Disclaimer: Long time no see! And when I say long time, I mean Shame-on-you-you-lousy-excuse-for-an-author long time. As a matter of fact, it has been almost a year since I last posted. Don't tell anyone. I heard they throw people in Azkaban for that. All right, now that we have established that I am a disgrace to the world of FanFiction, on with the disclaiming! Not much has changed. I still own neither Hogwarts nor Honeydukes nor Hogsmeade, or anything else from the Harry Potter series. Nor, for that matter, do I own the 70's rock band Queen (though that would be siriusly spiffy).

Deanna: You spelled serious wrong, you loony American. SA: I know. It's meant to be a bad pun on Sirius Black's name….by the way, folks, I don't own SB, I just stalk him.

Deanna: But it's still wrong because it's not capitalized. SA: So? D: Sirius is meant to be capitalized! SA: Silence! I own you! And your family! I also own the O'Malcons! D: Bah! They're just a bloody carbon copy of the Malfoys! SA: Ah, but they're Irish, so they're better. D: Can't argue with that. SA: I thought so. I also own Paddy and Paddy's ancestors! I also own this glass of milk. D: You mean the one I just drank? SA: You are so dead! D: Eeeeep!

Confessions of a Ranting Deatheater Chapter I: Family History and Potatoes

Like most kids, I went through various phases concerning what I wanted to do with my future life. There was a time when I wanted to play Quidditch for Ireland (out of the question: I was decent at best, mediocre at medium and abysmal once in a blue moon). There was a time when I wanted to start a rock band, a time when I wanted to be a circus clown, a time when I wanted to be an astrophysicist (I had no idea what an astrophysicist was, but I'd heard the word from one of our Muggle neighbors and it sounded undeniably cool). And years later, I would set my sights on becoming an Auror. Never in a million years had I imagined myself becoming a Death Eater. McCuhulains, as a general rule, didn't get involved in dark arts or Wizarding bigotry. "Leave that sort of nonsense to the O'Malcons," my father always used to say.

The McCuhulains are one of the two oldest Irish pureblood families; that's us and the O'Malcons. Both families have always been proud of their respective heritage and history. And a good part of that heritage and history is that the two families had, since the earliest of records, generally hated each others' guts. Think Gryffindor versus Slytherin and you'll have some idea of McCuhulain-O'Malcon relations. The key modern-day…disagreement between the two clans was on the subject of blood. The O'Malcons had a general tendency to place an unnecessary importance on the purity of blood, while we McCuhulains….well….didn't. Both clans believed themselves to be right, and neither would accept the other's convictions on the matter.

We McCuhulains trace our ancestry back to the obscurely legendary Cuhulain. According to the more well-known version of this little-known legend, Cuhulain was a man of incredible strength who, once upon a time, accidentally killed his neighbor's dog. When the neighbor complained that his family no longer had a dog to protect them from enemies, he pledged that he would do the dog's former duty, and took on the name "Cuhulain" or "dog." He went on to fight many battles, and there are a good many other tales, in which fact is all but indistinguishable from the imaginings of drunken story-tellers. One tale, however, rings clear: the story of Cuhulain's death. He was struck down fending off a great army of enemies. When he fell, the army hung back, fearful of a trap, for Cuhulain had fought with an almost unnatural fierceness, and no one wanted to go any closer until they were sure he was dead. 'Twas not until a great yellow bird swooped down and began drinking Cuhulain's blood that the enemy troops proceeded to invade the Keep.

The Wizarding sequence of events, however, is a slightly different version, in which Cuhulain takes his role as guard dog a step further and becomes an Animagus, actually turning himself into a dog, which would later become the symbol of the McCuhulain clan. The O'Malcons' family crest has varied through the ages. Sometimes it has resembles something along the lines of a canary, sometimes it looks more like a falcon. Always, the bird is yellow, and often with blood on its beak or talons.

You make the connection.

Thus, we have been feuding on and off with the O'Malcons since the early Middle Ages. Ooh! There's this one really great story about the time my great-great-times-infinity grand-something-or-other stole the O'Malcons' house-elf. 'Twas in the late 15 or early 16 hundreds, and the McCuhulain family had fallen on hard times. The way our current house-elf Paddy told it, our ancestor Connor McCuhulain was too poor to have "a pot to pi—erm…do his business in." I asked Paddy why Connor didn't make one out of clay.

