Author's Note: Sorry this chapter is so long in the making. In theory, because this is the longest summer holiday I will ever have in my life, I could churn out a chapter every day or two, but because I'm in a summer camp in Quebec the matters are greatly complicated, not least because these money-grubbing cocksmokers charge $5CDN a day for internet. Anyway, I am pleased that this is already my one story with the most reviews, so I will continue to make reputable authors spin in their graves by gleefully expunging the dingy corners of my psyche and slapping it onto the 'net for your dubious reading pleasure.

TIME PASSES, NOT THAT ANYONE GIVES A SHIT
. Hermione shifted anxiously in a pleather waiting seat in St. Mungo's, rubbing her bare arms against the cold. In one hand she held an iron- studded cat-o-six-tails, in the other arm she held Professor Flitwick's robes. Her dominatrix clothing was particularly slutty today: she was wearing dark red thigh-length boots, a completely transparent silk miniskirt, and a dark red corset which had been haphazardly cut off mid-chest and had breast support added instead, and nothing else. Hence all of her considerable assets were on display to any and every red-blooded punter who trolled along. (Author's Note: I'm bashing the bishop as I write this.) (Author's Note: Not really!)
One such loser, with a ginger moustache and a pustule the size of a baseball steadily growing larger on his cheek, leaned over to his friend and muttered, "I'm almost chuffed I got hit by Ricky's curse now that she's turned up, eh?" (Three eighths of the viewers of this "story" think Hermione should be ashamed of herself and are frankly disgusted by the punter's point of view, three eighths are chanting, 'You go girl!' and are laughing at the repressed dickhead's point of view, and exactly one quarter agree with that tosser's point of view. Because we all know that exactly a quarter of HP fanfic viewers are male!) "I'm sure he'll be all right." Harry assured Hermione confidently. He had accompanied her for a variety of reasons: one, to inspect her curves, two, to keep his friend company in a time of crisis, three, to admire her men's- magasine-grade rack, four, to find out as fast as possible the eventual predicament of her victim because he found the whole fiasco hilarious, five, to stare at her holiest-of-holies, and six, to try and wheedle information out of her about her clientele.
"Poor Flitwick." she trembled. "He just kept asking for more and more, so even though he's so titchy I just kept getting harder and rougher and harder and rougher." There was a short pause in which Harry pretended to think about what to say next (in reality, he had mapped out this conversation on the broom ride over to the hospital).
"Well, Hermione, I'm a bit fuzzy on exactly what a dominatrix does." Harry admitted. "Do you hurt them and screw them, screw them and hurt them, or just hurt them?"
"I don't usually screw them, that costs triple." Hermione answered candidly.
"Really? Wow, submissive men are screwed up." Harry stated. "So all you did was whip Flitwick really hard? He must be bloody weak if he ends up in St. Mungo's just for that."
"Don't call him weak except to his face, he's the toughest customer I've ever had!" she scolded him ferociously, erect nipples flouncing up and down in her agitation. "For your information, the only reason he's in hospital right now is because he lent me this whip (because it was a family heirloom he'd always fancied a go with) and it turned out to be cursed! You do not want to know what horrid kind of stuff is oozing out of his bleeding back right now!"
"Okay, okay." Harry placated her. "So Flitwick is a toughened customer. Hmmm, I bet you get all kinds of pansies who pass out after only a dozen lashes."
Hermione giggled. "Yeah, I do. I really like them, though, because I charge the same for every customer no matter how long it takes to satisfy... Ah ha ha ha! Oh my God, last weekend one of my repeat customers named - " She stopped abruptly, merriment draining from her visage like some kind of facial enema. "Nice try, Harry. Nearly worked, too." she intoned, disgruntled. "But I'll never tell you who my customers are."
"Shit." Harry muttered under his breath.
A doctor strolled over. To Hermione's intense relief, he was not wearing the look on his face that doctors do when they're about to give bad news. He opened his mouth and spoke in unruffled, dulcet tones. "Good news, miss Bondage - I mean, Granger. Your Professor is definitely going to survive. The bad news is that there is no counter-curse, and the curse lasts for a whole month. So customer and client will be missing each other, and teacher and students will be doing without each other as well, for one month. It would not be a good idea for anyone to visit him during this time, however, due to his appalling condition, so I'm afraid we can offer no visiting time."
"Thank you very much anyway." Hermione smiled fleetingly.
The doctor opened his mouth to speak, then shut it, then opened and shut it several more times. He continued with this internal conflict for several seconds, with everyone in the room staring at him, before he reached a conclusion and a fairly predictable decision. "Would it be totally inappropriate for me to request your services at this time? For maybe ten o'clock, Sunday night?"
Harry started sniggering so loudly he was almost braying. Hermione grinned like a shit-eater and boomed, "Not a problem."
"No, no! I'm hiring her on my friend's behalf! He's the kind of sicko who likes to be punished!" the doctor spluttered, horrified and flustered by Harry's behaviour.
"Sure you are." every single bloke in the waiting room chorused sarcastically.
Two girls in Hogwarts uniform sprinted into the waiting room and shrieked loudly in pure knee-trembling lust when they saw Harry. Each proceeded to rip off their shirts and ties (for some reason that demented book-butcher Cuaron decided to put wizards in standard British school uniform in that immeasurable travesty of a film, Prisoner of Azkaban).
