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8: Part Eight

A/N: You know the deal by now. We’ve blatantly borrowed from too many places to count, but we managed to catch these, at least: Pac-man, Anne Rice, Bram Stoker, Alvin and the Chipmunks, HP fan theories (we’re not really sure exactly who is responsible), Lord of the Rings, Terry Pratchett, and Mary Poppins.

The next day, when Harry woke up, it was Autumn. He knew it was fall because outside of Gryffindor Tower, Harry could see the Whomping Willow (Hagrid had been requested to relocate it yet again for this particular scene) shiver and drop every single leaf all at once (the entire process taking another 20 seconds of valuable screentime that could have been used to explain, oh, just WHY exactly there is a glowy deer standing stock still across the pond from Harry later in the movie, but that is neither here nor there). Then the vicious tree bashed a bluebird into a million fragments just for spite, because the authors of this fic failed to mention that infinitely important incident earlier in this story. What are ya gonna do, sue them for inattention to detail?

Ahem.

Even though he was starving, because he had only eaten one animal cracker the previous evening, Harry skipped right over breakfast in order to attend Defense Against the Dark Arts with Ron. Hermione was yet again conspicuously absent. To Harry’s surprise, Professor Snape swooped into the room in a batlike manner and promptly proceeded to bar every single source of outside light from the room while simultaneously applying SPF 100 sunblock.

“What is this?” Harry whispered loudly to Ron. “I thought you said we didn’t have Potions this year?”

“Beats me,” Ron whispered back, bewildered. He pulled out his mysterious sheaf of parchment and began leafing through it, but to no avail. Meanwhile, Professor Snape was being trailed by two house-elves, each carrying a huge, lumpy sack overflowing with letters.

“Please, sir,” one of them huffed, “What is Inky and Pinky to be doing with these?”

“Burn them,” the professor snapped rudely. “They’re not mine.”

“But the owls is delivering them to you,” Inky or Pinky insisted, not to be deterred from his mission. “They must be yours.”

Harry leaned over and retrieved one of the letters, which seemed to have been liberally doused with a spicy perfume as well as kissed by the owner numerous times, judging by the lipstick marks on the back. Flipping the letter over, Harry saw that it was addressed to someone known as “The Brat Prince”. Mystified, Harry scooped up several others and noted that they were addressed to “The Vampire Lestat,” “Dracula,” and “Vlad Tepes,” among others. He handed them to Ron, wondering if he could make sense of them.

Ron read over the names and stifled a giggle. “I think someone’s confused. Lestat opens for the Weird Sisters sometimes, but he’s blonde. As for Dracula, last I heard, he was on a book tour.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. He’d heard of Dracula, of course, but he’d never dreamed he actually existed.

Ron noticed and nodded vigorously. “Oh, yeah. He’s written a self-help book called B Positive: The Vampire’s Guide to Self-Actualization in the New Millennium. It was on the bestseller list for sixteen weeks.”

“So, those women think Snape is...a vampire?” Harry asked.

“Guess so. Y’know, it makes sense, when you think about it,” Ron said thoughtfully. “He always wears black, he’s awfully pale, and have you ever seen him in broad daylight?”

“Of course. He’s been at the Quiditch matches,” Harry replied.

Out of nowhere, an origami crane came fluttering down to hover in front of Ron, who rolled his eyes as he snatched it from the air and ripped it open. It read:

Ronald,

Please refrain from confirming speculation about Professor Snape’s possible vampire nature. If you were any good at Divination, you would know that Jo effectively squashes that theory in an interview on July 16, 2005.

Love from,

Hermione

P.S. I told you Divination was rubbish.

Ron made a noise of disgust and pointed his wand at the unfortunate crane, which had refolded itself and was now fluttering desperately to escape him. Quietly, he whispered incendio, whereupon the poor crane went up in a small ball of flames.

“Can I help it if You-Know-Who is responsible for feeding that particular theory with this scene?” he grumbled.

As Ron brushed the ashes from his desk, Harry noticed that the room had grown extremely quiet. When he turned to face the front, he found Professor Snape glaring at him, having dispatched the elves with their letters.

