The Bolshevik Bunker

The Bolshevik Bunker

Chapter 2:

Uphill Both Ways

"I have no pity; I have no pity! The more the worms writhe, the more I yearn to crush out their entrails! It is a moral teething!"

-Heathcliff, Wuthering Heights

Act One:

The Gouda Line

"I thought you were going to convince me over lunch Malfoy," Hermione snipped, her growing hunger and her innate dislike of Draco combining to make her even more irritablethan usual.

"I am."

"At a rest home?"

Hermione glanced upwards, a dubious look on her face. Malfoy had lead her to the most dingy, derelict Victorian mansion she had ever seen. The sky was perfectly clear up and down the street, but inexplicably, a lone black cloud hung over the building, complete with cursory streak lightning. She realized she shouldn't be surprised. Malfoy would hang out at a place that brought a whole new meaning to "isolated thunderstorms". A heavy black marble sign hung over the enormous entrance proclaiming to all the world that this was, indeed, the one and only TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE MEMORIAL HOME FOR THE ELDERLY. After looking up at the sign, Hermione found the random storm cloud understandable, and probably even expectable.

"My father donated the money," Draco explained. "He insisted upon the name."

Before Hermione could reply there was a loud screeching of tires as a long black hearse dropped out of the sky and squashing a random small child whose existence is completely irrelevant to this fanfiction at large-but cut us some slack, people, we have to pump in the angst somehow. We couldn't resist.

Emblazoned upon the side of the flying hearse in flashing blue-gray letters were the words:

Bubba's Flying Funeral Parlor

From the freezer to the oven to the table...

...One stop shopping for all your dead-people needs!

The door to the hearse clicked open as two wizards in skintight black jumpsuits with matching aviator sunglasses stepped out of the car walking up towards the TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE MEMORIAL HOME FOR THE ELDERLY with an air of such authority Draco and Hermione leapt instinctively out of their path to avoid being metaphorically and, for all intensive purposes, literally steamrollered. They fell, albeit accidentally, into the convenient rhododendron bushes which, Hermione soon discovered much to her dismay, bit.

"Another of my father's demands," Draco furnished helpfully as he dodged a particularly ravenous rhododendron blossom. "He thought it would be a nice touch."

"Remind me," Hermione said through clenched teeth, "never to hire your father to do my landscaping."

"Why not?"Draco looked a tad bit offended, although it might have been due to the large rhododendron sinking its teeth into his left metatarsal. "He charges very reasonable rates, for a Malfoy that is."

"Considering the current state of your assets, Malfoy," Hermione snapped, catching a rhododendron in her fist as it moved forward to nip at her fingers, "any rates would be reasonable. Hell, at this point, sitting on the street with a little tin cup and a sign saying: "Too much Armani, too little cash," would be considered a high paying job."

"I wear Chanel," Draco said through clenched teeth.

Before Hermione had a chance to make the comment Draco's response was just crying for, the wizards from the flying hearse reached the front stoop of the TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE MEMORIAL HOME FOR THE ELDERLY, the door flying immediately open to greet them. An elephant of a woman with stringy grey hair, hands the size of pie plates, and a nose that made Professor Snape's look positively puny stepped out onto the landing, blinking in the sunlight. Slung over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes was a little wisp of a woman who brought new meaning to the words "wizened with age".

"Alright, Grandma," Elephant-Woman said, throwing the old lady a compete one hundred and eighty degrees so that the fogey's feet met the cement of the stoop, "time for your trip."

"Oooh," the little old lady said in an appropriately little-old-ladyishvoice, "a trip?" Her eyes, as big as saucers, were filled with an almost childish wonder. "A trip to where?"

"A barbeque," Elephant-Woman supplied.

"Oooh," the woman blinked happily; a process, due to her severely arthritic eyelids, that took the better part of a minute, "I do love barbeque! What are we barbequing?"

"Let's just say," Elephant-Woman grinned nastily, "you're the guest of honor, Grandma."

The two flying funeral home wizards supplemented Elephant-Woman's pronouncement. "Mwahahahahaha!"

"Oooh." The little old lady clucked her tongue, which took nearly as long as blinking. "You should take some cough syrup for that, dears; it sounds awfully croupy."

"C'mon Grandma, let's go," one of the wizards said as the other grabbed her roughly by the shoulders and shoved her towards the hearse.

"Oooh," she waxed ecstatic, "is that a Rolls Royce?"

