Dumbledore, Please Explain Your Twisted Logic!

Disclaimer: Not mine, etc.

Chapter Nine

Loser and the Other Losers (Except for Ron, Who's No Longer a Loser)

Dear Narcissa:

I visited Dumbledore at Hogwarts yesterday, and I must say that the Founders Play of his has me deeply concerned. Although I wasn't able to discover much, I have so far learned that it contains inappropriate material, including an as-of-yet undetermined amount of bad language. There may be more than that, but one bushy-haired student told me that Dumbledore cast some sort of spell that disallows her or any student from telling me too much about the play.

Bad language is a horrid influence on our kids. The world is already deteriorating rapidly, and Dumbledore's play is only going to make things worse. We must put a stop to it, Narcissa. We must gather the entire PTA--and when I say entire, I mean the entire PTA, not just the meager crop that's been turning up at the meetings lately--we must gather the entire PTA, I say, and protest the new Founders Play with every ounce of vigor we possess.

Before we can do that, however, we must know more about the play--we must have some grounds on which to cease its production, after all. This presents a quandary, as none of us are able to find out more about the said play, thanks to Dumbledore's interfering spellwork. However, there is a way we can circumvent the charm he has cast: house-elves.

Gather up at least half a dozen of your house-elves, Narcissa, and send them to me. I shall strategize a subterfuge, and they shall spy for us. After all, their magic transcends mere wizarding magic in many areas, and Dumbledore's spell happens to be one of those areas. They shall spy on the play practices, learn more about the situation, and report back to the PTA. The information they provide should be incriminating grounds for the closure of this sad spectacle.

Sincerely, Ivana

**********

[OLIVIER paces angrily between GRYFFINDOR'S desk and bookcase.]

OLI:

Godric, we are in a hole of shit.

GRYFF:

Ah, Olivier, I can't see what you mean.

What crushing forces are we caught between?

OLI:

You see nothing because that head of yours

Is too far up your arse, or someone else's.

The state of wizardry's imperiled greatly

By Xaxis and his great intolerance.

GRYFF:

If he hates Mudbloods, that's his prerogative.

So long as he lets them learn and lets them live

At school, I ask you, interrogative:

Can't tolerance to his own stance we give?

OLI: [fiercely, stopping inches in front of GRYFFINDOR]

Fuck, no! No tolerance for the likes of him,

For he shan't give back any in return.

He'll kill the Muggleborns; he must be stopped,

And I'm the man to do it, if you'll lend aid.

GRYFF: [sighing, resigned]

With what, my friend? Speak up, I shall be staid

In what you speculate.

OLI: [Leaning in even closer]

Xaxis' brother's son is in your house:

Get him to lead me to the sorcerer's tent

At a time when he is gone, but his wife remains,

And I'll seduce his secrets from her lips.

GRYFF: [Takes a sharp step backward, nowhere near staid]

Olivier, how could you suggest such a thing!

Allow me to be the one--

OLI: [sharply, forcefully]

NO, Gryffindor. Stop thinking with your cock.

You'd screw it up, pun pointedly intended.

Now aid me, or... or... or-or-o-o-o-o-o-or-or-or...or...

"Okay, stop." Dumbledore waved a hand at Loser, whose voice ground to a stuttering halt. "Master Clifford, you were going along so smoothly until that line. What happened?"

Loser flicked away a moist strand of his lank blond hair with a sorry shrug of his head and shoulders. "I... I don't know, Duh-Duh-Dumbledore. I, uh..."

Draco backed away, sniggering quietly to himself, thanking Merlin that he was nowhere near as hopeless as the sorry Hufflepuff.

"You have nothing to laugh over, Master Malfoy," Dumbledore said reprovingly, glaring at the Slytherin with a gaze that pierced through the wrinkles on his ancient face. "You may have your lines memorized, but your acting has yet to impress me. You have a difficult balance, trying to portray both Gryffindor's bravery and Gryffindor's selfishness. The two traits seem almost paradoxical, but Gryffindor was quite a paradoxical man. He was willing to protect the Muggleborns and their right to study magic at Hogwarts, but otherwise he refused to stick his neck out for them. He humped everything that could hump back, but he felt the desire to defend everything he screwed. Gyffindor was indeed a pervert and a sex maniac, but he had his own unique set of principles. Now get that right."

Draco huffed and didn't reply. How dare the headmaster presume that he, Draco Malfoy, was unable to properly play the role of someone as low as Gryffindor?

"And as for our renowned battle hero," Dumbledore said, "you are still not in character. What you really need--what we all need--is costumes. Lavender, Parvati, how far are you through your assignment?"

Lavender and Parvati were still slaving away on the stage steps with their avalanche of fabric and sewing supplies. They were both very frustrated, apt to snap at anyone who approached within ten feet or dared to speak to them. Parvati's wand shook over the sewing machine as she magically rewound the bobbin and tangled the thread on accident.

"FUCK!" she shrieked, slamming a fist into the sewing machine. It broke.

"Miss Brown, Miss Patil?" Dumbledore tried again, realizing they hadn't heard him the first time.

"Shut up and leave us alone!" Parvati snapped back, not even bothering to look up. Hermione looked scandalized at her dorm-mate for insulting a teacher, but Dumbledore merely looked amused.

"How are the costumes going, my fair ladies?"

"Like shit," Lavender said crossly. "Reparo." Parvati's sewing machine rearranged its broken pieces back into their original state. "We have a grand total of nine fucking costumes, and we're on our tenth and eleventh."

"Get it done, my ladies," Dumbledore urged them seriously. "You have only four days, and you still have another 116 costumes to go. That leaves you twenty-nine costumes a day."

"Look, Professor Dumbledore," Lavender fired up angrily, "we have classes, we have a life outside this fucking play, and we simply don't have time to finish all these costumes! Even with magic, it takes us at least an hour per costume--at least!"

"You better think of something, then," Dumbledore said unfeelingly. "Twenty-nine costumes a day and an hour per costume means you must work on more than one costume at once."

Parvati moaned in rage and whirled to her feet. "Look, old cooze-face, if you want the costumes, YOU do them! I am sick and fucking tired of this whole... cunting play!" To relieve her temper, she aimed a kick at the nearest defenseless object: her sewing machine. It broke again. And her temper was in no way relieved.

"I'm afraid that's out of the question," Dumbledore said, sinfully calm. "This is your job to do, and I have full confidence that you can pull it off."

