In this chapter, I'd like to introduce you to: the Schizophrenic Authoress. I have around five million different styles I use while writing, and I seem to have crammed all of them into this chapter. *shrug* Sorry about that!
Also: sorry about the wait. X_x I have midterms coming up. HATE. MIDTERMS.
So! On with the story. ^_^
Chapter Nine
Day Two
Madame Rosmerta blinked. She rubbed her eyes. She blinked again. She stared.
She would have dismissed the sight before her as the aftereffect of too much mulled mead, but unfortunately for her, she hadn't had any since Tuesday.
Eventually recovering from her shock and prying her jaw from the ground, Rosmerta stumbled back into the Three Broomsticks, and flooed her way to gossip columnist Flora Evy's home. She caught Flora just as she was heading off to her job at the Daily Prophet, and gasped out her story to her disbelieving audience.
Flora hurriedly flooed back to the Three Broomsticks with Madame Rosmerta, but only after suspiciously asking her friend exactly how much mulled mead she had consumed the night before. Rosmerta dragged her out into the early morning sunlight, and the sight of It smacked her rudely in the face. She stared.
And stared.
Flora shot off to her office.
She darted into the cubicle next to hers and babbled the news to her friend Kara Withley, who gasped, rushed off, and told her entire staff, who skittered away and informed everyone else in the entire building. Including the janitor. Five disbelieving reporters were immediately dispatched to the Three Broomsticks to investigate. Five wide eyed, jabbering reporters returned, frantically wielding print-filled sheets of parchment and an impressive collection of photographs.
The editor decided this was front page material.
Down in the lowest level of the towering building, the press buzzed experimentally, then burst into frenzied life, with ink inking, presses pressing, and parchment sliding neatly into their assigned slots (no, it was not parchmenting, for all of you who were wondering). At exactly 9:00 A.M., as per usual, a tsunami of owls darkened the sky and descended upon the rows of papers. Workers shrank quickly away from the pink ones.
One completely normal, not-pink, not-sparkly owl clawed up a neatly-rolled Prophet, and swept off. This was an Evil Owl. Actually, it was a perfectly nice and friendly owl, and would gladly share its dead mice with any fellow owl in need, but its owner wanted everything he owned, including his squishy green snake slippers, to be Evil. Therefore, we will be labeling this owl as Evil.
The Evil Owl swept merrily through the skies, then descended into an Evil Vicinity, which came complete with an Evil Lawn and Evil Mansion. The Evil Owl breezed through a particularly Evil Window, and landed sinisterly with a cheerful hoot on an Very, Very, Very Evil Hand.
The Very, Very, Very Evil Hand unrolled the newspaper. An Evil Eye blinked at the picture flashing gaudily up at it. Then, abruptly, Evil Knees straightened, and an Evil Voice barked, "Skilly! Get me a blueberry scone."
Skilly the Evil Elf skittered out of the shadows and into the hall, and returned almost immediately, scone in hand. The scone was devoured.
Lucius Malfoy tossed his paper aside and decided it was high time he visited his son.
~*~*~*~*~*~
"We should probably go in now."
"...uh-huh."
....
"*cough* Well, um, ladies first..."
Hermione sighed and rolled her eyes. "Fine, then," she muttered. Steeling herself, she braced her shoulders and marched purposefully over to the small wooden door imbedded in the castle wall. She yanked the sword from Ron's hand as she passed.
Carefully, with a nervous glance back at Ron, she placed her hand on the splintered surface, and pushed.
The door screeched slowly open, and the light behind them flooded into the darkened tower, casting their shadows sharply on the stone floor. The Gryffindors squinted into the semi-shade, wavering on the threshold as they struggled to see.
They were faced with a towering, circular stone room, the ceiling disappearing into a murky swell of darkness above their heads. Thick layers of dust stirred faintly as fresh air was breathed silently into the room. It was empty.
"If this is another portal thing, I will not be happy," Hermione said darkly, before stepping nervously through the door. Ron hurried behind her. Nothing happened.
They shifted uneasily, squinting into the shadows. "Well?" stage-whispered Ron, his brow creased and eyes narrowed, "Where's the dragon?"