“If Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley will focus their attention to the front of the room, perhaps we can get on with it?” he growled. Turning, he yanked on a cord that sent a projector screen unfurling and snapped, “Turn to page 394.”

The Professor began stalking towards the back of the room. As he passed by Harry’s desk (which NO ONE ELSE was currently sharing with him), Harry slid to the other side and asked, “Excuse me, sir, where’s Professor Lupin?”

“That’s not really your concern, is it, Potter?” the Professor replied silkily. Somewhere, in the background, a distinct, girlish sigh could be heard, followed by a thud that resembled a body collapsing to the floor in a swoon, but when Harry glanced around, he noticed nothing awry.

“Suffice it to say that it’s that time of the month for your Professor, and he finds himself incapable of teaching at the present time, though I hardly think it possible he could be any more incompetent than any of the other twenty-seven days of his lunar cycle.” The professor gave a disdainful sniff and continued walking to the back of the room as Harry slid back to the side of the desk nearest Ron.

“Is he trying to say that Professor Lupin is really a woman?” Harry asked his friend in confusion. Ron stifled another giggle, which turned into a cough.

Professor Snape rolled his eyes and repeated, “Turn to page 394.” He pointed his wand at Ron, whose book flipped itself over to the proper pages.

“Werewolves?” Ron asked.

“But sir,” Hermione piped up from Harry’s side, where she had been so obviously missing before, “we’re supposed to be learning about vampires today. It’s in the lesson plan, I have it right here...” she trailed off, rummaging through her rucksack.

“Quiet,” the Professor warned.

“Where did she come from?” Ron demanded. “Did you see her come in?”

Harry shook his head, just as confused as Ron. Hermione ignored them both, but Ron refused to drop the matter.

“This isn’t the way it happens in the book! You’re supposed to disappear when we aren’t looking after class, not pop up in the middle of class and claim you’ve been here the whole time when obviously you haven’t. That doesn’t make any sense!” he insisted angrily.

“Dramatic effect, Ronald, dramatic effect,” hissed Hermione with a pointed glare towards him. “Don’t you know anything about filmmaking?”

Ron exhaled loudly and turned his attention to her book. Hermione immediately raised her hand, even though Professor Snape had not yet asked the class a question. He let out a loud sigh, then asked, “Can anyone tell me the difference between an animagus and a werewolf?”

Hermione shook her hand frantically, but Professor Snape ignored her. “No one? How disappointing,” he said in a bored tone.

Hermione finally gave up and spoke without being called upon. “Please, sir, an animagus is a wizard who elects to turn into an animal. A werewolf has no choice.”

“That is enough,” Professor Snape began, but Hermione continued to blither on, reveling in her moment in the spotlight. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry could see Ron leafing through his mysterious sheaf of parchment, muttering something about cloves and cannons, which Harry didn’t understand in the least.

“With each full moon, when he transforms, he no longer remembers who he is. He’d kill his best friend if he crossed his path. Furthermore, the werewolf only responds to the call of its own kind,” Hermione finished, with a significant glance at Harry.

A sense of foreboding invaded Harry, and when he looked down, he noticed his skin was covered in goosepimples. Somehow, he knew that the information Hermione was imparting would turn out to be important in the future, but he was damned if he knew why.

“Aroo,” Malfoy howled in the desk across the aisle. Next to him, Crabbe, or Goyle, Harry could never remember which, chortled with forced laughter.

“Thank you, Mr. Malfoy,” Snape said, doing his best to hide a smile. Then he turned to Hermione with a sneer. “That is the second time you have spoken out of turn, Miss Granger. Are you incapable of restraining yourself, or do you take pride in being an insufferable know-it all? Five points from Gryffindor.”

Hermione looked pointedly over at Ron, as if waiting for him to say something. Ron simply shrugged, leaned over and said, “He’s got a point, you know.”

“Ronald!” Hermione gasped indignantly. “That’s not what you were supposed to say. You were supposed to come to my defense!”

Ron smirked. “Hey, if you can be wildly out of character in this ridiculous production, then I can, too, so deal with it. You can’t have it both ways, you know.”

“That’s what you think,” Hermione replied slyly. “I’ve seen the script for the execution scene and I get to be the middle of a trio sandwich!”