The men didn't deign to reply, although Hermione, as horrified by the situation as she was, was amused to notice one of them scratching at his forehead surreptitiously. Shaking their heads, they pushed her through the open door, slamming it behind them.

"Oooh," wafted from the inside of the car, "is that a skewer?"

There was a flash of green light, a rushing sound, and the unmistakable stench of freshly cooked barbeque.

There was a deathly silence. Without further ado, Bubba's Flying Funeral Home shot off into the sky leaving naught but a dry spot on the ground where it had been, which was quickly reclaimed by the isolated thunderstorm.

"Draco Malfoy, what are you doing in my biting rhododendrons?" Elephant-Woman asked curiously, staring at them.

"I wish I could explain," Hermione said, eyeing her now-ripped business suit, "but there aren't words."

"Yes," Draco said, the paradigm of modesty, "who needs words when you have me?" He flashed her his deepest, manliest, sexiest, and, in Hermione's opinion, most nauseating, smile.

"Oh, Draco, you've always made me go weak in the knees!" Hermione glanced down at the vague area of the woman's legs (tree trunks?) where she would have expected to find the knees, but was mildly alarmed to see nothing but rippling folds of gray skin not dissimilar to water. Elephant-Woman threw her arms around him and, with a squelching noise, his entire body disappeared amidst her more than ample folds.

Freeing himself from Elephant-Woman's smothering clutches with a sound that sounded remarkably like a suction cup being removed from glass, Draco smiled winningly, showing off every last one of his straight, white, perfect Malfoy teeth, the products, Hermione was sure, of many years of careful inbreeding.

"Oh, Granger, this is Mrs. Horticulture Goyle."

"Related to..." Hermione searched for Goyle's first name but, seeing as she had never been able to tell Crabbe and Goyleapart from Hogwarts's numerous gargoyles, let alone each other, it evaded her.

Mrs. Horticulture Goyle opened her mouth to supply the name, but a blank look crossed her face as she muttered, "What is the little bugger called, anyhow?"

"Gregory," Draco supplied.

In a motion that never appears outside of fanfiction, Mrs. Horticulture Goyle slapped herself on the forehead, muttering, "Gregory, Gregory, that's my son's name." She ceased whispering and smiled enthusiastically. "Would you care to join me for a spot of tea?"

Hermione balked, recalling that Mrs. Horticulture Goyle's last mention of food had resulted in the unfortunate barbequing of a little old lady, but Draco seemed to have no such reservations, shoving her forward with an ardor nearly equal to Mrs. Horticulture Goyle's and announced, "Of course! We would love to join you for tea! Will there be crumpets as well?"

"Certainly."

"And scones?"

"As always!"

"And tarts?" Draco asked with a mischievous grin and eyes that suggested things Hermione would rather not think about.

"Oh, Draco, you charmer," Mrs. Horticulture Goyle giggled, sounding like a pregnant hippopotamus. "Come along, darling." She tried to pull Draco through the door walking next to her, but this proved impossible as her massive girth filled the entire doorframe. In the interests of preventing himself from becoming a pancake, Draco fell behind, whispering triumphantly to Hermione, "I told you we'd get lunch out of this! You just have to poke around in the right places."

Hermione blanched. "I really hope you didn't mean that literally."

INTERMISSION

(take a potty break now, folks)

ACT TWO:

Floating Amidst the Cotangents

"Well," said Mrs. Horticulture Goyle, passing Draco the bread plate (he was well into his fifth scone), "what brings you two to my humble home for the elderly? We have an open door policy, but I'd say you two are a little young, even by our standards."

Hermione held up a hand. "No no, neither of us actually wants to live here."

Draco said something that sounded suspiciously like, "Now that I think about it..." but his mouth was full of scone so it was hard to tell for sure.

"Actually," said Hermione, with a venomous glance in Draco's direction, "Malfoy doesn't have enough money for lunch. He got it into his head that he had to take advantage of his friendship with your son in a last ditch effort to get-"

"-advice on a business proposition!" Draco burst in as he swallowed the last crumbs of his scone, proceeding to lick his fingers as he kicked Hermione under the table, managing, as only a Malfoy could, to look sexy while multitasking.

"No money for lunch?" Mrs. Horticulture Goylelooked horrified. "Why didn't you just beat up a passing child and steal his money? That's what I taught-" she paused, losing her train of thought mid-sentence, "what's his name, my son."

