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How's this for a long chapter! It used to be longer, but we had to cut it in half. Anyways, we're hoping for lots of reviews! Thank you everyone for reviewing last time, but you know it people...you can do better!

As for not updating in two weeks-I'm an evil person. A very busy evil person. So see?

Yes.

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Chapter 9: Yeah! With a Danish on side

Harry was sitting on his bed again, reading a book McGonagall had assigned for his sixth year:

"How To Transfigure Better Than Yo Mama."

Good old McGonagall.

The title always made Harry laugh; he could already transfigure better than his mom. Lily Potter was dead. Dead people can't transfigure very well, you see? Get it? Get it? Ha ha ha…

So, Harry was reading. And yawning. It was only two weeks since he had returned to the Dursley's evil abode of abuse. Later he would thank them though; he learned how to cook well during his stay. Or maybe he wouldn't thank them. Obnoxious, ungrateful little snob. It was only two days after he was mystified by the realization that it was Voldemort he had to kill, not Doc Ock. He'd spent an hour blankly staring at his textbooks, wondering why they superbly and terrifically failed to say AP Physics. He was tired.

Only two weeks into the summer, and Harry was already studying. He wanted to be an Auror terribly. So he studied. Every few minutes he would open up Hermione's schedule, which was lying temporarily closed on his bed. The shouts that issued from it both kept him awake and gave him encouragement for yelling. Harry loved to yell. Loved, loved, loved. Lovely, yelling is. He practiced, you see.

Despite the hip, young lingo in the transfiguration book, Harry was getting bored. He glanced over to the window, wondering when Hedwig would be back.

"What is that?" he wondered aloud, his eye twitching like only Harry's eyes could.

Harry got up from the bed and walked over to the window.

"What you doin', dawg?"

"What, where? Oh…" Harry looked at his ghetto transfiguration book and sighed. He had blissfully forgotten that it spoke. Damn magic.

"Homie, I say, you. Whatchoo diggin' at?"

"Er. Yes," he said, attempting to ignore the fact that he actually hadn't much of an idea of what the book what actually trying to communicate in the first place.

Harry turned back to the window. He had opened it earlier for some air. Now something was sitting on it.

"I said, whatchoo trippin' bout?" the book said from behind him.

Harry picked up the odd object. "It appears that I am 'tripping about' a Swedish pastry," said Harry, picking up the Danish from the window sill and examining it. He looked out into the night sky for a Danish crop growing among the weeds and junk commonly found in the suburbs. Nope, no pastry crop. Hm. Strange, that.

Now that would be a good use of magic. Rather than rapping books….

"You making a joke, you think you a gangsta? Huh, huh? You think you all gansta, tripping about some bread, yo. In the ghetto we ain't got no bread, ma, every book fo' hisself, man, you no wha' im sayin' man? You wanna take this outside! You ain't got nothing on me, dude. You wanta take it outside man! I could take yoo ou' wi' my eyes closed, man…"

Harry looked up from examining the pastry. "Yo' mama wanta take it outside," he replied in an imperious British accent, somehow managing to make the Z formation look dignified and distinguished.

The ghetto book looked affronted. "You-"

The book was cut off short as Harry replaced the Danish on the windowsill and firmly closed its cover. Muffled and disgruntled rapping could be heard from inside, then, miraculously, a heavy stereo beat played from, apparently, inside the pages. Harry briefly pondered the reasoning of a closed paper text-book somehow containing a large surround sound stereo, and then he ran his hand through his messy black hair and forgot all about it.

"Where did this come from?" he said, referring to the mysterious and random appearance of a pastry on his window-not that it was a bad thing, "Kind of odd. A pastry suddenly on the window. I mean, what are the odds?" Harry's keen and sharp intellect hunkered down for some serious deep thinking time, but he was rudely interrupted by an eerie wind, the window rattling slightly.

Harry moved towards it, in an effort to shut it. "Bloody eerie winds, always have to crop up just when I'm feeling comfortable, then I have to up-and-at-em, bloody villains, never give you a moments rest, damned plot, just has to keep going, there's always something wrong when you want it to be right…" He peered down through the night. Sure enough, something was wrong. Then Harry's spidey-ahem, hero senses kicked in.

"Something's wrong!" he yelled heroically.

He leaned over the window and looked into the dark shadows below (of course, he didn't bother to look in the light shadows…) He didn't need spidey sense. He had Leading Character in the Biggest Series in a Decade Sense! His heroic cerebrum knew. It knew. Oh, yes. Knew.

"Oh no!" he cried, spinning around. But it was too late. He barely had the time to eat the Danish and grab his wand before a gust of wind from the inside of the room tipped him forcefully out the window.

