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Author: Majick Story: Sleeping Bonesy Rating: Teens Setting: AU Status: Completed Reviews: 8 Words: 18,530
"You never learn, do you, Draco?" The lights flickered slowly and then burst back into flame. Everyone blinked several times to get used to the light, and then realisation dawned on them. The thirteenth godmother had arrived. Neville Longbottom, recent graduate of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and the newest recruit to One Wish, Inc. stood in the centre of the room. Well, actually, he stood on the centre of the One Wish table, having taken his Apparition instructions as literal to the letter. He made a less-than-magnificent figure, clad in the standard-issue scarlet jumpsuit. Although, unlike the other One Wish operatives, the colour rather suited him, the jumpsuit had been cut to fit a much larger person and hung about him in great folds that made him look rather like a crash-dieting elephant with a dreadful blush. A heavy bandoleer was slung across his chest, holding his wand, a pair of shears and a pump-handle plant spray. He stepped down onto a chair and then onto the floor, and approached the young Princess, taking care to steer well clear of Malfoy as he did so. "Er, did you use the spell of Wretched-Post-Pubescent-Death?" "I have a fondness for the classics," Malfoy sneered, nodding. "And what are you planning on doing about it, Longbottom?" "Death by a prick. Well, need I say any more?" Neville went on, ignoring Malfoy. Someone looking closely might have noticed that he was trembling slightly, but his rather ill-fitting jumpsuit disguised this rather well. Ron snorted at his comment, and he seemed to draw some confidence from this. "You're a botanist, Longbottom. You have no power here." "If I were a botanist, you'd be right," Neville said. He looked back down at Princess Susan, who had reawakened. She cooed and giggled as Neville stuck his tongue out at her. He turned back to face Malfoy, and it was as though someone had poured steel down his spine. "But I'm not a botanist, am I, Malfoy? After Pomona Sprout's last few missions, you eliminated botany from the specialities offered by One Wish. You sent me out on the worst jobs. You called me a Godmother Without Portfolio. And now, Draco, I rather think that the joke's on you." "What do you mean?" Malfoy asked, the first, tiny, hint of a confidence shortage appearing on his face. "I don't have to stick to one area, Malfoy. I can cast any spell I want. I can prevent Princess Susan dying." "You can?" the King asked. He was feeling rather behind current events, and had just begun to contemplate the death of his daughter. He felt rather cheered by the idea that he hadn't wasted too much energy by worrying needlessly. "Well, bravo! Get on with it, then, and we can kick the golden boy here out and get on with the feast." Neville hesitated, and his confidence seemed to drain away. "I can prevent your daughter's death, sire," he said. "But Malfoy has cursed her, and the curse will still have some effect. Your daughter will not die, but something will happen. On her seventeenth birthday, when your daughter leaves her childhood behind and becomes an adult, she will get a prick-" The King's eyes narrowed. "-from a thorn, perhaps-" "I shall order the gardeners to grow thornless plants!" the King boomed. "-or from a needle-" "The new national dress is a toga. No sewing!" "-or, well, the other..." The King's eyes narrowed again. "Any man who comes near my daughter before her eighteenth birthday will have his wedding tackle fed to the male cows in the field yonder. Why, if any man so much as looks the wrong way at my daughter, then I'll-" "-feed their bollocks to the bullocks, sire, yes," Neville said, hurriedly, before the King got too caught up in his rant. "However, supposing that all your plans and protections are unsuccessful, and your daughter somehow receives a prick on her seventeenth birthday-" "Which she will, and it'll probably kill her anyway, Longbottom's so rubbish," Draco drawled, as he peered critically at his fingernails. Neville turned hesitantly on his boss and, taking a deep breath, placed his face close to Malfoy's. "Ribbit," he said. Malfoy toppled backwards and fell on his pert, tightly-clad butt. Neville turned back, his face rather flushed. "Sire," he said, rather shakily. "Your daughter will fall asleep. And she will sleep until awoken by love's true kiss." "Love's true kiss?" The Queen asked. "But she'll be asleep. How will someone fall in love with a sleeping girl?" The King muttered something under his breath about sleeping girls being silent, but decided not to offer the observation up for public consideration. "Your Majesty, the alternative is poor. This is the best I can offer you." The Queen appeared conflicted, but with a sigh she nodded. "Longbottom, I'm warning you-" Neville screwed up his face and ignored Malfoy. He stepped forward and raised his wand over the Princess. "Etuto Pomani Crescendo Tomasi Noirette Delescio!" There was a flash, and Princess Susan began to cry. Neville stepped back with a worried look on his face. "I hope that it worked," he said. "You hope?" the King asked. "How can we tell?" Neville gave the King a worried look. "We can't, your Majesty. Not until your daughter's seventeenth birthday." * Sixteen years, eight months and twenty-seven days passed. Draco Malfoy was jailed for crimes against fashion when he attempted to make his gold hotpants the standard uniform for his employees. Hermione succeeded him as the head of the company, and Neville followed her into the post when she was appointed Minister of Magic. Many questioned her decision to take the office of Minister, as it was rather less well paid and rather more boring, but Minister Granger announced a sweeping series of social reforms that made wizarding Britain an altogether nicer place to live and, as she said, as Minister she could grant the wishes of an entire country and still have time for lunch. Neville placed Ron in charge of the One Wish uniforms following his years of frustrated campaigning under his arch-nemesis and his girlfriend, who were sometimes one and the same person. Displaying a hitherto unsuspected flair for fashion, Ron opted for a conservatively cut set of black robes with yellow highlights. Of course, having successfully regained his rights to an individual uniform following the fortunate incident of the cat in the daytime, and having swathed himself daily for many years in the bright orange of the Chudley Cannons, it didn't matter much to Ron what the new recruits wore. But there was a principle at stake. Elsewhere in the wizarding world, Albus Dumbledore finally stepped down as Headmaster of Hogwarts having achieved a probably unbeatable fifty-year run as head of the school. He is now expected to write his memoirs, which may well take another fifty years, if not longer. The new headmaster of Hogwarts is expected to be the former Auror, Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody. Pupils at the school will be encouraged to take additional classes in Defence Against the Dark Arts and study the Unforgivable Curses. It is not thought that this is likely to lead to the rise of a new Dark Lord, although the ambitious streak present in all Slytherins, most Ravenclaws and a fair number of Gryffindors suggests that the number of students who complete their seven years of education may be significantly smaller than the number who begin it. In other news, Pansy and Millicent Snape, stepsisters of Ginevra Potter, finally found love when they enrolled in a prison penpal scheme. The