PhoenixSong.net :: A Harry/Ginny Fanfic and Fanart Archive

Author: Trystym&Delylah

Story: Hermione Sue and the Prisoner of A. Cuaron

Part: 9: Part Nine

Rating: Teens

Setting: Pre-HBP

Status: WIP

Reviews: 10

Words: 2,837

Updated: June 9, 2009, 8:37pm

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9: Part Nine

A/N: As usual, I've probably blatantly ripped off material from not just the Prisoner of Azkaban book and film, but also from various other sources, including, but not limited to, Pac Man. It's probably safe to say that if you recognize it, I borrowed it. There is one film referenced in here that was being shot when I originally wrote this chapter — approximately four years ago. My, how time flies.

Harry awoke to the sound of voices around him, but he couldn’t see a darn thing, as everything was pitch black.

“OMG, I’m blind!” he screamed shrilly.

“Don’t be silly, Harry. Your eyes are closed,” Ron said nearby in a tired voice.

“That’s not in the script, Ronald,” Hermione began, but Ron burst in angrily.

“Hang the bloody script! What, I’m supposed to say he looks a bit peaky? Bugger that! Of course he looks a bit peaky! His insides were nearly splattered all over the Quidditch pitch because that barmy excuse for a headmaster was too busy doing his best impression of a chimney to pay attention to the bloody match. Why do I always seem to lose about 50 IQ points in these bloody pictures, anyway?” Ron stormed, then he noticed Hermione was ignoring him completely. She had pulled out a compact and was checking her hair and makeup. “And you, aren’t you supposed to be upset? Our best friend nearly died. Shed a tear or something!”

Hermione snapped the compact shut and aimed a frosty glare at Ron. Harry couldn’t actually see it, because he had yet to open his eyes, but he could hear the icicles in her gaze just the same.

“That would spoil my mascara, Ronald. I have a close-up in this scene. It wouldn’t do for me to have raccoon eyes,” she replied with a haughty sniff. Ron shook his head and rolled his eyes heavenward before slowly beating his head against the infirmary wall. Fred stopped him.

“Save your strength, mate. We’re not even an hour in. Wait ‘til you see what happens at the Shrieking Shack,” he said with a sympathetic shake of his head.

Harry moaned in confusion. His head hurt again, and he couldn’t shake the distinct impression that everyone around him knew something he didn’t. The mattress on his hospital bed sank as a warm, female form settled in next to him, close enough that he could feel her breath on his face.

“How are you feeling?” Hermione purred in his ear. Harry yelped in shock as he felt her hand slide slowly from his knee up his thigh, until it was suddenly removed.

“Ouch, Ronald, that hurt!” Hermione cried. Harry opened his eyes to find Hermione shaking her fingers, as if they were sore.

“Wha...what happened?” he asked fuzzily.

“Stinging Hex,” Ron replied through gritted teeth as he glared at Hermione. “This is still a family film, after all, no matter what You-Know-Who would like it to be.”

Harry shook his head. “No, I mean, what happened at the match. Did we win?”

“No way! You blew it big time, Harry. But nobody blames you,” Hermione assured him in an unconvincing voice.

“Hermione! Why would you say something like that?” Ron demanded. “That’s just going to make him feel worse.”

“I’m not sure I could feel any worse,” Harry moaned. “Where’s Wood?” he asked, noticing that Fred and George and Angelina were the only team members at his bedside. He hoped their captain wasn’t taking the loss too hard.

Ron appeared stricken. “He’s, um, oh, well, he’s around somewhere,” he said nervously, glancing over at a still form draped with a sheet lying prone on the bed next to Harry’s. He coughed loudly and nudged George, who swiftly drew the curtain between the beds as Ron threw a bundle of twigs at Harry. He glanced pointedly at Hermione. “This is really supposed to be your job, you know.”

Hermione waved him away. “It’s funnier if you tell him. You’re the comic relief, remember? I’m in charge of dramatic moments.”

