. I slowly get up from my seat, which now has my bottom imprint in the leather. I totter over to the vending machine and slide in a crisp five pound note and wait for the water to come out of the bottom. One ... two ... three ... Plonk! Hello, water name I cannot pronounce. Perhaps it's French. I daren't ask Giselle from Fitness, however, because the last time I asked she seemed throughly offended that the water was from Germany, not from France.
I arrive back at my desk to find a note. It's from Jean, my best actually normal non-magical friend. The desk's in our office are ajoined and hers is connected to mine from the left side. Gladys, with the awful facial hair is on my right, Dianne with the trouble of acknowledging her real age (ahem ... 59) faces me and often asks me questions concerning botox and micro-demobrasion. I have learnt to ignore them. We have absolutely no privacy, so I've plastered as many pictures as I could of absolutely anything I could on all the sides of my desk.
I look at the note. It's no Shakespeare. Two words: Look to the left, you dunderhead!
"Now, Jean, what could you possibly want?" I ask as politely as possible.
She wiggles her index fingers from side to side and says in a sing-song voice, "I've been overhearing."
I take a sip of ... bugger it. Well, no, that is not what it's called, but that will be its name because I cannot for the life of my dechipher the language. "You mean you've been eaves-dropping."
"Oh, it's not the same! Alice was talking far too loud!" Jean's face was going hideously red. I held a hand up indicating for her to stop. Jean exhaled and swiped my bugger it water off my desk. She gulps it down. "Mmm, what is this called?"
"Bugger it."
Her brow crinkles. "Is it Swedish?"
I bite back a laugh. "Yes." I clear my throat. "So, er ... what exactly did you overhear?"
"Oh, well, you know how you've been assigned to NBH?"
I nod. "Yes ... but how do you know?" Jean begins fiddling with her thumbs. "Overhearing again?"
"If Alice just took it down an octave ..." She took another drink of my water. "Well, I heard that they were planning on Codra Alfo being the first NBH!"
I raise my eyebrows at her. "Er ... Codra Alfo?"
"The next big hit!" she squeals. "Haven't you seen Rebelling Without A Cause?"
I laugh. "No, but I'm thinking of suing whoever came up with that title. Come on, Codra Alfo? Can you say fake name?"
"It's not fake. He said so in an interview. Look, here's a picture of him." Jean began digging around in her purse, while I let my thoughts drift away. I was going to interview a guy named Codra Alfo. That will look great on my future resume. I'm really looking forward to it, however. He's probably some nineteen-year-old delinquent, who only has a twenty-word vocabulary. Wait. Did I just say delinquent? Great. I'm twenty-six going on one-hundred. "Here you go," Jean says, handing me the picture. I squint at it. God, he looks familiar. Maybe I have seen Rebelling Without A Cause. No. No. That's not it.
Ooh.
Codra Alfo. Codra Alfo. The first NBH is none other than future Death Eater himself: Draco Malfoy.
Crap.
Then again, oh joy!
[Ha! That is my longest chapter ever! Very glad ... Excellent! OK. Now. The Codra Alfo thing ... yeah ... I switched the letters around from Draco's name and I just dropped the M and the Y for the Alfo thing. I think it sounds very mysterious and European and fake, but if you think it sounds more like a European toilet cleaner, then okay. Oh, and yes, if anyone says to me like ... "Duh, James Dean is in Rebel Without A Cause, not Rebelling without a cause and like, who's Codra Alfo?" Believe me, those people exist. It's a joke, guys. And I didn't think View from the top
was a hoot. That's just the character, okey doke, now that that's cleared up I'm going now. REVIEW! Goodbye! I love you all!]
Disclaimer: You know what? I own a lot of this story. Ha! Yay for me. But I do not own Harry Potter. OK? Happy?
Title: Next Big Hit! or Lipstick! or NBH! I'm going to be like those countries who change the movie name. I'll have three titles which will make me more powerful but less popular coz I'm confusing you. Hmm ...
Rating: It's rated R ... if you're Australian that's your basic M - MA 15 +, so don't get all niggly. It's very tame. If you don't like tame vacate the premisis. You know, that word could go on for a long time ...