blushing brides-to-be will meet their future husbands, Walden Macnair and Rabastan Lestrange, for the first time when they visit Azkaban prison for the wedding a week on Saturday. And, with the recent birth of septuplets to Oliver and Jessica Wood, the player-coach of the Appleby Arrows has announced his retirement from playing in order to devote more time to training his five sons and two daughters in order to challenge the Ministry's ruling of 1674 and create a fourteenth full-time Quidditch team in approximately eighteen years time. And finally, we'd like to take the opportunity to wish Princess Susan Bones a happy seventeenth birthday. May all your birthday wishes come true, your highness. Well, except for that one about dying, of course. * Princess Susan was beautiful. Princess Susan was kind-natured. Princess Susan was friendly and a good listener. Princess Susan could speak many languages. Princess Susan was sharp of wit and reflex. Princess Susan was brave and adventurous. Princess Susan was hale and healthy. Princess Susan was protected by a powerful amulet. Princess Susan had an excellent memory, particularly for dirty jokes. Princess Susan was celebrating her seventeenth birthday. Princess Susan rose and, as she did every day, spent several seconds staring blissfully at the many, many pictures of her favourite Quidditch player that filled her scrapbook. Princess Susan dressed in simple, yet elegant robes and left her bedroom to go downstairs to breakfast. Princess Susan was headed for the pricked finger intended to kill her. She didn't know this, of course, and sometimes ignorance is bliss. In this case, ignorance was going to lead to all sorts of trouble. * Breakfast, as ever, was a triumph. The King in particular delighted in the annual "What day is it? What day? Whose birthday? Only joking!" routine that the entire court would take part in. Princess Susan, more lovely today than yesterday, smiled and took it with the exceptional good grace that she applied to every aspect of her life. "Happy birthday, my dear," the King said, smiling at his only child from the other end of the long dining table. Princess Susan had grown used to interpreting the King's movements at meal times, for the dinging table was over a hundred feet long, and this morning the King certainly appeared to be smiling. And yet... "Is something wrong, Father?" Susan asked. "Wrong?" the King replied, startled. "What could possibly be wrong? Nothing is wrong. My dear," he asked his wife, "is anything wrong with you?" The Queen, seated halfway between her husband and daughter, shook her head and blew her nose loudly on the tablecloth, having exhausted her supply of tissues, handkerchiefs, napkins and sleeves approximately ten minutes after waking. "There, you see, nothing at all the matter," the King replied. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with a tissue from a dispenser held by a nearby flunkey. He threw the tissue over his shoulder where it landed on a rather soggy pile of its brothers. Already the pile was around four feet high. And rather smelly. Princess Susan smiled. If she had a fault - and I am only prepared to admit that it may be a possibility, for I am hopelessly smitten - it was that, having been brought up to be honest and open, she assumed that everyone else was similarly truthful at all times. "I am glad, Father, that things are well," she said, before tucking into a double helping of eggs and bacon that would do nothing to affect her figure or cholesterol count. Smitten I may be, but that's so unfair. After breakfast, Princess Susan repaired to the courtyard for her morning constitutional. Along the way she passed any number of flunkies, guards, men at arms and coroneters who were suddenly and inexplicably struck down by hay fever, allergies, bits of fluff in their eyes and any number of other causes of watering eyes and runny noses. Always a well-prepared girl, the Princess was able to supply the first few poor souls with handkerchiefs, but soon even she had run out and had to summon another servant with a roll of tissue paper for her to dole out along the way. Finally, she reached the courtyard where the bright morning sunshine glinted brightly on the soft lines of the award-winning Bones gardens. Susan smiled and made her way to a small patch of tiger lilies that bloomed rather prettily in a corner of the courtyard. Breathing deeply, she inhaled the perfume of the flowers, and closed her eyes as a satisfied smile spread across her face. More than anything, Princess Susan adored the smell of these flowers, and she always took the time to smell them when they were in bloom. Opening her eyes, Princess Susan let her gaze fall upon a small door at the foot of the one of the castle's many towers. Her brow knitted together fractionally, for she did not remember the door having been there before. Indeed, the tower was purely ornamental and had no stairs within. If Princess Susan knew the layout of the castle properly - and we can assume that she did, for she was an adventuresome and inquisitive young lady who had explored the castle and grounds many, many times - then the tower actually held nothing more exciting than the castle's geriatric shoemakers, and while Princess Susan was a naturally cheerful and sunny person, she would have been mildly disappointed had her birthday offered nothing more exciting than a load of old cobblers. Still, Princess Susan was an optimist and a witch. She had a certain feeling about the door. Doors that are there one day having not been there the day before are either the work of deliberate magic or very fast builders, and Princess Susan knew from her father's long and detailed rants on the subject that no builder worked fast when working slow was an available option. Princess Susan smiled. Deliberate magic it was, and suddenly her birthday had just become rather more interesting. Pushing open the door to the tower, she spied a set of narrow, steep stairs leading upwards. She smiled again and nodded. What would be the point of a magical door, after all, if it didn't lead to somewhere that was also rather magical and somewhat more interesting? The Princess climbed the stairs with just the right mix of boldness and trepidation, her wand glowing in the increasing gloom. The tower grew darker and darker, the steps grew steeper and narrower, and the Princess began to feel her internal scales weigh more and more heavily towards the 'trepidation' side of the equation. The darkness gathered around her like a cloak, and soon – or perhaps after a long time – even the lit tip of her wand could not illuminate the gloom. The steps seemed to go on for a long time, and Susan was now making her way up by touch alone. Brave, patient and kind of spirit she may have been, but this was not how she had envisioned her seventeenth birthday, and it was beginning to get on her nerves. Finally she detected a faint outline in the wall ahead where feeble light just managed to illuminate the edges of a door. Not taking any chances, the Princess drew her wand and cast an Unlocking Spell. The door shifted slightly, and Princess Susan – now almost all trepidation – pushed it far enough open that she could enter the room beyond. It certainly wasn't much to look at. A small, circular room with a single narrow window that let in just enough light to allow Susan to see the huddled figure tucked away in the shadows. A lock of white hair glinted faintly from beneath the figure's hood. "Are you the Princess Susan?" the figure whispered, croakily. "I am. And who are you, my good woman?" There was a sharp intake of breath. "My good man?" Susan