“Ha ha. Really funny, that,” Ron replied sourly.

“What?” Harry asked. “What’s so funny about a bundle of firewood?”

“That’s not firewood, Harry,” Ron replied “That’s what’s left of your broomstick.”

Harry gasped in shock, reaching tentatively towards the ill-fated Nimbus 2000, but drawing his fingers back at the last minute. He dared not touch it, for fear of splinters. “What happened?” he asked in a choked voice. “It looks like the Whomping Willow mistook it for a bluebird.”

“No, mate,” Ron said, “the Whomping Willow has been moved to Hogsmeade. You-Know-Who thought it would make a nice backdrop for the next Hogsmeade weekend.”

“Then what did this?” Harry asked, noticing for the first time that there were bits of printed paper mixed in with the broken bits of broomstick. He fished several bits out, on which only the words “Chapter 11” and “Firebolt” were discernable.

George stepped up. “After you fell, your broom sort of kept on going, and it fell into Hagrid’s chipper-shredder. Steve Kloves needed some mulch for his rosebeds, and since Hagrid has precious little else to do in this film, he’s taken to doing odd jobs on the side.”

“But this is terrible!” Harry felt as if his heart had been shredded into pieces along with his broomstick, it had become that much a part of him. “How will I play Quidditch? What about the Cup? This is Oliver’s last chance to win, I mean, what with the tournament next year,” he said brokenly

“That’s all right, Harry, I don’t think Oliver is going to be too worried about it,” Ron said, glancing at the sheet-draped form that was hidden by the curtain. “Besides, there’s only ever one Quidditch match per film anyway, and you’ve got the big ’Hippogriff of Lurve’ scene coming up.”

“What are you talking about?” Harry asked. He didn’t have a clue what Hippogriffs had to do with love. Riding Buckbeak hadn’t been one of the most pleasant experiences of his life; he wasn’t in a rush to repeat it.

“Oh, it’s so romantic, Harry,” Hermione broke in with a girlish squeal. “We get to ride Buckbeak together! It’s a totally pivotal scene...it sets up our big romance for the next books! And I’ll be screaming my head off, but that’s just a metaphor for, well, you know,” Hermione paused, blushing prettily. “So, of course, Quidditch had to be canceled for the rest of the year to make room. Besides, no one wants to watch a three-hour children’s movie. Kids just don’t have that long an attention span. The fact that today’s youth can spend hours at a stretch in front of a video game is completely beside the point.” Hermione checked her watch. “Oh, I’ve got to run. I’m due in wardrobe. They want me to wear this hideous maroon and gold scarf and hat in my next scene. I think pink would be much prettier, don’t you?” She flashed a huge smile. “See you at the Shrieking Shack!”

Harry waited until Hermione had exited the infirmary before turning back to Ron. “Have they really canceled Quidditch for the rest of the year?”

“Yeah, Harry,” Ron said. “We were angry at Hermione in that chapter, she only shows up on two pages. And since she’s Kloves’s favorite character, well, there’s no way he was going to write that many scenes without her. Of course, he did try to compromise at first.”

“How?” Harry asked.

“He was going to write Hermione onto the team. Angelina, no, maybe it was Katie...oh, well, they’re all expendable as far as You-Know-Who is concerned.” Nearby, Angelina, who had remained completely silent throughout the entire exchange, emitted an impatient snort. Immediately, klaxons and alarms went off. Two house-elves burst into the infirmary and pointed at Angelina. Harry thought they were Inky and Pinky, but they could have been Blinky and Clyde. One snapped his fingers ominously. A length of rope and a large kerchief appeared out of nowhere, and before Angelina could move, she had been magically bound and gagged.

“You are to be coming with us, miss,” Inky, or perhaps Blinky said. “The master will be having a word with you.”

Angelina’s eyes grew large as saucers, and she tried desperately to scream, but to no avail. She turned to Fred and George, as if to plead with them, but they both paled and backed away.