"Because you're fucking insane!" Parvati railed. "This is the worst thing I've ever had to do in my entire life! One hundred and buggering sixteen costumes in four days--I'm going to kill myself!"

And she stomped towards the double doors of the hall, not looking back. Lavender cast Dumbledore one deeply filthy glare before hurrying off after her best friend. Then silence reigned over the Great Hall as the forty-eight remaining cast and crew members digested the rude exchange.

Goyle was the first person to break the uncomfortable silence. "Well, if the two of them each complete one costume an hour, they really only have to work fifteen hours a day to get all the--"

"Shut your face," Draco hissed, digging him in the ribs. Goyle complied meekly.

Goyle had spoken so quietly that nobody really heard what he said. So they stared at Dumbledore until the headmaster said with a grin, "Well, that's that. Let's get back to the play."

And so they did. But before Draco returned to the center of the stage, Goyle held him back and said, "About the coprophilia thing yesterday--"

"The what?" Draco snapped impatiently, ungracious in even hinting that his vocabulary wasn't as big as Goyle's.

"The poop-eating," Goyle clarified gently, too kind-hearted to lord his superior lexicon over Draco. "How'd it go?"

Draco glared at his flunky and purposefully stepped on his foot, sneering when Goyle let out a yelp of pain. "More effective than any emetic," he snarled. "You've suggested your last sex fetish, Goyle, and this time I mean it!"

Rubbing his toe, Goyle slumped down at the edge of the stage and sighed sadly. If only he could find a friend who didn't treat him like shit; if only he wasn't so meek that he had to rely on someone like Malfoy to be his friend. In fact, friend wasn't really the right word, was it? He was more Malfoy's vassal than equal.

Ah well. If there was one thing he was comforted about, it was the fact that Malfoy would indeed come back for more sex suggestions, whatever he said to deny that. After all, he'd had the same reaction when Goyle suggested the rim job four years ago.

**********

On Wednesday morning at breakfast, Pansy sat next to her boyfriend in the Great Hall, picking away fussily at her poached eggs and stuffed French toast, which was when she noticed something peculiarly out of the ordinary. It was Draco: He was making faces. But he wasn't grimacing over a bite of bad food or scowling at his two henchmen--these faces were in an entirely different league. Looking away from the Slytherin table completely, he waggled his eyebrows and allowed his tongue to slither out of his mouth like a dragon aroused from its lair. He turned his face down towards his plate immediately afterwards. Then he lifted it a second later, at an entirely different angle, and licked his lips with determinedly slow lasciviousness. His nose twitched, as is sniffing out some intoxicating scent. Then, after pressing two fingers to his moist mouth, he turned his countenance back towards his chocolate éclair and pumpkin juice. For five seconds or so he contemplated his food. Then, looking up deliberately for a third time, in still yet another direction, he bit into the éclair with a torturous abandon, slow and long. He worked his tongue into the pastry's depths, sucking and slurping at the sweet liquids that oozed from the sugary starch and onto his dimpled chin, savoring clearly the delicious mess that claimed his sensuous skin and soft freckles. After jamming the éclair into his mouth, he chewed and swallowed reflectively , still keeping his eyes locked on some point in the distance. Then he consciously raised his finger to his lips and began scooping the slop of chocolate cream into his mouth, licking his appendages with a wanton satisfaction.

This, Pansy thought, was pretty damn strange. Why would Draco make such a fool of himself at the breakfast table, even if everyone else around him was eating just as messily? Malfoys were supposed to be fastidious folk with rigid behavioral complexes and an aversion to any sort of tomfoolery. They didn't make strange faces at the breakfast table or eat their food as if they were giving it a blowjob.

Pansy surveyed the Great Hall and suddenly espied something even stranger. It was three people: Cho Chang, Euan Abercrombie, and Professor Trelawney. Cho's hands were mining at some out-of-sight location under the table. Euan was rocking on his bench. And Trelawney was trembling in her seat, trying to keep her hands from roaming onto her breasts.

Three people touching themselves in the Great Hall at breakfast. Definitely not something Pansy saw that often. But what was even more strange is that they all kept turn their heat-seeking eyes to Draco Malfoy. She frowned at the three masturbators, then frowned at Draco, who emptied his glass of pumpkin juice as if nothing had happened. Was it really her imagination, or was something fishy going on?

She wasn't the only one who noticed something strange. Goyle was gaping at Draco, his eyebrows raised with shock and even a little bit of disgust. "Trelawney?" he half-gagged at Draco.

"Shut the fuck up!" Draco hissed, aiming a kick at Goyle under the table. He missed and hit Crabbe instead, who bellowed like an elephant and upset his pumpkin juice on Daphne Greengrass's new robes.

In the ensuing commotion, which involved a dozen or so Slytherins running about and creating a formulaic drama centered around Daphne's robes, Pansy sat solidly in her place and contemplated the puzzle pieces that had fallen directly in her hands, each right after the other-- puzzle pieces that felt like they might too easily fit together. And thus were the seeds of suspicion planted in the mind of Pansy Parkinson.

**********

"So here's what we were thinking." Eyes wide, shining with a hope she shouldn't be trusting, Parvati outlined her plan to Dumbledore. It was Wednesday afternoon, and the two costume designers had arrived to practice ten minutes early in order to speak with (or plead with) their headmaster and director. "Me and Lavender--"

"--Lavender and I," Dumbledore corrected her unnecessarily. Except for the icy set in her jaw, Parvati stubbornly ignored him.

"Me and Lavender have already made fifteen costumes. That's quite a feat, isn't it?"

Dumbledore shrugged childishly and said, "Not as much as if you'd made all one hundred and twenty-five."

The girls' glares grew as dark as a pair of Death Eaters, and for a fleeting instant they exchanged the mutual fantasy of murdering their headmaster on the spot. The instant passed, however, and Parvati forced her voice to remain calm, with a hint of entreaty, as she continued, "Well... me and Lavender--"

"--Lavender and I--"

"--me and Lavender came up with a brilliant idea. We can buy some costumes from a discount warehouse!"

"I highly doubt Gladrag's discount section would cover enough space to satisfy the needs of 110 medieval costumes," Dumbledore said, matching their determined calm with a determined nonchalance. Parvati doubted he'd show any less interest if they were talking about the weather--in fact, knowing how crazy Dumbledore could get, the weather would probably be of a far greater concern.

"Then Rhonda's Magical Repository..."

"...covers mostly furniture and household appliances," Dumbledore finished for her. "Try again."

So Parvati tried again: "Wholesale Columbine's." There couldn't possibly be anything the problem with Britain's largest warehouse of magical apparel.