corrected herself. The figure climbed to its feet a little reluctantly, and Susan spied a strange device behind it. "Good sir, what is that?" "A spinning wheel, my dear," the man rasped, as he came forward. "But do not concern yourself with that just yet – today is your lucky day, after all." "It is?" Susan asked. She may have led a sheltered life, but there is an inherited distrust in the genes of every human being towards anyone who tells you that it's your lucky day. "Certainly. You know, of course, that you have thirteen godparents?" "Of course." "Who gave you twelve gifts?" "Yes." Draco regarded the Princess suspiciously. "Look, girl, work with me here, okay? Thirteen godparents, twelve gifts. Did you never wonder what the thirteenth godparent would give you?" "I... No," Susan said, simply. "I am grateful for what I have." "You are?" the figure said, in a much more normal voice. "You don't want another wish? Think of what you could have! Power, fame, riches, glory..." "Well, that would all be very nice – although as a Princess I have those things anyway - but I wouldn't know where to find the thirteenth godparent." "Well, Princess Susan, today you are in luck!" The man threw back the hood of his cloak, revealing a handsome face crowned with white-blonde hair. The light in the room flared up to dazzling heights, and suddenly the room was bathed in gold. A chorus line of dancing girls high kicked their way across the Princess' line of vision, as an orchestra went 'Dada-dada-dada-DA-dada' and somewhere behind her an elephant trumpeted loudly. High up in the rafters of the suddenly-huge room, acrobats swung and soared, while all around the edge a huge crowd had gathered, and were applauding as though their life depended on it. "Princess Susan," the man announced, into the end of his wand. His voice echoed throughout the room, and brought a fresh round of applause from the watching crowd. "You thought that your chance for eternal happiness had passed you by, but little did you know that every day I have been watching you, every day I have waited, and now you are of age-" "Excuse me?" "Yes?" "You've been watching me?" "I have." "What, all the time?" "What?" the blonde man looked nonplussed. "I mean, have you been watching me get dressed? And in the bath?" "Er, no, of course not," he said. "Very well. I just wanted to check." The crowd and entertainers, who had rather lost their thread, picked up again almost immediately. The blonde man struck another pose, and absently stroked his golden trousers, as though deriving comfort from the velvet material. "Well, as I was saying," he restarted, shooting Princess Susan an evil look. "I am that godmother, and I can grant you that wish. Princess Susan, I am your humble servant, Draco Malfoy." Draco bowed, his long, blonde hair sweeping the ground before him. He frowned as he spotted the chewing gum that someone had left behind, a fraction of a second after it became irrevocably twisted into his fringe. He stood up with a slight grunt of pain as his fringe was torn from his scalp at the roots. "You're Draco M-" "Yes," Draco snapped. He wasn't in the best of moods. "Look, Princess, I've got a wish for you, but if you're going to keep asking stupid questions then I can just go. Honestly, there's a thousand kids at Hogwarts and I can just go up there and give one of them the chance to wish themselves out of Potions or Divination." "Sorry," Princess Susan said meekly. Draco gave her a very haughty look, but subsided. The acrobats and dancers started to breathe again, and the elephants trumpeted once more. "Now," Draco said, a hint of resentment still colouring his voice. "Are we quite finished? Yes? Are you sure? We have lots of time to spare- Yeswhatisit?" Princess Susan lowered her hand. "But, I thought you were in jail?" "I was released. On a technicality," he spat. "What happened?" "Hotpants came back into fashion." "Oh." Draco rubbed his scalp, which still rather stung. "Now, as I was saying," he shot her another dirty look. "One wish, got it? No more, no less. In fact, you don't even get to choose the wish – I choose it." Princess Susan nodded, having decided that it was best to keep quiet. "Now, I know you like tiger lilies. Your wish will be an everlasting tiger lily. Roses may be more traditional, but you like tiger lilies, and never let it be said," he continued, with a somewhat evil smirk, "that I don't follow through on a wish. "However, you have to do just one thing for me in order to prove yourself worthy of the wish, indeed, prove that you are the Princess Susan, and not just an impostor." Princess Susan nodded again. Draco gestured at the spinning wheel. "You have to spin the wheel, and then we have a deal." "Very well," Princess Susan said, and stepping forward, she reached out to the wheel. She was aware of a hush from all those around. The audience was silent, the dancing girls were paused, mid-kick, the acrobats hung in mid-air as they watched her, and there was even a sense of elephant expectation in the air. Steeling herself, Princess Susan pressed on and reached out to the wheel again. Only her sharp reflexes prevented her losing a finger as the wooden device suddenly snapped at her, the wheel clapping against the seat as though trying to bite her hand off. "Daring, intellect, sharp wit and persistence, these are all gifts given the lovely Princess Susan by my fellow godmothers," Draco announced to the crowd, who oohed in appreciation. "And she will need all these and more to defeat the dreaded Spinning Wheel of South West Sodham-on-the-Wold, which to this date has claimed the live of fifteen Muggle- What?" For the crowd had started laughing. Draco spun on his impossibly-high platform soles and felt his jaw drop. Princess Susan had levitated a large rock and dropped it on the spinning wheel, shattering it into innumerable fragments. She held the largest part – three-quarters of the wheel, still attached to one spoke – and gave it a spin. The crowd hooted and hollered, the elephants trumpeted, the dancers finished their routine an as gravity got back to its day job after taking a break to watch Susan's battle, the acrobats plummeted groundwards, unnoticed by anyone. "You... you broke it." "Was I not supposed to?" Susan asked. "Well, no," Draco said. "But I completed the challenge." "Yes, you did, er..." "So, do I get my wish?" "I'm sorry?" Draco asked, still staring at the shattered wheel. "My wish. I'd like my wish, please." "I... I... yes," Draco said, suddenly seeming to wake up. "Your wish. Well, never let it be said that I'm not adaptable." "Excuse me?" "Imperio!" Susan's face went blank as the curse caught her. "I mean, is it me?" Draco said, spreading his arms wide and turning to the audience. "Am I just incapable of inspiring proper effort? Longbottom messes up my spell, the Princess messes up my spell, Weasley and Granger had me jailed, my father prefers Azkaban to spending time with me, my mother tried to have me assassinated..." He looked around the silent room. From somewhere up in the audience there was a nervous cough. Scowling, he turned and waved his wand at Susan. "You, prick your finger on the pointy thing," he ordered. Princess Susan raised the remains of the spinning wheel in her hand and rested her finger against the pointy thing. "It's called a spindle," she said in a monotone voice. "I've waited seventeen years for this moment, woman. I'm going to kill you, or at least put you to sleep for forever. Probably the former, since it's Longbottom who tried to cancel the curse. Now, do it!" With a faint huff of pain, Susan pricked her finger. Without a pause she