Harry Potter and the Chocolate Factory

Chapter Eight

Dumb Animals

The plump rat sat on a pipe in an abandoned room, stuffing toffee into its fat rat mouth with a paw that was silvery and glistening. It was a creature of simple mind, one that could only focus on one idea at a time, so right now its thoughts -little though they deserved the title -- ran something like: Ooh, now, this is a lovely bit o' buttercrunch. Cor, got a wad stuck in me teeth! Ah, well, it's not like I 'ave to see the dentist, right? Handy to be a rat, like. Ooops, now me jaws is stuck together - wait a tick. Ah! That's better! Ooh, this is a lovely bit o' buttercrunch, ain't it?

And so on.

This was Peter Pettigrew, a.k.a. Wormtail, of course. And, wrapped up in the joy of gluttony, he had entirely forgotten his abandoned comrades. If he hadn't been interrupted in his nibbling, he probably would have gone on pulling bits of toffee off the lump - which was larger than his little rat skull - and shoveling them into his mouth until his stomach burst.

But he was interrupted.

Klaxon alarms suddenly blared. Lights flashed red from the walls and ceilings, bathing the room in a crimson glare. The terrified Pettigrew dropped his toffee and cringed, simultaneously letting loose a trail of droppings, just as a proper rat should. Peter had worked hard to become an Animagus and was determined to get the details right.

A new train of thought switched on in his tiny mind: Cor, now, what's that 'orrid sound? They're not after me, is they? I hasn't done nothin' wrong. Have I? Can't remember. Anyway, this don't sound good, it don't. Where's Voldy-mort? He'll protect me. Cor! Where 'as he gone?

Wormtail suddenly realized he was quite alone. And not only was he quite alone, but he had no idea where his comrades might be - or if they were sporting big, hairy, orangutan-flu laden arses by now. Maybe that was what the alarm was about? Had the dreaded virus broken loose in the factory? His whiskers twitched in agitation, but he calmed himself with an effort.

Easy now. Let's not jump to conclusions. Nothin's spotted you. After all, youse just one little rat here. No one's going to notice one little rat. An' if it's that orang-utang flu, well, maybe rats can't catch it, right? So let's 'ave a little look round, see what's sounded the alarm, eh? Yeah, that's the ticket.

With a final, regretful glance at the toffee, Wormtail carefully clambered down the pipe. This room specialized in the making of flavored syrups, and similar pipes lined the walls, ceiling, and floor, all leading to huge, bubbling vats. Everything smelled of chocolate and cherry and vanilla and other delightfully warm fragrances. There were ceaseless gurgling and popping sounds as the syrups flowed through the pipes and were mixed in the vats. Wormtail made his way to a central pipe, one that overlooked the entire room, and sat there, nose twitching. All seemed as it should be. However -

Hang on! Where's all them little fellows what does all the work 'round 'ere? Blimey! I can't see a one of 'em!

He was right. Every last Oompa-Loompa had vanished, probably while he himself was cringing and crapping. Pettigrew sat back on his haunches and ran a paw through his whiskers. In most matters of intellect, he compared unfavorably to a fava bean. But when it came to self-preservation, Pettigrew was a bona fide genius. The Oompa-Loompas had left when the sirens sounded. That could only mean that the alarm meant that something very bad, very dangerous was happening nearby. Even as he came to this conclusion, his keen rodent ears began picking up all sorts of unpleasant sounds out in the hallway. Carnivorous sounds.

Well, at least it probably wasn't the orangutan flu. But what was it? Before he found a place to hide - and this room, with its many twisting pipes and small opening was an excellent spot for a small, plump rat to hide - it was best that he found out exactly what the danger was, to avoid surprises later on.

All right, all right. Brace up, Peter me lad. Let's have a peep, whot? Just one little looksee an' then we'll find us a nice place to kip for a while.

So reassuring himself, he crept cautiously towards the exit. He let a few more droppings dribble out - well, it lightened the load in case he had to make a run for it.

There was a small hole in the wall where the pipes ran through, presumably from some other part of the factory. Peter made his way to this opening and stuck his nose out, along with just enough of his eyes to get a full frontal view of what was coming.