"I can't believe groupies found me here." snorted Harry, half disgusted, half surprised, half delighted, and three-quarters wondering why he adds up to a total of 2 and a quarter. He reached up his robes, pulled off his boxers, and threw them at the girls one second before they fell upon him.
TIME PASSES, NOT THAT ANYONE GIVES A SHIT
. Harry was eating in the Great Hall, reading the Daily Prophet. The headline was 'Massacre at Madame Malkins'. Draco was pretending to read it over his shoulder while Harry debriefed him on the mission.
"Dunno why they're calling it a massacre, I thought that at least 10 people had to die for it to qualify." Harry wondered aloud. "Anyway, good work. I wasn't sure you were up to the task, but you proved me wrong. I'm upping your salary."
"Thank you, sir." Malfoy mumbled. "See you next meeting."
Harry yawned and stretched. He badly needed some sleep. Not the kind of 'sleep' which involves sweaty nudity with multiple attractive females, some actual sleep. He definitely wouldn't get any sleep in Gryffindor tower, there would be at least six desperate bitches there, waiting to rip off his clothes. Harry was so oversexed that he almost shuddered at the prospect. He needed a good long lie-in, and chances were, if he stayed anywhere on Hogwarts grounds some girl would find him. So he resolved to go out and sleep in a hotel. He got up to leave and noticed Ginny Weasley alone further down the table.
"What are you doing all alone?" Harry asked rudely. "I was under the impression that you had friends."
"I used to have friends, but they weren't intelligent enough, so I ditched them." she answered.
"You - what?"
"They weren't intelligent enough. I suddenly realised I'm very clever and quick in the head, so I picked up philosophy. I'm working on the problems that have puzzled the cleverest of minds for millenia, and I think I'm getting close to proving or disproving the existence of a God."
"So - you're a fricking philosopher now? Why the hell did you become one of those pretentious dickheads? Are you happy as a philosopher??"
"Nulla est homini causa philosophandi, nisi ut beatus sit." Ginny said in a singsong voice.
Harry was hearing the sound of one hand clapping.
Ginny waited for Harry to ask what that meant. Harry didn't ask because he didn't care. Ginny got fed up with waiting and told him anyway.
"It's a quote in Latin, said by St. Augustine." Ginny explained. "It means, 'Man has no reason to philosophise, except with a view to happiness.' But this statement isn't as concrete as it might sound to the layman. It means that an intelligent person will try to dispel the frustration they feel at not having unravelled the mysteries of the universe by philosophising, or even, in some cases, a philosopher will simply enjoy the bittersweet happiness of being unable to comprehend the many mysteries of the universe."
Harry had lapsed into a coma registering 2 on the Glasgow scale.
TIME PASSES, NOT THAT ANYONE GIVES A SHIT
. Following Harry's cardiac resuscitation, it was school policy to prohibit the student from joining in with classes and forcing him/her to rest. Consequently, Harry snuck out of school and slept for thirty hours in an expensive hotel, disappointing the seventy-nine bitches who'd crammed themselves into his room, lying in wait for several hours before giving up.
Of course, during this time, life went on for others. Or most of them, anyway, as we'll see.
Ron was sleeping with his eyes open in Defence Against the Dark Arts, as today's lesson had no element of practicality in it whatsoever. This was largely because the new DADA teacher was Mr. Green. (Author's Note: Sorry, folks, I couldn't resist including this inside joke. Mr. Green is a former teacher of mine whose sheer, unbridled talent at sucking all life out of a room is extraordinary. Picture a balding stickman with a voice so nasal he always sounds like he's making fun of a Bronx accent, and when this nearly inaudible voice starts jabbering about Ancient Rome the resulting monsoons of boredom could congeal a jar of mayonnaise in seconds.) So Ron's bodyguard had to first shake Ron awake before passing him the note. Slowly Ron's brain shifted out of 'Park' and through to '3rd' and he looked at the note. The handwriting was unfamiliar. It read, 'I understand that if I need a very large quantity of cocaine you are the man to come to. Bring fifty kilos of the white stuff to the top of the Astronomy tower at midnight tonight. We'll pay $2,000,000US.'
Ron whistled to himself softly. He'd really have to shake his organisation to find and pack 50kgs by tonight. And what the hell was up with the Muggle US dollar payment? At the top of the Astronomy tower? Very fishy. He'd have to prepare all the ground beforehand. He leaned back and started muttering instructions to his bodyguard, who concentrated hard on remembering all the details Ron was giving him.
But Mr. Green is a sadistic bastard with ears like radar. "You! I hear you talking!" he screamed nasally. "Yes, you, Ronald Weasley, turning around so innocently to look behind you!" he added nasally. "How dare you have a conversation while I'm trying to conduct a lesson!"
"Fuck off, ya twat." Ron shot back disgustedly.
Mr. Green's head turned rigid. His eyes glazed over as he pondered this remark through. He pondered for thirty seconds at least. Then he forgot what he was pondering about, shook his head, and carried on with the lesson. (Author's Note: This actually happened in real life, right down to the choice of words - except obviously not with Ronald Weasley, with a guy I used to know.)

Judging by the laser splash on the centre of my chest right now, one of you has put a price on my head, albeit not a big enough price to hire a competent hitman who'd have fired by now. Jeez, club up, have all the people who despise me chip in some savings each so you can hire somebody like Léon. And do you know what the best way to club together is? By reviewing this chapter, so all the others have a method of contacting you!