Harry Potter and the Carrot Cake of Doom

Despite the fact that it was actually a nice day in July, the sky was a roiling black-and-purple mass that looked like a pot of seriously deranged Jell-O. It looked that way because... um... because there needed to be a dramatic backdrop for Our Boy Voldemort thinking Very Evil Thoughts. But we don't need to talk about the reasons for scenery being the way it is, hmm?

Anyway, to cut a very tedious and long-winded introduction short, the sky was currently black-and-purple colored, and Voldemort was thinking Very Evil Thoughts. So evil were those thoughts, in fact, that his mirror - a very nice antique that Lucius Malfoy had thoughtfully picked up at one of those Muggle yard sales - crumbled into dust when it came into contact with his malevolent scarlet gaze. Damn it. That was the tenth one this week.

"Wormtail!" he bellowed as loudly as his annoyingly high-pitched voice would allow. "Get your fat ass in here!" No. Wrong phrasing. Definitely not quite right for his image. Maybe, "If you aren't in here in thirty seconds, I'll rip out your spleen and feed it to Nagini?" Mmm... nah. It lacked that dignified, menacing air that was so crucial to a Dark Lord. Decisions, decisions, decisions.

Voldemort's ruminations about word choice were cut off by the arrival of Wormtail in all his wheezing unglory. "Yes," wheeze, wheeze, "My," wheeze, "Lord?"

"Ah, Wormtail," Voldemort said with sarcastic expansiveness. "So glad you could make it. I hope I'm not keeping you from any important social engagements?"

Wormtail colored. "No, My Lord."

Voldemort's lips curved into a mirthless smile. "I'm delighted to hear it. Now be a good little minion and get me a new mirror. This last one seems to have," he spared a careless glance behind him, "met a rather unfortunate end."

Wormtail bowed jerkily and turned to go. "Yes, My Lord."

"Crucio."

He waited patiently for Wormtail's pathetic sobs to subside. "I don't believe I gave you permission to go, Peter," he said silkily. Wormtail went rigid at the sound of his given name. "You really should pay closer attention, you know. Send in Macnair when you leave. I believe that he has information about that... other matter we discussed earlier in the summer."

Wormtail jerked back as if he had been struck. "About the Cake, My Lord?" he said hoarsely.

Voldemort smiled patronizingly. "Yes, Wormtail, about the Cake." He paused, the smirk of amusement still hovering about his lips. "Now, run along and play."

As Wormtail scurried out of the room, the Dark Lord shook his head. It was so hard to get good help these days.

There was a knock on the door. "Come in," Voldemort called.

Macnair stepped into the room, holding that ridiculous axe he insisted on hauling around everywhere, and bowed. "You sent for me, My Lord?"

"Ah, Macnair. Our resident Ministry animal molester."

Macnair's chest puffed out as though he had just been praised instead of insulted. Then again, the man had never been very bright. Of course, it might just have been a side affect of all those full frontal lobotomies that Snape had performed on him when they had been at Hogwarts together. "Yes, My Lord."

"You have information about the Cake." He didn't bother to make it a question. If Macnair didn't have the information, he would never have dared come back.

"Yes, My Lord," Macnair repeated. He handed Voldemort a sealed package. "This is what I found."

Voldemort arched an eyebrow. "Is it..."

Macnair smirked. "Yes, My Lord. It is."

"Good." He broke open the seal after probing it with his wand. "You may go."

After Macnair had strutted out the door, Voldemort removed the package's contents. Oh, yes, it certainly was what he had been looking for. So innocent an item, but one that would bring down the world. He stared at the pink, frilly apron, not caring that mad, high-pitched laughter was issuing from his mouth.

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The early morning peace and quiet of Malfoy Manor was blown apart by the sound of Lucius Malfoy bellowing, "Severus! I need you!" via the magical intercom system that he had set up a few years ago. Lucius, Severus had noticed from long experience, had two different voices. His normal voice was smoothly supercilious; the other, which was only used in times of great agitation, bore an uncanny resemblance to that of a yak in distress. Severus shook his head in disgust, recognizing the latter voice. Lucius had never responded well to surprises.

"Severus!"