“Sorry, Angelina, but we can’t help you,” Fred said, watching the house-elves warily. “We just got back ourselves from...

George clapped his hand over his twin’s mouth. “Don’t say it. He might be listening, and I won’t go back there again. I can’t.”

Fear coursed through Harry’s body as a swirling portal opened up behind Angelina. She tried to hop away (which was difficult as her legs were bound tightly together from hip to ankle) but Pinky, or maybe Clyde, pushed her towards the shimmering disk. It sucked Angelina in, and the house-elves jumped in after her. They each reached for one side of the portal and then snapped it shut behind them.

Harry’s terrified gaze fell on the twins, who seemed to be paralyzed by their own fright.

“Don’t ask. It was horrible,” George said. “We won’t speak of it. Ever.” Next to him, Fred nodded vigorously.

“But, why?” Harry began, when an origami crane popped into existence before him and fluttered gently to his lap. He unfolded it and read aloud:

Henceforth, there shall be no changes to the script by non-billed characters without the prior approval of The Director, The Script-writer, or Hermione Granger. This includes vocal emittances of any nature, including snorts, gasps, sputters, and squeaks. Any further attempts to steal screen time away from Hermione will be handled appropriately by the aforementioned entities.

“Oh bloody hell,” Ron grumbled. He snatched the crane from Harry and tossed it on the floor where he gleefully stomped on it several times. The crane fluttered its crumpled wings pitifully and then was still. Satisfied, Ron continued his explanation.

“Anyway, one of the Chasers was going to have an accident. Hermione was going to be a last-minute replacement, except she refused to do it.”

“Why?” Harry asked, bewildered. He couldn’t imagine anyone turning down a chance to play Quidditch.

Ron shook his head in disgust. “The ruddy uniforms. Hermione said she’d only play if they changed the uniforms to pink...the maroon clashes with her complexion. Thank God Jo put her foot down.”

Harry nodded, repulsed by the thought of pink Quidditch uniforms. An uncontrollable shudder ran the length of his body.

“Oh, look at the time. You’re late for your scene with Lupin.”

The next thing Harry knew, he was walking through the forest with his DADA professor.

“Um, why are we here?” he asked. “Shouldn’t we be in class?”

“Really, Harry, who wants to be cooped up in a dreary old classroom? Besides, here we can be alone.”

Harry sidled a few steps away from his professor, glancing at him warily. “You have a serious pedophile vibe going, did you know?”

“I know,” the professor agreed. “It’s the moustache. Can’t be helped.”

“Um, you could always shave it off...” Harry suggested.

“Can’t do that. You-Know-Who wouldn’t like it.”

Harry wondered yet again why Voldemort cared a fig for anyone’s personal grooming habits or wardrobe. Seeing that he was hopelessly distracted, Hedwig flew by and cuffed him sharply with her wing.

“Ouch!” Harry cried. “You know, you’ve been a right pain the arse this year. Grumpy old bird.”

“Your mother used to say that to her owl,” the professor began, but Harry interrupted him.

“That’s nice, Professor, but I needed to ask you something.”

“Your mother used to say that too.”

Harry rolled his eyes. He was becoming increasingly uncomfortable, and the forest seemed to be growing dimmer by the moment. He decided to get to the heart of the matter. “Why do the Dementors affect me so? Is it because I’m...”

“Weak? No, no, no, Harry. You’ve experienced horrors that are unimaginable. In fact, your mother used to say...

“Yes, yes, but back to the Dementors, there has to be something I can do. I wonder...what would Hermione do?”

Just then they were interrupted by the sound of someone crashing through the brush. Harry caught sight of a pink jacket being closely followed by a shock of red hair.

“I’m telling you, Hermione, I’ve read the script and you are positively, absolutely not in this scene,” Ron insisted as he and Hermione approached Harry. He was gesturing wildly at the mysterious sheaf of paper that he had been carrying around.

“You obviously don’t have the latest changes, Ronald. I’m in every scene from here on out. Besides, Harry needs me. You heard what he said.”

