----
Again, hours -- and considerable action -- had passed
between scene breaks.
"Wait a moment," Harry said, "what did you read to the
class?"
"Me? Haikus. Hundreds of the damn things. And I had to
follow you, which I don't mind telling you was hell for an
audience." Malfoy looked meditatively up at the ceiling. "My
punishment, I suppose, for cheating."
"You touched an Inspiration?"
"Oh, yes. I snuck in during lunch."
"Damn. I snuck in past midnight."
"Crafty bastard. Hadn't thought you had it in you."
"You don't know the half." Harry looked over to Malfoy.
"You do realize you're going to have to recite some of those
haikus for me."
Malfoy nodded. "Only fair, I suppose -- the majority of them
are about you. Which should I start with?"
Harry gave a helpful suggestion. Malfoy took him up on it.
---
"You border on sexual perversity," Malfoy murmured.
"How so?"
"Pull my hair until I bared my throat to you? Have to watch
those sadistic tendencies, Potter."
"Must be your influence then, because I used to be quite
sedate in my youth."
"I remember," Malfoy said. "It drove me to distraction on
more than one occasion."
"Do you suppose our frequent battles were releases of
homoerotic tension? We've been fighting since we were first
years."
"Are you suggesting," Malfoy said, striving to look shocked,
"that we were _eleven_ when we first noticed each other?"
Harry raised an eyebrow and smiled. "Prude."
Malfoy sighed and shook his head. "Deviant."
---
"You know," said Harry, "I'd been told that this author was
someone to be reckoned with."
"Quite so. Look at the bother we've had so far in this bloody
thing."
"Granted. However..." Harry did something he'd figured out
about forty-five minutes ago, and which the author blushed to
describe.
"Ah. See your point. Quite right. Thank you, dear author."
"Do you think she could be convinced to write another?"
"If not her, I'm certain there are whole writing lists devoted to
pairings such as us. I wouldn't doubt that there are several
scenarios floating around that are much better written than
this."
"I wouldn't doubt it, but..."
"But?"
"But I don't remember _those_. And if you don't mind--"
"Don't see how I could really, when you're doing that--"
"--I would like to remember this particular relationship for
some time to come."
"In a relationship, are we?"
"So I presumed. Considering your response to--"
"Ah."
"Indeed."
"We sound like salacious characters from a regency romance,
you do realize that, Potter."
"Blame the author. Our accents have changed dozens of
times during this piece. And you've completely avoided the
issue at hand, Malfoy--"
"And one hopes she'll settle for _one_ accent by the sequel.
It's bad enough I'll be dating Harry Potter from here on out in
this series -- damned if I'll date someone with a badly written
Yorkshire accent."
"Dating, are we?"
"Do shut up, Harry." And Malfoy helped Harry with this
request, for as long as was required.
---
The next morning was an interesting experience. Especially
since Harry and Malfoy decided to take full license of the
author's ability to do whatever she damn well pleased, and
took their breakfast to a peaceable corner near the
Hufflepuffs instead of sitting at their respective tables. They
had a good enough time complaining about each other's food
choices ("Granola. I'm shocked. Shocked and appalled."
"No more than I, Potter -- Eggs Benedict?" "Ever the patriot,
I." "Muggle." "Brat."), but the real fun was having people
watching them actually being friendly ("What did I tell you,
Harry? You're a kink-magnet. I should inform the house
elves to keep all rubber goods from you." "Too late."
"_What?_--").
About halfway through, Hermione and Ron wandered over
with offerings of food and faint blushes. Hermione spoke
first. "Harry... are you happy?"
Harry actually thought about it for a moment. And then, just
to annoy, he kept thinking, until Malfoy jabbed him rather
hard in the ribs. Laughing, he said, "Yes."
Hermione smiled, then turned to Ron. "Go on," she
whispered. "You said you would."
Ron screwed up his courage. "So... is this a private party, or
is the floor reserved for poofs?" Ron asked.
"Free for the taking," Harry said. "And that's the _best_ you
could do?"
"Sorry," Ron said. "I panicked."
