Montague's Journey

Chapter 1 - Single Sock Sanctuary

Cursing and shouting, Montague fell to his knees and attempted to untangle himself from his robes. The Weasley twins had unceremoniously whipped them over his head and shoved him headfirst into a closet. The sooner he got out of this mess, the sooner he could take away every point Gryffindor would earn over the next two school years and the sooner he could curse Fred and George to oblivion. He caught a whiff of fresh air and followed his nose to daylight. Flinging the mass of black suffocating material backward in defiant triumph, he discovered...

Socks.

Socks everywhere.

Long socks, short socks, black socks, and shocking pink socks.

Patterned socks with golden snitches and purple socks losing their stitches.

Not a matching pair existed in the thousands of socks that swirled about him in this strange land? room? dimension? extra-terrestrial plane? of... socks. Of course, it was purely a guess that no two socks matched. Montague could not be bothered to research this hypothesis since he was preoccupied with thoughts of beating the snot out of Fred and George. An eddy of green and silver argyles caught his attention, interrupting his internal rage. He liked green and silver socks; it's just that he preferred they were on his feet and not ballroom dancing under his nose. He growled and viciously smacked them away with one hand.

The socks instantly scattered, giving him a sock-free hemisphere about two meters in diameter. He watched them cower and tremble in terror along the perimeter. A midnight blue wool sock with moons, stars and the letters A, P, W, B and D started to unravel itself from the toe. The sock that he had struck let out a tiny 'squeak' and limped away toward its friend - an older, brown sock with an image of the Minster of Magic embroidered on its heel. His immediate anger now diffused, Montague stood up and wondered, Where the hell am I?

He spun around thinking that no matter where he was, he might be able to retrace his steps and return to Hogwarts. No such luck. There was no hint of a door or portal from which he may have entered. He stepped forward anyway, thinking the portal was invisible, but nothing happened. He stood alone in his small sphere-of-sock-fear, took a deep breath of the oddly pine-scented, static-free air and surveyed his surroundings further.

While the socks were the predominant objects floating around the seemingly infinite space, he spotted other articles. Handkerchiefs, a robe and some boxer shorts floated aimlessly about him. Looking up, the serene field of footwear repeated itself against a light grey canopy that glowed like an overcast day. He caught the glitter of other things - keys, rings, glasses, Knuts, Sneak-o-scopes, and oddly enough, a golden snitch. He watched the snitch weave in and out of the array of articles, then vanish as only snitches are known to do.

A soft 'peep' drew Montague's attention back to the "wounded" sock that drifted below him. It seemed to have recovered from its injury and was now lazily drifting back up into some undetectable current. He captured it with ease, and then released it immediately when he felt razor sharp teeth sink into his index finger.

"YEOW! Mother of Salazar!" he cursed.

A small white mouse was clamped to Montague's finger. It was exactly like the creatures McGonagall used in her Transfiguration class, except this specimen had no tail. The mouse positively squeaked with joy at having avenged itself for the attack on his temporary home. (A pair of white gloves floating nearby applauded the rodent's effort.) Leaving little time to savor the taste of fresh blood, the mouse released Montague's finger, dropped to the ground and ran for cover.

Montague drew his wand with the intent of blasting the little bugger into powder only to discover the mouse had scampered away. Apparently, the lack of a tail gave the rodent some kind of aerodynamic advantage in this footwear forest. It had managed to reach the safety of the swirling socks.

"%&@#!?*," Montague roared, and every sock in the vicinity fled from his fury. He clenched his jaw, gripped his wand with renewed determination, and charged into the maelstrom of clothing in mad pursuit.

He so wanted to torture the evasive little masochistic rodent. He had been looking for an opportunity to try his hand at an Unforgivable Curse. Between his hatred of the Weasley twins, the stupid (but impressive) dancing argyles and the bite from a tail-less mouse, he was confident the Ministry officials would understand his situation and graciously overlook his use of the Killing Curse. And should the Ministry find out and still be intent on prosecuting him, Malfoy's dad could always pay them off.

Swatting socks left and right, he pressed on in the direction that he last saw the mouse running. The density of objects seemed to be thinning and he spotted a blur of white fluff moving purposely a short distance ahead. He quickly raised his wand to fire off a Killing Curse, but a stringy, black, tentacled mass hooked itself onto his arm and thwarted his attempt. He jumped around in panic and tried to shake it loose. Finally, it released him from its hold and he stepped back panting.

As it slowly drifted away, Montague felt slightly embarrassed at his reaction. It was just an odd little piece of clothing. He caught it purposely with the tip of his wand and examined its intriguing shape. His face flushed as the image of one of the cute Beauxbatons girls clad in such a frilly, silky undergarment sprang unexpectedly into his mind.

A squeak interrupted his fantasy and Montague had the distinct feeling that the mouse was taunting him.

It doesn't matter. The little squirt will be dead in moment.

He fired off a Wind Charm in the direction of the sound and cleared the way ahead of him. Striding into the open space, he spotted the mouse scampering under a very stylish, chintzy over-stuffed armchair.

"Reducto!" he shouted, and the chair burst into a mess of fabric and feathers.

Another expertly executed Wind Charm cleared the battle zone and Montague noticed the mouse taking cover under a wooden box filled with what appeared to be snails. A devilish grin spread across his face. His eyes slowly narrowed in concentration, his body tensed and tingled as he prepared to deliver the final blow. With his mind entirely consumed with the pleasant, electric feeling that all Slytherins seem to have when about to kill small, defenseless, lovable furry creatures (and a handful of invertebrates), it was quite remarkable that he noticed that the snails in front of him were disappearing and reappearing. He froze in his penultimate death curse pose and pondered the blinking snails.

Blinking snails, white mouse with no tail, eccentric armchairs, black, lacy undergarments that evoke pleasant feelings almost as exciting as cursing small furry animals, and millions of socks. Hmmm...

He relaxed, lowered his wand and for the second time in the quarter hour, he wondered, Where the bloody hell am I? A snitch materialized directly in front of him. In his mildly curious state of mind, he absently reached out, caught it, and instantly regretted it.