collapsed to the floor. "Ahahahahahahahahahahahaha! "Muahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha! "Bwahahahahahahahahahahaha! "Ahahahahahahahahaha! "Muahahahahahahahahahahaha! "Ahem." With a wave of his wand, Draco vanished the crowd, the dancers, the elephants and even the people who had eventually tried to help the acrobats. He left the acrobats, and stared at them for a moment. "Muahahahahahaha!" And then he vanished them as well. "Dear, sweet, naïve Princess Susan," he said, stepping over to her fallen body. "At last I have fulfilled my vengeance. For seventeen years I have waited. Seventeen years of dreaming," he snarled. "Seventeen years of scheming," he ranted. "Seventeen years of plotting your demise!" he bellowed. He paused, and looked down at the young girl. "And yet, now I have done it, I find myself curiously unsatisfied. Using Imperio... It was almost crude - hardly the stuff legends are made of." With one hand on his hip, he stared at Princess Susan, absently tapping his mouth with the somewhat tarnished star at the tip of his wand. "I suppose that I could repeal the curse. It is in my power, as the one who cast it..." Crossing his arms, he stared up at the ceiling, lips pursed as he considered performing a selfless act for the first time. From the ceiling fell a single drop of water, remnant of a passing storm cloud that had been on its way to East Cheam, and which had found its way through the cracks in the tower roof. It landed on the tip of Draco's rather pointed nose. "Raaaar!!!" he exploded, slinging hexes and jinxes and curses in every direction. "Pustulo!" he roared, a wild swing of his wand sending the spell directly at Princess Susan. It rebounded, Mundungus Fletcher's protective amulet coming into play for the first time in Princess Susan's sheltered young life. The spell slapped wetly into Draco. "Eep." Draco froze, mid-hex. His wand clattered to the floor as he reached tentatively around to the seat of his trousers. Which were, as usual, rather tight, and did not allow sufficient room for, for example, a sudden outburst of boils on Draco's butt. The trousers squelched slightly at Draco's touch. "I suppose it could be said that I had this coming," he winced. With a pop - with several, indeed, for the spell was still acting - he Disapparated, and no more was heard of him for a very, very long time. Comparatively speaking, it was a very short time later that the King found his daughter, alone and unconscious in the tower. However, it had been long enough to scare the old king greatly, and at first he took his beloved child for dead. Although he was greatly relieved when it was discovered that she was alive, he was still deeply saddened. Despite his flippant remark of years past, he had long wondered who there would be who would fall in love with his daughter when she was asleep. The king and queen led a procession of silent servants down the perilous steps of the tower. The servants gently and carefully bore the slumbering Princess down the steps on a bier, the King regretfully holding Draco's wand. They were joined in the courtyard by Head Godmother Longbottom, who silently took Draco's wand and followed the royal party up to Princess Susan's bedroom. The servants laid the Princess on her bed, and the Queen busied herself with arranging her daughter just so. She crossed Susan's hands over her stomach, and pulled the covers up to her chin. "She won't move," Neville assured her. "And she'll be perfectly warm, no matter how many blankets she has on. The spell will keep her alive and unchanging until she is reawakened." "Can you do nothing?" the Queen asked. She had mellowed somewhat over the years, and of course had been preparing for this moment since Draco had cursed her daughter nearly seventeen years before. "Nothing for her, your Majesty," Neville said sadly. It was a conversation that they had had time and again over the years. "My offer stands for you, however." "To sleep forever, perhaps. Our people need us," the King sighed. "A Bones has never left his people wanting." "She is our daughter," the Queen replied. "She is of age." "Your Majesties, I await your decision." The King and Queen discussed matters for some time, torn between their love of their daughter, and their duty to their kingdom. At last the King turned to Neville. "We will sleep, Fairy Godmother." Neville nodded. "Very well. Accompany me, your Majesty. Rest assured that you won't feel a thing." "We may sleep for a thousand years." "You will be protected by the spell, and by One Wish, this much I pledge you." The King and Queen kissed their daughter goodbye, and retired to their bedchamber. They lay down together, and sighed peacefully as Neville cast his spell. * Neville passed through the castle, placing to sleep the servants and flunkies and musicians. Only Chef Molly refused, determined as she was to spend time with her children and grandchildren. Molly and Neville stood together outside the castle. Molly wiped a tear from her cheek. "They're going to be okay," Neville said. "I think." Molly sniffed. "I'm sure that they will be," she said. "This happened in Hogsmeade when I was a girl." "Really?" "Oh yes. Dumbledore sorted it all out, as quick as you like." Neville grimaced. "What did he do?" "He found the girl's boyfriend." "Oh, well, Princess Susan didn't have a boyfriend, did she?" "No, dear, she didn't. Her parents kept her close to them." Neville sighed in relief. He hadn't even thought of finding the Princess' true love. "Of course, that didn't stop Albus," Molly said, reflectively. "It didn't?" Neville asked. "Oh no. He just did a spell to find the one who would fall in love with the princess and brought her to the house. There wasn't even time for the roses to grow an inch." Neville looked guiltily back at the castle. The Bones plants, which required regular pruning under the best of circumstances, were already looking likely to overpower the castle by sundown. Dimly, he remembered Pomona Sprout mentioning that it was one of the side effects of the spell, although it did seem to be happening rather faster than she had said. "Er I don't know any spells like that," Neville confessed. "Never mind, dear," Molly said. "Would you like me to show you?" "You? But you're a chef," Neville said. "When did you learn how to use magic to find your true love?" "Well, after my Arthur was killed in the war against You-Know-Who, I needed to find someone to help me raise my boys and my daughter." Molly said, blushing slightly. "So I looked up love spells and found the one that Albus used. It's really quite simple - it's just a locator. You find the person who is most compatible with the things you're looking for." "But, but, but... You married Snape!" "Yes, dear. I wanted someone who was honourable and intelligent and capable of handling my children. On balance, I could perhaps have been a little more selfish..." Neville tried to think of something to say to this. "It... doesn't sound like the most foolproof method," he settled on. "Nonsense, it works perfectly. I found Harry for Ginny, didn't I?" "You?" "Certainly. Who do you think hired your business to set them up?" "Let me get this straight," Neville said slowly. "You used a magic spell to find the man you believed would be perfect for your daughter? Then you hired Ron and Hermione to cast spells on them so that they'd meet and fall in love with each other?" "Certainly." "And you don't see anything wrong with that?" "I am her mother." Neville shook his head, resignedly. "What do I have to do?" "Hold your wand like this, dear," Molly said. "And..." she cast a look at the castle. "Let's