"No way," Dumbledore said, grimacing so that the wrinkles in his long nose sank even deeper into his face. "I hate Columbine. She called me a booger back in Second Year."

"But Columbine's dead now!" Parvati gasped out, unable to contain herself. "How could you possibly hold a grudge for that long?"

"I've had well over a hundred years to nurse it," Dumbledore said. "It's a tough, bitter rock in my old, old heart, I can tell you. It shall remain unmoved and unturned. Any other suggestions?"

"A Muggle establishment!" Lavender blurted out.

"Why the fuck can't it be Columbine's, though?" Parvati cried furiously. "We shouldn't have to default to some miserable Muggle clothes shop because Dumbledore has a stupid fucking grudge on a dip-shit back in Second Year." She glared at Dumbledore with each swearword, defying him to tell her off. He didn't even pay attention.

"And yet I remain unmoved," Dumbledore said joyously. "I am greatly looking forward to seeing all one hundred and twenty-five costumes on Friday afternoon, custom designed and custom made, just as I intended them."

"We'll order them from a special custom shop, a rush job!" Lavender begged. "Get the PTA to fork over a couple thousand galleons, and it's a real possibility!"

Dumbledore cocked his head, needing no words to ask her if she seriously thought he'd agree to that. He turned away from them and waved his wand. In the space of a few short seconds the tables folded themselves and zoomed out the double doors, sets of curtains fell in graceful waves to the floor, the foremost grand curtain being in line with the dais that normally raised the staff table above the house tables, rows of lights strung themselves over the stage and throughout various strategic locations in the hall, the makeup station and dressing rooms appeared backstage, the props stacked up in piles behind the curtains, the backdrops appeared in a neat stack in the background, and the technician's box even sprang up near the entrance to the hall. Everything needed for a play was there... everything, that is, except for the costumes.

"We can't even get the spells right," Parvati moaned softly as Dumbledore pocketed his wand.

"I assume you've already asked Miss Granger for help," Dumbledore said.

"Fat lot of good that did us," Lavender said bitterly. "All she can do is knit ugly hats." She slumped down on the steps to the stage and let out an endless sigh that echoed in the still hall.

"Now be fair, my dear," Dumbledore said, "she can also make socks. You mustn't shortchange her talent."

"Blow me," Lavender retorted, not in the mood for Dumbledore's verbal maneuvering.

"Don't mind if I do," Dumbledore said, winking foxily at her before he tripped lightly up the steps and into the backstage area.