It was very bad.

Shakily, Peter withdrew. It only took him half a minute to find the smallest and most secure-looking pipe and ensconce himself in it. As an afterthought, he scurried back out, fetched his lump of toffee and used it to plug up the opening. All he could do now was wait. Fortunately, a consoling thought came to him very soon:

I bet that Narcissa's much more scrumptious than me. Yeah. She's the one I'd take a bite out of if I had me druthers. Surely they'll choose her over a lil' ol' rat like meself.

Comforted, he sat back to wait it out. As his initial panic faded, that simple rat mind kicked back in again.

Oooh, that's a lovely bit o' buttercrunch cloggin' up the pipe. Yum, yum! 'Ang on a mo. . . Wasn't there some reason I put it there in the first place? Can't remember. Mmm. . . No, I shouldn't. Well, maybe just a nibble. . .

And soon the room echoed to the sound of a large, plump, very, very stupid rat munching a lump of toffee in a drainpipe.

* * * * *

"What the bloody hell is going on now?" Snape demanded over a cacophony of awful sounds. As soon as the alarms went off, Greyback began howling in sympathy, which set the twins to calling "Wolf! Wolf!" and firing off imaginary elephant guns. Snape wanted to drown the lot of them.

"Mind your language," Narcissa called over the din.

"Oh, sorry. What the flipper-dee-poofy goodness is happening?" Snape amended sweetly as the sound of the sirens faded. Greyback kept going until Bellatrix kicked him, although it was probably more the fart that accompanied the blow than the kick itself that shut him up.

Narcissa glowered at Snape. "Now you sound like the damned Dark Lord."

"For god's sake woman, make up your mind."

"Just curse with dignity if you must curse."

The sirens - and Greyback -- began blaring again just as Snape was readying a sharp retort. "Mr. Wonka must have discovered he has uninvited guests," noted Tonks unhappily. "Poop. We didn't even get to see anything cool yet."

"We lost a zebra in a school bet?" asked Voldemort, puzzled. Perhaps he could be forgiven for not hearing this one properly, what with all the racket, but everyone chose to ignore him anyway.

"And Fred still has to go potty," added George, frolicking happily about and putting random bits of objects into his mouth. Fred was beginning to squirm noticeably.

Bellatrix guzzled frobscottle and belched and farted simultaneously. "I'm not afraid of Willy Wonka," she announced boldly. "I've heard he's a poofter in a funny hat."

"Willy Wonka knows we're here?" asked Voldemort, two steps behind, as usual.

"Probably, my Lord."

"Oh no! Orangutan flu! Orangutan flu! He's going to give us all orangutan flu!" Voldemort gibbered. He turned a few circles in the air. "I don't want a big, hairy ass! I don't, I don't, I don't!"

"There's no such thing as orangutan flu!" Tonks snapped, cutting through the nonsense.

"And if there was, I'd already have it," Hagrid said, in a fine piece of logic for him. McGonagall hit him for it anyway.

"Maybe we should exit through the hole now?" Snape suggested, visibly struggling to hold back an 'I told you so' as the alarms finally stopped blaring.

"Now?" George, for some reason, looked sneaky.

"Yes, now! Before whatever-it-is comes to get us!"

George scraped a toe along the floor. "Now really isn't a good time."

"Now is the ideal time!" Then Snape noticed George's expression. The Weasley boy struggled to look apologetic, but underneath it all he was quite gleeful and titillated to boot. "Why is now not a good time to escape down the hole?"

"Because Fred's going potty," George explained happily.

"In the hole."

"Yep, in the hole."

"Eeewww! Well, sod that, then!" Bellatrix announced.

Snape glared at her. "With all your recent contributions to the atmosphere, I don't feel you have any room to complain."

"That may be so, but I'm not going to risk stepping on a fresh Weasley turd in the quasi-darkness," replied Bellatrix with dignity. "Even a Death Eater has limits."

"He can't block the entire tunnel," Snape argued.

"Don't bet on it, toots," said George, picking delicately at the contents of his nose. "Fred has a wide capacity arse."