Both Harry and Professor Lupin watched Hermione expectantly. She paused for a moment and smiled gloriously. A mysterious glowing shimmer seemed to surround her, highlighting the golden tones in her warm, chestnut brown hair that curled perfectly about her shoulders. Her cinnamon brown eyes sparkled with cleverness, and Harry thought he could detect the faint sound of angels, or perhaps fairies, singing soft praises in her name.

Ron made faint retching noises as a glazed look came over Harry’s face, and he said, “Gosh, Hermione, I never realized how beautiful you are. Where have you been all my life?”

“I’ve been right here waiting for you to notice me, Harry. After all, I’ve always got the answers you need. Getting rid of the Dementors is very simple. All you have to do is think happy thoughts!” Hermione said brightly.

“But that’s not right. That’s a completely different movie!” Ron protested.

“Don’t bother me with details, Ron,” Hermione replied impatiently before turning to Harry. She sidled alongside him and whispered in his ear so that Lupin and Ron couldn’t hear what she had to say. Harry’s face turned crimson.

“Um, no thanks, Hermione. I think I can figure out my own happy thoughts.”

Hermione flipped her hair. “Don’t be such a prude, Harry. It’s in all the best smut-fics. And sometimes Ron is there, too!” she added, with a smoldering glance at the redhead in question.

“Erp,” Ron croaked. “Uh, I gotta go, uh, take care of something. Be right back!”

Ron disappeared with a loud crack.

“We haven’t covered Apparating yet, have we?” Harry pondered aloud.

“Of course not Harry, but your mother, now there was a woman who knew how to Apparate,” Lupin piped up in a dreamy voice.

Harry shook his head in exasperation. “Whatever. Look, would you just agree to teach me how to defeat the Dementors, already? The sooner this conversation ends, the better. It’s already stretched on far longer than the author of this ridiculous parody intended.”

“Of course, of course. But it will have to wait until after the holidays. For now, I need to rest.”

“What for?” Harry asked.

“Well, you see, Harry, I spent countless hours in makeup yesterday for the werewolf trial run. Very taxing to sit perfectly still while rubber appliances are glued to your face and body.”

“Huh?” Harry said blankly. “What are you talking about?”

Hermione interrupted before the professor could answer. “We’d better get inside now, Harry,” she warned.

Harry looked around warily. “Why, what is it? Aragog? The centaurs? Voldemort?” He glanced around wildly in an attempt to spot whatever danger was coming their way.

“No, it’s just that it’s about to be winter, and we’re not properly dressed.”

At that moment, Hedwig flew by, struggling mightily to pull behind her a huge stage backdrop painted heavily with falling snowflakes. Finally, she let it clatter to the ground with a loud “thud” and squawked loudly at the three humans.

“I’m sorry Hedwig, but I don’t understand,” Harry said, bewildered. As if by magic, an envelope appeared in Hedwig’s claws, which she dropped into Harry’s outstretched hands. She then flew away in a huff.

When Harry opened the mysterious missive, it read:

I didn’t sign on to be set decoration or lug around scenery changes, and it’s too bloody cold around here. My agent just contacted me about a movie being shot on location in sunny Florida that’s chock full of social conscience. And I might even get to meet Jimmy Buffet! I’m outta here.

Harry stared after his owl in hurt silence, and Hermione patted his shoulder consolingly. “Don’t worry, you’ll see her again soon.”

“You think she’ll change her mind?” Harry asked hopefully.

“Well, no, but they’ve already filmed the scene where Ron is going on about tap-dancing spiders, and she’s in it,” Hermione explained. “Let’s get inside, I’m freezing.”

As Hermione walked towards the castle, Harry and the professor dutifully trudged behind her through snow that was now at least a foot deep. Behind them, the lake had frozen over, and when Harry glanced back, he would have sworn he saw Dementors gliding across its surface clad in glittery tutus and spandex tights, but he knew he must be mistaken.

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