hurry." Neville looked at the castle as well. There were leilandis that had been planted along one wall, and these were now rather higher than the shorter turrets. Even as Neville watched, one grew up and around a passing owl, swallowing the unfortunate bird whole. By the sound of it, another one of the evergreens held a thestral fast in its branches. "Yes. Let's." * Dennis Creevey stood atop the highest point of the stadium, the Quidditch World Cup held aloft over his head. Below him, he knew, his coach would be having fits, but Dennis didn't care. With a wave of his hand and a final lift of the cup, he stepped onto his waiting Nimbus and carefully aimed it back down towards the rest of the team, who were cheering and laughing at his antics. And why not? Hadn't he scored for England in the World Cup Final? Hadn't he been instrumental in securing England their first World Cup in over two hundred years? Hadn't he flown interference for Harry Potter during the ruthless Snitch hunt? Indeed he had - and that was worth celebrating. More to the point, he'd done all of these things with a hangover the size of a hippogriff, having tried to outdrink the Weasley brothers all on his own the night before. Granted, it was a valiant thing to do, but there's one of Dennis and five Weasley brothers, not to mention that they had roped their distant cousin Ron into the proceedings as well. Still, a recklessly drunk Gryffindor isn't that much more reckless than a sober Gryffindor, so Dennis' somewhat inebriated state hadn't been that noticeable so far. It did however leave him rather more open to suggestion than normal, which was about to become important. (I hope you're all taking notes, by the way, there may be a quiz at the end.) As he came level with the rest of the players, he felt the flash of a thousand bulbs popping in time with his racing heart. He gestured with the cup at the blinding light, knowing that his brother was in there somewhere, camera firing like crazy, gibbering madly into his quill. Dennis could not have been happier. At thirty-two years of age, he had reached the pinnacle of his career. Recognised world-wide as the finest Chaser of the last century, he was as steady on a broom as Harry Potter himself, and some felt even more inclined to reckless bravery than Potter when a match was at stake. Perhaps, but he was a Gryffindor, after all. So unusual was it for Dennis to even falter on his broom that when he suddenly lurched sideways, half of the eighty-thousand people in the stadium laughed at his showboating. The other half, who had seen the cup slip from his fingers, gasped as they realised something was wrong. Harry Summoned the Cup even as he flew over to Dennis, which at least showed that his priorities were correct. Replacing a team-mate is only a matter of biology and training. Replacing the ancient and magical World Cup would take some doing "Are you okay?" he asked as he reached his team-mate. Dennis sat up straight again, his face blank. "I am fine," he said in a monotone quite unlike his normal voice. "Are you sure?" "Yes I am. Please excuse me. I must go." And he leaned over his broom and shot upward into the sky, leaving the World Cup and his thousands of adoring fans behind. "Where's Dennis gone?" Angelina Johnson asked, soaring up to join Harry, and taking hold of one of the Cup's handles possessively. Harry smiled as he let his captain take the trophy. "I don't know," he said. "He looked... Well, like he'd been Imperio'd, truth be told." Angelina opened her mouth to reply, but started and nearly dropped the Cup when a small sheet of parchment popped into existence between them. Harry caught it before it fell away from them. "Harry, had to borrow your Chaser, well done on winning the Cup, Neville. P.S. It conquers all..." "What...?" "Oh," Harry said. "It looks like Dennis is needed elsewhere." "What's more important than the World Cup?" Harry glanced to his left. He could just make out a gaggle of redheads in one of the boxes - and in the centre of that group, he knew, was his wife. "One thing," he said. * Dennis was halfway to Bones Castle before he began to wake from his stupor. Unfortunately for him, he was flying his broomstick - the fastest in professional Quidditch, no less - through one of the colder parts of thin air, and was nearing nothing more than a sweat-soaked Quidditch uniform. Dimly, he wondered about his tackle. As a Chaser, it was one of the most important weapons in his armoury, but he needed it to be perfect when he got where he was going. Dully, he shook his head. Something about that wasn't quite right... He flew on, muzzily aware that he had no idea where he was going, nor what he was going to do when he got there. Something to do with scoring, he thought. That much at least seemed to make sense. * "And this is going to work?" Neville asked. "Oh, yes," Molly said. "It seems a bit... unethical." "You're a fine one to talk. How many love spells does your lot cast? Per week?" Neville kicked at a nearby stone. "That's different," he said. "Why?" "We're part of an ancient and mystical organisation dedicated to bringing happiness into the lives of those who most deserve it." "Princes and princesses?" "And normal people," Neville said, evenly. He was smart enough to know when he was being baited. "We believe in happiness." "So do I." "But-" "Yes?" "But-" "What?" "Oh... What if she hates him?" "Dennis Creevey? She's had posters of him on her wall since he turned professional. They're old friends, really, or he's a friend of her parents, anyway. And now she's an adult." Neville sighed, and plucked the gold star that marked him as the head of One Wish, Inc. from his robes. "Look, you're clearly more cut out for this than I am," he said. "Do you want to run the company?" Molly raised an eyebrow. "Me?" "Yes." "No, thank you dear. But it's a very nice thought." "I just feel a bit useless is all." "It's understandable dear, after all..." "Yes?" "Well, you've only saved the Princess from certain death, been a wonderful friend to my daughter in her darkest times, granted thousands of wishes that have generally improved people's lives and afflicted Draco Malfoy with the Curse of the Toad." "I suppose you have a point," Neville said with a small smile. "Although cursing Malfoy may have only made him more disagreeable, I suppose," Molly carried on. "He deserved it," Neville said, scowling. "Well, I happen to agree with you, dear. Draco certainly deserved some form of censure for his prejudiced and disagreeable nature, and if making sure that whenever he removes his trousers he hears the sound of a toad croaking is what you felt necessary, then that's up to you. I perhaps might have simply denied him access to my desserts-" "Oh, come on now!" Neville said, clearly appalled. "There's no need to resort to torture!" This pleasant and somewhat meandering interlude was brought to an end by the arrival of a lump of ice that plummeted from the sky and crashed into the thick, rich, loamy soil that was the source of the fantastic growth rate of the Bones plants. So heavy was the lump of ice and so floofy the soil that it took the light from both Neville and Molly's wands to make out the lump, stuck as it was down a hole some forty feet deep that it had carved before coming to a halt. "Is that..." Neville asked, before being hit on the head by a free-falling broomstick and falling unconscious to the ground. "Dennis Creevey, fresh from his Quidditch match, having flown through sub-zero temperatures in sweaty robes to reach us? Yes, dear, I believe it is." * There are few nicer ways to be awakened than by someone waving a hot mugful of