The Woes of Using a Telephone
By Jollie Killjoy
A/N (Oh no! Not another one!): You know, I neglected my other story to post the second chapter of this. Well, not exactly neglected, seeing as I do have part of its next chapter written, but still... couldn't help myself, this is very amusing to write, hah. Now, anyways, thank you so much, reviewers! Seriously, reviews make my day. Even if you hate this, I ask that you review, telling me how idiotic my story is (the public has the right to know!). And... that would be all. Is it sad that this is one of my shortest author's notes yet? (Yes, yes it is).
x x x x x x x x x x x
"So, um... what do you think we should do with him?"
"Err..."
Harry, Ron, and Hermione were for once, at a loss of words. They were standing (with a great deal of confusion) in front of a heap of expensive clothes and platinum blonde hair that appeared to be a very unconscious (and definitely very drunk) Draco Malfoy. Just moments ago, he had stumbled over to them, fell on Harry's shoulder, mumbled something about "needing a room" and "devoting his life to the righteous cause of eliminating secretaries," and collapsed. Leaving Harry buried beneath him.
No slash jokes, now. Please. Harry quickly wriggled out from under the man and got up without so much as a single dirty thought in mind. You must remember that he is the pure, heroic, and virginal protagonist of our story, folks.
...At least we think he is. Rita Skeeter has been trying to prove otherwise for years.
Hermione looked around the bar for a moment. Her eyes fell upon a pair of tattered men that seemed to be doing a jig of glee while chanting something about their positions of honor being returned to them. It was somewhat frightening. "Well, we can't just leave him here..."
"But he's a Slytherin and a Malfoy. Are you sure we should even be touching him?" Ron's face twisted in disgust. "We might catch Snapeicitus."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "HonestlyRon. Have you been looking up Latin root words again?"
Ron averted his eyes sheepishly. "A man has to have hobbies, you know."
"Let's just bring him to our flat and see what happens from there," Harry remarked, suddenly deciding to be the voice of reason in this story. Because otherwise, he would be brooding. And no one likes a brooding Harry.
Ron pointed a condemning finger at him. "Spy! Traitor! Conspirator! SESQUIPEDALIAN!"
Harry stared at his redheaded friend for a moment. "Err. What?"
"The authoress learnt that word in her English class the other week. She thinks it is very spiffy, and has decided to ignore the fact that I never say big words."
"Ah, well that explains everything."
The two bums previously doing a jig were now telling knock-knock jokes. The trio decided that this was their cue to haul Draco up and immediately leave.
x x x x x x x x x x x
Draco started feeling around his surroundings, eyes shut tightly; he did not seem to be able to open them. Realizing that he had been in a situation like that earlier that day, he let out an angered grumble, making him sound like a particularly irked ferret. He finally managed to grasp a very fluffy pillow, and clutched it for comfort. It smelled of Spanish cologne.
...Spanish? Wait, this wasn't right. His cologne was most definitely not Spanish. Enrique Iglesias probably had Spanish cologne.
...Wait a second. Enrique again. He was referenced in the first chapter as well, the blonde was sure of it. Why did that bastard keep returning?
Draco decided that this story is very sadistic.
"Hey, I think he's waking up..."
Draco twitched for a moment. An unknown voice. Someone must be in his apartment, most probably to steal his unnervingly extensive collection of Playboy magazines.
"He is? Oh no..."
Or his Monty Python DVD's. They were the only muggle possessions he deemed worthy of having, along with the magazines.
"Wonder if he actually remembers anything?"
Or it could be his leather trousers. His leather trousers were the epitome of sexy. Or of evil. According to some, anyways. He supposed either way worked.
"I doubt it..."
Or it could be Marcus Flint's whip and --
No. Let us not go there. Marcus was such a whore, anyways.
Draco decided that it was time to strike.
"WHO THE HELL ARE YOU AND WHY ARE YOU IN MY APARTMENT!"
x x x x x x x x x x x
A man in dark robes was stroking a particularly evil-looking cat, causing it to purr appreciatively. He was sitting on a throne-like chair in a rather bombastic mansion, in which light filtered only through majestic-looking stained glass windows, creating an atmosphere that was striving to be eerie, but had not quite reached that level (possibly due to the fact that there were vases of daffodils scattered about the building). It was at that moment that he decided that he was the very definition of crafty; he had managed to attack countless people (some in rather powerful positions) without leaving so much as a trace, as well as fool the ministry into believing that he was some mere auror gone bad. No one had even suspected his true identity yet. His plan was genius. Fail-proof. No one could think of a better one. Ever.
The last victim was taken. It was his time to prevail.