“You’re joking,” Ron said, looking a bit green around the gills. “There’s no way Jo would condone something like that. Doesn’t You-Know-Who realize how volatile ‘shipper wars can be? That would be like casting an incendio spell in a room full of detonating dandelions!”

“Check the script,” Hermione said smugly. She gave Ron a saucy wink, and then slid her hand onto Harry’s thigh. Harry, who had been caught in the middle of the entire conversation, couldn’t decide if he was slightly intrigued or slightly revolted.

As Professor Snape turned back to the projector screen, Harry caught something white and fluttering out of the corner of his eye. He turned to see Malfoy blowing an origami crane in his direction with what was either a malevolent or salacious grin – Harry couldn’t decide. Harry deftly caught the crane, then realized that Snape was assigning them homework for the weekend. He was incensed; none of the professors had assigned homework since third year had begun, and besides, there was a Quidditch game that weekend, which he promptly pointed out to his nemesis.

“But sir, it’s Quidditch tomorrow. How can we party afterwards if we have to worry about homework?” he whined.

Snape swooped over and thrust his face a few scant centimeters from Harry’s.

“Then I suggest you take extra care, Mr. Potter,” Snape said in a low, sensuous voice. Harry was astounded when Snape proceeded to give him a wink before he stood and began lecturing about werewolves. Harry was left to ponder why, all of a sudden, the Professor seemed strangely appealing, and even somewhat concerned for him, after more than two years of venom and loathing. He briefly considered hanging back after class, but then he remembered the crane Malfoy had sent him, and opened it. It was a questionnaire, the kind he used to receive on rare occasions during primary school. It read:

Dear Harry:

I like you. Do you like me? (check one)

Yes....... No...... Maybe...... I don’t know......

Harry’s first impulse was to mark a huge X beside “No.” But then he glanced over at Malfoy, who raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips into a kiss across the aisle. Harry took note of the blonde boy’s shaggy hair, far more attractive than the slicked back style he’d worn for the past two years. And he had to admit that Malfoy’s eyes were an unusual and most alluring grey. Despite the fact that he had never shown any inkling of being interested in boys, he marked “Maybe,” and continued reading.

If no or maybe, then who do you like?

Harry pondered this question for a moment before he began writing.

Ginny Weasley.

Harry thought for a moment and then scratched that out. She was only twelve, still a little too young. But give her a couple of years and he’d be on her like...uh, well, yeah. We won’t go there, this is a family-rated story, after all.

Ginny Weasley

Luna Lovegood

No, wait, that was no good. Harry remembered he hadn’t met her yet, so he scratched through that name, too.

Ginny Weasley

Luna Lovegood

Hermi...

Harry scratched that name through without even bothering to complete it, thinking, “No, no, no! 13 years old is way too young to be pigeon-holed by thousands of ‘shippers into a cold, passionless, transcendentally “platonic” romance void of lust, sexual tension or physical attraction with someone who could at most only ever be a mother-substitute. Ah, screw it.

Ginny Weasley

Luna Lovegood

Hermi...

Cho Chang. At least she’s hot.

Vaguely satisfied with that answer, Harry read on.

Will you go to the Yule Ball with me?

Harry shook his head. And the readers said he was clueless.

Dumbarse...that’s not ‘til next year!

Finally, Draco had signed the note and completed it with an animated drawing of Cupid firing arrows into a stick-figured Harry, who then ran to a stick-figured Draco and planted a torrid kiss (or at least as torrid as possible for stick figures) onto his lips.

Draco and Harry 4-evah! Meet me after the Quidditch match tomorrow behind the changing rooms for a snog.

Harry rolled his eyes. This was too ridiculous even for him to consider, and he couldn’t fathom why he even bothered to finish reading the note in the first place. He didn’t swing that way, and it was beyond him why Draco thought he might. He crumpled up the note, and then felt a curious pulling sensation behind his navel, and realized the note must be a Portkey, even though he wouldn’t use one of those for the first time until Book 4. He closed his eyes and fought against the nauseating swirling sensation, then opened his eyes again to see that he had been transported to the Quidditch Pitch, where it had begun pouring down rain.

