"Bummer." Said Dumbledore lightly, executing a shoddy Airflare.
"This is serious, Albus." Sighed Beric. "The entire fate of the world is in our hands."
"Jacob will sort it out." Dumbledore called, toprocking in the centre of the dais. "He's the chosen one."
Dondarrion turned to Jacob. "Is this true?" He asked, sceptically.
"Yeah, kind of." Said Jacob. "I mean, I will sort it out. But I'm not the chosen one, or anything."
The Hound snorted. "So why did that prancing old git say you were?"
Jacob shrugged. "Every time Dumbledore wants to get out of doing work, he makes up a fake prophecy and tells people it's their destiny. Last week he had Neville trimming his ear hair, because of a prophecy he 'read' in a bran muffin. The week before he had Snape bent over the-"
"But can you do it?" Beric interrupted. "Can you help save Hogwarts from the army of the dead?"
"I can try." Said Jacob wearily. "But first I need to visit Filius and see what he's got for me."
Jacob strode purposefully out of the hall, with Beric and Sandor just two steps behind.
Flitwick answered the heavy oaken door on the second booming knock. He was perched in a special saddle on the back of an Old English Sheepdog, having lost both his legs to septicemia after cutting his finger on a rusty saxophone at a jazz festival in Poland. His room was a cluttered mess of complex diagrams, old blueprints and dangerous looking implements of torture and sexual deviancy. Pickled body parts adorned glass belljars on dusty wooden shelves, whilst prototype gimp suits hung from hooks in the ceiling. An iron maiden was propped up in one corner, with muffled screams echoing through the closed metal doors. Thumbscrews rattled on his acid-stained desk, as the maiden shook with repeated impacts from the unseen presence.
"Jacob!" He squealed pleasantly. "You've brought victims!"
"Guests." Jacob corrected. "This is Beric and The Hound." Jacob introduced his companions to the paraplegic midget.
The Hound looked Flickwick up and down in a quick, startled motion. "What the f- happened to you?" He exclaimed.
"Holiday accident." The small man explained. "I bought the wrong travel insurance and by the time I was able to secure the funds for my inoculation, it was too late." He looked at his stumps sadly.
"I'd rather be dead." Said The Hound in disgust.
Flitwick brightened. "It's not so bad," he chirped. "With Merlin here to carry me around-" He patted the long-haired sheepdog fondly. "I barely notice I've no longer got any legs."
"You've lost your legs?" The Hound gasped. "Bloody hell, I hadn't noticed, you weird little dog-bothering sod."
"Filius, you've been a great help to me in the past." Jacob broke in. "I need your help again - it's looking pretty grim this time - do you have anything new for me?"
Flitwick frowned and rummaged around in his studded denim waistcoat, before pulling out an oddly-shaped wand with a flourish. It looked almost like a mushroom, with a long pale stalk and bulbous red prominance at the tip. It began vibrating in his hand. "Whoops!" The midget cried, thrusting it back into his gillet and rummaging around again. Eventually he pulled out a spherical device, with no apparent markings on its smooth body. "Here we go!" He squealed, handing the orb to Jacob. "It's the deadliest weapon I've ever invented."
"Perfect." Smiled Jacob, running his fingers over the smooth metal of the ball.
Flitwick frowned. "It's quite untested, I'm afraid. I was just going to try it out when you knocked."
"Well what are we waiting for?" Beric said, impatiently.
Flitwick led them through a small door in the corner of the room, jostling up and down on Merlin's back. They walked through a dark, narrow coridor before coming out into a dank dungeon with green slime on the walls and several of the most hideous, foul humans any of them had ever seen chained to the walls.
"These are the test subjects." Flitwick chirped. "If all goes well, they should be obliterated in an instant."
"But wait!" Cried Jacob in alarm. "We can't kill innocent people, however ugly and disgusting they undoubtedly are."
"These aren't innocent people." Flitwick tittered. "They're Nor-folk."
"Nor-folk?" Jacob's voice ran cold. "Nor-folk." He said again, tasting the foul savour of the word. "And this weapon... does it hurt?"
"They won't feel a thing." Assured Flitwick in an avuncular manner.
Jacob scowled, fury etched across his handsome features. "That won't do," he said. "That won't do at all. Make it hurt. Make them all hurt."
Flitwick told them it would take another four days to update the device to Jacob's specifications. Beric protested that they only had a week to defeat the army of the dead, but Jacob had been insistent. His hatred for Nor-folk knew no reason, or bounds; and he was determined that they all suffer brutally. On the second day of waiting, Flitwick had brought a small bearded man with a mohawk, ripped t-shirt and a silver nose stud down to the dungeon, introducing him as a second-cousin who had come to visit. It was Tyrion Lannister!
The Hound turned to the cousins in disbelief. "I never knew you were a damn Lannister." He spat.
"Of course I am," said Tyrion. "What did you think I was."
"I thought you were a figment of my imagination." Answered The Hound, still staring at the dwarf in disbelief.
