Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, okay? Just leave me alone and let me write fanfics in peace.
A/N: Well, here it is...the next installment in your favorite story. Except for all my other stories, which I know are all your favorites as well. Ha ha. The chapter title is on a tote bag my mom owns and I just love that bag, so I figured why not? I've been really bad at acknowledging reviewers in the past, so here goes:
Ivory Tower: Sorry, all I can do for you is quote the immortal words of Rodgers and Hammerstein (I think): "Who can explain it,/ Who can tell you why?/ Fools give you reasons,/ Wise men never try..." I don't entirely understand it either, but there's just no accounting for tastes.
kippinator: I couldn't agree more with you. It is sick, but I suppose once Remus left after third year she had to find another object for her affections (j/k—I hope).
More notes will follow in later chapters, but for now thanks to everyone else who wrote nice reviews and on with the story!
Get Out of My Way, I'm Going Christmas Shopping!
Normally Harry would be happy to go to Hogsmeade, but on this particular trip his heart was heavy. All the fun he would have had usually was ruined by the prospect of buying approximately two dozen Christmas presents for Severus Snape. He had told Ron and Hermione only that McGonagall had asked him to get something for her—he didn't think he could endure Ron's teasing all day long.
Hermione was, of course, ecstatic that he had to drop by Half Price Spellbooks. "Oh, I know all the employees!" she gushed enthusiastically, taking Ron's arm and dragging him with them against his futile protests. "This is going to be so much fun!"
If Hermione defined "fun" as "painful torture," Harry could see what she meant. But somehow, he didn't think she meant it that way. Ron seemed about as excited as Harry was.
"Why do you have to go to a bookstore?" he groused as Hermione half led, half pulled them up the street toward a small shop with a faded sign. "I mean, you could at least go to Ornithio's Owl Shop or someplace remotely interesting like that. But Half Price Spellbooks! I'm never going to live this down. I can already just see it. 'What do you have against reading, Ron? Even Harry likes to visit bookstores sometimes, don't you Harry?' Okay, okay, I'll be polite while we're there, I promise I'll shut up," he told Hermione, who was giving him the Hermione Granger Glare of Death.
They entered through the creaking doors, which swung closed slowly behind them. Harry wasn't sure what he had expected, but he was sure it hadn't been this. There didn't seem to be any shelves like there were in normal bookstores. Instead, there was a motley assortment of tables with books piled high on and under them. A sign on the far wall proclaimed that all transfiguration books were 40% off until Wednesday, with an additional 10% savings if you could find them without tearing the store apart.
"No wonder McGonagall loves this place," Harry murmured to Ron, noting a stack of books bearing titles like The Man Who Turned His Wife Into a Hat: The Strange Adventures of Dr. Oberon Smacks and dozens of back issues of Transfiguration Today. He didn't have much time to look around before Hermione came bouncing over accompanied by the proprietor of the store, a tiny, wizened witch with enormous spectacles.
"Harry," Hermione beamed, "this is Lady Libra, the founder, manager, and sole employee of Half Price Spellbooks. Lady Libra, this is my friend Harry and my acquaintance Ron." Ron tried unsuccessfully to hide his hurt look. Hoping his very-pleased-to-meet-you-even-though-I-wouldn't-ordinarily-be-caught-dead-in-your-store look was fixed firmly in place, Harry stepped forward to shake hands with Lady Libra.
"So you have come to my little shop," Lady Libra croaked, adjusting her spectacles to see Harry better.
[No, I'm down the street at Zonko's,] Harry thought irritably, trying to ignore the fact that her hand reminded him unpleasantly of some eels he had used the other day in Potions. [I've got to get out of here before I go nuts,] he realized as he noted that the atmosphere of dusty intellectualism was starting to grate on his nerves. He didn't even have to look at Ron to know he was probably already getting hives from being near so many books.
He took a deep breath before plunging bravely into the fray. "Okay," he told Lady Libra resignedly, reading off the neverending list of stuff McGonagall had thoughtfully come up with for her beloved. "I need to find a first-edition hardcover illustrated copy of 101 Things to do With a Bucket of Troll Eyes on a Rainy Day, Curiosity Killed the Cat: Veritaserum Through the Ages volumes 1-5 signed by all 20 authors, A Modern Wizard's Guide to Cooking With Potions, Home Brewing Made Easy, Asphodel to Zebra Hoof: A Comprehensive Dictionary of Potion Ingredients, Double, Double, Toil and Trouble: Potions in the Muggle World, and...that's it. Oh, thank goodness," he finished, panting for breath.