Harry shrugged and proceeded into the Gryffindor changing rooms to don his Quidditch robes. They were newly hideous this year and emblazoned with his last name across the back, along with the number seven, for reasons unbeknownst to him. After he finished dressing, he discovered the rest of the team waiting expectantly for Oliver to give them his usual pre-match pep talk. Instead, an origami crane appeared from out of nowhere and fluttered to Oliver, who gulped loudly as he opened it and began reading aloud.

Dear Mr. Wood,

We regret to inform you that your services as Quidditch Captain are no longer needed, due to budget cuts and reallocation of valuable screentime to Hermione Granger’s close-ups and vitally important monologues, and to superfluous artsy scenes such as the one to follow depicting an umbrella caught up in the storm for a lengthy ten seconds, which is highly symbolic of the turmoil in young Harry’s life.

Please return your Quidditch robes and broomstick to the Wardrobe and Props departments promptly. Furthermore, inform the rest of the Quidditch team (with the exception of Mr. Potter) that their scenes have been cut because Mr. Lucas has commandeered the blue screen for most of the next three months in order to complete the final installation of the Star Wars saga, and we are required to deliver it to him by six o’clock this evening.

Besides, everyone knows that Harry Potter always catches the snitch, so the rest of you gits aren’t needed in this film. Your salaries are being used to pay the Unknown Gryffindor.

Sincerely,

The Director, aka You-Know-Who

Tears welled up in Oliver’s eyes as he choked out, “But...but...what about the Quidditch cup? This is my last year as captain...my last chance.”

An addendum appeared at the bottom of the note.

Sorry, mate. Winning the Quidditch cup has absolutely nothing to do with The Director’s vision of Harry’s coming of age. Tough luck.

SK

Oliver collapsed to a bench, which had been conveniently placed behind him, and hung his head. Suddenly, the flaps of the tent were thrown open to reveal a gaggle of females of all ages holding protest signs with slogans such as “Reinstate Oliver!” and “Down With the Director!” They swarmed over to Oliver and caught him up in their midst. Several of them patted him consolingly, and Harry was certain he heard someone mention the word “petition.” Dejectedly, the rest of the team followed him out, and Harry was left standing alone in the Quidditch tent, or so he thought.

“What are you waiting for, Harry?” Hermione asked at his elbow. “Didn’t you hear what was in the note? We’ve only got the blue screen for a few more hours, so you need to get moving!”

Harry didn’t bother to ask how Hermione had arrived without his noticing, and instead walked out of the tent and onto the Quidditch pitch, where he stopped short and drew in a deep breath, shocked.

Scattered across the field in the opposing team’s positions were what appeared to be seven dementors mounted upon small dragons. Harry wondered for a moment if he had fallen asleep in the middle of class, for this was surely something out of a nightmare.

“Hermione, pinch me,” he mumbled.

“Whatever for?” Hermione asked.

“Because either I’m dreaming, or there are dragons on the Quidditch Pitch.”

“You’re not dreaming, Harry,” Hermione said reassuringly. “That doesn’t happen until just before the match with Slytherin, which we don’t get to see in this movie. No, this is real.”

“Huh? Who the...where the...there are no dragons in Quidditch!” Harry sputtered in disbelief.

Ron had appeared at Harry’s other elbow. “Actually, they’re not dragons, Harry, they’re Fell Beasts, which are a type of wyvern.” Ron piped up. “You can tell by the distinctive markings under their....”

“Shoosh!” Hermione interrupted, with a warning glance at Ron. “That’s not important right now, Ronald. Harry, Alfonso thought it would be much spookier if the dementors could fly. And, as we’re on a tight schedule with the blue screen, and everybody knows that dementors don’t have wings, we decided to kill two birds with one stone.”

Harry shook his head, unable to Harry asked, unable to reconcile the concept of Quidditch with dragons. “I don’t understand. Do you mean that the Hufflepuff team gets to ride dragons?”

Hermione laughed. “Of course not, Harry. You’re playing the Minas Morgul Ring Wraiths!”

“You’re pulling my leg,” said Harry. “What do they have to do with dementors?”