Tonks clamped her hands firmly over her ears, thinking she'd preferred the alarms and the howling to this line of information. "Instead of panicking, why don't we find out what's coming after us?" she suggested.

"Good point," agreed Sirius. "After all, the alarms may not even be about us. Perhaps a vat of caramel just got burned or something."

Kingsley snorted loudly. "Hello! We're intruders. Big stupid there cracked half a floor and a dozen containers when he made his entrance. Those sirens are for us."

"You're just saying that because you want an excuse to run around and shoot things," Sirius told him.

"Still, he's probably right," interrupted Snape before the two could begin wrangling. "And at the very least, it would be wise for us to send someone out to take a look. After all, if it's just another bunch of midgets, we can probably handle them."

"Gladly," said Narcissa, thinking of all she'd suffered with her husband's midget fetish and how much she would relish stomping on a few of the little bastards in retribution. Maybe she could even save a severed head to hide in Lucius's bed later - his reaction would be hilarious.

"All right," said Sirius, looking around, "who's going to go check it out?"

Everyone looked at each other and shrugged noncommittally. Then there was a click, a bump, and a series of unpleasant slithering sounds outside in the corridor and everyone quickly pointed at someone else.

"Oh, come on!" cried Snape, frustrated.

"You do it if you're so brave," Tonks told him, planting her feet. "Sounds like a bunch of basilisks to me."

"Or something worse," said Kingsley as a creepy, growling sort of a hiss sounded clearly throughout the hall. He found a nice secure spot in one of the mixing vats and hid in it. Only his eyes, still covered in menacing dark glasses, could be seen peeping out.

"I am not brave," said Snape. "I'm a Slytherin, not a poxy Gryffindor."

"This is getting us nowhere," snapped McGonagall as the slithering noises got mixed up with hungry slurping sounds. "Someone better volunteer soon."

Silence in the room. Bellatrix stifled a fart in case it was taken as an offer.

Something snarled directly outside the door. Ominous dark shadows flickered. "Whatever they are, they aren't midgets," observed Snape. "Perhaps we should brave the tunnel after all."

Fred's head popped up. "All finished!" he declared cheerfully. "And whoa, is it a biggie!"

The stench rising from the hole confirmed his words.

"Finished?" said Snape. "Good. Then you can go and see what's out in the hall."

Fred beamed. "No."

Snape's lips thinned. "No? As it's your fault that we can't -- "

"Send the dead guy," suggested Fred.

Snape was left with his jaw hanging open. A Weasley had just beaten him in logic. Surely this was the lowest point in his life. A hot, red flush of shame crept up from his feet and engulfed his face.

"Aw, no, I don't wanna go!" protested Sirius, who would have reveled in Snape's discomfort if his arse hadn't been on the line. "Why does everyone pick on me?"

"Because you deserve it," Tonks told him.

"What are you afraid of anyway?" asked Kingsley from the vat. "It's not like it can kill you."

"Oh, sure. Bring that up again." Sirius tried to win sympathy through a bit of self-indulgent sniveling. McGonagall picked him up by the seat of his pants and the scruff of his neck and hurled him into the corridor.

"Let us know how it goes," she called, hastily shutting the door.

"AAAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!" was his reply.

"That doesn't sound good," mused Kingsley. He popped his head up long enough cast a pleading glance at McGonagall, who was still in possession of his weapons. She seemed to have taken a shine to the brass knuckles in particular.

Frantic fingernails scrabbled at the door. "That'll be Black, I reckon," said Greyback, sniffing interestedly at the knob.

"Maybe we should open it?" suggested the helpful Fred.

"No. If whatever-it-is can terrify Sirius, it can almost certainly kill us."

The pressure of the fingernails increased.

"It's not doing us much good, though," noted Tonks. "I mean, we sent him out for information, right?"

"If you can call throwing him bodily into the corridor 'sending him out for information,' yes," agreed Snape.

Fists were beaten against the door. Bellatrix swigged frobscottle, adding a few bits of scattered candy for flavoring. "Do you think whatever it is can actually harm a ghost?" she asked. The hope in her voice was unmistakable.

