Pottergate-SG1: Wonky Wardrobe
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Colonel Harry Potter was sitting in a low chair beside the card-table in the briefing-room/broom-closet, along with General Dumbledore, Captain Granger, and Charlie. They were all waiting on Doctor Weasley, who, as usual, was curled up in some remote corner of the castle, fast asleep. They had long ago run out of things to talk about, and were now deeply involved in a riveting game of eye-spy.
"Eye spy," began Hermione, having correctly guessed General Dumbledore's object (a broom), "with my little eye...something beginning with...um... 'B'!"
"Oooo, wait, wait!" cried Dumbledore, "I know this one! It's...a...umm...a beetle!"
"No," said Hermione, her eyes twinkling.
"No? Ok then. Um...Oh! Of course! It's a brussel sprout!"
"Nope," chirped Hermione happily.
"Really? Are you sure? All right then, it's got to be a boulder!"
Harry sighed, neither Hermione nor Dumbledore ever seemed to have quite grasped the concept of eye-spy. Fortunately, the game was interrupted at that moment by the entrance of Doctor Weasley, yawning widely and stretching, dressed in bright pink flannelet pyjamas. He stopped abruptly when he saw everyone was staring at him, and looked slowly down. When he saw he was still in his pyjamas, his face changed colour to match them, and he turned and left the broom-closet.
Ten minutes later, the meeting finally commenced. "Ok people," said General Dumbledore in his official tone (which was exactly the same as his normal tone, but he liked to think it was different), "the situation on planet P577-358-211-523-125-535-898 is becoming desperate; the poor bugger really wants out of there." He chuckled at his own joke. Everyone else just stared blankly at him. "Ahem, yes, well, there's been an outbreak of a retro-virus on this planet, and the population has turned to us for help."
"A retro-virus, sir?" asked Harry.
"Yes," said Dumbledore, "a doddery old virus that no is longer able to function properly. If we don't act fast they may wither and die."
"Wait, wait, wait," said Ron, "we want to save this virus?"
"Of course!" replied Dumbledore, "our laws clearly state that we must provide adequate care for any citizens over 65 years of age, and this virus has been circulating through the planet's eco-system for over a century."
Now, while you or I might have voiced some sort of objection to this, those in the briefing-room/broom-closet simply shrugged and nodded. General Dumbledore then clapped his hands and said, "Alright then! You leave at 0713 hours. Dismissed!" (If you're wondering at the odd departure time, look carefully at the numbers...General Dumbledore is a very superstitious man).
- - -
SG1 emerged through the fireplace on P577-358-211-523-125-535-898 with a number of crates in tow, filled to the brim with beds, bedding, heating appliances, food liquifiers, reading-glasses, and false-teeth. All virus-sized. They were met by a welcoming committee made up of several younger viruses, all riding dust-motes with miniature saddles and harnesses strapped on.
The lead virus said a few sentences in Korean. Harry peered (hard to stare at a virus) blankly at him, then turned to Doctor Weasley.
"Ron," he said, "you're the language expert, what did he say?"
"Erm..." stammered Ron, who had enough trouble spelling english words correctly, and hence had about as much chance of translating Korean as a Middle-Eastern nation avoiding invasion at the hands of George W. Bush, "I think he said something about pickled cabbage?" Harry rolled his eyes.
Eventually, after long minutes of failed communication, an english-speaking virus was brought out and SG1 was officially welcomed. Once the pleasantries had been exchanged, the team was led to a building, small by human standards, built from matchstick sized pieces of wood. Inside, they were told, was the entire population of aged virus.
Harry led the way, bending low under the door frame, followed by their mote-mounted escorts, then the rest of SG1. Unfortunately, when Ron stepped into the room he came a little too close to the escorts, and one got sucked up his nostril. Ron immediately sneezed, sending the young virus flying into the far wall with a minuscule splat noise, and startling each and every retro-virus into cardiac arrest.
- - -
"Doctor Ron Weasley," said the Judge-Virus (in english),"You stand here accused of mass virus-slaughter. How do you plead?"
"On my knees, sir," whimpered Ron, "bowed before your might and wisdom."
The Judge-Virus groaned, "Guilty or not guilty?"
"Oh," said Ron, "Not guilty, your eminence."
The Judge-Virus turned to the twelve jury-viruses seated in tiny wooden chairs behind a tiny wooden dividing wall, "how do you find?"
The jury-virus closest to the Judge-Virus stood (raising his height such a small amount that he needn't have bothered) and said, "Guilty, your honour, by unanimous vote."
Now it was Ron's turn to groan, as the Judge rattled off his sentence, "For this crime," it said, "we bestow the worst punishment that our laws may affect on an off-worlder: death, by infection." A collective gasp arose from the viruses arrayed inside the courtroom. SG1 just sighed.
Three hours before the sentence was due to be carried out, the three members of SG1 who were not convicted felons broke their fourth member out of incarceration. It wasn't easy, mind you, they had to get through metal bars almost as thick as a paperclip, but somehow they managed it, and all four made a hasty retreat towards the fireplace.
Unfortunately, it wasn't long before the viruses noticed the breakout, and they sent their biggest, meanest troops out after them; the cold viruses. (Insert dramatic music here).
It swiftly became clear that SG1 was not going to make it; the colds were just too swift. Eventually Harry stopped and turned to face the advancing menace. Hermione noticed and tried to pull him with her, shouting at him to run, but Harry shoved her away. "Go!" he yelled, "I'll hold them off."
With tears in her eyes, Hermione obeyed, and she took off after Ron and Charlie. Harry faced his advancing opponents with a scowl plastered on his face. As they drew nearer, he slipped his right hand up to his hip, then slowly pulled the can of disinfectant out of its holster. Then, with a primal howl, he leapt at the viruses, spraying with abandon.
Three minutes later he tumbled through the fireplace, exhausted, into Dumbledore's office and the relieved hugs of the other SG1 members.
"I hate colds," said Harry, before they all left for a nice, tall, hot-chocolate.
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--The End--
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Check out Chapter 3: Out of the Frying Pan!