Chapter One:
Bugger It
You seem to think that everything's as normal as can be when suddenly your life changes. You can be walking down the street, thinking about that wonderful chilli stir-fry you had the night before, when suddenly a piano falls on your head. Well, not directly on your head, it could fall at an angle and then the wind blows it in your direction and then it falls on your head. You must be thinking I am very depressing person talking about pianos falling on heads and chilli stir-fries, when the truth is I am not usually this thoughtful. I will, occassionally, take the time to think, occassionally. I will, occassionally, take the time to muse over last night's dinner, occassionally. And I will, occassionally, fall in love, er, occassionally.
I used to hate falling in love, I used to hate receiving roses, and I used to hate talking to someone on the phone and wasting precious pounds, when I could easily drive the thirty kilometres to his places and talk to him in person. If there is such a word, people would be calling me a lovist. Then I would reply that there was no such word and give them the money to buy a dictionary. As you can tell, I'm not exactly the best person to hang around for more than five or ten minutes. Er ... better make that seconds.
I was a witch until eighteen. Actually, I am still technically a witch, but I had grown up by that time, also outgrowing memorizing spells and practicing enchantments. My friends didn't seem to have the same views. Harry Potter -- the Elvis Presley of the wizarding world -- was, at twenty-six, one of the most highly-paid and successful Aurors employed by the Ministry of Magic. He had captured twelve-hundred-and-seventy-eight Death Eaters, excluding the ones that had died after the tormenting they had endured. I heard from him a few times after I had left Hogwarts, and my wand, behind me, but soon the letters stopped coming. That was when I saw him more in the papers. Yes, I still read the Daily Prophet. I can't get away from it actually; the subscription that I bought when I was in my teens doesn't run out until you drop dead. Well, that's what is says on the contract.
Then there's Ron. Ron, who I would like to say is blissfully happy and in the Daily Prophet and married and rich and all that junk that's supposed to make you a better person, but he's not. He's a toilet cleaner in the wizarding world, which is terribly unfortunate since the lavatories there have a tendency of spitting up chemicals that are not up to par with their taste buds. I feel terribly sorry for him. It all rested on his N.E.W.T.S. some time ago, and I made him study for as long as he could keep his eyes open. But he flunked on Potions, Herbology and Divination, while I partly blame myself for, since turning my back on the subject in my third year, I wasn't much help while I was trying to help him prepare for it. Still, his parents were still proud he had managed to scrape through with higher marks for his better subjects, and he decided to stay in the wizarding world and join Harry to become an Auror. Of course, the Ministry turned him down, a result of his poor marks in subjects that would help him later in his career.
Still, Ron was resiliant, and was determined to make the best of a bad situation. He stayed in the wizarding world, and still lives with his parents. However, his free time makes him a wonderful pen pal and his letters are always full of joy and cheer even though I can tell he is horribly unhappy. I've offered many times for him to move to London and live with me, but he is far too stubborn and too sure he learnt something at Hogwarts and he's not going to let that go to waste. Silently, I think it already has.
Now, I'm twenty-six, living in a horribly untidy flat run by my two cats, Alpo and Albus. I managed to get a job at a magazine, Lipstick! which specialises in embarrassing the unfashionable and cheering on the celebrities who actually has a stylist with style. It's fun. It pays well and you get to do profiles on Hollywood bigwigs and such. Currently I'm working on an edge-of-your-seat thriller: 80's Fashion -- In or Out?
My editor, Alice Grimshaw, determined to frost the world with her sugary sweet smile approaches my desk. Born and raised in Savannah, Georgia, she moved to London almost ten years ago. She took over Lipstick! by offering the heads fourteen-million dollars. And the rest they say is history. "Hermione," she says with a smile, "how are you?"
"Fine, Alice, and now, that you've come along things have just gotten a whole lot better," I reply, my eyes never leaving my laptop.
"Oh, stop it," she says. "You're just so fun!" Note to self: Alice has absolutely no idea what the meaning of sarcasm is. "Now, how are you coming along with the 80's story?"
"One more paragraph to go."
"Oh, you're such a doll! Now, us at Lipstick! magazine have come up with a new column and I think you would be the perfect journalist for the job."
"Alice, you couldn't call me a journalist, could you?"
"Of course, I could! Honey, you're the best thing we've got going here. Please, say you'll do this for me." At that, she pouts and I can see exactly where her real lips end and her silicone ones begin.
I sigh. "What's the column?"
"Picture this: three little words NEXT BIG HIT written in neon lights across the page. Then we have picture, profile, snappy little interview and we're done. We find the found and make them bigger. You remember when we did that profile page on Gwyneth all those years ago?"