"I can't see how. . . "

Sirius suddenly appeared in the room. "You heartless bastards!" he howled.

"I didn't think you could go through doors in this factory," said Narcissa.

"I didn't go through it. I went under it. Being insubstantial has a few benefits."

"So nice to know being dead isn't all that bad," shrugged Bellatrix with a fart.

Sirius stared meaningfully at her. "You might have an opportunity to find out for yourself. Those things in the hall are unfriendly as well as damned hungry."

"So we'll bolt the door," shrugged Belltrix.

That was when the smell of Fred's recent endeavor truly began to contribute to the atmosphere. "Wowie zowie!" exclaimed George in admiration, glancing into the tunnel, "it really is a big one, isn't it?"

"I had a very large breakfast," Fred explained. "Sixteen kippers and three rashers of bacon. And all those fried onions as well -- "

"This has to be a nightmare," muttered Snape, slumping against the wall. "Held hostage by a Weasley turd. Could things possibly get any worse?"

Of course they could. A thin black tendril began sneaking under the crack in the door. The group sucked in a collective gasp of breath.

"Stretched my bum something awful," Fred continued, oblivious. Snape considered throwing him to the black whatsit. That would probably just irritate the creature, however. It was too much to hope that anything could actually have the stomach to eat Fred Weasley.

"What is that thing?" Tonks asked, backing away from the door - although not too far away, because the crack in the floor was right there as well, with that despicable smell rising from it.

"Do ya think it's big and dangerous?" asked Hagrid, too excitedly. McGonagall tested the brass knuckles on his head and promptly lost them in his hair. He took the hint and shut up, however.

More black stuff began oozing through the crack. It seemed to belong to a second creature. "Blob monsters! Blob monsters! Poopie! Poopie! Poopie! Somebody do something!" Voldemort flailed wildly in the air, trying to waft himself higher and out of danger. In his terror, some air leaked out of his blowhole and he began to descend. "Oh no!" He fumbled for the fizzy lifting drink, but choked when he brought the bottle to his mouth because he was too scared to swallow properly. Bellatrix whacked him on the back and the bottle flew out of his hand, soaring across the room like an arrow, aiming straight for Hagrid's head.

Hagrid reflexively opened his mouth and swallowed it. "Ooomphy-yah!" he exclaimed as he lifted gently off his feet and hovered like a - well, there is no analogy for what he hovered like, because objects as big and hairy as Hagrid were never meant to hover. Nature wept at the sight.

A third black tendril joined the first two. The stuff just kept seeping through the door, thick and slightly oily and yet obviously alive, and not just random black muck.

"Sirius, what are they?" demanded Tonks, backed up against the wall and gazing nervously from the black stuff to the smelly hole and back again.

"Big oozy monsters," Sirius responded from where he was perched on top of one of the shattered candy bins. "Wait until you see their heads. You won't believe the teeth. They have really big, pointy teeth, see. A lot of big, pointy teeth."

Everyone scattered to secure higher ground. McGonagall evicted Kingsley from his steel mixing vat and took it for herself. He began frantically constructing himself a fortress out of sugar and bits of glass. The twins gamboled around, unconcerned. Voldemort, who still hadn't quite regained the ground, tottered through the air, blowing feeble puffs of breath out the top of his head.

Two more black tendrils had begun questing under the door. Soon the room was going to be filled with uninvited guests. Hungry uninvited guests, and there wasn't so much as a soggy crisp packet to offer them. . .

* * * * *

Secretly, each of Mr. Wonka's remaining guests had been dying to know what his private office looked liked.

They weren't exactly impressed, but they certainly couldn't say they were disappointed either. 'Tacky' was the first word that came to mind. Then again, for all they knew, purple paisley and little monogrammed 'W's were the fashion among Muggles these days, and the framed portrait of a pink sheep had been painted by a very famous artist.

"Wow!" chirped the tiny Harry, "my poof detector's really sounding off!"

"Harry!" scolded Lupin (much to the werewolf's disgust, the little boy was riding on his shoulder) "that's impolite. True, but impolite," he muttered under his breath.