He tapped the speaker with his wand and said, "Coming, Lucius." Swinging his legs out of bed, he yawned his way over to the wardrobe and put on a fresh robe. A shower could wait; all manners of things could happen when Lucius was in the midst of one of his temper tantrums. He recalled with a shudder the time Henry Lestrange had accidentally knocked over Lucius' pumpkin juice.

Upon reaching Lucius' study, he knocked on the door and waited. "Come in," Lucius' voice called. It was now wavering between smoothness and yak-in-distress mode, making him sound like an adolescent boy.

"What is it, Lucius?" he asked with a bite of impatience in his voice. "It must be quite important to make you get up at this ungodly hour."

Lucius waved off the sarcasm. "Yes, Severus, it is." He picked up a piece of parchment. "This arrived last night."

Severus glanced at the parchment, doing a double take when he saw the name at the top. "Ah." He slanted a glance at Lucius. Was it only his imagination, or had the man's face become even paler than it usually was? "I fail, however, to see why this is the cause of such agitation."

Lucius sighed with - was it resignation? "Look at Step Three."

Severus looked at him with narrowed eyes, then shrugged and looked down at the parchment. It appeared to be a fairly normal cake recipe, given the somewhat... eclectic ingredients. Stir in the Basilisk eyes with the hen's blood... add the powdered dragon tongue... add the Acromantula eggs, lightly beaten... what on earth?

He blinked, and then shook his head, sure that he hadn't seen it right, but when he looked down at the parchment again, it was the same as he had seen before. "Step Three," it read. "Get in touch with your inner child."

Severus looked at Lucius, completely deadpan. "I believe that the Dark Lord specifically said that these directions must be followed literally?"

Forget about being in distress; the yak was now in its death throes. "Yes. He did."

Severus didn't say anything pointed about ambitious Death Eaters who wheedled their way into coveted positions before finding out what the position was. He didn't have to. He simply looked at Lucius Malfoy, the well-bred scion of one of the world's richest wizarding families, looked back down at the cake recipe, and collapsed on the study floor, howling with laughter.

His last coherent thought was that they would have to give the yak a nice funeral.

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At the same time his Potions professor was collapsing into fits of hysterical laughter, Harry Potter was staring at his Aunt Petunia with a look of complete befuddlement on his face. "Sorry," Harry said, trying to coax some semblance of normalcy out of the statement she had just made, "but did you just say that I have to knit a scarf for Dudley?"

Aunt Petunia glowered at him. For such a prim-looking, skinny woman, it was remarkable how much she managed to look like one of Hagrid's infamous Blast-Ended Skrewts. "Yes," she snapped, "and don't be all day about it. I want it ready in time for my Duddykins' going-away party tomorrow."

"But - I don't even know how to knit."

For an instant, a strange, glazed look passed over Aunt Petunia's face and her mouth moved soundlessly, but an instant later she was looking as pinched and snappish as ever. "Don't lie to me, boy," she said, handing a pair of knitting needles and a ball of yarn. "Of course you know how. What about the Sfardnik in the Sfinky-Bassum?"

Harry just stared at her. The what in the what?

The strange, glazed look passed over her face again. "Yes, well," she said briskly. "I need to take a nap in the bath. I mean - have a shower in bed. I mean - "

"Er - "

But Aunt Petunia had marched off in the direction of the kitchen, muttering something about purple envelopes dancing on the treetops. Harry stared after her for a moment, decided that he didn't really want to know, and sat down to begin knitting Dudley's scarf.

The only problem was, as he had told - well, tried to tell Aunt Petunia; he didn't think that she had been too clear on what he had said - was that he didn't, in fact, know how to knit. After a half-hour of trying to recreate what he had seen old ladies on buses do, all he had managed to make was a large knot of red yarn. Undoing the knot, he sighed to himself. The Dursleys, and not just Aunt Petunia, had been acting strangely all summer. It wasn't that they were being nastier than they usually were - actually, they didn't seem to notice him most of the time, which was just fine with him - it was that they were just generally acting strangely. One Monday morning, not only did conservative, straitlaced Uncle Vernon come downstairs wearing a tie-dyed tee-shirt that was on inside out and backwards, but Dudley, who hated exercise, spent a good portion of the morning doing somersaults in the living room while Aunt Petunia made crème brulée for breakfast. And then there was that time the whole family spent an entire Saturday afternoon throwing rotten fruit at the picket fence surrounding the Dursleys' yard. Or all those times when they would criticize Harry's appearance - that was certainly nothing new - but not blink an eye when he used the word "magic," which had always been certain to cause an uproar in the Dursley household.

