Disclaimer:
"Is there a way I can find you,
Is there a sign I should know,
Is there a road I could follow
To answer your question no?"
One of the beautiful things about being a ComposerBird is that no one pays any attention to you whatsoever.
Sure, one might notice that you're not singing (CageBirds are very handy for stealth for just that reason), but a FolkBird can whistle Dixie until it's blue in the crop and no one will notice the wonderful layers of inflection, tone, and phrasing that are second nature to a ComposerBird. Some folks will even try to sing along – there's no easier way than to turn a BeethovenBird into a CageBird than thinking that you have the same kind of musical sense as said BeethovenBird.
But just because they had their own musical sense, and just because they occasionally fought amongst themselves for what appeared to be banal reasons (though many music majors at any reputable institute of higher learning will completely understand the battles – Tchakovsky's First Concerto vs. Second? Argerich vs. Van Cliburn? Ossia vs. non-ossia?). But ComposerBirds, being magical creatures, were actually highly intelligent. They couldn't say a whole lot, but those birds didn't miss a trick. In actuality, they were a kind of collective intelligence, each one adding to the whole and being far more than the sum of their parts. This is why they each specialized in one composer.
Because of this, now we find our ComposerBirds, in the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest, holding court on a matter of some importance.
A WilliamsBird sang the "Theme from Harry Potter". ("So what do you think about Harry Potter?")
Another WilliamsBird responded with the "Imperial March". ("The darkness is out to get him.")
A BeethovenBird sang the familiar four note motif to Beethoven's Fifth. ("It's fate").
But another BeethovenBird sang the chorus to Beethoven's ninth. ("But he deserves to be happy".)
A JoelBird sang "Piano Man", and got promptly escorted out for trying to derail the discussion. ("Sing us a song, you're the ERK")
A FranklinBird sang "What's Love Got to do with it?" ("Yes, but is it our business to interfere?")
A BeatleBird sang "All you Need is Love" ("If we can do something about it, shouldn't we?")
A RoxetteBird sang "Listen to your heart" (duh)
A DebussyBird sang "Claire de Lune" ("But what about Luna?")
All the birds were quiet for a moment.
"Love is a Many Splendored Thing", a MovieThemeBird sang. ("I love Luna.")
A CockerBird sang "You are so beautiful." ("She has a beautiful soul.")
The birds were quiet for a moment again, thinking quietly. The CageBird had a lot to say, but no one noticed.
A VanHalenBird sang "Jump" ("Let's do it!")
All the other birds chattered. It was decided.
While every single one of the birds sang one bar from the James Bond theme, a CageBird flew off to see what ol' Voldie was up to.
Speaking of Ol' Voldie, he was in a rage. He had been reading through the Daily Prophets, and what he saw did not only disturb him, but it even scared him, though he would never admit it. All of his plans were going completely awry. Crouch was caught before he could do anything, the rest of his death eaters were being dealt with pretty harshly, Amelia had cleaned out Azkaban and was milking the prisoners formerly housed there for information, and Dumbledore had done something really unexpected and grown a backbone.
Of course, anyone with half a brain (and whose soul wasn't split into seven pieces) could see that Voldemort's plan was a half-baked, idiotic plan with a chance of success that was slightly less than the chance of, say, a future pop star named Justin Bieber suddenly sitting down and writing a piano concerto on par with Rachmaninoff's third. No, just as Mr. Bieber would be hard pressed to write something with more musical complexity than "Twinkle, Twinkle, Patrick Star", Voldemort's pointy pointy head had come up with a rather obviously Rube Goldbergesque monstrosity of a plan that requires approximately six hundred different variables to all go exactly right.
Which is why, obviously, if Harry had not sat down that day and prompted the Goblet to act, they likely would have. The world of magic was unexplored and apparently utterly nonsensical in all its forms. Who else would have come up with prime numbers for sickles and knuts, other than a society which accepted and even nurtured its highly improbable nature?
All of this is a long-winded and vaguely condescending way to say that Voldemort was in a pickle.
As he ranted and raved, and fired cruciatus curses indiscriminately, even hitting a small potted plant, a CageBird sat quietly outside, gathering information to report back to its friends.