"YOU BELONG IN A MENTAL HOME!" Lavender yelled at his retreating back. "SERIOUS AS FUCK, YOU DO!"

~~~~~

It was another day of uninspired rehearsal. Lavender and Parvati sent out vibes so charged with ire that it agitated people who were twenty feet away from them. That, combined with the fact that nobody was yet in costume, made for some spectacularly unconvincing performances. Draco and Neville stumbled about the stage, reciting their lines in such monotonous tones that even Dumbledore began to get annoyed at having to repeatedly stop and restart them.

"Let's move on to scene four, shall we?" the headmaster said. "Masters Malfoy and Longbottom, go off to the makeup room to practice your lines with each other." He shooed the offending actors off the stage and summoned forth Loser, Luna, Eloise Midgen, and Harry. He stopped the latter with a pinch on the cheek and said lecherously, "Been practicing your nude scene, my boy?"

Harry's eyes bugged out at the question as he only half-tried to quell a heaving reaction in the pit of his stomach. He was unsure which nauseated him more: the dread of that upcoming nude scene of which Dumbledore had so ungraciously reminded him, or the tone in which the headmaster had delivered the offensive mind-jogger. "Shut the hell up," he snarled. He turned his gaze deliberately away from the old man, only to see that Ron was grinning and winking at him from backstage. "What're you gawping at?" he snapped in the redhead's direction. He turned to face the onstage cast members and said, longsuffering, "Let's just get this scene over with."

RAVEN:

Young boy, I hear commotion at the door!

Didst thou, perchance, allow a visitor

To call at such an hour of the night?

JAMES:

These are the stables, not my private room--

Any man may come when he doth please.

Perchance it is some nightly errand boy

Or perhaps--

[OLIVIER bursts in from stage right.]

OLI:

Goddamn, my lad! Why leave the doors so barred?

I had to cast a spell to open them.

[JAMES shrinks away from OLIVIER, hiding behind RAVENCLAW]

RAVEN:

Olivier, what is the meaning of this call?

It's half past twelve of midnight. Can you claim

Emergency that thus explains your actions?

OLI:

Emergency? Why, one of urgency:

The battle with Xaxis is at our door,

And I must find me soldiers for the cause

Against all evil, and for good and right.

JAMES: [hesitantly, peeking out from behind Ravenclaw's skirts]

Uh, I don't really want to join your army.

OLI: [jovially]

Don't jest with me, my boy, your earnestness

Shows on your fair, round face as clear as light

That shimmers from a city on a hill.

JAMES: [a bit sardonic]

Gener'l, sir, if you'd look at my face,

I fear there's no such power, nor such will.

OLI: [seemingly flippant, but very shrewd]

Such is your loss, ah, such is your disgrace.

But think not of disgrace, but now of honor,

The heady high that comes from soldier life,

And, oh!, my mother, why, I'd swear upon her

That a man's nobility's naught but through strife.

You had a mother of your very own?

Taught her not you such values to uphold?--

The warrior renowned is, too, the warrior bold

That shall defy all bane, even alone?

JAMES:

My mother's dead, as is my family.

Hogwarts be all I have, and I'll serve it so.

Please ask me not to leave its blessed walls

To fight a cause I neither know or love

When here I can contribute more at home.

[OLIVIER moves forward to speak again, but there is a knock on the stable doors.]

OLI: [muttering to himself]

Shit, fuck it, who the hell visits so late?

[out loud, in the direction of the door]

Come in, whoever the fuck you bloody are!

XAXIS'S WIFE:

The door is barred with bolts and with a spell.

[OLIVIER sighs and rushes to stage right to open the door. XAXIS'S WIFE steps into the stable. As she does this, OLIVIER swings the door quickly shut and--]

--hit Eloise Midgen square in the shoulder. Loser gaped in horror as Eloise let out a startled yelp and tripped over the edge of the stage and off the side. For an age she seemed to hang in the air, supported by nothing and falling towards nothing except pain and hard stone. And fall she did--right into a group of Ravenclaws who were busy painting a backdrop. In the commotion, someone upset a large bucket of red paint, which splattered across the floor like blood. There was a good deal of yelping and screaming, but it was such a mass of struggling limbs and startled faces that it was hard to match the noise to the person from whence it came.

Loser, too, burst into violent and noisy tears. He fell to his knees at the edge of the stage and leaned precariously over the side to see what he had done to Eloise. When he saw her whimpering as she grasped her oddly bent ankle, sopping with crimson paint, he let out an instinctive cry and stumbled backwards across the stage and into Harry's legs.

"Hey, watch it!" the raven-haired boy cried.

Luna traipsed over to Harry's side and slid her arm casually around his waist. "It looks like you broke her ankle, Cliffy," she informed Loser matter-of-factly. "She's probably in a whole lot of pain."

At first it took Loser a second to realize who Luna was talking to; nobody called him Clifford, much less Cliffy. By the time he figured this out, Luna continued talking. "That was a pretty nasty accident. I wonder, then, why everyone is laughing at you? I mean, if Susan was laughing any more, I'd swear she was being inflamed by Horklump pinworms."

Loser's heart, already so low that his chest felt submerged in ice, broke a little more as it did a hop-skip and fell flat. His head whipped painfully in the direction of Luna's pointing finger, and he saw that she was indeed telling the truth. Susan was standing in the middle of the Great Hall next to Edmund, bent in half as she howled gleefully at Loser's magnificent error. No, she wasn't just howling: She was guffawing. The laughter that escaped her lips was loud and long and indescribably rude. Her hair tangled about her arms, which she had drawn towards herself in order to clutch at her chortling stomach. Edmund nudged her in the ribs and pointed up at the gob-smacked Loser, causing her to guffaw so hard she looked like she was in pain.

"Good one, Loser!" Edmund shrieked over the commotion. "Bravo!" He gave a round of applause that was swallowed up by Eloise's pained wails. Marietta was trying to lift her to her feet, but Eloise's shattered ankle gave no mercy. She wobbled tremendously before spiraling to the ground.

Meanwhile, a small host of house-elves had arrived at the scene of the accident to clean up the paint. The six of them dodged in between the crowd and waved their little hands about in an effort to clean up the mess. Their magic did the work; in a few more seconds, they were out of sight again. Everyone had been too busy paying attention to Eloise to notice the fact that the Hogwarts crest was conspicuously missing from the house-elves' tea cozies.

Loser was so miserable he thought he was going insane. The crowd's laughter echoed in his skull, as did their mocking comments: "Gosh, Eloise, sorry you had to go through that!" "What a Loser!" "He's as clumsy as a troll!" "Ha, battle hero indeed... more like a battle queero! If he was in charge of an army, they'd all be dead in two minutes flat!" And so on and so forth. The gibes piled against one another until they all became a vortex of noise, nuanced bitterly with Eloise's shrieks and her friends' urgent consolations. He pressed his hands to his ears, but the room still spun crazily around him, its whine still penetrating his palms and twanging against his eardrums. So he squinched his eyes shut. It was the only way he could escape this!

A few moments passed: maybe five seconds, maybe five minutes. Anyhow, the next thing Loser felt was someone tugging his arm. Before he fully registered what was going on, that someone had pulled him to his feet and was leading him towards backstage. Loser dared to open an eye and saw that they had left through a side exit created especially for the play, and they were now outside the Great Hall; they were passing through a small corridor, then into the Entrance Hall, and all the meantime the noise of the crowd was fading. Loser's heart rate slowed to a moderate hoppity-hop-hop as the humiliating scene faded away behind them.