sweet tea in front of you. Neville and Dennis were thus pleasantly brought back to the land of the living and refreshed by Molly's award-winning brew. "Er, what am I doing here?" Dennis managed to ask at last, through chattering teeth. He wasn't entirely certain that it had been necessary for Chef Molly to remove his robes to dry them, but she had insisted. There wasn't an ounce of spare fat on his perfectly-toned, well muscled frame, and he was still feeling rather chilly. "And, er, are my robes done yet?" "Very nearly, dear," Chef Molly replied, from her wash bucket. She grinned at him. "Another fifteen minutes of the washboard-" "Surely you mean on the washboard?" "That's right, dear," Molly said, her eyes never leaving his stomach. "Now, Neville dear, weren't you going to get Dennis a six-pack?" "Er, a sword, wasn't it?" "Yes dear." Neville rolled his eyes. "Aren't you Neville Longbottom?" Dennis asked. "Yes, that's me," Neville said. "You must be wondering why we brought you here." "Not really," Dennis sighed. "You're One Wish, I'm a Quidditch player. It seems to come with the job. I was called out five times last year to birthday parties, and twice to hen nights." "You were?" "Yes. And they all ended up with me naked as well." "Well," Neville went on hurriedly. "You being naked isn't quite what we were after, although," he glanced at Molly. "I suppose it may have been a step on the way for some of us. No, do you recognise the castle behind you?" Dennis turned and looked. Then he turned around still further and looked that way as well. He turned around more, but this simply brought him back to facing Neville. "Where?" Neville grimaced as he looked at the forest that had sprung up while he was unconscious. He looked down at the sword he was holding in one hand. The sword of Gryffindor is a fine device for stabbing, and it is even possible that it could be used to, for example, cleave a Dark Wizard's head clean from his shoulders. For example. But despite its ruby-studded hilt, and fancy carving of 'Gryffindor' into the blade, it's not the weapon you'd necessarily choose to take into a forest where the trees were growing even faster than Hagrid's pumpkins. No, for that, you needed an axe. A great, big chopper. "Speaking of which," Molly said, intruding on Neville's thoughts. "Here are your robes back, dear." Dennis thanked her, and dressed quickly. "What am I doing here, then?" he asked. "This doesn't seem like much of a hen night." "Bones castle is in there," Neville said, pointing at the flourishing forest. "You have to fight your way through the plants and wake up Princess Susan." "Princess Susan?" Dennis asked. "Is this a Sleeping Beauty spell?" Neville nodded. "Isn't the forest supposed to grow over a hundred years or something?" Neville shrugged. "I've got green fingers," he said, helplessly. * Three steps into the forest and Dennis felt as though he had almost reached the centre. It was dark, and he could see hardly any distance in any direction. He looked back over his shoulder, but couldn't even see the gap that he had squeezed through. The trees were growing even more frantically, it seemed, with every passing second. He was all alone, with nothing but his broomstick and a large axe for company. With barely a hint of trepidation he mounted his Nimbus, which rose obediently until he hovered about five foot above the ground. Looking down, he saw tree roots snacking across the soil, twisting over and around each other. While his experiences as an impromptu strip-a-gram had taught him much about fighting off unwanted attention, he was glad to be up in the air where he felt safest. He eased the broom forward, lashing out at any branches that got in his way with the axe. Dead wood fell about him, but was quickly swallowed up as the trees absorbed the fallen limbs. It took only a few minutes for Dennis to realise that he was lost. He had never bothered equipping his broom with a compass, and had no idea which way the castle was. Casting about, he realised that he was trapped. The trees had closed in around him totally, leaving him no way forward and back. Sighing, he wondered whether he really liked the Bones family that much to begin with. Chef Molly's cooking was certainly nice, but she was on the outside anyway. The King and Queen had been nothing to write home about, while the Princess he was supposed to be rescuing was a pleasant enough girl, but still a child. He had a rather gloomy suspicion that his status as the Wizarding World's Most Eligible Bachelor (Unless Harry And Ginny Ever Get Divorced, Which Isn't Likely But We Single Girls Can Hope) which Witch Weekly had recently awarded him for the seventh year running had come back to bite him on the arse. With a grunt of effort he wrenched his broom free of the questing, probing branches. The manoeuvre left him pointing upwards, and sent the axe flying from his grip. Before he could react, the weapon was swallowed whole by a particularly mean looking silver birch, which seemed to leer at him even as it reconstituted the axe blade into a pointy set of metal twigs that stretched out towards him. Dennis frowned. He had about as much desire to be hugged by the birch as he did by his Auntie Ida, who had a whiskery moustache and an unfortunate odour problem. With a sigh, he abandoned the idea of tackling the forest as a hero, and decided to tackle it like a Quidditch player. * "Waaahhoooooo!!!" "What's that?" Neville asked, seeing the shape tearing free of the canopy of the forest, trailing a few terminally stubborn branches behind him. "Oh, just a hero with brains," Molly said, without looking up from her cooking pot. "Try this, dear." "Mmm, that's good," Neville said, tasting Molly's latest dish. "Needs a little salt." "The hero?" "Sorry?" Neville asked. With Molly's cooking in front of him, he wasn't paying too much attention to anything else. * Dennis hovered over the forest. The canopy was thick, but he could see through patches of it. Here a lake, there a pond, everywhere a water feature. And there... Dennis plummeted. * "Do you think he's found the castle?" Neville asked, distractedly. He was watching Molly heap a spoonful of jambalaya into a bowl that he hoped was coming his way. "Probably, dear. He is a hero, after all." "He's a Quidditch player." "He's her hero." "If you say so," Neville said. * With a crash, Dennis shot through the window, dismounted his broom just before it buried itself nose first into the solid stone wall and landed gracefully on the bed. He looked down, mildly disappointed that he had landed in a guest bedroom, but still rather pleased at the dismount with double-twist and a pike that would have brought gasps of admiration from even the most cynical of announcers. Hurrying to the door, he opened it and stepped out into the corridor. The inside of the castle was pristine, the plants not having intruded beyond the walls, but everywhere Dennis went the floors were littered with fallen flunkies and servants, all of them fast asleep. One was lying with his face in a pool of tea having been carrying a mug of the drink when he had been struck by the spell. Another was paused with one shoeless foot propped on the opposite knee, a pair of nail scissors in hand, the blades paused halfway along a particularly grubby and yellow toenail. Dennis looked around, trying to figure out which of the hundreds of rooms belonged to the Princess. It was a search, he thought, which seemed to be lacking other versions of the story that he'd heard. Sometimes the hero was guided to the Princess by magic, or by allies - which sometimes took the form of small furry animals, the