Scene Change
As Arthur Dent and the now infamous ship with the Improbability drive, based upon BistroMath(tm) came out of FTL transit around the earth, the drive ramped down from perfect improbability to stable probabilities. As this happened random objects came into being, most of which promptly disintegrated or otherwise were destroyed.
Except for one potted plant.
This poor plant fell through the earth's atmosphere at exactly the right angle, speed, and trajectory to land in a small graveyard outside a rundown house in the United Kingdom. It, in fact, landed right next to a gravestone labeled "Marvolo Riddle".
One day the old Muggle caretaker, a few years before, found this plant next to the grave, and deciding that a distant relative had come by to pay respect, took the plant in and made sure it was well taken care of.
What he did not realize was that this plant was yet another incarnation of a being whose ultimate demise seemed to always be centered around Arthur Dent, and he knew, as he was falling, whose fault it was that he ended up in a small drawing room with an awful looking homunculus and a squirrelly looking rat-faced man.
That was not a surprise. It was also not a surprise when the potted plant got hit by a stray cruciatus curse, and ended up smashed on the floor, cursing the name of Arthur Dent as it expired in great pain.
Scene Change
Dolores Umbridge stepped off the boat on the harbor of New Cincinnati, its majestic skyline spread out before her in all its spectacular glory. Simulacrums of automobiles travelled every which way on the maze of freeway ramps heading on and off the Brent Spence bridge, moving towards and through downtown, and crossing the river again at the golden arches. It was early morning, and all of the residents of New Cincinnati were tuning up their televisions for a round of watching the Jerry Springer show.
Umbridge was assaulted by the many sights and smells of Cincinnati, both old and new.
Like everyone else who had been sent to live in New Cincinnati, the wailing could be heard from the top of the Proctor and Gamble building.
Its only saving grace was that it was not New Toledo.
That would definitely be cruel and unusual punishment.
Thankfully, Carty Finkbeiner was not a dark lord. Or, at least, not a very good one.
Scene Change
After having performed a quick but fair trial for Lucius Malfoy, outfitted with magic suppressing manacles and a lovely parting gift, Lucius Malfoy was led down to the death chamber, deep underneath the Ministry of Magic. The mood was somber, all realizing that Malfoy, who was heretofore a reviled but also respected august member of the wizengamot and all around good - well, rich anyway - man.
The somber procession finally made its way into the death chamber, where Amelia was ready to have the sentence carried out.
"Lucius Malfoy, you have been sentenced to death by veil. We are here to carry out your sentence. Any last words?"
Malfoy nodded.
"At least it's not New Cincinnati".
Amelia shuddered a little, and with no further fanfare, Lucius stepped into the veil with as much dignity as he could muster, and he was gone.
But before Amelia could leave, the black veil started to rustle, and before she could react, Malfoy found himself thrown back out of the veil at high speed, hitting the wall of the chamber with a sickening crunch.
He did not move.
But the veil did. An ethereal, ghostly voice came out of the veil.
"Why did you have to do that", the veil said.
Amelia's mouth dropped open.
"I was just sitting here, minding my business, being a veil, when you shoved... that... through me. You shove a lot through me, no dinner, no movie, not even a 'may I', but that? That is the worst thing you have ever shoved through me, bar none. Have you no shame, woman? People have thrown murderers through me, they have thrown rapists, and that was all of them... but someone who unashamedly watches Jerry Springer? Find some other way to send it to hell. And next time, buy me dinner before shoving unsavory things through me. I like a nice chianti with my shrimp scampi."
The veil stilled.
Amelia stared at the veil for a full two minutes, not moving once, her mouth forming the shape of the words "What... The..."
The Aurors that accompanied her shook themselves out of it, and went to check up on Malfoy.
He was dead.
But the Dark Mark on his left arm was gone.
The hamsters in Amelia's mind suddenly got a shot of adrenaline, and the Giant Wheel Array that marked her thought processes (and also her occlumency shield) started spinning so hard that metaphorical smoke started arising from metaphorical overheating bearings. What if...
She had to talk to Albus.
Meanwhile, Harry was heading back to Gringotts with a claim form. While he didn't inherit many lines, he agreed with Dumbledore that there might be some neat stuff sitting in the vaults that might help in the fight against the dark. So they walked back in and saw the account manager yet again.