"C'mon, let's get you outta here," the person muttered. Loser looked up to see that it was that redhead makeup director, the one who had a name like: "Weasley?"

"Yup, it's me," came the reply. "But call me Ron." Still holding Loser's hand, Ronald Weasley led them both out onto the grounds, at which point he broke into a run. They skipped down the steep slope towards the gate, gravity propelling them onward at a startling speed. Loser nearly stumbled over a rock, but Ron gave an extra tug in just the right direction to keep them both upright.

"Where are you taking us?" Loser whimpered, his panic settling in again.

"Hey, man, calm the fuck down!" Ron said, and somehow he used a tone of voice that succeeded in doing just that, despite the expletive. It was the kind of command that held a smile in it, despite Ron's straight-faced countenance. "We're getting away from the school for a bit, okay?"

"Why?" Loser asked as they flitted down the steep slope past Hagrid's hut and towards the gates.

"Because those guys back there are as crazy as Luna and nowhere near as nice," Ron replied. "They're not what you need right now."

After that they were too busy running for Loser to ask just what he needed. In a very short time he was out of breath, but Ron pulled him onward just a bit more until they reached a spot at the castle walls very near the gate.

"Are we leaving the castle?" Loser asked, shocked.

"I just said we're getting away from the school, didn't I?" Ron asked a little impatiently as he tapped his wand against a knobby stone at chest-level. An arch materialized in the wall, allowing them to pass through it and out onto the Scottish landscape outside the castle walls. "Pretty sexing neat, huh?" Ron said, grinning. "Harry put me on to that little trick just last month. We've used it twice already to sneak up to Hogsmeade."

Loser stared out at the expansive panorama of the mountain range before his eyes, the rocks painted green with the trees that covered them. In the far distance, a river split the mountains all the way to the horizon. Birds filled the gray sky as they flocked south for the winter, much freer in the open air than they appeared on the Hogwarts grounds. Not that the grounds weren't beautiful... it was just that, next to the untamed nature of the wild countryside, the land inside the castle walls seemed so... tame. Loser felt a queer feeling in his heart, a swelling that he at first mistook for dread. "W-we're b-b-breaking the rules, aren't we?" he stammered.

"Yeah, isn't it great?" Ron replied, grinning.

It was then that Loser realized the swelling feeling was not one of dread, but of triumph. "Y-yeah!" he gasped, breathing in great lungfuls of air. "Yeah, we are."

"You should always break the rules on occasion," Ron instructed Loser. "It's fun as hell, and it'll remind you that you're your own man."

"I'm my own what?" Loser queried, not quite understanding what Ron was saying.

"Your own man," Ron repeated. "If anyone needs reminding of that fact, it's you." Still holding Loser's hand, he turned to him and said, "You're so... scared every single moment of every single day. It's time that was changed."

Loser trembled, suddenly aware of the chilly November air. "A-and how do you p-p-propose we do that? By breaking the rules?"

"No," Ron replied. "By going to St. Mungo's."

If Loser was confused beforehand, he was doubly mind-fucked now. "St. Mungo's?" he parroted, shaking his head to clear it. "I... I don't understand."

"Keep a firm hold of my hand," Ron said. "And keep still! I'm not all that great at pulling a Side-a-long."

"Side-a-long?" Very shortly afterwards Loser realized Ron was talking about Apparating, as they did just that. For half-a-second Loser felt as if he was being compressed between a cutting board and a meat tenderizer. Then they appeared, a little out of breath, right outside the store façade that hid St. Mungo's Hospital from Muggle London.

"So why are we doing this again?" Loser asked as they stepped through the glass of the display window and into the atrium of the hospital.

"Going to St. Mungo's, you mean?" Ron said. "Well, to cheer you up. You really need it. And I thought: The best way to cheer you up is the make you feel better about yourself. And the best way to do that is for you to respect yourself. And, well, since you're commanding a role of a battle hero, you've gotta have a good sense of self-worth and healthy pride in order to pull it off properly. So then I thought that I could help you attain that sense of self-worth and pride by helping you get into your role. Which got me to thinking about Olivier. He's an army sergeant, so he's seen lots of gruesome battlefield aftermath. And I was trying to think how best we could expose you to something like that, and I thought: St. Mungo's! So we're gonna tour the hospital in hopes of finding the goriest sights possible. And in the meantime, we can visit my great-aunt."

Over by the reception desk, a couple dozen yards away, a man pooped out his mouth. The gaseous noise that escaped his throat echoed in the lobby. Loser stood in uncomfortable silence, trying to digest what Ron had just said. And he couldn't. "What?" he said. "Y-you made no s-s-sense at all."

"Let's keep it simple, then," Ron replied. "We're gonna tour the hospital in hopes that I get some ideas for battle makeup. Meanwhile, you'll get to see some of the carnage that you'll have to pretend to witness in the play. How's that sound?"

"I-I don't know," Loser said, frowning. It was all very complicated, and nobody had ever expected him to think for himself before. His mum certainly hadn't.

"And one other thing, Los--ah fuck it, what's your first name? I forgot, and I can't go around calling you Loser all the time."

"My f-first name? C-clifford."

"C-clifford?" Ron said. "Or just Clifford?"

"Just Clifford."

"Okay, Clifford, one more thing: We've gotta get rid of your stutter." He strolled quickly towards the first ward in sight, a large room on the Ground Floor (Artifact Accidents) with a good dozen beds inside, all filled with patients who had suffered from an accident involving some magical object or other.

"Why?" Loser asked.

"Because you'll sound like a bloody fool, stammering onstage," Ron replied. He poked his head through the door and assessed the situation of the room. There were nine patients and two Healers, all rather busy, but not very busy. None of their injuries looked very serious; the worst Loser could see was a man with a shard of cauldron filling his right eye. "Hmm, not enough carnage in here," Ron said dispassionately. "Let's go further in."

"No, I mean w-why have you suddenly decided to help me?" Loser asked, his voice quavering.

"Because you need it," Ron said. They reached a ward labeled Serious Gaming Accidents. "Ah, here's a nice little corner to exploit."

"B-but why not wait f-for someone else t-t-to fix me proper?" Loser asked, following Ron into the room. This ward only had four beds, two of which were occupied. At one bed a young female Healer tended to a little boy whose innards were clinging to a broomstick that went all the way through his stomach and out his back. He was staring, wide-eyed, as the Healer gently scooped the guts back through the splintered hole in his ribs. The liver got stuck on a splinter, and both the boy and the Healer gasped as she tried to work it gently off the broomstick. On the other bed sat a man who had three Fanged Frisbees clawing at the side of his tattered face. The man let out hoarse moans as he grasped feebly at the blood-bespattered Frisbees and his bone-baring bite wounds.

"Because everyone else is sitting on their fat asses instead of getting up and helping you," Ron said. "So I thought: someone needs to intervene... why not me?" He leaned over the Frisbee man and waved. "Hey, there. How're you doing?"