Too tired to ponder the complexities of Dursley behavior any further, Harry turned his attention back to the knitting needles. He knew that it wasn't impossible; he'd seen other people do it, after all. There had to be some trick to it... had to... had to...

He was concentrating so hard on the knitting needles, he didn't notice his hand reaching to the yarn seemingly of its own accord, or his other hand picking up one needle and wrapping the yarn around it, until he realized that a row of neat stitches had fastened themselves onto one of the knitting needles as if by magic, and his right hand had started putting the other needle through the first loop.

But he certainly hadn't been trying to cast a spell, and anyway, who had ever heard of a spell that could start a row of knitting stitches? He looked at the offending needle once again and started knitting the second row, surprised that he hadn't been able to do something so obvious, so easy, before.

Six hours later, with finished scarf in hand and nursing a combination of cramp and rope - or in this case, string - burn in his right hand, he didn't notice the pair of glittering golden eyes watching him through the window, nor did he notice the owner of those eyes nodding to herself in satisfaction. Yes, she thought, everything is working out just fine.

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Hermione Granger, Hogwarts' star student, hopeful Prefect, and most definitely NOT in love with a certain annoying, immature, and generally vexing redhead -

'Ah, but he is cute, isn't he,' her hormones giggled.

Hermione leapt to her feet, eyes blazing, before she remembered that her hormones were inside of her head and, as such, hadn't spoken out loud. "He is not cute! And you are not my opinions - you're only chemical reactions!"

'Am not.'

"Are too!"

'Am not.'

"Are too!"

'Am not.'

"Honey?" her mother called. "Could you keep it down in there?"

Hermione blushed as she realized that she had been shouting. "Sorry, mum."

Her hormones jumped at the sudden opportunity of silence - the vicious things. 'And if you don't like him, why have you been thinking about him constantly for the past four years?'

"I most certainly have not!" And a few daydreams didn't really count - not really.

'You most certainly have too.'

"Have not!"

'Have too."

"Have not!"

'Have too.'

"Honey?"

"Sorry, mum."

'And why have you written down all those interesting names in your diary? Let me see, now... "Hermione Granger-Weasley, Mrs. Ron Weasley, Mrs. Hermione Weasley..."'

"How dare you read my diary!"

'I am you, you prat. I think what you think, remember?'

"Well - well, I - that doesn't make it right!"

'Yes, it does. I have every right in the world.'

"You do not!"

'Do so.'

"Do not!"

'Do so.'

"Do not!"

'Do so.'

"Honey?"

"Sorry, mum."

"You should go to bed soon, dear. It's getting late."

"It's only eleven."

"I know that, but it's almost the end of the summer holidays. You'll be going off to school soon."

"All right, mum. Goodnight!"

"Goodnight, dear."

As Hermione climbed into her nightgown, her hormones clambered mercilessly around her mind. 'You're in love with him, you know. I know that, and you do too.'

"I am not!" she whispered back, turning off the light.

'Are too.'

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Ronald Weasley, the smartest, most handsome boy in Gryffindor - no, in all of Hogwarts - Quidditch player extraordinaire, and most definitely NOT in love with a certain bushy-haired know-it-all who wasn't even pretty -

'But she looked quite good at the Yule Ball, didn't she?' a nasty little voice that Ron had no intention of paying any attention to whispered maliciously.

"Shut up!" he snapped, making Pig hoot excitedly and do a sort of one-winged aerial dance. "And she did not!"

'Then why did you get so upset because Krum took her instead of you?'

"Because - because she was consorting with the enemy!"

'Suuuure.'

"It's true!" Pause. "And why am I arguing with myself anyway?"

'Because I'm right and you know it.'

"About what?"

'That you are in love with a certain bushy-haired know-it-all who isn't even - "

"She is too!"

Pause. 'The prosecution rests.'

Ron felt the blood rush to his ears. "Oh, bloody hell. Did I say that out loud?"

'Yes. You did.'