"Er ..."
"Of course you do! Now, look at her! Wasn't that View From The Top a hoot?" She laughs. "Anyway, what do you think?"
I ponder for a bit, then say, "What if the neon lettering doesn't fit across the page?"
"We write NBH for short," Alice replies. "Look, Hermione, do you want to do this or not?"
What have I got to lose? Except for the reputation for encouraging bad actors that they're the next James Dean or Grace Kelly. I wince. "All right."
Alice screams, then hugs me tightly. "You will not regret this!" She then turns on her Prada heel to pester someone else.
Why do I have the horrible feeling that I will regret the simple two words I had uttered previously. Oh dear. I think I might just have to pay a visit to the vending machine, which of course in a place like this only stocks imported water. I slowly get up from my seat, which now has my bottom imprint in the leather. I totter over to the vending machine and slide in a crisp five pound note and wait for the water to come out of the bottom. One ... two ... three ... Plonk! Hello, water name I cannot pronounce. Perhaps it's French. I daren't ask Giselle from Fitness, however, because the last time I asked she seemed throughly offended that the water was from Germany, not from France.
I arrive back at my desk to find a note. It's from Jean, my best actually normal non-magical friend. The desk's in our office are ajoined and hers is connected to mine from the left side. Gladys, with the awful facial hair is on my right, Dianne with the trouble of acknowledging her real age (ahem ... 59) faces me and often asks me questions concerning botox and micro-demobrasion. I have learnt to ignore them. We have absolutely no privacy, so I've plastered as many pictures as I could of absolutely anything I could on all the sides of my desk.
I look at the note. It's no Shakespeare. Two words: Look to the left, you dunderhead!
"Now, Jean, what could you possibly want?" I ask as politely as possible.
She wiggles her index fingers from side to side and says in a sing-song voice, "I've been overhearing."
I take a sip of ... bugger it. Well, no, that is not what it's called, but that will be its name because I cannot for the life of my dechipher the language. "You mean you've been eaves-dropping."
"Oh, it's not the same! Alice was talking far too loud!" Jean's face was going hideously red. I held a hand up indicating for her to stop. Jean exhaled and swiped my bugger it water off my desk. She gulps it down. "Mmm, what is this called?"
"Bugger it."
Her brow crinkles. "Is it Swedish?"
I bite back a laugh. "Yes." I clear my throat. "So, er ... what exactly did you overhear?"
"Oh, well, you know how you've been assigned to NBH?"
I nod. "Yes ... but how do you know?" Jean begins fiddling with her thumbs. "Overhearing again?"
"If Alice just took it down an octave ..." She took another drink of my water. "Well, I heard that they were planning on Codra Alfo being the first NBH!"
I raise my eyebrows at her. "Er ... Codra Alfo?"
"The next big hit!" she squeals. "Haven't you seen Rebelling Without A Cause?"
I laugh. "No, but I'm thinking of suing whoever came up with that title. Come on, Codra Alfo? Can you say fake name?"
"It's not fake. He said so in an interview. Look, here's a picture of him." Jean began digging around in her purse, while I let my thoughts drift away. I was going to interview a guy named Codra Alfo. That will look great on my future resume. I'm really looking forward to it, however. He's probably some nineteen-year-old delinquent, who only has a twenty-word vocabulary. Wait. Did I just say delinquent? Great. I'm twenty-six going on one-hundred. "Here you go," Jean says, handing me the picture. I squint at it. God, he looks familiar. Maybe I have seen Rebelling Without A Cause. No. No. That's not it.
Ooh.
Codra Alfo. Codra Alfo. The first NBH is none other than future Death Eater himself: Draco Malfoy.
Crap.
Then again, oh joy!
[Ha! That is my longest chapter ever! Very glad ... Excellent! OK. Now. The Codra Alfo thing ... yeah ... I switched the letters around from Draco's name and I just dropped the M and the Y for the Alfo thing. I think it sounds very mysterious and European and fake, but if you think it sounds more like a European toilet cleaner, then okay. Oh, and yes, if anyone says to me like ... "Duh, James Dean is in Rebel Without A Cause, not Rebelling without a cause and like, who's Codra Alfo?" Believe me, those people exist. It's a joke, guys. And I didn't think View from the top
was a hoot. That's just the character, okey doke, now that that's cleared up I'm going now. REVIEW! Goodbye! I love you all!]