Amazingly, Lady Libra didn't look in the least discouraged or frightened by the formidable task set before her. Instead, she gave Harry a curt nod of thanks and began weaving her way among the tables, rifling through the stacks of books and selecting volumes apparently without difficulty. Within two minutes she had deposited a tottering pile of books into Harry's reluctant arms and wasn't even breathing hard.
"Unbelievable," Ron breathed in awe, staring reverently at Lady Libra. She gave the three a mysterious smile.
"I remember every book I've ever had in my store," she explained matter-of-factly in answer to their disbelieving looks. Hermione looked suitably impressed, Harry and Ron suitably scared.
[Just what I need,] Harry groaned inwardly. [Mr. Ollivander all over again. At least she stares at the books, not me...] "How much will this be?" he asked, eyeing the thick books he carried and feeling very, very thankful that the sack of Galleons in his pocket was McGonagall's and not his.
Lady Libra peered over her spectacles at his selections. Apparently it didn't work, because she then gave a small sigh and peered through them. After surveying the pile for a few seconds, she pronounced that the cost would be 15 Galleons. Ron blinked in shock that anyone would spend that much on books.
Harry handed over the money, unable to resist a small stab of satisfaction at the enormous amount of money this was going to take out of McGonagall's kitty. It served her right for being smitten with Snape. Besides, did he—or anybody else, for that matter—really need ten books, a full set of knit winter clothing, a set of diamond potion bottles, an official set of Jersey Jinxes Quidditch robes signed by every player, a gigantic box of Chocolate Frogs that would feed Crabbe and Goyle for a month, an economy-size bottle of Magical Essences Hair Potion for Super Extra Oily Hair, and a Teacher's Deluxe Sneakoscope that would tell the owner who was talking in class?
Gathering up the despised books, Harry and Ron made a very, very, very quick exit from Half Price Spellbooks, a reluctant Hermione dragging behind. Once outside, Ron collapsed against the store wall, panting with relief that the terrible ordeal was over at last. Harry was about to do the same when he suddenly remembered with dread the enormous amount of stuff he still had to get. Having to go shopping was bad enough; doing it for Snape was rubbing salt into the wound. Why couldn't McGonagall have picked someone like Hermione, who would be only too happy to do anything for a teacher?
Deciding that these reflections were too depressing to do him any good, Harry squared his shoulders and said to the others, "Come on, let's go." Ron stared at him in disbelief.
"Blimey, more shopping?" he demanded angrily, his face going as red as ketchup. "Come on, you're wasting a perfectly good day in Hogsmeade! Well, I can tell you right now you're not going to drag me along with you." Ron folded his arms stubbornly and remained where he was.
Terror filled Harry at the prospect of shopping with only Hermione for company. Most of the time, of course, she was perfectly all right as a companion. Shopping with her, though, was quite another story if she kept acting the way she had been all morning. Circumstances like this warranted the greatest weapon Harry possessed—the puppy dog pout.
He was a little out of practice, but he could still do it all right. "Pleeeeeeeeeaaaaase?" he whined, making his eyes as large and round as he could and thrusting out his lower lip dramatically. Ron covered his face and turned away.
"No, please," he begged. "Anything but that, Harry! Not...the puppy dog pout!" Harry knew Ron was weakening and kept going, even adding a little whimper for maximum effect. After a few more seconds, Ron heaved a deep, resigned sigh and Harry knew he had won.
"All right, all right," Ron grumbled, standing up with a groan. "Just tell me we don't have to go to FeyFashion." Harry flinched and didn't reply, giving Ron his answer immediately. "Not FeyFashion!" Ron moaned, sinking down on the ground. "Why, oh why? Goodbye cruel world..."
Hermione rolled her eyes in exasperation and grabbed Ron's arm to pull him up again. "Shut up, Ron. We need to be supportive of Harry in this crisis." Harry gave her a grateful if somewhat scared look and tried to ignore the fact that she held Ron's arm a little longer than necessary and he didn't pull it away.
"Come on," he sighed, turning away from the bookstore and reluctantly beginning to lead the way to FeyFashion, that most evil of clothing stores. Thankfully he had never been there before, but he feared this visit might scar him for life if it didn't kill him outright. After all, hadn't Lavender and Parvati spent most of the train ride to Hogwarts that September squealing about this very store?
Two minutes later, Harry was standing in front of the two-story thatched hut and had revised his opinion. It definitely wouldn't kill him outright—he would die by slow and painful torture. A large sign with color-changing paint proclaimed proudly that for this week only, one could purchase any Morgan le Fay brand women's robes at FeyFashion without sales tax. Provided, of course, the small print noted, that one possessed the proper membership cards, subscribed to the seasonal FeyFashion catalog, etc., etc. It was enough to make Harry sick, and he hadn't even laid eyes on a stitch of clothing yet.