"Rrrgh!" came the reply. "I can't (rrrgh!) get these (rrrrrgh!) things the fuck off (rrrrghh!!) Ah, FUCK IT! GET THE FUCK OVER HERE, YOU LAZY-ASS HEALER!"

"SHUT UP, MR. SHADDYPACK!" the Healer retorted, clearly agitated as she used her wand to keep the broom from shifting about inside the boy's stomach. "THIS BOY IS ABOUT TO DIE, AND IF YOU DON'T SHUT THE FUCK UP, HE WILL! THOSE FRISBEES WON'T KILL YOU!" She caught sight of the two intruders. Loser shrunk away from her, but Ron grinned and waved. "What the hell are you doing here?" she snapped at them.

"Sorry, wrong ward," Ron replied easily. "Bye, guys! Sorry, Frisbee man, can't help." And he lilted gently out of the room. Loser scampered out ahead of him. As they went, they heard the little boy gasping through what sounded like a mouthful of blood: "I feel... so cold..."

Loser goggled at Ron as they left the ward. He didn't quite know whether a shriek or a wave of vomit would proceed out his gaping gob. Thankfully, he managed to quell both, and, his voice shaking as much as his limbs, he managed to gasp: "Wh-wh-wh-what... wh-wh-wh-wh-wh-wh-why d-d-d-d-d-d-did we h-have-h-have-h-have--?"

Ron cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Okay, stop it. You're stuttering again."

Loser tossed his head about hopelessly and swiped at the corners of his eyes, which were building up a ready wave of tears. "I c-c-c-c-can't h-h-h-help it!" he moaned. "R-r-really, all th-th-that blood and st-stuff--"

Once again Ron cut him off. "Ssh. I'm gonna tell you how to stop this, but first you need to keep your mouth shut. I don't want to hear another stutter out of you the entire day."

They began walking again. "See, your self-esteem is beneath the ground, it's so low," Ron said. "You have no idea what to say and when to say it, am I right?"

Loser didn't trust himself to speak, so he just nodded.

"Well, you need to think about what you say before you say it. If you know exactly what to say before you say it, you shouldn't stutter."

"But how--?" Loser asked, then shut up when he sensed a stutter forming on his tongue. They had reached another ward, this one labeled Serious Cauldron Accidents: Explosions.

"You must speak in rhyme for the rest of the day," Ron said. "And use the same meter Dumbledore used to write the play: iambic pentameter, I believe Hermione called it. You know, ten syllables a line, with an unstressed-stressed meter."

"Wh--" Loser mouthed wordlessly at him, then shrugged his shoulders in a nonverbal manner to communicate that he had no heck of an idea what Ron was talking about.

"Here's an example," Ron said:

"That man back there has Frisbees on his face.

I'm sure as heck glad I'm not in his place."

He grinned at Loser. "See what I'm talking about? 10 syllables to a line. And you place an emphasis on every other syllable. Like this: 'That MAN back THERE has FRISbess ON his FACE./ I'm SURE as HECK glad I'M not IN his PLACE.' Easy as pie."

"Let me try--" Loser began, but Ron cut him off sharply.

"That wasn't a rhyme in iambic pentameter! Every time you speak in prose, I'm going to cast a stinging hex on you." He pulled out his wand for emphasis, and Loser flinched.

They entered the ward. Loser screwed up his face as he tried to think up a rhyme. Meanwhile, Ron surveyed the half-dozen beds, each filled with a patient who had been victimized in some way or other by a serious cauldron explosion. An old man had no skin on his face--only muscles that twitched nervously as they lay exposed to the hospital air. A Healer was operating on a girl whose hand had melted off. One man had greenish skin on an arm that looked suspiciously devoid of bones; he was sipping bitterly at a goblet full of Skelegro.

Loser tugged on Ron's sleeve and said:

"Let's see, then, Ronald, if this is the way:

Unstressed, then stressed, ten syllables, and hey...!"

Ron grinned. "It's a start," he said. "Hey, look at that old chick, she has no boobs." He pointed to another patient, whose entire chest was a mass of congealed tissue and blood still fizzing in a bluish acid. A Healer stood over her, frantically casting spells on her still form. On the bed next to her a bony, young man peeled back the bandage that covered his entire forearm in order to take a peek at a pus-filled hole that bubbled all the way through the wrist. The last bed was a horrid mess: Three Healers were stringing up a bunch of organs loosely connected by a greenish mucus that oozed in strings between the pumping guts. They were all joined, in a lazy, sprawling sort of way, to a beet-red head that lay on the pillow, screaming in pure pain. The limbs were arranged in odd angled in and around the guts, all of them kicking wildly.

"Hold down his legs!" the oldest Healer called, and a virile Healer, with muscles bulging even beneath his loose hospital scrubs, clamped his fists firmly around two errant limbs, one of which was somewhere near the face.

"I got his arms," said the third Healer, a blond-haired girl who looked barely out of Hogwarts. And indeed she did: She grabbed them by the wrists and tugged them gently away from the glob of organs.

"Ah, take the limbs away for now," the old Healer said. "They'll just get in the way. We'll reattach them later."

The two younger Healers pulled the limbs entirely away from the mass of guts. The strings of mucus clung stubbornly to arms and legs, but the Healers stolidly dumped them into a large bucket by the side of the bed and then snapped the mucus with their wands. In the bucket, the limbs still moved, filling the room with a loud clang!

"Oh gross, Ron, why in heck are we in here?

Is there a reason? Will you make it clear?"

Loser said this as he gazed, revolted, at the pile of guts. The small intestines curled neatly around the man's penis, which was, inexplicably, experiencing a fierce erection. Ron fought the urge to both gag and giggle. "Wow, that's so sick!" he said, his eyebrows jutting into his hairline. "I hope those Healers know what they're doing."

Loser stared at Ron, appalled, but it took him a good minute before he could say, disbelieving:

"How can you find this funny in the least?

Are you a heartless, wretched, evil beast?"

"What?" Ron said. "Oh... I forgot, you gotta have a few minutes to think up these things. And to answer you: No, I'm not a heartless wretch. It's just a natural reaction I have: When I laugh, it doesn't mean I find it funny. Sometimes I laugh when I see something I can hardly believe is real--like an erection in the middle of a pile of guts! Haha, I've gotta tell Harry that one when we get back."

Shortly afterwards the ward was starting to smell really bad. When the mucus-slimed penis ejaculated into its owner's shrieking face, Ron and Loser decided they had seen everything worth seeing and went off in search of another ward.

"How about the next floor?" Loser said. Ron gave him a stinging hex, and Loser replied:

"Ow...! OW, ow, OW, ow, Ow, ow, Ow, ow, OW!

Wow, WOW, Wow, WOW, Wow, WOW, Wow, WOW, Wow, WOW!"

Ron grinned. "Nice save, turning that ow into a rhyme. Not a good one, but it counts." And they went to the next floor.

As they proceeded from Floor One (Creature-Induced Injuries) to Floor Two (Magical Bugs) to Floor Three (Potion and Plant Poisoning), Loser gradually fell into the routine of speaking in rhyming iambic pentameter while viewing the twisted and bloody bodies. As they reached Floor Four (Spell Damage), Loser began to realize two things.

First of all, this hospital tour wasn't as traumatizing as he thought it'd be. There was lots of guts and blood, but they hadn't yet seen anyone die, except for that two-year-old girl on Floor One whose heart had been bitten out by a Chimera. But Ron claimed to have seen a lot worse during the war, and he pointed out that there actually was an advantage to seeing someone die. "I mean, now you can see the thestrals that pull the school carriages, and you can even take a ride on one of them if you ever get the sudden urge. Every cloud has its silver lining." Death or no death, Loser was pleased to discover that he could actually stomach this stuff. Ron trusted him to have a strong constitution for blood and guts, and it turned out that he did! Nobody had ever expected Loser to have a strong constitution in anything before, and the experience was quite a bolstering one.