Ron tilted his face dramatically toward the ceiling and shouted, "WHY?" at the top of his lungs.

Tragically, his answer did not take the form of divine guidance, but the sound of Ginny yelling, "Ron! Shut up in there!" from the other end of the corridor.

"Thanks, God," he muttered sarcastically.

'You're welcome.'

"Agh! Are you still in there?"

'No, I'm off sunbathing on Mercury. Of course I'm still here!'

"Go away."

'Not until you're honest with yourself.'

"I am being honest!" A sudden thought occurred to him. "And while we're on the subject of being honest, why are you behaving as if you're completely outside of me when you're supposed to come from inside my own head?"

There was an embarrassed pause. 'Was I being that obvious?'

That stopped him dead in his tracks. "You mean you really are separate from me?"

Longer pause. 'I won't answer that.'

"Come on, give it up. You really are somebody else, aren't you?"

He thought he felt a faint sense of chagrin, then - was it a shrug? 'Oh, all right. Look, I can't explain too much now, but you'll understand when the school year starts. Can you give our... ah... scar-headed friend a message for me?'

"Can't you just send owls like normal people?"

'Listen, Weasley,' the other voice said in tones of tight impatience, 'I'm on a tight schedule here. Harry's going to be hearing from me later this week, so I don't need you to do this, but it'll go much quicker if you do, and if it goes much quicker there's a better chance that I'll have time to do other things that need doing, and if I do those things that means that there might be a chance that the universe won't be destroyed! Now will you deliver the damn message?'

"Well, if you put it that way..."

'Exactly. Now, I want you to copy this down, word for word. Do you have parchment and ink on hand?'

"Hang on." He rummaged through his desk for writing materials. "Got it."

'Good.' The voice paused. 'Tell Harry that when the Doom Carrots fly, remember this: As I knit it, so mote it be.'

Ron blinked. "Er - are you sure that's the right message?"

'Positive.' The voice was sounding very dry for some reason. 'I've had plenty of time to mull it over. Just send him the message. Believe me, he'll need it.'

"Who are you, anyway?"

'A friend.' Before Ron could protest, the voice continued. 'Oh, and a word of advice before I go: You might want to get closer to Hermione before this next year is over. I wasn't just trying to get you to admit your feelings for my amusement, you know. Now, go to sleep. You'll need it, and I'll explain everything once you get to school. Good night.' And the voice was gone.

Ron sat still for a while, mouth open slightly at what he had just heard. Finally, he shook his head, got up, and put on his pajamas, thinking no more of the strange voice and what it had told him. But as he blew out his candle and lay back in bed, he looked out the window at where the garden gnomes were sneaking back into the garden over the hedge and whispered, "Good night!"

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The golden-eyed woman cursed to herself as she ran away from the Burrow into the surrounding woods. The Granger girl had been easy enough to trick - she was bright, but still did not believe in the supernatural, for all that she was a witch - but this boy had come close to finding her out. Dangerously close.

She shrugged to herself. Mafinki-Phurphenblossom might not approve, but no harm was done, and Mafinki-Phurphenblossom was hardly in a position to approve or disapprove of anything anymore. Once again, she cursed the dead goddess whose avatar she was. Bad enough that her Lady should be the goddess of baking, thus saddling her with this ridiculous task, but the fact that she was also the goddess of pronouns made it impossible to tell any of the assorted "chosen ones" who seemed to grow and spread among the centuries like destiny-infected fungi what they were born to do in the first place. They thus spent a good portion of their formative years floundering around, trying to figure things out, when they could be doing much more constructive things with their time. No, it was just as well that the Weasley boy had found her out; they could then move past the cryptic preliminaries and get on with their lives - and she would, after endless centuries of waiting, be free of her unwanted obligation to a dead goddess.

Elba Mafinki-Phurphenblossom, once Elba Hawkes, tilted back her head and smiled, raising her arms to the sky as though to embrace the stars. A passerby, if there had been anyone walking through the woods in the middle of the night, would have seen a tall blonde woman with her arms raised as if in homage. Her face held no particular beauty, nor was her figure terribly spectacular, but there was something about her - or was it only the strange glamour of the starlight filtering through the trees?

The starlight glittered around her briefly, and then she was gone, the long golden hair that fell to the ground the only sign of her passing.