He landed in a bush below with a thuddish thump. A cat shrieked and it pounced from the bush and frantically crawled under the fence. Harry swore as a light switched on somewhere inside the house. You had to give it to the Dursley's, at least one of them was color-blind and stupid, but none of them were deaf.

"Oh shite." Harry backed up against the wall in an effort not to be seen. It was pitch black outside, thankfully not a sunny night, the shadows were all properly dark, but just in case… In doing so, he knocked against something hard.

"What the…?" It seemed to be a book. He opened it. And froze.

"What the f-in hell was that man! Not fly, not hot homie!"

"No problem, I'll just throw the bloody book back up through the window and…damn, I wish we had a trellis," mumbled the boy in Abercrombie pajamas hysterically.

But before he could do so, he felt another object, an old newspaper or something. And he felt an annoyingly familiar tug behind his belly button.

Harry felt a rush of sickening movement, then landed with another thumpish thud in someplace that the author will not specify for lack of any inkling herself where and what the hell this particular place might be. It took him a few minutes to recollect himself.

"That was unexpected…"

"Foshizzle, yo."

Harry froze for the second time in ten minutes. (No, five. No, three. Wait…) Rapping books do that to preppy Abercrombie-wearing boys. If only Voldemort and his posse knew about this…it would be so easy to make The-Boy-Who-Lived The-Boy-Who-Used-To-Live.

"What the bloody hell is that doing here?" said Harry angrily. Anger has to have a recipient of some sort, so we'll conclude that the recipient of Harry's anger was the world. Any sort of world who sends boys on adventures with rapping transfiguration manuals and Danish pastries is screwed. (a.k.a., the authors' imaginations…)

But stuck with sudden and obscure wisdom, he picked up his transfiguration school book and figured that the book just might save his life. Well, you never know.

"Besides," he said out loud, "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. And what does kill you makes you dead!"

Secure in his unfathomable intellect, the boy skipped off, book rapping in hand.

Take that, rewind it back

Harry Potter got the brain to make your

Booty go (slap).

Belatedly Harry began to pay attention to where he was (as did the author…). He kept skipping, glancing around left and right at the woods around him. The woods were thick, not only with trees, but with shadows. Harry tried not to stop skipping, even though some shadows seemed to be following him, stealthily slipping between the trees.

His skip had stopped, though not completely. Every few steps he would give a half-hearted, limping, alone little half-skip. He frequently looked over his shoulder. Maybe he was hallucinating, but the shadows still seemed to follow him.

Hey Potta', it's that fear

That makes you skip papa

Get out your wand and

Make some light, Potta'

"I would, but more underage magic and being released from the laws that apply to every other wizard in our world would really make me realize that I can't take care of myself, and that in the end, it's always my friends or teachers that save my famous arse. I'd rather deny that."

Harry continued his funny half-hearted skip, now genuinely scared.

"Hey, look- over there, in the distance- is that a light?"

Harry squinted, (not that this helped at all) and he became sure that there was indeed a light far off.

He took a look around. The shadows seemed to have disappeared for a moment. Maybe they were all a dream. Ooo. Fun. He liked dreams. They had people screaming.

As Harry approached, book in arm, he found the light to be a fire. Two people were standing near it. Harry came within one hundred feet of it, and stopped short. Now there was only one person at the fire, the other seeming to have disappeared, and Harry nearly gasped dramatically with recognition. It was Bellatrix Lestrange.

He prepared to turn around and half-heartedly skip in the opposite direction when a hand grabbed his shoulder.

"Were we going somewhere, Mr. Potter?"

Harry flinched as the voice whispered into his ear and blond hair flowed over his shoulder, then smiled cheerfully. "Well, actually, I was trying to esca-"

"You remember me, don't you, Harry? I believe my son is in your class…"

Harry didn't hesitate, he was well prepared for cliché conversations, "Yes, I remember you, Mr. Malfoy. I had no idea how free you were. It's sad that Tom has no one better than you to do his dirty work. Oh, and how's the family?"

"Aah…Voldemort could not be here tonight. He had…"

Harry took a moment to stash his book in his sweatshirt (which matched his pajama bottoms, thank you very much) as Lucius chose his words and led Harry to the fire.

"He had…other plans. He'll be absolutely delighted to meet you soon. You'll have to stay here tonight, I'm afraid."

Harry and Mr. Malfoy reached the fire. He hadn't bothered to try to run away. He knew he wouldn't get far. He was a good wizard, but he knew he wasn't good enough to take on two death eaters in the middle of an unknown forest. Especially, especially, if he didn't want to rip his pajamies. He doubted many girls liked the gangster look. And even if they did, he reckoned the pooh bear print didn't help much.