"Gregory?" Draco provided, for the second time in five minutes.

"Yes," Mrs. Horticulture Goyle snapped her fingers. "Yes, I taught him to always beat up small children when he's low on dough. It's a wonderful way to pick up an extra bit of pocket change."

Hermione was entirely too mortified to come up with a proper response. If this was a Death Eater's wife, she'd hate to see the real thing.

"I'll keep that in mind," Draco said. Hermione hoped he wasn't serious, though you never could tell with Malfoy. "As invaluable as your suggestion is-" Mrs. Horticulture Goyle tittered, "I am looking to rake in much, much more than mere pocket change."

"Oooh," Mrs. Horticulture Goyle cooed, sounding remarkably like the little old lady. "Prithee, do tell, do tell."

"I need money. A LOT of money."

"Yes, we've established that," Hermione muttered under her breath.

"After all," Draco said, "Chanel's new fall wardrobe comes out in two weeks and right now I have enough to buy diddlysquat."

"I'm telling you, those little kids..." Mrs. Horticulture Goyle said, "you'd be surprised how much allowance their parents give them nowadays. When I was a child they didn't have allowance, they didn't even have money back then. We had to walk six miles to Hogwarts in the snow-uphill both ways!"

"But why go for the little fish when you can catch the big kahuna?" Draco leaned forward with a conspiratorial grin on his face. As Mrs. Horticulture Goyle looked somewhat confused he added, "Metaphorically speaking."

"Oh," she said, "I was wondering what fishing had to do with it." Draco smiled as if this was a perfectly understandable mistake.

Hermione felt that the stupidity quotient was well out of the healthy range for someone of her mental capacity. However, as she had discovered with Harry and Ron her first year at Hogwarts, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em, so she reached over and grabbed one of Malfoy's half-finished tea scones, taking a huge bite and feeling her IQ drop about 40 points.

"What I'm trying to say," Draco said, "and I'll leave fish out of it," he smiled at Mrs. Horticulture Goyle, "is: why rob the kids when you can go for their parents?"

"Because their parents can beat you up?" Mrs. Horticulture Goyle volunteered.

"Welcome to the obvious club," Hermione muttered under her breath. Even being out 40 IQ points she was leading Draco and Mrs. Horticulture Goyle, combined, by about 100 more. She felt it was high time she took another bite of scone.

"Not," Draco said, looking as if he was Moses on the mount, "if the parents don't know you're robbing them blind."

"Oooh," Mrs. Horticulture Goyle added helpfully.

"And how, may I ask," Hermione was unable to keep the incredulity out of her voice, "are you going to do that?"

Draco put forth a question. "Can you think of anyplace where people lose a lot of money and feel very happy about it?"

"Hell?" Hermione said, while Mrs. Horticulture Goyle suggested simultaneously:

"Church?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of a casino, but, come to think of it, I've always wanted to be a priest-"

"Casino it is!" Hermione cut in rapidly, not even wanting to consider Malfoy in a frock.

"But a casino needs a theme!" Mrs. Horticulture Goyle squealed, clapping her meaty hands together. "Oh, what fun! How about Germany? You can have showgirls in lederhosen and sell bratwurst magnets!"

"No," Draco informed her, "there will be no bratwurst in my casino, magnetic or otherwise."

"Germany just doesn't seem right," Hermione said.

"What would you suggest, Granger, a library?" Draco snipped. "We can have a can-can line of witches dressed as nineteenth-century British novels."

"I am feeling mildly offended," Hermione said, sounding it too.

"I'll be Heathcliff!" Mrs. Horticulture Goyle put in, entirely too excited. "I pray one prayer until my tongue stiffens: Cathy! Come back to me-Cathy!"

Draco's eyes glazed over, making him look alarmingly like a jelly doughnut. For her part, Hermione felt mildly alarmed. "Let's have a tropical theme," she said quickly before Mrs. Horticulture Goyle could leap up and begin banging her head against a convenient tree. "We can have tiki luaus."

"It's been done before," Draco waved his hand dismissively. "We need something original, something that no one's ever seen in a casino."

"A Paris theme, complete with satin slot machines, a model Moulin Rouge, and dancing baguettes," Hermione said, somewhat sincere.

"Too trendy," Draco vetoed.

"Classic Hollywood, then. We could have periodic film screenings, showgirls dressed as the letters of HOLLYWOOD, and a wall of Marilyn Monroe glamour shots."