Tyrion frowned. "Why on earth would you think that?" He asked.
"Because of the way you used to knock Joffrey about and rub your dick on his lips when he was sleeping. Exactly like my fantasies."
"Joffrey..." Shuddered Tyrion. "What a little tosser. Do you remember the time he tried to grow a moustache?"
The Hound barked out a sudden, harsh laugh. "It was so translucent, it made Nearly Headless Nick look corporeal."
"I've seen more substance in Theon Greyjoy's underpants." Chuckled Tyrion, capering around the room, before doing a handstand on a nearby rack then somersaulting to his feet.
"That was a little... odd." The Hound scratched his stubbly chin. "Not really in keeping with your stereotype-defying character."
"I'm an early draft." Tyrion advised. "I don't really settle down into my final form for another few chapters."
"Hey, wait a minute!" Exclaimed The Hound. "If you're not a figment of my imagination, that means..."
Everyone in the room turned to look at him expectantly. Some of the Nor-folk gasped, but were silenced by a few brutal slashes from Jacob, who was brandishing a box-cutter like a maladroit warehouse attendant with a blatant disregard for company health and safety procedures.
The Hound looked embarrassed. "That means- t-that night, when you crawled into my bed and started licking my..."
"All real," lusted Tyrion. "It was the noblest night of my life."
"And mine!" cried The Hound, embracing Tyrion and kissing him passionately.
Beric sighed wearily. "My Lord Tyrion." He began.
Tyrion turned from The Hound regretfully and inclined his head towards Dondarrion, but didn't speak.
"You look a little- ah, different to when last I saw you, just before I rode Northwards to confront The Mountain. Have you cut your hair?"
Tyrion looked pleased. "I'm glad you noticed." He said, running his stubby fingers through the green mohawk that sat on his head like an enormous hedge growing out of an old potato. "Robbed of my birthright by my father's indifference, I have become a wandering punk."
The Hound pushed him away violently. "You're no punk!" He snorted indignantly.
"Yes I am." Tyrion looked hurt by the accusation.
"Ok then," said The Hound. "What's your favourite Sex Pistols song?"
Tyrion looked panicked for a moment, then smiled. "I don't have a favourite, I like them all."
"Pah!" The Hound snorted. "OK then, what's the name of the seminal 1998 album by Refused?"
"Ha!" Tyrion raised a finger in the air. "I know this one! It's- It's called... Relationship of Command!"
The Hound burst out laughing, a horrible, throaty sound. "That's At the Drive In, you little faker-"
"And technically, they're post-hardcore." Piped up Flitwick, who had come down to see what all the shouting was about.
"Same difference." Said Tyrion, shrugging defensively.
The entire room groaned and put their heads in their hands, even the Nor-folk, who were chained to the walls by the wrists, ankles and tongues.
"Well- I'm more of a punk musician, than an aficionado." Stammered Tyrion, turning red and fidgeting with his studded-metal collar.
"Oh really?" Asked Beric interestedly. "Then what's your favourite chord?"
Tyrion began sweating profusely, his mismatched eyes darted from side to side like vigorous snowmen absolutely smashing the beep test. "Um..." He played for time. "F..."
A few eyebrows raised appreciatively around the room, but Tyrion hadn't noticed.
"F..." He said again, opening and closing his mouth like a hazard on a miniature golf course. "F... 9sus4!" He beamed around the room.
"That's a bloody jazz chord!" Spat The Hound.
"He's right you know." Chimed in Flitwick, staring down at his stumps wistfully.
"Let's give him the benefit of the doubt." Said Beric sadly. "Tyrion, perhaps you can tell us your favourite chord progression instead?"
"Um!" Cried Tyrion, looking around the room frantically, as if searching for some means of escape. "Ah- well- it's... C sharp major- um, into F sharp major- then down to D sharp minor... and, er- back up to G sharp major."
"Fucking reggae." Exclaimed Beric in disgust. "You're into jazz-reggae, you twat."
Tyrion planted his feet obstinately. "I'm a punk." He said.
"You're a poser." The Hound sneered. "You wouldn't know punk if it pulled out your guts, tied them around your feet and started strumming power chords using your cock as a plectrum."
"Wha- what?" Stuttered Tyrion. "What's a power chord?"
Everyone in the room groaned again and some of the Nor-folk began spitting at Tyrion in disgust.
Just then Daenerys Stormborn Jones, Mother of Dragons burst into the room. She was panting and her glimmering chest heaved with exertion.
"Thank heavens I've found you!" She cried out frantically. "Something terrible has happened."
"Not that thing we all feared?" Squeaked Flitwick, in alarm.
"Yes, exactly that!" Answered Dany.
"Snape's released his mixtape!" Gasped Flitwick, nearly falling off Merlin in his alarm.
"No!" Yelled Daenerys desperately. "It's the Night King and Voldemort; they've taken Hogsmeade!"