appearance of which in a story had always made Dennis want to throw the book out of a window - and sometimes the Princess just seemed to sleep in the room nearest the castle door. However the hero managed it, Dennis supposed that he had probably invalidated any claim he had on help - small and furry or otherwise - when he took a non-hero route through - over - the forest. With a sigh, he walked to the next door on the corridor and opened it. "Toilet," he muttered, and walked along the corridor to the next one. And the next one. And the next one. * Dennis, in short, was in for rather a long search. However, it could have been worse. The Sleeping Beauty curse is a popular one that has been cast over and over throughout the ages. The wicked Godmother always tries to kill the child. The last Godmother always saves the child from death. It's one of those things that can't be explained - it just is. It is possible, however, that there are places where the wicked Godmother is successful, where the precocious, beautiful, vibrant and charming Princess dies from a pricked finger, and that everyone involved is just too embarrassed at having messed up such a well known story that the whole thing is hushed up. It's possible. I didn't say that it was likely. But it is possible. * While Dennis continues his search - and, between you and me, he's started in the wrong wing of the castle so he'll be a while - allow me to take you off to meet up with Chef Molly and Godmother Neville again. Rather than just sitting around and trying out some new recipes that Molly had come up with, they had become embroiled in a plot to overthrow the masochistic dictator of far off Kioraland, which had culminated in a short and bloodless coup. So short, indeed, that by the time we get back to them they're back where we left them, almost giving the impression that they've not been doing much. But trust me, they have. You've got my word for it, okay? "I always wanted to see Kioraland," Neville said. "Me too," Molly replied, settling back in her chair. "Cup of tea?" "Yes please." The observant among you may have noticed that Molly has somehow obtained much of the furniture associated with a kitchen since she fled the castle with Neville, and indeed this is so. The small clearing that they have bedded down in is now home to a cooking fire, several pots, a kettle, a medium-sized table, a cupboard, a spice rack and several chairs. Asking how this is possible is rather like asking how fish swim, or how humans breathe. "How do you think he's doing?" Molly asked, as she poured milk into Neville's mug. "Oh, fine," Neville said. "Thanks," he added, as he took the mug. "He's a hero. He'll be in her bedchamber any moment now." * And, as if by magic, Dennis was just leaving the king and queen's bedchamber. Princess Susan's was the next room on the corridor - although he didn't know this - and he was approaching the door when he stopped short. "Excuse me?" "Yes?" Dennis replied, cautiously. "Can you help me out?" "Well, maybe," Dennis replied. "What is it you need?" "Directions, I think. I appear to have got lost." Dennis looked at the wolf. "I think so," he said. "You're a wolf, aren't you?" The wolf nodded. "There's no wolves in these parts," Dennis went on. "I just feel like I need to be here," the wolf said. "Are you here to give me directions?" Dennis asked. The wolf looked at Dennis, and at the way Dennis was fingering his axe, a little too eagerly. "Not at all," he replied, scrunching up the map of Bones Castle in one paw. "Well, I tell you what, there's a man and woman out there," said Dennis who was not above taking revenge on the people who'd landed him in this strange situation (and who had, after all, stripped him naked as well). "Go and speak to them. They might be able to help you." "You think?" "One of them's a Godmother." The wolf looked doubtful. "Godmothers and wolves don't usually get along," it said. "They're usually on different sides, you might say." "Well, this is true," Dennis said. "But the Godmother's a man, and I'm supposed to be a hero but I'm not being very heroic. Maybe this is a time for all sentient beings to throw off the shackles that cultural momentum would place on us, as it were, and embrace the possibilities offered by a new present in which the hero can, for example, break off his search for the Princess to embark on a conversation with a supporting character from another story." "You think there might be a role for me in a story?" the wolf asked. "Absolutely. Wolves are always in demand. Three pigs, a lonely girl in a forest... Even if it's just stand in work as an extra in the background of a cautionary tale about playing God and trying to create life, well, a wolf's virtually guaranteed a spot." "I see," said the wolf. He appeared to be deep in thought. "Do you think I should have some headshots done?" Dennis raised an eyebrow and stepped past the wolf towards the next door in line which, I'm sure you will remember, was Princess Susan's bedroom door. "What about an agent?" the wolf called after him. Receiving no reply, he slunk off to try and get a role in the next story. Dennis shook his head and, turning the doorhandle, pushed open the door. With a smile of relief, he beheld the Princess Susan. And fell head over heels in love. Fleur Delacour was a very clever witch, and had cunningly enchanted Susan to become hugely attractive to men only when she reached the twelfth hour of her seventeenth birthday and had had the chance to adapt to her coming of age in the wizarding world. Such foresight was not something that Fleur herself - being one-quarter Veela - had ever been fortunate enough to be blessed with. From the age of eleven when she had begun to grow into her looks, she had been pursued down the street by movie producers, record moguls and modelling agents, which is all a bit of a pain when you just want to go to the movies with your mates. Of course, the Princess was now seventeen, and the charm had kicked in. She had been rather attractive beforehand, but even lying in her curse-induced repose, there was a certain air about her, a particular something that cannot be defined - which, frankly, saves me trying to define it - and which only belongs to a very few women in the world at any one time. Whatever it was, she had it, and Dennis approached the bed with a very dry mouth. * "When?" Molly asked. "Soon," Neville replied. "Do you have any biscuits?" Molly burrowed in her larder and produced a biscuit barrel full to the brim with chocolate digestives. "You really are quite good at this, you know," she said. "You have the instincts, you just need to believe in yourself a little bit more." Neville didn't say anything. He had two biscuits in his mouth. * Dennis approached the bed, heart in his mouth. He was on the verge of saying something like 'My darling Susan,' but stopped himself before he became completely a lost cause. Of course he knew of the Bones traditional blessing by the One Wish operatives, but never before had he quite believed that it were true. He hadn't seen the Princess in several months, and she had become a fine woman. And he was the man chosen to awaken her. He was her true love. He was the one who would be her husband. He was the one sitting on the side of her bed, staring in wonder at her pale, delicate face. He leant forward, eyes fluttering shut as he brought his lips to meet hers. A pixie chorus popped into existence over their heads, and lit up with a romantic refrain. (And, yes, they're the same pixie band that was there when Harry and Ginny kissed for the first time. They're very popular for big events. They get the theme