"Ernie, call everyone forth for a meeting," the man shouted brusquely to his servant, his cat meowing in agreement. If the cat wasn't a furry, plump little feline, it would definitely be his yes-man in a sharp black blazer, agreeing to his every command and believing every step he took to be absolutely reasonable.
Even that whole "Romanian pop to strike fear upon our victims!" bit. Which everyone else thought was ridiculous.
They just didn't seem able to fully grasp the horror of Romanian pop. Imbeciles.
"Yes, your High Badgerness," the servant replied and quickly scurried off.
"And do hurry up this time," the man added, smirking all the while. For now, he only had a few loyal followers, but he knew he would be getting more soon; with minions would come power, and respect would follow soon after.
For too long now, Hufflepuffs had been mocked, he had decided. They were the kind, loyal, gullible, and boring bunch. Oh, but not anymore! The man was going to prove to everyone just how evil and conniving Hufflepuffs really were. And they were most definitely not boring; it is fact that most winners of the annual Wizarding Knitter's Competition to date have been Hufflepuffs. Knitting is well known to be a very intense sport.
...Sort of.
The Hufflepuffs still weren't boring, though.
"We are here, your Yellow Excellency," Ernie bowed low, along with his fellow graduates: Hannah Abbott, Susan Bones, and Justin Finch-Fletchley. And what a sinister group they were; especially Hannah, adorned with a single badly-drawn skull, to which Susan added little hearts and cherubs so it wouldn't be quite so frightening. The skull was the pride of their clan.
The man cleared his throat. "I am here to bring to your attention the fact that we have disabled the powers of each of our victims successfully, and sparked terror within the Ministry. They do not have a single clue regarding our secret organization, and if things keep up, they probably never will." He halted his speech momentarily to engage in a session of cackling, which ended abruptly when he started to choke. "The victims are now in varying states of confusion, but most of them are still within their comfort zones. In a time which I deem right, we shall kidnap them from their petty little families and friends to make them our blind minions."
An eerie silence followed the man's words, hung heavy within the mansion. But not for long.
"Can I have a sex slave?"
Much groaning and eye rolling ensued.
"Pleaaaaase? Pretty pretty please?"
"Justin, for the last time: no," Ernie scolded the boy."Sex slaves are not menacing enough."
"Yes they are."
"No they aren't."
"Yes they are."
"No way."
"Yes way."
Ernie paused for a moment. "Yea, well, your face."
Hannah and Susan gasped at his daring insult. Justin was immediately silenced.
"As I was saying," the man brought attention back to his throne, "the kidnapping shall ensue when I decide it should. Which may very well be shortly. I suggest you all prepare; our moment has nearly come. And when it does, I promise you that we will rock and roll all night. And party every day," he added as an afterthought. KISS were very menacing. Right?
Indeed they were.
The followers cheered, Priscilla meowed in triumph, and the man was very pleased with himself.
Very, very pleased.
x x x x x x x x x x x
Draco was shaking with anger. He had just been told the absolute truth. His mother was dead. His father was actually his mother. He was destined to fail at retrieving The Ring from Frodo in an epic battle of checkers, the Atkins diet was all a big fat lie, and --
The author got carried away. Sorry about that.
"I cannot believe I have stooped this low," Draco muttered contemptuously, pacing back and force and grimacing at the color of the carpet: olive green. Surely he would not be forced into such an atrocious situation?
And despite what they said, he knew for certain that he did not lose his powers. They were simply on vacation. In the Bahamas. Having a very charming time, at that.
"For your information, Malfoy, if it weren't for us, you would still be lying helplessly in a bar," Harry snapped at the blonde.
"So?"
"You would be at the mercy of a barman and a pair of deranged bums. But we saved you. Very heroically, might I add."
"...So?"
"We are your rescuers. We deserve to be thanked."
"I fail to see your point, Potter."
The Boy Who Lived was quickly becoming The Boy Who Was Getting Really, Really Livid. Bringing Malfoy to his flat was his idea, wasn't it? Everything bad was always his fault. It never failed. Harry briefly considered brooding for a moment. Ah, sweet brooding. How it called to his tortured soul. But the man nobly decided to ignore his urges. Remember children: STAY OFF OF BROODING. Stay off of drugs as well... but mostly brooding.
Hermione's sharp voice brought everyone into focus. "Look, seeing as arguing is getting us absolutely nowhere, I think we should settle down and sort this out like civilized adults. Do you suppose we could do at least do that?"
Ron pondered this concept for a moment. "Hmmm... nope."
"For Merlin's sake! Look, it is obvious that Malfoy is in a vulnerable situation and therefore -- "
"I am still in denial about my vulnerability, thank you very -- "
"Fine then! As I was saying, Malfoy is clearly going to have to receive some psychological and possibly medical help --"
"Ahem."