"He woulda done if he'd had enough money for clay," Paddy explained, exasperated. "Honestly, child, 'tis only the beginning of the story and ye already have questions! Do ye have ta have everything spelled out for ya?"

"But Paddy," I puzzled, "Isn't clay made out of dirt?"

"He was too poor to afford dirt. 'Tis implied."

"You had to pay for dirt back then?"

"Do ye want ta hear the story or no?"

"Yes."

"Then sit down, eat your chocolate frog 'n be quiet!"

Anyhow, Connor McCuhulain was poor to an absurd degree. Had invested everything in some ocean venture involving the spice trade in Asia, and lost it all when the ship exploded for no apparent reason a hundred yards out. Paddy suspects that there was some sabotage on the part of the O'Malcons. But then Paddy will also tell anyone who will listen that the O'Malcons were responsible for the Irish Potato Famine. Whether or not the O'Malcons were involved in the financial catastrophe, the fact remained that there was no money. In fact, Connor owed money to just about everyone else involved in the venture. Apparently he had neglected to read the fine print on some bit of parchment he had signed. Thus, everything was sold to pay off the debts and all 19 McCuhulains went to live in a one-room hut with a roof that didn't know how to stay thatched. So, there was Connor without two bronze Knuts to rub together and with a horde of family-members to feed,13 of whom were ravenous teenagers who looked like they might tear down the hut and eat it if he didn't do something fast. At first, pride wouldn't let him, but when the teenagers started showing signs of considering cannibalism, Connor McCuhulain did the unimaginable: he turned to the O'Malcons.

"Wait a minute, Paddy," I interrupted at this point in the story. "I don't understand."

"Don't understand what?"

"It's just, how come Connor didn't transfigure something into food?"

"One of the teenagers ate his wand," Paddy answered. Paddy always had an answer for just about everything. Not necessarily a correct answer, but an answer nonetheless.

"Didn't anybody else in the family have a wand?" I asked.

"What? Multiple wands in a household in those days?" Paddy exclaimed. "Yeh'd have ta be outa yer mind! But I'm forgettin', ya haven't been ta Hogwarts yet. Ye see, Deanna, back in those days, there were lots o' witch hunts happenin' off and on just about all the time. Muggles those days weren't quite as smart back then. Liked to set fire ta things, see. Don't know why; that's just the way it was. Back in those days, ya had ta be precious careful about what kind of magical things ya left layin' around. Looked kinda suspicious, don't ya know. And of course, 'twas simply easier not to leave things lyin' around if ya only had one of 'em. So lots o' families had only one wand. Now, back to the story, if ya don't mind."

So, Connor went to Frank O'Malcon, who found the whole situation quite amusing.

"So, McCuhulain, I hear you lost a ship. However did you manage that?" O'Malcon smirked.

"Blew up. Any idea how that might've happened?" Connor said pointedly.

" My guess would be gunpowder. Muggles are always toying with things that make a bigger mess than they can clean up. I suppose that this is what comes of doing business with them," O'Malcon sneered. "So what brings you here, McCuhulain? Not looking for charity, surely? 'Twould be a grievous thing to see the mighty house of McCuhulain fall so far."
"Ye need not…. 'grieve' yourself, O'Malcon," Connor forced out through gritted teeth. "I was actually….wondering, in fact…..if you might mayhap have some…..work that I might do….maybe."

"Pardon? Methinks I did not quite catch that," O'Malcon put his hand to his ear mockingly. "Could you repeat it? And mayhap annunciate a bit better this time?"

"I—was wondering," Connor glared, "If I could work for you."

"Weeell," O'Malcon drawled with a venomous smile, "For a fellow pureblood, I can certainly arrange something." ( Paddy seemed to think that the "venomous smile" was very important to the story. He never left it out, no matter how many times he told the story. Or any other story that involved O'Malcons, for that matter. A recurring detail, and one that didn't change, whether Paddy had a pint in him or not.)

Anyhow, Connor McCuhulain went over to the O'Malcon estate and spent the day doing every degrading task that Frank O'Malcon could think of. At the end of the day, O'Malcon threw a handful of coins on the floor, watched Connor pick them up, and then left the room. Extremely depressed, Connor turned to leave as well, when a random house elf appeared out of nowhere.