from "A Summer's Place" just right, and that's a tricky song, believe you me.) Dennis kissed Princess Susan softly on the lips. Princess Susan's eyes opened, ever so slowly. Princess Susan sat up, ever so quickly. She caught Dennis across the side of his face with her chin and sent him sprawling to the floor. "Bloody hell!" Susan swore. "My back is killing me." Wincing, she reached around and massaged the small of her back. "Ohhh..." she groaned. "What in the name of Merlin was I sleeping on?" "...what?" Dennis said quietly. He had had rather a hard landing on the cold flagstones. She swung herself out of bed with a pained grunt and, complaining the whole time, reached down to grab the edge of the mattress. With a grunt of effort, she lifted the thick, heavy mattress up and tipped it off the bed and onto the floor on the other side. Or, more accurately, onto Dennis who was on the floor on the other side. The Princess stared at the minute object that lay in the centre of bed frame. "A pea," she said, rubbing her back, which was twinging and twanging in a way that demanded the attention of a masseuse, or at the very least several hours in a piping hot bath. "That great git Malfoy had me sleeping on a pea! He actually put a pea under my mattress! He tried to make me sleep forever on a pea!" And, well, we all know what sleeping on a pea does to a princess, don't we? Well, yes, it puts them in a bad mood, but... Ah, forget it. Princess Susan strode around the bed, eager to get back out into the world and find out how long she had been asleep. Dennis groaned softly. Susan froze in mid-step, and looked about herself. This time, she realised with a slight frown, it wasn't her who had groaned. She turned around and cautiously approached the bed, one wary eye on the moving mattress. Susan was aware that in other, poorer, households it was not uncommon for mattresses to move on their own accord, but Susan was a Princess, after all. She had never even seen a cockroach, let alone had any in her bed. She poked the mattress tentatively, and stepped back quickly when it swore. "Hello?" she said. The mattress stopped moving. "Er, hello?" it replied. "Is that you, Malfoy?" Susan asked, wondering where her wand was. "Malfoy? No, it's not Malfoy. Who the hell is Malfoy, and why would he be in your bedroom?" "Er..." "Look, would you mind getting this bloody thing off of me?" "Um..." "The mattress, woman, if it's not too much trouble." "Oh. You're under the mattress?" There was a moment of silence. "Where," the voice asked, "did you think I was?" "Well," Susan rallied magnificently. "You could be a ventriloquist." "Is this Malfoy character a ventriloquist?" Susan set her jaw. "Shut up," she said briskly. Spying her wand on the nightstand she picked it up and waved it at the mattress. The mattress leapt up into the air, flipped over several times, wrapped itself neatly in sheets and blankets and landed, with pillows neatly stacked, on top of the bed. "I can breathe..." "Well, of course you can breathe," Susan snapped. Her back was still rather sore, and she was not feeling particularly well-disposed to anyone at that moment. "You're talking, aren't you?" Dennis tried to push himself upright. "You're not Malfoy," Susan said. "No, I'm not. I'm-" "Dennis!" Susan gasped, as he managed to right himself. "Susan?" Dennis asked. "Are you alright? Did I hurt you?" Susan half-squealed, half-gasped. "Yes, and yes," Dennis said, but he did not seem particularly bothered by this. "I'm so sorry. There was this dreadful Malfoy man, and he cursed me, and... That's the last thing I remember." "You were placed under the Sleeping Beauty curse," Dennis said, levering himself onto the bed, rubbing his head gingerly as he did so. "Oh, you're hurt," Susan said, rushing to his side. She knelt beside him, and tentatively reached out to the large bruise blossoming across his cheek. "Well..." Dennis said, and then submitted to her ministrations. He was very aware of her warm breath tickling his neck, and had to clench his fingers on his knees to stop him simply seizing her and kissing her again. Susan, faced with the prospect of the man she cared for more than any other, alone with her in her bedroom, was not so reticent. Seizing his chin in her hand, she turned his head until he was facing her. And then she took a very deep breath, screwed up every ounce of courage, and took advantage of what could well have been her only chance to do something that she'd dreamed of since she was old enough to dream about it. * With a smile, Neville sat back in his chair. The portable crystal ball in his hand vanished with a pop. He heaved a great sigh of relief and sat back in his chair. For the first time in nearly seventeen years, Neville relaxed. * Even more than a Bones christening, a royal wedding brings out the finest and greatest, the cream of society. And everything else that rises to the top. The King and Queen of Bones Park were marrying their daughter off to one of England's Quidditch World Cup heroes - it doesn't get much bigger than that. Neville and Molly walked down the aisle and took their seats. "I think that a day of sleep is better than a hundred years," Neville said. "I agree, dear," Molly said. "I know you do. You're the one who made me find her true love - but anyone would have fallen in love with her when they walked through that door and saw her. And anyone who kissed her would have been her one true love. That's how the spell works. I looked it up." "Is that a fact?" Molly asked, not looking him in the eye. "I suppose you never stop being a mum, do you?" "No dear, never. We used to have some interesting talks, Susan and I. She'd come to the kitchens, and we'd bake biscuits and discuss her dream wedding." "And how close is this?" "Pretty close, dear, pretty close. The groom's here. That's usually enough." "Schemer." "Shush. It's about to start..." Dennis stood at the front of the chapel, fists clenched nervously at his side. His brother stood at his side, a charmed camera recording every moment of his brother's discomfort for future generations to enjoy. The chapel organ wheezed to life, a sprightly tune heralding the arrival of the bride and her father, who walked her down the aisle safe in the knowledge that a fine feast awaited them all once the ceremony was out of the way. The priest took his place and opened his order of service. With a final clearing of the throat, he began to address the congregation. "Wuv, true wuv," he began. Down in the kitchen, magical fires flickered to life, their flames guttering their way to a roaring blaze as the feast began to cook. Chef Molly was always right in these matters, and the meal would be ready in three hours... ("Dearly beloved," the minister began, as Princess Susan and Dennis smiled at each other and then stood side by side. "We are gathered here today to join this woman and this man in the bonds of holy matwimony. Both Dennis Colin Dennis Colin Dennis Colin Dennis Colin Cweevey and Pwincess Susan Amelia Jacinta Theodowa Samantha Thomasina Thumbelina Daphne Stacy Beatwix Bellatwix Sidney Clawissa Jennifer Sabwina Susan Stephanie Awiel Belle Jean Gwizelda Awabella Angelina Alicia Katie Sophie Bones the Fourth-" "Er, excuse me," the King began, his stomach rumbling noticeably in the echoey chapel. "It's Sophia, not Sophie...") ...but then, perhaps there are times when something is worth waiting for. ("...I now pwonounce you...") If not for a hundred years... ("...man and wife...") ...then perhaps for a day or so... ("...you may kiss the bwide!") ...or a little while, at least. The End
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