"Oh, what? He's not paying attention."

And indeed, Mr. Wonka wasn't. He was scurrying about the room, desperately trying to hide bits of pink fluffy fabric before anyone noticed them. Which, of course, only made people notice them all the sooner.

"Angora?" murmured Petunia, after a scrutinizing glance. She had one, treasured bit of angora in a chest back home - a lilac shawl Vernon had got for her one Christmas. She suspected it had probably been on sale, or even fallen off the back of a lorry - Vernon was cheap like that. (In truth, it had once belonged to Gilderoy Lockhart. He'd meant to put it up for a charity auction but, his brains still being scrambled by the Memory Charm, had put it out for the dustman and placed a handful of used tissues in the charity box instead. By the way, don't ask why Gilderoy Lockhart was in possession of a lady's shawl or what Vernon Dursley was doing prowling around rubbish bins. The answer to either question would only make you sad.)

"Definitely angora," agreed Lucius, who was much more conversant with the real thing. He scooped a pair of pink socks off the back of a chair with the end of his walking stick. "I'd think you'd find these a trifle ticklish, however."

"Maybe that's the point," said Harry, putting every perverted connotation he could imagine into his voice. Lupin flicked him off his shoulder.

"It certainly is when I wear them," agreed Lucius.

"Pop!"

"BAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!" shrieked Harry, coming to an (unfortunately) safe landing in yet another pile of angora. He bounced in the soft fabric for a moment, as if not entirely believing his luck then was up and about again. Shrinking seemed to have increased Harry's agility, and the vast amounts of pork he had consumed had certainly replenished his energy. "Bah, bah, bah!" he sang as he hopped around the room like a red-and-white striped flea. There was just one, single, full cup of abandoned cocoa sitting on Mr. Wonka's desk, and Harry managed to splash exactly into it. Lupin sighed and fished him out before he drowned. Harry rolled on a pile of papers Mr. Wonka hadn't finished looking at yet to dry himself, and then resumed bouncing.

"Should have left him for the Vermicious Knids to devour," commented Draco, selecting the most comfortable chair in the room and making a dash for it. He managed to claim it just before Lucius could settle his rump into the cushions. Lucius scowled and made himself a nest on the angora rug before the lavender brick fireplace.

"I don't know what Vermicious Knids are, but I'm quite certain they wouldn't eat my nephew," said Petunia, choosing a stiff wooden stool for her seat. "What do you think, Mr. Weasley?"

"I wish there were a few more machines in here," he sighed, settling on the paisley couch.

"Oh, right. So we could have you perving around as well as Potter," Lucius sneered.

"And Mr. Wonka can perv with his angora," added Draco.

"And if an Oompa-Loompa comes in, Lucius can perv with it," snapped Arthur.

"I vote that we expunge the word 'perv' from our vocabulary for a while," suggested Lupin.

"I suppose you don't think you're a perv just because you're shagging Tonks, but I disagree. I bet she assumes all sorts of kinky shapes while you're doing it."

Lupin eyed Draco silently, wishing he was still a professor and therefore capable of handing out extra-nasty detentions. Like emptying Dumbledore's used sock drawer by hand. Speaking of Dumbledore, the old coot brayed gleefully at Draco's comment.

"Oh, well done, Master Malfoy! Ten points to Slytherin!"

"Bah?" Tiny Harry stopped in his tracks, looking outraged.

"Don't worry, Harry. Remember, he's dead and can't give points anymore."

Lupin's words set Dumbledore to bawling anew. Reassured, Harry resumed skipping around the room. He unerringly headed for the cold cocoa again, but Mr. Wonka moved it out of reach as he took a seat behind his desk. "So, what should we talk about while we're waiting for the Vermicious Knids to eat the intruders so we can get back to the tour?" asked Mr. Wonka cheerfully.

"How long does it take for a Vermicious Knid to eat an entire living person?" Draco asked at once.

Lupin held up a hand to forestall any reply. "I don't really want to talk about that, thank you."

There was a short silence.

"Fifteen seconds," said Mr. Wonka.

"I said I didn't want to hear it!" Lupin reminded Mr. Wonka sharply.