"Probably up there," Hermione replied bitterly. She gestured towards a shadowy flight of stairs carved into the stone wall across the way. Ron thought he could see a faint flicker of torchlight peering around the curve of the stairwell.
"Stairs." Ron said flatly, left eye twitching with annoyance. "We're supposed to climb all the way up this tower??"
"It's going to drastically reduce our stamina," Hermione sighed unhappily, "but what else can we do? Let's just get this over with."
Sighing, they stalked further into the echoing darkness of the tower, dust stirring up in plumes as they marched past. Then, glancing at each other in resigned disgust, they began their long ascent.
~*~*~*~*~*~
"Oof!"
Ginny gagged as a lungful of air was forced from her chest. A Hufflepuff she didn't know was sprawled over her stomach, looking dazed and disoriented. "What is going on here?" he choked out, sweeping his sandy brown hair out of his eyes.
The hall swerved again, tilting dangerously to the left. Ginny moaned in despair and tried to protect her bruised left side as she, and a large cluster of flailing students, went sliding over the floor and crashed into the wall opposite. What is going on? Ginny wondered groggily, spitting out a mouthful of her hair and propping her aching self up on her elbows to search for Neville among the sea of bodies. She began mentally backtracking, trying to think up an explanation for the building's sudden burst of energy.
The morning had continued in a (relatively) normal fashion after Snape's Pink Spree. Ginny, after complaining loudly over the way the cotton-candy shaded walls and rugs clashed with her hair, had dragged Neville over to the Hufflepuff table. He had made little headway. This wasn't due to any fault of his own; Neville had actually smiled hesitantly at a group of 6th year girls and sidled into a seat across from them, but they were too preoccupied with the sudden blinding pinkness of the scrambled eggs to really notice him.
But Neville had pressed gallantly on, clearing his throat several times and even going as far as tapping Susan Bones on the shoulder, but she had just blinked distantly at him and said casually, "Oh, hi, Neville," then continuing her discussion on the pros and cons of pink oatmeal with Hannah Abbot. Draco Malfoy's running commentary on his progress wasn't helping matters, either.
He had been about to give up when the school suddenly went nuts.
The room had lurched, then tilted violently to the left. Masses of screaming students were sent hurtling across the room. Entire bowls and plates of food smashed on the careening stone floor, adding to the chaos.
The room continued to do this for the next fifteen minutes.
This was so frustrating that Ginny didn't even have the energy to mock Draco Malfoy, who was swinging like an (enraged, cursing) pendulum from his chain.
As the Great Hall lurched again and began swerving to the right, Ginny decided she'd had enough of this. Gritting her teeth, she gallantly shoved several hapless students aside and clutched onto a nearby window ledge. The stone bit painfully into her fingers, and her knuckles turned pure white, but she hung on with dogged determination as the school bobbed and danced in sickening circles. Panting with exertion, Ginny pressed her sweating forehead to the glass, squinting as her breath fogged it. Another lurch slammed her into the window, and she took the opportunity to free her hands and furiously scrub away the mist. She stared through the glass. She blinked.
Since when had the Great Hall been two stories above the ground?
And where had all those reporters come from?
~*~*~*~*~*~
"Well," panted Ron, leaning heavily against the wall, "here we are."
Hermione, draped across the rocky stairs, nodded faintly, groaning, "This is even worse than when I had to climb the Eiffel Tower."
Ron blinked at her through the murky shade, puzzled, inquiring between lungfuls of air, "Climb the what?"
"Nothing," Hermione muttered, dragging herself to her feet.
Ron shrugged, figuring it was another Muggle thing, and then stalked up the last few steps towards the door.
"Wait!" Hermione gasped out, still clutching at a stitch in her side, "let's review our plan, first. Accuracy spell's been performed, so we just march in there, name the target, then let go."
"And if that doesn't work, run like hell," Ron said with a shrug, "We've gone over this a million times, Herm. I think we're ready."
She sighed. "All right, then. Let's go." They dragged themselves up the stairs, sword clanging on the rocks behind them, and, steeling themselves, flung the door open.