"Damn right, you did," said Hermione. "And you said
something amazing and very sweet back at the table without
an ounce of prompting. It was his idea to come over, you
know," she said proudly. Hermione shook her head sadly and
sat down beside Malfoy. "Crumpet?"
Malfoy accepted it, then turned to Harry to mutter about the
absolute shame that all the really _excellent_ jokes about Ron
and Hermione he could make at this time had already been
written by much better fanfic authors. Harry nodded
sympathetically, then began to explain where the Mirror of
Erised idea had _really_ come from.
A giggly Mary Sue Cutebottom soon came over, trailed by a
slightly confused Neville. And once it was realized that the
author was freely breaking all rules for this bit of the story,
breakfast became a floor party. The professors conveniently
never noticed, though they did remark on the seemingly poor
turnout for the morning meal. While a loud and raucous
party with a good three-fourths of the student body
participating occurred at foot level, they planned a restorative
vitamin regimen. It seemed like a good and forward-thinking
idea.
Meanwhile, squirreled away in her offices, Professor Jimison
was muttering over an old Macintosh computer, writing up
her Letters of Comment. The majority of them would be
exceedingly nasty. Harry's was as well, but then, she'd given
him a little bit _more_ than half marks, so that was all right.
And Jimison knew a great secret: One of the other members
of the staff was friendly with a great many publishers, and,
given enough... persuasion, could be convinced to send
Harry's manuscript to an agent.
And then there was the matter of Ron and Hermione --
Jimison knew the author had to do something about that.
And what about Neville? What was to become of Mary Sue?
Would the movie suck? Would Harry and Malfoy actually be
accepted around school? What happened to Snape in the
never-to-be-written prequel? Why _did_ Malfoy's parents
emigrate to Rio? What happened to those scenes the author
wrote involving the Book of Three Words? And who the
_hell_ is Hairy Vincenzo the Tireless Vicar?
Jimison smiled. "But that's sequel territory."
----
-The End.
----
(Note: At some far flung point in the future, watch for the sequel: _Harry Potter and His Very Small Role in the Plot_. Thanks to everyone who's read and enjoyed, -Bressingham)
Again, hours -- and considerable action -- had passed
between scene breaks.
"Wait a moment," Harry said, "what did you read to the
class?"
"Me? Haikus. Hundreds of the damn things. And I had to
follow you, which I don't mind telling you was hell for an
audience." Malfoy looked meditatively up at the ceiling. "My
punishment, I suppose, for cheating."
"You touched an Inspiration?"
"Oh, yes. I snuck in during lunch."
"Damn. I snuck in past midnight."
"Crafty bastard. Hadn't thought you had it in you."
"You don't know the half." Harry looked over to Malfoy.
"You do realize you're going to have to recite some of those
haikus for me."
Malfoy nodded. "Only fair, I suppose -- the majority of them
are about you. Which should I start with?"
Harry gave a helpful suggestion. Malfoy took him up on it.
---
"You border on sexual perversity," Malfoy murmured.
"How so?"
"Pull my hair until I bared my throat to you? Have to watch
those sadistic tendencies, Potter."
"Must be your influence then, because I used to be quite
sedate in my youth."
"I remember," Malfoy said. "It drove me to distraction on
more than one occasion."
"Do you suppose our frequent battles were releases of
homoerotic tension? We've been fighting since we were first
years."
"Are you suggesting," Malfoy said, striving to look shocked,
"that we were _eleven_ when we first noticed each other?"
Harry raised an eyebrow and smiled. "Prude."
Malfoy sighed and shook his head. "Deviant."
---
"You know," said Harry, "I'd been told that this author was
someone to be reckoned with."
"Quite so. Look at the bother we've had so far in this bloody
thing."
"Granted. However..." Harry did something he'd figured out
about forty-five minutes ago, and which the author blushed to
describe.
"Ah. See your point. Quite right. Thank you, dear author."
"Do you think she could be convinced to write another?"
"If not her, I'm certain there are whole writing lists devoted to
pairings such as us. I wouldn't doubt that there are several
scenarios floating around that are much better written than
this."
"I wouldn't doubt it, but..."
"But?"