Trembling slightly with foreboding and fear, Harry and Ron entered, followed closely by Hermione, who seemed mostly disgusted. "Who would shop for robes at a place like this?" she whispered indignantly to them. "After all, we all know what you look like isn't important, it's who you really are inside that—"
"Shut up, please," Ron moaned, clutching his stomach. Harry saw with concern that his face was already going a lovely shade of green, no doubt brought on by the sight of the teen girls' spring fashions in pink and purple. True to form, Hermione seemed not to have heard Ron's anguished plea at all, but simply continued with her angry tirade against modern materialism.
"—I mean, really, when I get up in the morning I just toss on any old outfit—"
"I would never have guessed," Harry muttered sarcastically, thinking about Hermione's usual clothing styles—Wrinkled, Creased, Crumpled, and Unironed. Fortunately for him, Hermione once again ignored all outside comments in her quest for truth, beauty, and someone who would actually listen to her. Unfortunately, the last item of this list apparently led her to seek a more receptive audience, for she vanished into the milling crowd of shoppers before Ron or Harry could lift a finger to stop her.
Horrified at this latest development in the twisted plot that was their lives, Harry and Ron stared at one another in sheer terror. At last Ron managed to speak. "Harry," he croaked. "Do you realize what this means? I mean, she's going to go—she's going to go out there. And preach about People These Days and how they're so concerned with clothes..." Ron trailed off, but the expression on his face said everything his voice could not.
"She'll get clobbered!" Harry gasped in disbelief that someone so smart could do something so dumb. But then, that was Hermione—once she got on her soapbox she would darn well stay on it until the mob dragged her away still yelling about liberty, fraternity, and equality. Unfortunately, by the looks of things, the pattern was about to repeat itself.
Now the boys were faced with a tough choice—should they plunge into the crowd and try to rescue their friend before she got herself killed or should they run the other way and try to look innocent? Being the strong, tough Gryffindors that they were, the answer was obvious...
Turning quickly, stumbling over each other in their haste, Harry and Ron fled, fearing for their lives at the hands of the shoppers if they were recognized as Hermione's companions. "Almost there," Harry panted, straining to cross those last few yards to the exit—
What he heard next froze the blood in his veins. The crowd was quieting, the roar replaced with an ominously hostile silence as they listened to...no. No, it couldn't be! How could she have gotten started that quickly? But there it was—Hermione had started her speech already and wild hippogriffs couldn't make her stop until she was done. The only thing for it was to run faster...
For the first time, what Hermione was saying was audible to her two friends. "And I'm not the only one who feels this way! Two of my very good friends are behind me every step of the way. There they are!" she yelled, her arm shooting out above the crowd to point directly at them.
"Faster!" Ron hissed desperately, gangly limbs windmilling as he pushed himself all-out to escape the coming storm. Alas, it was too late. The crowd was already moving menacingly in their direction as only a mob can.
"RONALD QUENTIN WEASLEY! HARRY JAMES POTTER! GET YOUR BUTTS BACK HERE!" Wisely, they ignored her and focused only on the welcome sight of the doors, tantalizingly close. At that moment, Harry had never seen anything so beautiful as the exit sign just a few feet ahead...
Too late. The seething mass of humanity had somehow blocked their escape just in time. Harry had the distinct impression that if they had happened to have any pitchforks with them, they would have been waving them for all they were worth while singing the French national anthem or some other cheerful tune about riot and bloodshed and other fun family events like that. As it was, he thought they were quite threatening even without benefit of sharp objects.
Ron and Harry stopped, breathing hard and staring at one another in hopeless resignation. Yes, it was no use denying it any more with the wild-eyed crowd ready to tear anyone associated with Hermione to bits. They were quite definitely and unequivocally trapped.
A/N: That was fun. Frankly, I didn't expect anything like this to happen, but *shrugs helplessly* so be it. I am a slave to my twisted imagination. As you may have noticed, I now have italics! Somewhere in the middle of this chapter, I figured out the easy way to save in html format (no thanks to my dad), so I may be a little italics-happy for the next few chapters. Bear with me while I get it out of my system. I refused to use any previously named Hogsmeade shops in this chapter because I do like to do something original every once in a while, so imagine my fury when I reread The Goblet of Fire and discovered that my original name for FeyFashion, WizardWear, had already been used as Gladrags Wizardwear! Luckily, I came up with FeyFashion, thinking only of the fairy or elfin meaning, but it gets better. I looked up "fey" in the dictionary to verify the definition lest I get flames from other mythology buffs and found that an alternate Scottish meaning is "doomed or fated to die." Considering the plight our intrepid trio find themselves in, I find that eerily appropriate. Hee hee hee...Coming Soon: Chapter Three.