"Oh, did you? Sorry. I guess I was busy thinking of the answer and didn't hear you."

There was another brief silence. "So what's up with all the angora?" Lucius wanted to know.

Mr. Wonka let out a nervous giggle then primly folded his hands atop his desk. "That subject is not open for discussion."

"Oh. Um. . . " Lucius wondered if anyone would be willing to talk midgets for a while. Probably not, especially with miniscule Harry romping at their feet. Trust Harry Potter to ruin anything potentially good.

"I like machines," Arthur Weasley began on a hopeful note.

"Very useful," agreed Mr. Wonka.

Silence again. The ticking of the clock seemed unnaturally loud.

"So do the Knids chew their victims into bits or just swallow them whole?" Draco asked.

"I thought we'd gone off that subject!" snapped Lupin.

"I'm just asking! Geez," sniffed Draco, "for a werewolf you're really touchy about the concept of eating people."

"They gobble them up in a few bites," said Mr. Wonka.

"Werewolves?" asked Arthur stupidly.

"No, Vermicious Knids. I don't know how long it takes a werewolf. How long does it take a werewolf to eat someone?" Willy Wonka asked, turning to Lupin.

Lupin folded his arms across his chest. "I don't know."

"See? Touchy." Draco sneered. "As if most people didn't deserve to be eaten."

"Yes, Narcissa and I ate the rest of our eleven children," put in Lucius. "Better than raising the little brats."

"He's joking, isn't he?" said Petunia, turning a delicate shade of green.

"He's deluded. Mum barely visited his bedchamber long enough to conceive me, let alone eleven others."

"Let's not discuss the Malfoy family bedchambers either, all right?" begged Lupin, also looking a bit green.

"I wish someone had eaten Aberforth," volunteered Dumbledore wistfully. "I made the attempt when I was nine, but the fire alarm went off while I was heating the barbecue sauce."

"Let's not talk about eating anyone," suggested Arthur.

"Not even pigs?" demanded Harry, pausing in his peregrinations.

"No."

"But pigs want to be eaten!"

"How do you know?" Draco demanded.

"Look, I'm an expert on pigs, mate. I can practically read their minds. When I'm eating pork, it's like me and the piggy are becoming one -- "

"You are becoming one," Lucius pointed out. "In a sense."

"I don't want to talk about Potter's pig fetish either," said Draco, curling up his lip. "Bad enough we had to watch him gorge himself on that giant roast."

"Well, what shall we talk about, then?" asked Petunia, becoming frustrated.

"Quidditch!" shouted Harry at once.

"Gesundheit," said Mr. Wonka.

"No, no, no, you stupid berk, it's a game! A game!" Harry shrieked, leaping about three feet off the rug with each word and wringing his miniscule fists in the air.

"Harry!"

"Whot? He is a stupid berk!"

"Yes, but it's rude to say it to his face," said Lucius, idly polishing his fingernails.

"Mr. Malfoy!"

"What? He is a stupid berk."

Lupin sighed. "He's a Muggle. Muggles don't play Quidditch. End of story."

"Well, they should, the stupid berks!" exclaimed Harry.

"Muggles can't fly, as you very well know, Harry," said the exasperated Lupin who was considering banning the subject of Quidditch as well. "Stop being difficult."

Harry sulked and forced out a surprisingly huge belch for his size. Mr. Wonka glanced around the circle of wizards. "So what is this Quidditch?"

"It's a game, you stupid berk, a game!"

"A sport," replied Lupin, putting his foot over Harry, "played on broomsticks."

"Broomsticks?" repeated Mr. Wonka looking baffled and perhaps suffering from a vision of wizards hopping around a field with brooms clutched between their knees.

"Yes. That's what we use for flying -- "

Mr. Wonka's expression of confusion began morphing into one of disgust. "You fly on broomsticks?"

"Well, yes."

"Why? Don't they, err, bruise your bottoms?"

Harry, by way of demonstration, squeezed out from under Lupin's foot and hopped onto a pencil that was lying on the desk. He took off with a happy 'bah!' Mr. Wonka's eyes followed the little lad. "Look at that! It went right between his cheeks! Eww! Why don't you fly on chairs instead?"

