The Pink Button Conspiracy

One sunny morning in late September, Harry skipped merrily into the Great Hall for breakfast. This was most unusual, as was the big, goofy, and extremely un-Harryish grin plastered all over his face (figuratively, of course).

Through the doors and over to where Ron and Hermione were nibbling toast he trotted. Once there, Harry sat down heavily beside Ron, wiggling his backside around for a moment to get comfortable. Having completed this action, Harry raised his head and grinned widely at Hermione and Ron.

'How are you this morning, Harry?' asked Hermione, carefully setting down her cup of coffee.

Harry's grin widened to the point that his eyes became vivid green slits before replying.

'Moof. The Cow-Dog (¹) speaks.'

His friends stared at him quizzically for a moment.

'Er... Harry?' ventured Ron. 'Are you all right, mate?'

Harry smiled and nodded, applying a liberal amount of strawberry jam to his toast and tucking in.

After munching away quietly (and uncharacteristically merrily) for a few moments, Harry looked up again.

'Those crazy Monkayees (²)^,' he said, watching as owls flew in through the open windows to deliver the mail.

As a large owl delivered Hermione's copy of The Daily Prophet, Hedwig soared toward Harry and landed on the white linen tablecloth beside Harry's plate.

'G'day mate!' said Harry jovially, flinging an arm around Hedwig and hugging her forcefully. 'Crikey!' he exclaimed to Ron and Hermione, wiping a tear of sheer joy from his eye. 'Isn't it beautiful?'

Hedwig began to inch away from Harry.

Ron looked confused, but Hermione, who had seen some Muggle television, asked;

'Harry? Why are you speaking like Steve Irwin?'

'Irwin! Bitterest enemy of the Cow-Dog and of all self-respecting (³) Australians!' Harry cried.

Ron stood up and hurried over to the staff table to fetch Dumbledore.

'Now, Harry,' said Hermione, mollifyingly, 'that's an unfair generalisation-'

'All generalisations are false, you know,' Harry interrupted her.

'What about the generalisation you just made about Australians, then?'

That stumped Harry. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, apparently trying to think of a response.

'Moof. The Cow-Dog speaks,' he said lamely.

Ron arrived with Dumbledore.

'Harry?' said Dumbledore gently. 'Ron tells me that you're...not yourself. Would you care to step into my office?'

Harry gazed at Dumbledore fearfully, then leapt abruptly onto the Gryffindor table, knocking over numerous goblets and treading in a puddle of strawberry jam.

'Back! Back I say!' he yelled, holding his two index fingers out in front of him in the shape of a cross. 'Back with thee to the fiery abyss! The Abyss! Where the brandy is good and the women are better! Or the men, if that's what you like! Back I say!'

The entire Hall was looking at him now. Dumbledore, Ron and Hermione tried to talk him down from the table, but Harry seemed to find quiet, soothing words threatening. He began to run down the length of the table toward the door, knocking tureens of porridge into people's laps as he went.

'Catch him!' shouted Ron.

People leapt at Harry from either side of the table, but he jumped over and dived under their outstretched arms and kicked goblets of pumpkin juice in their faces. Some of the students and teachers pulled out their wands.

But Harry had thought of that too. Pulling his wand from his robes, he pointed wildly and yelled randomly.

As George Weasley attempted to slow him down with a Leg-Locker curse, one of Harry's randomly shouted spells collided with the jet of light from George's wand of turned it into a pink button, which clattered to the floor, and was picked up by a brown owl.

'Expelliarmus!' roared Ron, as Harry leapt from the table and began to sprint for the door.

As the jet of red light flew toward Harry, it suddenly (and presumably due to Harry's insane intervention) turned into a large orange box that sat on the floor and shook ominously.

Everyone, even Harry, stopped what they were doing to watch the box.

'Harry?' asked Hermione tentatively. 'What's, what's in the box?'

'Fear itself! Personified! Booyah! I am the One!' Harry softly exclaimed, watching the box through wide, wary eyes.

'When you say "fear personified"...'

'Run! For it will eat you!' cried Harry, flinging his arms over his head. He peered at a very thin first year. 'You it will use as a toothpick,' he informed her.

The orange box, which had been shaking steadily, suddenly fell quite still. A moment later, it began to tick loudly.

As one, the crowd of onlookers took a step back, prepared to run or fight should the worst come to pass.

Thirty seconds later, the ticking stopped, and the box shook violently. Then it exploded.

A few people screamed and covered their heads, then looked up bemusedly as they felt glittering gold confetti rain down on them. Amidst the shower, a cloud of red butterflies fluttered out to land in people's hair and settle on abandoned pieces of bacon.

Harry leapt to his feet. Ron and Neville darted forward from the crowd and grabbed him securely by the elbows.

'Come on, Harry,' said Ron, leading him firmly out of the Great Hall and up to Dumbledore's office.

In the Great Hall, students and teachers dusted the confetti off and went about their business. A grumbling Filch shambled into the Hall to begin cleaning up the confetti.

* * * * *

Up in the Owlery, the brown owl placed the pink button on the straw covering the floor. It landed beside the trinket and examined it with its head cocked to one side. It admired the shine as the sun glinted off the button's polished surface.

Behind it, the other owls in the Owlery looked each other. If what they were communicating could be rendered in English it would probably go something like:

'What's Ethel got this time?'

'I dunno. Looks shiny though.'

'Another shiny thing? What is this fetish she's got? I thought it was bower birds that collected things!'

'Yeah, but they only collect blue stuff. Magpies like shiny stuff.'

'I thought it was rooks...'

'Shut up! The point is, we're owls!'

'Leave Ethel alone. She's having an identity crisis; she needs our support.'

'She needs to be locked up...'

But owls don't speak English, so it didn't sound like that.

None of the owls, not even Ethel-with-the-identity-crisis, noticed that a small crack had appeared in the side of the button. It began to shake slightly...