Harry Potter and the Order of the Mookie
Well, there was only one explanation:
It was all a joke.
What else could it be? Mookies and mud pies--or cookies--and pink ribbons...it must be a joke. Perhaps Ron and Hermione had realized how distance he was becoming, how isolated he felt from the wizarding world, and had hired thies person to help him feel a bit more involved.
If they cared, this was certainly an odd way of showing it.
Deeply rooted in his thoughts, it took Dudley several loud, obnoxious knocks (as if they weren't anyway) to bring Harry out of his poustulating stupor. Irritated at having his thought being interrupted, Harry promptly opened the door and wiggled his fingers in an absurd way at the cousin opposite him.
Dudley, of course, ran away, fighting back a scream, and waving his Smelting stick wildly in front of him.
Harry chuckled to himself, and closed the door. Whatever Dudley had wanted him to do (probably came to ask him embarassedly to help him with his 4th grade level math), he wouldn't come back asking now.
The young Potter returned to the card, examining it even more. He turned it over several times, and after a few of such revolutions he could see something that could either be identified as chocolate, blood, or mud...
Since the boy wizard had long since known the difference between blood and chocolate (Dudley had tormented him unceasingly in the earlier years of his life, and he had downed so much chocolate during his endless ailments at Hogwarts that chocolate stains adorned more than half of his school robes), he could only assume it was mud. And that once again aroused the memory of the dream...
He remained in his cramped quarters for the majority of the day, reexamining the card and the places where Stabstein had sat and crouched...several pieces of slime were found.
And if this was who he was allied with in the upcoming struggle, he wanted to surrender now.
The ripped and torn comforter, leaking its insides, was smeared with grease that was probably thicker than Snape's hair in all its slimeball glory, and on the window (the plain, snow white window) there was a large, dark, mark which looked to be some sort of putrid jelly.
His application form must have been mixed up with the other sides'.
But he continued in his explorations, hoping to find an answer...but, as often happens, only more questions were asked.
Soon it was dark (or what seemed to be soon...perhaps some of those grease fumes had knocked him out for hours) and this Potter, in this house where he was unwanted, decided that it was time for him to head off to bed.
After making the journey to the linen closet (something, under normal circumstances, he would not have been allowed to do...), Harry opened his bedroom door to see something which absolutely terrified him.
Reclining on his bed was Lord Voldemort.
He was running...
Harry was running across the perfect lawns of Privet drive, trampling flower gardens and vegetable gardens alike. His breathing was hard, his feet moving fast, and his head staying glued to what was ahead of him.
Because if he were to look back, then he was sure to see something that he did not want to see.
But even if he did not see the monster that was behind him, he could definitely hear him. His ears were the only warning signals he had where his survival was concerned...An illimitable number of curses and spells had attempted to remove his feet from his legs a number of times, as well as attempt to stop him in his tracks, and to kill him in general.
And of course, you're wondering, "Why doesn't Harry fight back?" The answer is simple...you may remember that when the infamous Stabstein visited Harry Potter, the wand of the Boy who Lived was under the floorboards...and what makes you think that Harry would be intuitive enough to grab his wand and keep it near him after such an experience?
After all, he's only 14.
He leaped aside as a green curse demolished a small flower patch to the left of him...'Avada Kedavra,' he grimaced inwardly, 'again.'
Turning right, Harry found himself in some sort of Apartment complex, complete with many snickets and such.
So Potter made way for one such snicket, a particularly dark one, and hoped against hope that Voldemort was a long way behind him.
It just so happens that the Dark Lord was having a hard time keeping up with his speedy nemisis...apparently, plotting evil conspiracies in hopes of taking over the world did not keep your body in shape...However, luckily for You Know Who, not all of the impedimenting curses missed and failed miserably...a few slowed his enemy down.
And the beauty of such curses was that the victim didn't realize its slowed-state.
Harry grew tired...although he had not been running for a long time, his running had been the most strenuous exercise he had done in awhile...daring a glance backwards, he was relieved to note that Voldemort was nowhere in sight...
Which didn't, by any means, mean he wasn't nearby.
Before actually stopping, Harry crouched behind a few trash barrels, hiding, he thought, 'like a coward.'
Voldemort rounded the corner, and the boy-wizard's breath caught in his breath.
The high-pitched voice of He Who Must Not Be Named uttered a few words to his wand, though Harry could see no visible result...except, perhaps, for the increased awareness in the evil thing's eyes. It seemed as if Voldemort had gone nocturnal (if he hadn't already), that he could see in the dark.
Potter was in trouble now.
If he hadn't been already, that is.
^^
Disclaimer: Um, no, I'm not making any money off of this. If I were, I'd have a much nicer computer...