"But I don't remember _those_. And if you don't mind--"
"Don't see how I could really, when you're doing that--"
"--I would like to remember this particular relationship for
some time to come."
"In a relationship, are we?"
"So I presumed. Considering your response to--"
"Ah."
"Indeed."
"We sound like salacious characters from a regency romance,
you do realize that, Potter."
"Blame the author. Our accents have changed dozens of
times during this piece. And you've completely avoided the
issue at hand, Malfoy--"
"And one hopes she'll settle for _one_ accent by the sequel.
It's bad enough I'll be dating Harry Potter from here on out in
this series -- damned if I'll date someone with a badly written
Yorkshire accent."
"Dating, are we?"
"Do shut up, Harry." And Malfoy helped Harry with this
request, for as long as was required.
---
The next morning was an interesting experience. Especially
since Harry and Malfoy decided to take full license of the
author's ability to do whatever she damn well pleased, and
took their breakfast to a peaceable corner near the
Hufflepuffs instead of sitting at their respective tables. They
had a good enough time complaining about each other's food
choices ("Granola. I'm shocked. Shocked and appalled."
"No more than I, Potter -- Eggs Benedict?" "Ever the patriot,
I." "Muggle." "Brat."), but the real fun was having people
watching them actually being friendly ("What did I tell you,
Harry? You're a kink-magnet. I should inform the house
elves to keep all rubber goods from you." "Too late."
"_What?_--").
About halfway through, Hermione and Ron wandered over
with offerings of food and faint blushes. Hermione spoke
first. "Harry... are you happy?"
Harry actually thought about it for a moment. And then, just
to annoy, he kept thinking, until Malfoy jabbed him rather
hard in the ribs. Laughing, he said, "Yes."
Hermione smiled, then turned to Ron. "Go on," she
whispered. "You said you would."
Ron screwed up his courage. "So... is this a private party, or
is the floor reserved for poofs?" Ron asked.
"Free for the taking," Harry said. "And that's the _best_ you
could do?"
"Sorry," Ron said. "I panicked."
"Damn right, you did," said Hermione. "And you said
something amazing and very sweet back at the table without
an ounce of prompting. It was his idea to come over, you
know," she said proudly. Hermione shook her head sadly and
sat down beside Malfoy. "Crumpet?"
Malfoy accepted it, then turned to Harry to mutter about the
absolute shame that all the really _excellent_ jokes about Ron
and Hermione he could make at this time had already been
written by much better fanfic authors. Harry nodded
sympathetically, then began to explain where the Mirror of
Erised idea had _really_ come from.
A giggly Mary Sue Cutebottom soon came over, trailed by a
slightly confused Neville. And once it was realized that the
author was freely breaking all rules for this bit of the story,
breakfast became a floor party. The professors conveniently
never noticed, though they did remark on the seemingly poor
turnout for the morning meal. While a loud and raucous
party with a good three-fourths of the student body
participating occurred at foot level, they planned a restorative
vitamin regimen. It seemed like a good and forward-thinking
idea.
Meanwhile, squirreled away in her offices, Professor Jimison
was muttering over an old Macintosh computer, writing up
her Letters of Comment. The majority of them would be
exceedingly nasty. Harry's was as well, but then, she'd given
him a little bit _more_ than half marks, so that was all right.
And Jimison knew a great secret: One of the other members
of the staff was friendly with a great many publishers, and,
given enough... persuasion, could be convinced to send
Harry's manuscript to an agent.
And then there was the matter of Ron and Hermione --
Jimison knew the author had to do something about that.
And what about Neville? What was to become of Mary Sue?
Would the movie suck? Would Harry and Malfoy actually be
accepted around school? What happened to Snape in the
never-to-be-written prequel? Why _did_ Malfoy's parents
emigrate to Rio? What happened to those scenes the author
wrote involving the Book of Three Words? And who the
_hell_ is Hairy Vincenzo the Tireless Vicar?
Jimison smiled. "But that's sequel territory."
----
-The End.
----
(Note: At some far flung point in the future, watch for the sequel: _Harry Potter and His Very Small Role in the Plot_. Thanks to everyone who's read and enjoyed, -Bressingham)