"Erm…hello," Connor told the rather shabby-looking house elf, which was dressed in what appeared to be an assortment of rather grubby bits of parchment.

"Sir McCuhulain," the ragged creature said with a quick bow. "You left your coat in the kitchen."

Connor blinked. " I did?" For some reason, he did not recall bringing it with him at all.

"Aye," the house-elf nodded. "Or, leastwise, 'tis in the kitchen now, so I suppose ye must have done…unless, o' course someone else put it there for ye ta find."

"Is that something that someone is likely to have done?" Connor inquired.

"Don't be askin' Tatty," the house-elf replied. "Tatty knows nothin' o' clothes. Mayhap coats go walkin' around by themselves all the time, for all I know."

Connor blinked. Again. If he was not very much mistaken, this 'Tatty' person had just exhibited something remarkably close to sarcasm. A sarcastic house-elf…was that even possible? Connor shook his head. He was too tired to bother with magical paradoxes at the moment.

"Right then, 'Tatty' is it? Which way is the kitchen?"

"This way," Tatty chirped, leading the way down a corridor. "We'll take the servants' corridor so we don't run inta' the bastar—I mean the master." Right then, as if possessed, Tatty's left hand shot up and yanked his own ear. He continued walking as normal.

"So," said Connor. "You're O'Malcon's house-elf then?"

"Were ye thinkin' I was here for the company?" Tatty returned dryly.

They arrived in the kitchen, where Tatty gestured to a green coat that Connor recognized as his own. Go figure. He picked it up and put it on, thanked the house-elf, and was on his way through the back door when he suddenly stopped. His hand had encountered an unfamiliar object in his right pocket. He pulled out a bundle that contained several well-packaged slices of chicken pie wrapped in a napkin. Further inspection of the pocket revealed that someone had somehow managed to cram a fair quantity of bread in the bottom of the pocket. And the left pocket, from the feel of it, seemed to be similarly stuffed. Astonished, Connor turned to look at the house-elf.

Tatty winked. "Make sure ye be bringin' your coat with ya when ye come again. Wouldn't want ta catch a cold, would ye?"

By the time Connor went home, he had decided upon the most sensible course of action: feed his family with the house-elf's gifts, and save the coins that O'Malcon had tossed for future use. Of course, O'Malcon hadn't given Connor any more than just enough for a day's food for a family of 19 (with 13 teenagers), and had not counted on Connor's having any other means of procuring food.

Thus began a pattern that lasted for about six months. Connor would do O'Malcon's bidding for the day, pick up the coins, pass through the kitchen to receive food from Tatty, and then return home. The money was always set aside to someday get the McCuhulain family back on their feet. Connor and Tatty came to develop the sort of bond that only comes from conspiring together behind a tyrant's back.

But, after six months, O'Malcon discovered what Tatty had been up to. Connor went one day to the O'Malcon residence to find Frank O'Malcon standing in the front doorway, reddish-maroon in the face, bellowing explosively at Tatty. Strangely, Tatty didn't seem particularly concerned: he was too busy doing cartwheels across the lawn in his newly-acquired tunic.

"How dare you!" O'Malcon roared at the house-elf. "You are BANISHED! DISGRACED! Be gone from here immediately!"

"I fooled ye! I fooooled ye!" Tatty chanted in a sing-song voice, trampling through the O'Malcons' flower bed. "Ye old fool! Ya actually thought you were punishing me, didn't ya! Ya really thought 'twould be a punishment ta be free of ye, ya stinkin', reekin', poisonous, odious, bastardly, dastardly, arrogant, stuck-up, bird-brained, fornicating son-of-a-bitch! Ha-ha-ha Tra-la-la Fa-la-la! I foooooooled ye! I'm freeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"

O'Malcon stood gaping as the house-elf burst into an Irish jig. Connor doubled over, laughing uncontrollably.

"McCuhulain," hissed O'Malcon, " 'Tis only the house-elf who's leaving. I am not finished with you yet, McCuhulain. And I swear to you, you impudent lying blood-traitor, you won't be laughing much longer." O'Malcon then rounded on Tatty. "And you!" he spat. "You forget that you are now homeless, friendless, and disgraced! Where do you think you will go? What do you think you will do? Fool! Oh yes, you are free! Free to starve in the street!"