Hermione was glad she was clutching onto the doorpost, because if she hadn't been, she was sure she would be tumbling backwards down the stairs by now. The force of light that blasted from the room blinded them, and filled their ears with a dizzying roar.
"What- what is this?" Hermione yelled over the thundering wave of light. "I can't see!"
She was becoming lightheaded, and spots swam dizzily before her eyes. All of her energy was suddenly draining from her, leaving her weak and trembling.
Suddenly, the light dimmed.
Gasping in nauseous confusion, they stumbled into the room, blinking the exploding lights from their eyes.
"Well, hello there!" an eerily familiar voice beamed unctuously from the other side of the room, "if it isn't Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger!"
Throats dry, hardly daring to look, Hermione and Ron turned around, taking in the tall, spacious stone room they were standing in. Then they saw Him.
"Bloody hell!" whispered Ron in horrified awe, "it's... it's Lockhart!"
~*~*~*~*~*~
By this time, several students had joined her on the window sill. They all hung on for dear life, plastered against the window, trying to figure out what was going on. By now, they had noticed a pattern: whenever a reporter approached the school, the school would scamper furiously away. This didn't seem to deter the reporters, though. Not in the least. Hordes of ink-splattered wizards and witches chased the school across the campus grounds, screaming and waving their parchment like millions of tiny white truce flags. Twice, the school had come close to tumbling into the lake, and Greenhouse 3 had almost been smashed to pieces.
"Think, Terry, think!" Neville was saying urgently somewhere on her right. Ginny craned her neck, barely catching a glimpse of a tousled, sweat stained Neville clutching onto the edge of the railing. Ravenclaw Terry Boot dangled nearby, forehead scrunched up in concentration.
The school gave another violent lurch, unseating two screaming Slytherins from their perch. Screaming, they skidded over the floor, smashing painfully into the opposite wall. Ginny winced. Terry and Neville scrambled into the vacated space next to her. "You're Muggleborn, Terry?" Ginny asked breathlessly.
He nodded, his curly brown hair straggling over his face. "I'm trying to remember which fable this comes from. I know I've read something like this before, I just can't... OH!"
"What? Do you remember?" Neville asked hopefully.
Terry Boot didn't reply. Instead, after some struggle, he managed to get his wand out of his robe pocket, and with an awkward wave of his hand, he yelled, "Accio Camera!"
After a moment's confusion, Ginny shrieked, "DUCK!" as a shiny black camera suddenly shot out of an aggravated reporter's hand, and soared like a Bludger towards their window. Glass exploded everywhere, clattering like rain over the floor and walls. Terry easily caught the camera in his left hand.
Slowly, with a vague mechanical whirr, the camera spit out a moving, black and white image of their school. Ginny and Neville stared over his shoulder, transfixed. "I knew it," Terry said with a resigned sigh, "we're in a Russian fairytale. Our school has sprouted chicken legs."
~*~*~*~*~*~
By now, the school had settled down somewhat. It was dusk, and the reporters were tired, disgruntled, and dirty. (Not that they'd given up. A whole flock of them were camped out next to the Quidditch pitch.) Malfoy was very, very glad.
Slumped against his sword, he rubbed his blistering wrist disgruntledly. Dangling from his chain all day had not been good for his skin. Or his pride. Glaring at the throbbing red welts peppering his arm, he began to wish he had taken that Medical Class Madame Pomfrey had started up a couple months ago...
The door creaked open behind him. Potter. Draco's eyes narrowed as he watched the dark haired boy shuffle tiredly into the room, feet dragging. He looked like a wreck. Soap suds gleamed and clung to his straggling hair, purplish circles ringed his eyes, and his glasses hung askew from his pale, taut face. Those house elves were probably working him to death.
Draco ignored the flash of concern that shot through his gut, scowled, and focused on the food.
"What've you got for me today, Potter?"
Harry looked up sharply at that, green eyes focusing on him with a sudden, wary snap. Draco himself blinked, surprised by the lack of antagonism in his voice. He just sounded... tired. Yesterday had been sparked with heated anger and annoyance, but today they both seemed affected by the subdued, heavy exhaustion in the air. A day spent lurching around in the Hogwarts Castle was bound to do that to anyone.