"Oh, just get over yourself, blondie! Now, to the point: I suggest we let him stay with us until he is healed."
"What! But it's not like he'd do the same for us!" Ron exclaimed with fervor. Rooming with a Malfoy... now that was just crazy talk. Hermione was clearly a heretic. Or a Satanist. Or something to that effect.
"But we're better than that, Ron," Hermione told him soothingly. "He has nowhere else to go."
"And he will return the favor once he regains his powers," Harry remarked, giving Draco a meaningful glance.
Ron raised a pair of flaming red eyebrows. "He will?"
"Of course he will."
"This is blackmail, Potter," Draco grumbled. "Blackmail!"
"Do you have any other ideas? You can always run back to mum and dad or --"
"Fine, fine," Draco spat scathingly. Lovely, this was just absolutely lovely.Potter was so going to pay for this.
And no, he did not need to regain some silly powers to make him do so.Really, what an absurd thought.
Harry grinned in self-satisfaction for a moment. No brooding as of yet; he decided that he made a very good voice of reason.
"Now, where will he sleep?" Hermione raised the million galleon question.
"I say we lock him in a room and feed him by means of a ridiculously long poll!" Ron suggested helpfully.
"Ron! What did I tell you about bolting people up," she scolded him. "It's inhumane!"
"Since when has Malfoy been human?"
"Hermione's right, you know. If we stick him in a room and don't let him come out, he'll destroy our stuff," Harry pointed out sympathetically.
"I propose planting me on the most lavish bed in the house and bringing in a harem of exotic dancers to feed me grapes and obey my every preposterous command," Draco stated. The man decided that if he had to stay with three blatant losers, he was going to do it with style.
The trio collectively raised an eyebrow.
"What? The people have spoken!" Draco continued righteously, England's flag waving patriotically in the nonexistent breeze behind him. "Now go forth, minions! Obey thy leader!"
There was silence. It was very exciting.
"I suppose you could stay in the office room if we put a mattress there," Hermione said, sighing a little. That was where all her books were. They were surely going to melt into heaps of rubbish in the presence of Malfoy, who was probably going to contaminate the room heavily with hairspray. Oh, how she would miss her books dearly.
"As long as he doesn't have to stay in one of our rooms," Ron grumbled. Harry nodded in agreement.
Draco, however, wasn't going about to be complacent. "Excuse me? I am going to stay in an office?"
"The other option is to share a bed with me and Ron. Ron sleeps in the nude, you know."
Draco grimaced. Didn't the blasted redhead have any sympathy for other humans? For a moment, he sorry for Hermione, just a little.
...Nah.
"This is clearly a two room apartment," Draco stated confidently. "Therefore, I will get room number two."
"Harry sleeps there."
"Not anymore, he won't."
Hermione was starting to get really exasperated. "Malfoy. Office. Now."
"Never."
x x x x x x x x x x x
Draco was still in disgusted awe over the fact that he had been convinced to sleep on some cheap mattress on the floor. This had to be illegal. His complexion would suffer greatly, he concluded with much woe, putting on a pair of silken, embroidered boxers. Even in the most absurd and repulsive situation, he vowed to never stop dressing his best. It was simply a matter of pleasing his adoring public, who he knew needed him.
Because he was still very powerful.
Really, he was.
Tucking himself in smugly with that thought in mind, he eyed a certain... contraption. He had no idea how else to describe it. It was on a large, painfully organized desk (clearly Hermione's) on the other side of the room.
Curiouser and curiouser, he thought, unaware that he was quoting Alice in Wonderland. Hah, what a sap.
...I'll shut up now.
He decided to take a look at it, seeing as he would never be able to fall asleep anyways, and thus would get dark circles around his gorgeous grey eyes and end up looking like a vampire. That look is notoriously trite and very last year, he noted with much horror, shaking his blankets of himself and getting up.
The contraption has buttons. Little plastic buttons. With numbers. This was a tad ominous, Draco decided. The beige color of the contraption was a little frightening, as well; he knew for a fact that though olive green is blatantly evil, beige is the silent killer.
The buttons, though... they were very glossy. Draco liked glossy things. He pressed one button for a moment, just to see what would happen.
It beeped.
Draco jumped. My god, this thing is definitely murderous.
He decided that messing with the unknown occult is an incredibly idiotic and Gryffindor thing to do. Thus, he went back to his mattress, a little shaken, and lay himself to sleep.
But the buttons continued to haunt his dreams, their beige rich and gorgeous as the gleaming, raven black numbers caressed him lustily, whispering dirty words in his ears and --
...I promised to shut up, didn't I?