--Phenomonous
Well, there was only one explanation:
It was all a joke.
What else could it be? Mookies and mud pies--or cookies--and pink ribbons...it must be a joke. Perhaps Ron and Hermione had realized how distance he was becoming, how isolated he felt from the wizarding world, and had hired thies person to help him feel a bit more involved.
If they cared, this was certainly an odd way of showing it.
Deeply rooted in his thoughts, it took Dudley several loud, obnoxious knocks (as if they weren't anyway) to bring Harry out of his poustulating stupor. Irritated at having his thought being interrupted, Harry promptly opened the door and wiggled his fingers in an absurd way at the cousin opposite him.
Dudley, of course, ran away, fighting back a scream, and waving his Smelting stick wildly in front of him.
Harry chuckled to himself, and closed the door. Whatever Dudley had wanted him to do (probably came to ask him embarassedly to help him with his 4th grade level math), he wouldn't come back asking now.
The young Potter returned to the card, examining it even more. He turned it over several times, and after a few of such revolutions he could see something that could either be identified as chocolate, blood, or mud...
Since the boy wizard had long since known the difference between blood and chocolate (Dudley had tormented him unceasingly in the earlier years of his life, and he had downed so much chocolate during his endless ailments at Hogwarts that chocolate stains adorned more than half of his school robes), he could only assume it was mud. And that once again aroused the memory of the dream...
He remained in his cramped quarters for the majority of the day, reexamining the card and the places where Stabstein had sat and crouched...several pieces of slime were found.
And if this was who he was allied with in the upcoming struggle, he wanted to surrender now.
The ripped and torn comforter, leaking its insides, was smeared with grease that was probably thicker than Snape's hair in all its slimeball glory, and on the window (the plain, snow white window) there was a large, dark, mark which looked to be some sort of putrid jelly.
His application form must have been mixed up with the other sides'.
But he continued in his explorations, hoping to find an answer...but, as often happens, only more questions were asked.
Soon it was dark (or what seemed to be soon...perhaps some of those grease fumes had knocked him out for hours) and this Potter, in this house where he was unwanted, decided that it was time for him to head off to bed.
After making the journey to the linen closet (something, under normal circumstances, he would not have been allowed to do...), Harry opened his bedroom door to see something which absolutely terrified him.
Reclining on his bed was Lord Voldemort.
He was running...
Harry was running across the perfect lawns of Privet drive, trampling flower gardens and vegetable gardens alike. His breathing was hard, his feet moving fast, and his head staying glued to what was ahead of him.
Because if he were to look back, then he was sure to see something that he did not want to see.
But even if he did not see the monster that was behind him, he could definitely hear him. His ears were the only warning signals he had where his survival was concerned...An illimitable number of curses and spells had attempted to remove his feet from his legs a number of times, as well as attempt to stop him in his tracks, and to kill him in general.
And of course, you're wondering, "Why doesn't Harry fight back?" The answer is simple...you may remember that when the infamous Stabstein visited Harry Potter, the wand of the Boy who Lived was under the floorboards...and what makes you think that Harry would be intuitive enough to grab his wand and keep it near him after such an experience?
After all, he's only 14.
He leaped aside as a green curse demolished a small flower patch to the left of him...'Avada Kedavra,' he grimaced inwardly, 'again.'
Turning right, Harry found himself in some sort of Apartment complex, complete with many snickets and such.
So Potter made way for one such snicket, a particularly dark one, and hoped against hope that Voldemort was a long way behind him.
It just so happens that the Dark Lord was having a hard time keeping up with his speedy nemisis...apparently, plotting evil conspiracies in hopes of taking over the world did not keep your body in shape...However, luckily for You Know Who, not all of the impedimenting curses missed and failed miserably...a few slowed his enemy down.
And the beauty of such curses was that the victim didn't realize its slowed-state.
Harry grew tired...although he had not been running for a long time, his running had been the most strenuous exercise he had done in awhile...daring a glance backwards, he was relieved to note that Voldemort was nowhere in sight...
Which didn't, by any means, mean he wasn't nearby.
Before actually stopping, Harry crouched behind a few trash barrels, hiding, he thought, 'like a coward.'
Voldemort rounded the corner, and the boy-wizard's breath caught in his breath.
The high-pitched voice of He Who Must Not Be Named uttered a few words to his wand, though Harry could see no visible result...except, perhaps, for the increased awareness in the evil thing's eyes. It seemed as if Voldemort had gone nocturnal (if he hadn't already), that he could see in the dark.
Potter was in trouble now.
If he hadn't been already, that is.
^^
Disclaimer: Um, no, I'm not making any money off of this. If I were, I'd have a much nicer computer...
--Phenomonous