"Pork," Harry responded flatly, still eyeing him carefully. A smudge of grease darkened his forehead, and Draco had a sudden urge to lean over and wipe it off. An uneasy tremor stirred in his gut, and he quickly averted his eyes, instead reaching out to grab the plate from Potter's hands, surveying the pork critically. Dead pigs. Yay.
He was surprised when his arm was suddenly stopped short.
Harry was clutching at his forearm, glasses sliding further down his nose as he squinted in concentration at his wrist. Draco could feel the pulse of the Boy who Lived echoing heavily over his arm, and something in his chest froze. "Let go of me, Potter," he heard himself hiss, but he made no move to pull away.
"Your wrist," Harry said slowly, "what happened? That's going to get infected if you don't do something about it."
"Thanks for the update. I really needed to hear that," Draco snarled, snatching his arm away. He was pleased to see a vaguely irritated look flash across Potter's face, but it was quickly replaced with stony determination as he grabbed him again- his hand, this time- and snatched up Malfoy's wand.
Alarm immediately shot through him, and he grabbed viciously for his wand, eyes sparking with anger, but Harry held it out of his reach. "Stay still, you git," he snapped, "I'm not going to curse you! Even though you bloody well deserve it..." Scowling, he yanked back Malfoy's sleeve, so his blistered arm was in full view.
"Disinfectus," he said roughly, prodding the swelling wrist a bit harder than he should have. Draco immediately stiffened, gray eyes shooting open as what felt like millions of tiny red-hot needles blasted into his skin. His eyes watered, but his mouth remained clamped tightly shut. He was not going to show weakness in front of Potter...
As abruptly as it began, the stinging subsided, and Draco let out a lungful of breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. He frowned at his wrist, blinking back some of the moisture in his eyes. The swelling had gone down sharply, and the skin was definitely less crimson than it had been before. Slowly, he turned suspicious eyes to his nemesis, who was at the moment creating bandages from thin air.
"What did you just do?" he asked quietly, scanning Potter's face for an answer to the sudden throng of questions building in his throat. Harry, still looking exhausted and slightly miffed, responded tensely, "What does it look like? It's a disinfecting spell. I'm taking Madame Pomfrey's Medical Class."
Draco's eyebrow arched slowly. "Didn't know you wanted to be a nurse, Potter."
Harry, now firmly jerking the bandages around his wrist, pinned him with a hard, vaguely threatening stare. "Auror," he corrected, eyes narrowing. He neatly tucked in the edge of the bandage, and drew away. Draco observed his precursory glance at the door, which was (surprise, surprise) sealed shut, and the defeated slump of his shoulders.
"Why'd you do this?" Draco asked, holding up his wrist. He made sure his voice sounded hard and authoritative, even though inwardly his thoughts were jumbled in a foggy haze of exhaustion and confusion. He watched Harry keenly as the boy leaned against the pink rock, pushing his dark hair out of his eyes and glancing at Draco out of the corner of his eyes.
"We're going to be trapped in this ritual for God knows how long. Might as well keep the unpleasantness to a minimum," he said simply.
"Oh," Draco said, taken aback (although he refused to show it). He didn't know how to respond to that. Instead, he stabbed into his pork, and chewed away. They sat in silence for a while.
After Draco had devoured his meal, Harry turned around, and fixed him with a penetrating stare. "So, do you agree?"
Draco frowned. "To what?"
"To a truce." A pale, calloused hand was thrust out before him, and green eyes watched him expectantly. Draco sat stock still for several moments, mind buzzing, before slowly reaching out and grasping the proffered hand.
"Only for now. Truce."
~*~*~*~*~*~
TBC
Fairytale Count:
*Beauty and the Beast (as one reviewer kindly pointed out, I forgot to stick this in last chapter. Whoops! ^_^() )
*That Russian Fairytale With The House With Chicken Legs
Does anyone remember the name of that one? For the life of me, I can't remember what it's called. I think it begins with 'Baba' or something like that. And it involves flying bathtubs.
So- again, I have to thank you for your patience. *bows* Y'all rock! You have my undying gratitude and adoration! *blows kisses*