"Too American."

"Okay, then," Hermione was beginning to get annoyed, and thus even more sarcastic than usual. "How about an Afghani casino? Showgirls covered from head to toe in swathes of white gauze. Admittedly it won't be too popular with the men, but c'estla vie."

"Too political."

"Sherwood Forest. Robin Hood and his Merry Men...In Tights."

"Too Mel Brooks."

"How about Corporate America? Dancing businessmen swinging Armani briefcases singing about the joys of free enterprise. We can write off our bad books as part of the theme."

"Too capitalist."

"All right, Malfoy," she snapped, "if you think that's too capitalist let's do a 180. Communist Russia. Dancing KGB agents led by Josef Stalin in an Elvis Presley jumpsuit. We can even get away with not giving anything out of the slot machines by telling the guests that in Communism, everyone shares, so the money is already yours in spirit."

Fully expecting another veto, Hermione was understandably horrified by Draco's wide-grin, shining so brightly she could almost hear the choir of fat baby cherubs in the background. "That's it! Shit! You, Granger, may not be Wheaties material, but are a genius."

"You can't have a communist casino," Hermione said, holding her head in her hands. "It's just not done!" She felt as if she was trying to lecture a very small, excruciatingly ornery child who understood nothing but Basque. "It goes against everything communism stands for; it just doesn't make any sense!"

"Exactly!"Draco's grin continued for miles. "We'll end up offending every Russian under the sun!"

"And that's supposed to be a good thing?"

"You never know. Maybe they'll get so angry they'll chuck their vodka at us."

"You should keep some pillows around then," Mrs. Horticulture Goyle added, up to her usual levels of insight.

"Malfoy," Hermione began, utterly exasperated, "a casino is supposed to be a bright place, alive, flashy, with lots of neon light-I can't think of anything less cheerful than Soviet Russia."

"You got that definition of a casino from the dictionary, didn't you, Granger?"

"Shut it."

Draco shrugged. "There's nothing saying that we can't have a bright, flashy, neon Soviet Casino."

Hermione crossed her arms. "Actually there is something that says we can't."

"What?"

"Me."

"Oh," Draco waved her off, "that's alright then. I thought you meant something that we had to listen to."

Hermione folded her hands and gazed upwards at the heavens. "What did I ever do to deserve this?"

"Maybe you were Josef Stalin in a past life," Mrs. Horticulture Goyle suggested, the worst part about her comment being that it was, in fact, sincere.

"Shut up," Hermione said, throwing aside her final shred of politeness. "Damn Slytherins."

Mrs. Horticulture Goyle deflated, but remained large enough to occupy approximately one-third of the entire room.

"Granger, open your eyes," Draco said, leaning forward. "The Soviet Casino is Perfect Absolute Genius," the way he said the last three words implying all-caps. "I mean, the business is supposed to fail eventually when we rob it blind, so we may as well have some fun with it while we're at it."

"Last time I checked fun did not immediately equate to Soviet Russia."

"Dancing KGB agents? A Stalin dressed as Elvis, I mean, come on Granger, if that's not a riot, I don't know what is."

Hermione pouted. "I still like the tropical theme."

"Alright," Draco threw his hands into the air, "I concede."

"Thank you," Hermione said. "I'm sure people will like tiki luaus a lot better than your idea."

"We'll have tiki Bolshevik luaus!" Draco proclaimed.

This went against every ounce of propriety Hermione possessed. "They didn't have tiki luaus in Soviet Russia."

"How do you know," Draco snapped, sounding about five years old, "were you there?"

"I told you she was the reincarnation of Josef Stalin," Mrs. Horticulture Goyleadded helpfully.

"Even Stalin had to get down on Saturday nights, Granger," Draco said. "Who's to say he didn't shake his thang Hawaiian style?"

It was at that moment Hermione realized she was fighting a losing battle. She felt the sudden urge to scuttle off to the corner, rocking back and forth while whimpering pitifully. Instead she threw her hands up in the air and moaned, "All right, all right, I give up! We'll have a tiki Bolshevik casino."

"I knew you'd come around," Draco grinned.

"What will you call it?" Mrs. Horticulture Goyle asked.

"My biggest mistake," Hermione muttered under her breath.

Draco ignored her. "The Bolshevik Bunker!" He sounded entirely too excited.

Hermione gave a resigned sigh, hating her own cleverness. "Where you can paint the town red every night."

End of chapter.