“Well, with the black robes and the deep hoods, you can hardly tell the difference, can you?” Hermione pointed out in a tone that implied Harry was daft for not noticing.

“But Hermione, they can’t play Quidditch. They’re undead!” Harry hissed, eyeing the nearest hooded figure, who was casually twirling a large, spiked mace and sporting a matching helmet.

“Harry, that’s an extremely vitalist remark,” Hermione chided. “You do realize that the undead have to support themselves too, don’t you? They’ve been out of work ever since principal photography wrapped on the Lord of the Rings trilogy, so Alfonso picked them up on the cheap. Besides, the fell beasts have to eat. The poor things were nearly starving!”

Unnoticed by Hermione, one of the Minas Morgul players had wandered close enough to them for his mount to take a vicious snap at Hermione, coming within centimeters of removing her head. She let out a startled scream and jumped back, hiding behind Ron.

“Um, good luck Harry. We’ll be watching you from, uh, over there,” Ron gestured towards the stands. “From waaay over there.” He threw his arm around Hermione and together they backed away slowly, their gazes never leaving the Fell Beast, which was still eyeing them hungrily.

“Oh, wait, I almost forgot,” Hermione said. “Look, up there!”

She pointed up to the sky, and Harry and Ron followed her gaze to see a large, black umbrella being buffeted about by the wind. It tumbled and twirled, dipped and swayed, and narrowly avoided being struck by lightning at least twice. Harry couldn’t help but feel that it was he up there, being pummeled by the relentless storm, tossed about by the whim of fate.... He glanced down and saw a young woman wearing a dark overcoat running across the field, apparently in pursuit of the umbrella, all the while singing “Just a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down!” Then she stopped short and swore profoundly as she shook her fist at the umbrella before resuming her pursuit. Harry heard a distinct click and glanced back over at Hermione to see that she was holding a stopwatch.

“Ok, that was long enough to get the point across. Let’s go, Ron. Good luck, Harry!” Hermione called before she and Ron turned and ran back to the stands to join their fellow Gryffindors rooting for Harry.

Harry took his place alone on the Quidditch pitch and waited for Madame Hooch to release the Quaffle, signaling the beginning of the game. Across from him, the mace-wielding Ring Wraith he had noticed earlier was fighting to reign in his fell beast, which was chomping in Harry’s direction. After several long minutes, Dumbledore wandered out on the field, giggling sheepishly.

“So sorry, I forgot. Madame Hooch is no longer employed by Hogwarts due to budget cuts, so I guess it falls to me to begin the game. Now, where did I put that chest...?”

Two house elves scampered out onto the field, pulling and tugging the Quidditch chest between them.

“Ah, Blinky, Clyde, over here, if you would,” Dumbledore called cheerfully. The elves struggled to reach the center of the pitch, where they deposited the chest at Dumbledore’s feet.

“Hmm...what is it Hooch usually says?” Dumbledore mused, stroking his beard. “Ah, yes. Now, I want a nice, clean game!”

And with that, he threw open the chest. The Bludgers barreled out first, followed by the snitch, then Dumbledore himself tossed the Quaffle into the air. Harry ignored it and shot away in pursuit of the snitch, followed by the mace-wielding Ring Wraith.

Meanwhile, Dumbledore was taking his own sweet time ambling off of the Quidditch pitch.

“Damn if I don’t have the worst case of the munchies,” he muttered aloud, searching his robes for the handful of biscuits he had squirreled away after his “meeting” with Professor Trelawney earlier that morning. Nearby, the two house-elves’ eyes grew large and white, and to the spectators it appeared they turned a deep shade of blue before running off the field as fast as they could go.

Harry witnessed none of this, however, as he pursued the snitch in the driving rain. Moments after the game began, he crossed in front of one of the Minas Morgul players. Its reptilian mount heaved a mouthful of fire towards Harry, which he dodged to escape. Alas, not quickly enough, however, for the tail of his broomstick blazed up.

I don’t remember this in the script, thought Harry.

It’s not in the script, Harry. Remember, all of the other players were fired, so this scene had to be altered somewhat.

Huh? Who is this? How did you get this number? Harry wondered, as he shot skywards, his broomstick still aflame.

It’s me. Hermione.