Second of all, Loser had stopped stuttering. To create a simple couplet still took fifty seconds on average (down from the full minute it had taken him on the Ground Floor), but because it took him that long, and because his rhyming and meter had to be exact, he didn't say anything until he both knew what he wanted to say and was sure that it was important. It wasn't like memorizing lines for the play, because here he only had to worry about two lines at a time before he discarded them. Ron, he decided, was a genius. But he hadn't yet worked that into a couplet to tell him.

"Let's visit my great-aunt now," Ron said. "She'll be on Floor Six--they just built it, you know."

"I know. It's the museum that you speak of.

It's just two flights of stairs, two floor above."

"Yeah, she's part of one of the exhibits," Ron said.

"Perhaps you mean a worker when you say

'Part of,' I guess you mean it in that way."

"Not quite," Ron said.

By the time Loser thought up another couplet to continue the question, they had reached the museum. It was one large room broken up by a couple dozen of exhibits, some in cubicles, some in corners, and some right out in the open. Ron found the exhibit he was looking for right off.

"Horrific Household Accidents," Ron said. The exhibit was filled with mutilated bodies, all preserved in clear magical cases for the viewers' benefit. The victims' deaths ranged from tame (such as an old man strangled by a magical strand of rope) to:

"My Great-Aunt Muriel," Ron said proudly, pointing his finger. Loser's gaze followed along and landed upon the lady in question. She was a shell of a person, with the skin on her entire torso peeled back like an orange rind. Beneath it were her innards, or what was left of them. It was like looking at a moth-eaten garment, because huge chunks were missing from them, and in many places Loser could see clear out the back of the display case. The skin on her fingers was melted to the bone, and her face looked stomach-droppingly concave, as if some of the material beneath the skin had run down her throat and out the holes in her chest.

"Whoa, fuck! That's really her, your aunt, right there?

She's dead... Oh gosh, sorry, I shouldn't swear."

With these words, Loser gaped at the remains of Great-Aunt Muriel, then back at Ron.

"Yep," Ron said. "That's her. Mostly I'm curious to learn what exactly she swallowed that made her die." He found a caption on the display case, written in shimmering blue letters on the glass. " 'Muriel Molly Prewett, 1890-1997. Swallowed an acid-flavored, gangrene-infested, condom which is meant as a Halloween treat for vampires, not wizards.' Okay, that's pathetic. No wonder Mum wouldn't give me the details... I probably would've burst out laughing." He chuckled a little and turned towards Loser. "So... seen enough for today?"

Loser nodded, grinning.

"Yeah, Weasley, that was really quite a treat.

Battle makeup, carnage... we won't be beat!

A nice experience for our Founders Play,

A grand old time for this, a grand old day."

Ron grinned. "Hey, you got out four lines that time. Now let's get out into London, and we'll Apparate back to Hogsmeade for a butterbeer."

And so they began their trek back down to the atrium. All the way Loser set his brain to the task of finding the perfect words to say to Ron, words that would be meaningful but not too stupid. When they had crossed the atrium and finally reached the streets of London, Loser found the courage to speak. He touched Ron's shoulder and said:

"Hey, Ron, I really can't thank you enough.

Maybe it's you who'll whip me up to snuff."

Ron smiled softly shook his head. "No, Clifford. I can help, but in the end, it has to be you who brings out the strength in your character." He took his hand, and they Apparated away from the noisy London street.

**********

Very shortly after Eloise broke her ankle, Dumbledore ended the practice in the mode of failure. Perhaps it was when Harry broke one of the props at the mere mention of his nude scene. Or perhaps it was when Hermione whacked Goyle across the face when he tried to read Tropic of Cancer over her shoulder. Or perhaps--just perhaps!--it was when Dumbledore went back to the makeup room to see how Draco and Neville were getting along, only to discover that they had spent the last hour glaring in opposite directions, their lines unspoken and unpracticed.

"The truth..." Dumbledore said as he gathered the cast and crew for a final word. "It is a beautiful--and terrible--thing. Always use it, but use it with caution. And so I must cautiously tell every one of you that, frankly... you were pathetic today. Perhaps once we have our costumes--" here, he stared severely at Parvati and Lavender, who glared even more severely in return-- "we may then be able to delve into our roles. And yet, the depth of acting lies also with your own skills. I chose each and every one of you for a reason, and I insist you follow through with this." After glaring around the room for a bit, he rearranged his features into a more grandfatherly expression. "Any questions, my sweetie-pies?"

"Yeah," Draco said, thrusting his hand rudely in the air. "Can we go now?"

Dumbledore opened his mouth to speak, but all fifty students (or forty-seven, since Ron, Loser, and Eloise were all absent) took it as a yes before a word left his lips. In fifty-two seconds flat, the entire Great Hall was empty, except for the doddering old headmaster. He stared at the open double doors for a long minute before he shrugged his shoulders and, with a wave of his wand, returned the hall to normal.

**********

Ron had gotten into a habit that Harry found unbearable: Each night, before and after his shower, the redhead had taken to wandering their dormitory in the buff. He would traipse over to the window and stretch his limbs for the space of about fifteen seconds. Then he'd amble comfortably over to the bathroom to begin his shower. After the shower, he'd come out again and wander around the dormitory naked "until my pubes dry off," he explained, which was normally about five minutes.

It was rather a shock, because Ron had never before taken to walking naked around the dormitory. Not that Harry minded seeing Ron's naked body--the scar-headed Gryffindor was quite comfortable with his heterosexuality, and he wasn't afraid that the sight of his best friend's penis would change it. But still, Dean and Seamus had taken to letting out catcalls and obscene jokes every time Ron dropped trou, perhaps because they themselves were uncomfortable with their heterosexuality and felt that they needed to alleviate the situation a little. Whatever their motives, it didn't make the jokes any less tiresome.

But what annoyed Harry the most was this: Every single time he saw Ron naked, he was inevitably reminded of his own impending nude performance onstage. Each time he saw the night breeze tickle the vivid red hairs on Ron's groin, he couldn't help but imagine the couple hundred eyes that would be staring at the same hairs on his own body. Each time the weight of Ron's ample package caused it to sway, pendulum-like, from one thigh to the other, Harry was acutely reminded of the fact that, in a month or two, his own schlong would dance that same lazy dance across the front of his legs, out in the open for everyone to see.

What's worse, Ron seemed to have picked up on this train of thought. Whenever he caught Harry whipping his gaze away from the sight of his nudity, he'd say loudly and gleefully, "Just imagine, Harry, in two months' time, you'll have done this in front of every single rabid girl in this entire school." Or, "How long is that nude scene going to be? Two minutes, at least?" Or, "Do you plan on shaving your chest or letting the hairs grow out?" Or, when he was feeling kind-hearted, "At least Luna will be up there with you."