"Not if I have anything to say about it," Connor stepped in. "Tatty and all of his descendents will always have a home with the McCuhulains! And no chicken-hearted snake of an O'Malcon is ever going to change that!"

"McCuhulain, if you take that demented little wretch with you," O'Malcon threatened, "You will never work here again, nor for any other wizard who values his reputation. You know my influence. You know what I am capable of. And if you give that filthy urchin so much as a crust of bread, I swear you will get no more help from me."

Connor seemed to contemplate a moment, shrugged, and then took Tatty's hand. "Goodbye then, O'Malcon!" he said cheerfully. "I think I've had quite enough of your… 'help' for one lifetime."

"I do hope, Sir McCuhulain," Tatty said as he and Connor walked away, leaving O'Malcon to spit and squawk. "That ye've saved the coins?"

"Of course," Connor answered. "Why?"

"I would like ta suggest a wee…investment," Tatty grinned.

"Well, I suppose I should get a wand," Connor discussed. "There should be a wee bit left over afterwards. What do ye suggest?"

"Buy a potato."

"A what?"

"A potato."

"One of those funny brown lumps from the Americas?"

"Aye."

"Why?"

"Well, once ye've got one, ye'll know more about them, and then ye can transfigure, say, dirt clods ta make more."

"What would I do with a bunch of potatoes?"

"Eat some, plant the others."

"But why potatoes?"

"'Tis a good, wholesome food, 'tis a commodity, and 'tis fairly easy ta grow, from what I'm told. If ye grow 'em here in Ireland, ye'll be able ta sell 'em for lower prices than the imported ones, so more people will buy 'em. Be the first ta start mass-producin' potatoes and ye'll be well ta do in no time."

McCuhulain shook his head. "Why would anyone want to buy a brown lumpy thing? It'll never catch on!"

"Trust me," Tatty insisted. "I may not know much about wands or clothes or the Spanish Inquisition, but I know food! 'Twould not surprise me if the whole o' Ireland'll be livin' on em' in 20 years or so. Ye get yer wand, and then let me get the potato."

Of course, Tatty was right. After two years, they started construction of the new McCuhulain manor, built on the foundations of some ancient Celtic ruins. And by the time that construction was finished, five years later, the McCuhulain family had officially adopted the policy of trusting Tatty unconditionally. However, Tatty continued to maintain his position as a free elf, and was never bound to the McCuhulain family as a servant. Actually, he was more like an adopted family-member than anything else. The generation following Connor took to addressing the house-elf as "Uncle Tatty," and regarded him as a third parent-figure.

In the fifteen years following the McCuhulains' rise back into fortune, the O'Malcons realized just what a valuable asset they had lost, and often accused the McCuhulains of "stealing their house-elf." This led to a few brawls, duels, skirmishes, and minor battles, which accomplished nothing whatsoever on either side, except to convince each family that they had satisfied their honor. But, in about 20 years, the O'Malcons forgot this particular grievance: by then, the two families had something new to fight about. I believe it had something to do with Quidditch, beer, and stampeding sheep.

Author's note: I love summer! For one thing, I actually had time to work on this fanfic, and on an original novel I'm attempting to write (literary nerds unite!) Also, I've started going back to karate again (Kiya!) And I went to see Il Divo in concert. (Drool Their voices alone make me swoon. And let's not even get started on the rest of them.) Ooh! Also, I got to dress up as a pirate to entertain little kids! I got to say "Yarrr!" and "Harrr!" all I wanted! (ok, so I need help). Lately I've been reading things I actually want to read! (I recommend Maximum Ride: The Angel Experiment by James Patterson for anyone who enjoys the occasional sci-fi/thriller-with-a-dash-of-humor-and-some-angst-on-the-side. one of my new favorites). And, of course, I recommend the essential fantasy masters: J.R.R. Tolkien (if you don't like The Hobbit, try the LotR trilogy, if you don't like the trilogy, try The Hobbit), J.K. Rowling (in case you haven't guessed), and Terry Goodkind's Sword of Truth series (WARNING: NEVER write a fanfic on his work. It is officially FORBIDDEN. Goodkind will smite you if you try it.) No reviews as of yet, except for my friend, ClearlyCanadian. She gets a free Johnny Depp. And you don't. Ever. I do, however, have a few elves in the back room. Get 'em while supplies last!