WHAT? Harry thought, looking towards the tail of his broom to see if Hermione had come along for the ride. He distinctly heard a charming, girlish giggle.

Oh, Harry, don’t be silly. I’m in the stands with Ron. I’m communicating telepathically! It’s one of my new Super!Powers, along with Super!Strength and the ability to State the Obvious. It’s in my contract now; I get at least two new Super!Powers with each movie.

Oh. Well, then, do you think you could do something about my broom?

I can’t from here, but swing by and I’ll see what I can do.

Harry nodded, even though Hermione couldn’t see him from that distance, and guided his broom in front of the stands. As he passed Ron and Hermione, the chanting of the entire Gryffindor class faded into the background as Hermione’s lone voice piped up, “Aguamenti!”

A fountain of water sprang forth from Hermione’s wand and doused the flames that were now threatening Harry’s backside, despite the fact that the sky was pouring buckets. Ron stared at her, agog.

“You can’t do that. That’s a sixth year spell. Jo hasn’t even mentioned that spell in this book!” he insisted.

“Honestly, Ronald,” Hermione huffed. “Haven’t you realized yet that the movies have precious little to do with the books, or for that matter, parodies? It’s always that way with Hollywood. You’ve got to have the hero, the heroine, and the comic sidekick. It’s a proven formula! And, as the heroine, I’m entitled to special privileges. So deal with it!”

Ron rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the game, muttering under his breath. Harry had nearly caught up to the mace-wielding Ring Wraith with the matching helmet, and both were reaching desperately for the golden snitch, fluttering just out of reach. Higher and higher they flew, until finally Harry managed to draw alongside his rival, close enough to see the name “Witch King” emblazoned across the back of his black robe, along with the number “1”.

“You fool. No man can kill me,” the Witch King growled at him menacingly. “And you won’t catch the snitch, either!”

He twirled the mace about in a circle and took a swipe at Harry, missing by a hair’s breadth. Harry ducked and rolled to avoid it, causing him to fall a few meters behind. With an evil cackle, the Witch King reached for the snitch once more, only to be struck by lighting the instant before his fingers grasped it. He froze, blue lights danced in and out of his helmet and up and down the ball and chain of his mace.

“You really should have known better than to wear a metal helmet in a thunderstorm, you git. Buh-bye, now!” Harry called, waving gleefully as his opponent tumbled backwards along with his Fell Beast. Then, something strange gave him pause, and he peered carefully off into the distance, where a distinct shape was forming in the clouds. It almost looked like...indeed, it was!

“I see a puppy dog!” Harry said with a huge grin. “And look, over there, it’s a bunny rabbit!”

While Harry took time out of the game to ponder the shapes in the clouds and what they could mean, three of the Minas Morgul Ring Wraiths surrounded him, preventing his escape.

Harry finally came to his senses and realized there was nowhere left to go but up. And up, and up, and up. The Ring Wraiths soon caught up, each of them wielding vacuum hoses with which they proceeded to try and suck off his face. In the distance, Harry thought he heard a woman screaming, but he couldn’t be certain over the roar of the Hoovers. He grew dizzy and disoriented from the presence of the dark-robed figures, or it could have been from general oxygen deprivation due to the elevation, as he was now well into the stratosphere (which would also account for the sudden icing of his ugly goggles and his broomstick handle). In any case, he lost his grip on his broom and plummeted back to earth in a death spiral.

Meanwhile, Professor Dumbledore and Professor Trelawney were huddled together under a poncho in the stands, giggling profusely as their colleagues and distinguished visitors tried desperately to wave away the fragrant smoke that persisted despite the driving rain. With a snort of disgust, Professor McGonagall poked him mercilessly with her wand.

“Albus? Albus?” She called. When he didn’t answer, she whacked him atop the head and shouted, “ALBUS!!!”

“O-kay!” Professor Dumbledore replied in a high, squeaky voice, doffing the poncho as he pointed his wand up towards the rapidly descending Harry. “Arresto...um, arresto, oh, posh, slow down already!”

Of course, nobody saw what happened after that, because a mysterious darkness fell over the Quidditch Pitch, the better to leave the moviegoers at the edge of their seats.

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