Except reminding Harry of Luna wasn't so kind-hearted after all. Harry kept on having dreams of Luna and Ginny cat-fighting, except Luna was always calm, and she always won over the pint-sized Weaslette. Then she'd smile serenely at Harry, lift up the hem of her blouse, and...

That's where the dream normally ended, right at the moment when Harry would awake with a start. Not that the events happened exactly like that: It was more Variations on a Dream, if you would. Sometimes Luna was covered in whipped cream, and sometimes Ginny was wearing a house-elf pillowcase, and sometimes Dumbledore was committing self-flagellation as he watched from the sidelines. But it always featured a very excited Harry, who tried to go back to sleep after waking up, but was too well acquainted with the term "blue balls" until he heaved himself out of bed and relieved himself in the dormitory bathroom.

On Thursday night, Hermione strode into the room right as Ron meandered out of the showers. Harry waited for a huge blow-up involving her shocked squeals and his mortified shriek, but it never came. Ron said easily, "Hiya, Hermione." And she said, "Hey there."

"Anything the matter?" Ron asked her, crossing over to her until they were an arm's length apart. Harry watched the conversation, agitated, from a distance. "You seem a little upset."

Hermione sighed and rolled her eyes. "Ugh, I just had to get away from Lavender and Parvati. They're running back and forth between the dormitory and the Common Room, trying to get their costume materials and plans all straightened out. I've been trying to study all evening, but they're so distracting--it's driven me off my train of thought!"

"How many have they finished by now?" Ron asked, stretching his arms a little to allow the hair on his underarms a little more breathing room. Hermione didn't bat an eyelid.

"Twenty," she said. "They have until tomorrow afternoon to complete the last one hundred and five."

Harry couldn't stand it any longer. "Ron, put some clothes on!" he yelled, quite red in the face. "There's a girl in the room, for heaven's sake!"

"Don't be silly, Harry," Hermione replied primly, "I already know what Ron's penis looks like."

Harry went even redder as he stumbled backwards into his bed. "But... but..." he blubbered, "I thought you said you never... did it."

"Had sex, you mean?" Ron said. "Nah, but we had a private peep show or two before we called it off."

Harry snatched up his pillow and rammed it against his ears. "But... But Hermione, you wouldn't prance around starkers if Ron walked into your dormitory!" he cried.

"But I would," Hermione said, as if it was the most logical thing in the world. "He knows what my privates look like, too, you know."

"THIS ISN'T FUNNY!" Harry wailed fretfully. "Why does everyone remind me of the torture that bloody Dumbledore bat is putting me through?"

Hermione raised her eyebrows at him and shrugged. "It's only nudity, Harry. It's not like you'll be having intercourse with Luna in public. Now be quiet. I was trying to complain to Ron about my roommates."

Leaving Harry behind, Ron took Hermione's hand and headed for the dormitory door. Harry dove over to Ron's bed and flung his bathrobe after him, yelling, "There's something called propriety, you know! Exercise a little, please!"

"Did you try to help them any?" Ron asked Hermione as he slipped on his bathrobe and secured it just tightly enough to hide his naughty bits.

"Of course," Hermione said forlornly as they headed for the spiral staircase. "I tried to help them all week--I even showed them my fanciest knitting charms!--but they just kept snapping at me."

They ambled down the stairs. "Let me speak to them," Ron offered. "I think I know just the thing to fix their problems."

"Do you really?" Hermione said skeptically. "I've been trying all week to get them to shut their moaning holes, but the more I think about it, the more the answer evades me."

They were in the Common Room now. Ron turned to Hermione and laid a hand on her shoulder. "Listen, you need to go work on that Arithmancy project of yours."

Hermione whimpered a little as her shoulder slumped beneath Ron's steadying palm. "I'm never going to finish it, Ron!" she moaned. "I haven't even gotten through the first scroll. I'm stuck with this one particularly difficult spell, and I can't find time to ask Professor Vector for help because of that stupid play! And then Parvati and Lavender are whining constantly, so what little concentration I can grasp is blown totally out the window."

"Ssshh, now," Ron said softly, giving her a gentle hug. "You're going to ace that project, I can feel it. It's hard now, but it'll come through, just like the hard stuff always does." She sniffled a few times into his shoulder, and he gave her a few pats on the back.

"You know, Ron," Hermione said, her voice still wavering, "you're a lot cooler now that you're not trying to act so macho."

Ron grinned. "Don't I know it. Now, I can't help you with Arithmancy, but I have just the thing to get Parvati and Lavender to stop moaning."

"What could that possibly be?" Hermione huffed. "The only way you could get them to shut up is if they found a way to finish those costumes by 3:00 tomorrow afternoon, and there's no way on Earth that that's going to happen."

"I wouldn't be so sure," Ron said. "Now run off and talk to Neville; the less people speaking to Lav and Parv, the better. They're as volatile as a deck of Exploding Snap."

So Hermione went off to talk to Neville by the fireplace. Having successfully diverted his friend, Ron strolled up to Lavender and Parvati, who were hidden behind a labyrinth of cloth, paper, and sewing machines that covered no less than seven tables. That took up enough of the Common Room on its own, but then there was the five-foot radius that everyone else had made around the pile, afraid of running into one of the irate seamstresses.

"Hey, Lavender, Parvati," Ron said, peeking around the piles in search of the two girls.

"Go the hell away!" That was Parvati. Her head poked up from behind a rickety sewing machine right in front of Ron's eyes. Her hair was abnormally tousled, and her eyes had large circles under them. Lavender appeared a second later, her countenance in a similar mess, and her expression clearly promising eternal damnation to the person who had dared invade their workspace. They both wore hideous scowls.

"Hey, I've come up with an idea," Ron said, purposefully cheerful.

"Stop fucking joking and leave us be!" Parvati snapped. "We're about to give up, anyway, Dumbledore and the play be damned. And pull your bathrobe together, we don't want to see your pubes."

Ron purposefully puffed his chest a little, so that the bathrobe drew out just enough to allow them a flashing glimpse of his penis. Then he pulled the garment together, smiling wryly as they slammed their foreheads into their fists in disgust. "I have just two words for you," he said. "Two words that will solve all your problems."

"I don't believe you," Lavender said immediately, blinking her puffy eyes.

"Shut up, please, and listen," Ron said politely. "I'm trying to help."

"Then bloody tell us already!" Parvati yelped crossly. "We have a hundred and fucking five costumes to make by the next cunting practice, and it's absolute raping hell!"

"Language, Parvati!" Ron tutted sardonically. "Curb your tongue, or I won't tell you."

Parvati pulled back her sleeve and made a fist, accompanied by a face monstrous enough to send even Voldemort hiding behind his mummy's skirts. Ron took the hint and got to the point.

"Two words, then. Here they are--"

A/N: Well, I said I'd have this posted before school let out, and I have both made and broken my promise. My last exam was last week, but my graduation has yet to take place. The good news, however, is that I suddenly have an extra fifty hours of free time a week at least, so my writing block (caused mainly by my lack of time) has suddenly become unblocked, and I am writing up a storm. In fact, Chapter 10 is already written.

Thanks to my beta Lisa725, although she was naughty and accidentally sent me back the wrong chapter. :D But it's all better now. Review please.