"What can I do for you", the account manager said, with a touch of a sneer.
Harry held out his claim form. "I am the rightful heir to these lines".
The Goblin (whose name was "sha-ree-GACK-gibblegobble-wipNE'mack", but we will call him Sharee – although Harry will not) took a careful look at the claim form, reached into his desk, and pulled out a couple of vault keys.
"Here. The Smith-Smythe-Smith vault, number 532, and the Zinc-Trumpet-Harris family, number 835. Appears the last representatives of their families died in an 'Upper Class Twit of the Year' event twenty years ago."
After an exciting trip in the vault where Dumbledore seemed to lose twenty years as he whooped. First they reached vault number 835. There were not many interesting things in that vault, although there was a very attractive table lamp. Harry decided to leave it until later.
Vault 532 was an entirely different manner. Yes, for some reason, there were some very large toothbrushes, but he found a pile of books – none of which looked like they had been touched for hundreds of years. One of those books was "Magic Most Fowle", by Pliny the Really Young, which appeared to describe ways to create and purify many dark artifacts through the use of chickens and other fowl.
There was one very interesting ritual, one that seemed to hold a lot of promise for their future goals, so one copying spell later, and one whooping trip later, they were walking back down Diagon Alley.
Dumbledore seemed to be under the impression that that was one clucking useful book.
Scene Change
That evening found Amelia wearing one of her nicest dresses – a form-fitting little black number that showed a lot of skin where it counted and hid just enough skin to not count as indecent. She even shone up her dress monocle, and let her hair down into pretty silver waves. She was dressed for bear.
Karkaroff wasn't much different – he had put on his best set of robes, and had slicked back his hair.
After a very nice meal in which they discussed many different things, they were finishing up their dessert.
Amelia placed her spoon in her mouth upside down and made eye contact, licking the spoon clean.
Karkaroff stared at her, entranced.
She took another lick.
Five minutes later, they flooed back to her apartment, and
CENSORED – THIS IS A T RATED FIC
Amelia sighed happily, letting the riding crop fall out of her hands as she blissfully closed her eyes, feeling more relaxed than she had in a very long time. This was a very good night.
Karkaroff didn't even try to get loose.
Scene Change
Meanwhile, Harry, Hermione, and Luna were all sprawled on the couch, Harry and Hermione sitting close to each other while Luna sat on Harry's lap and let her legs dangle over Hermione's knees. She was not asleep, but she was purring like a kitten as Harry played with her hair. Hermione was reading a book.
Neville came down, looking angry, and started stalking towards the door. Harry called out to him.
"Neville, come here."
He stopped, but made no move to go closer.
"Why?", he seethed.
Harry smiled. "Hermione needs someone to play with her hair."
Neville and Hermione both pinked. She lowered her head bashfully.
"Really, Hermione?"
Hermione nodded, not meeting Neville's eyes.
One minute later, Hermione had awkwardly planted herself in Neville's lap, and she started purring as well.
It was a good evening. Amongst the four, all were involved in hair-playing, either as the player or the playee. And all were content.
A/N:
This one did not come easy. It ended up a bit more cracky than I wanted, but the crackiness does serve to advance the plot, even if a little, and, well, what the hell. It's not like I ever took this seriously anyway. If I get bad review for this one, well, I guess I had it coming. Who knows, I may end up rewriting it, or just removing it altogether, depending on how much guff I get for it.
There are a lot of different references to a lot of different things in this chapter – some actually rather obscure. If you don't understand something, a simple google search will explain all. Some of it you will likely find unexpectedly entertaining.
For those who might say that this is an M, well:
Omake:
Amelia grabbed Karkaroff's hand. She had taken him to her horse farm. Karkaroff, though, had never ridden a horse, so she made sure that he was secured into the saddle so he didn't hurt himself. She smacked the horse on the rump, and like a good horse, it sauntered away. Karkaroff was a bit scared, but as he got into it, he found he was starting to enjoy it.
Amelia sighed happily, letting the riding crop fall out of her hands as she blissfully closed her eyes, feeling more relaxed than she had in a very long time. This was a very good night.
Karkaroff didn't even try to get loose.
End Omake
Plausible deniability is a great thing, ain't it?
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