"Chair aren't aerodynamic -- "

"Or beds. I could get into a flying bed, especially with a lovely frilly canopy to keep off the rain."

"We first started using brooms back in the eighth century, I think," explained Arthur, dredging his memory for his History of Magic lessons. "In case we needed to escape quickly from Muggles, we needed something that could masquerade as a common household item."

"So they didn't have chairs in the eight century?" Mr. Wonka demanded. "Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever seen a broomstick in anyone's house. I've seen chairs, though. My father had one with a spit sink attached. He had lots of interesting dental equipment too, but you'd never catch him flying on it! Oh, no!"

"Well -- " began Lupin.

"Hang on! Why do you lot have to run away from Muggles anyway? You're the wizards. Why not just -- I dunno, use your magic to erase their memories or something?"

"That wouldn't be ethical," said Lupin.

"Ethical? See here, I'd be more traumatized by watching someone fly around with a bit of wood stuck in their crack than by having a small patch of my memory erased."

Harry made another pass around the room. The pencil was wedged firmly between his cheeks and sinking deeper with every second. "I feel so free!" he whooped.

"Well, that's how Quidditch is played," said Lupin a little desperately. "There are seven members on each team."

"Three Chasers, two Beaters, a Keeper and a Seeker," Draco put in. "I play Seeker," he added on a note of pride, although if he was hoping for praise, he was playing to the wrong crowd.

"Does it make your bottom sore?" Mr. Wonka inquired.

"And there are three balls too," said Arthur, sparing Draco a reply. "Well, four actually, because you have two Bludgers, but three different types."

"The Quaffle, the Bludgers, and the Golden Sneeeeeeetch!" shrieked Harry, still zooming around.

"So you get different points depending on which ball you get in the goal?" asked Mr. Wonka, stifling a yawn.

"No, the Quaffle's the only ball you try to get in the goal."

"There are three goals," said Arthur, apparently becoming obsessed with the number.

"Oh, so you get different points depending on which goal you put it through, then," said Mr. Wonka in a tone of enlightenment. "Are they all of different sizes? Get the most points for the smallest?"

Lupin blinked. "Err, no. They're all of different heights, not sizes."

"Oh," said Mr. Wonka, now on a roll. "So they're all scattered around the playing field then, making it difficult for the goalkeeper -- "

"The Keeper!" shrieked Harry, dive-bombing a fly.

" - to protect, then."

"Wrong again," drawled Lucius. "Each teams' hoops are all in a cluster at opposite ends of the fields. There's not that great a difference in height between them, and you get ten points no matter which hoop you put the Quaffle through."

Mr. Wonka slumped. "I confess I'm stumped," he said after a bit. "What's the point of three goals if they're essentially all the same?"

"Wait, it gets stupider," assured Lucius, who'd never cared much for the sport - it was the broomstick thing that bothered him. He earned himself scandalized looks from all the wizards present, including his son. "The two Bludgers they mentioned? Their job is to whiz about and try to knock the players off their brooms."

"And that's all?"

"Well, the Beaters hit them with bats and try to send them towards the other team's players, but otherwise, yes."

"So, in other words, people are trying deliberately to hurt one another during this game?"

"Yes," said Lucius, "and actually, that's the one aspect of Quidditch I enjoy."

"What are the Bludgers made of?" asked Mr. Wonka.

"Iron," said Draco, "they're ten inches in diameter."

Now Petunia, who'd been boycotting the discussion on principle, sat up and gaped. "Ten inches of solid iron?" she demanded. "Haven't you lot ever heard of cannonballs?"

"No," the wizards chorused.

"Oh, God, you're stupid." She shook her head. "They're large projectile weapons made out of iron. Very dense, very heavy."

Arthur blinked. Draco slowly shook his head. Harry hovered, itching his still-green hair. "I don't understand," said Dumbledore.

She sighed noisily. "Anyone who gets hit square on with a ten inch ball of iron is dead. Period."

"Oh, but we're wizards!" said Draco dismissively.

"A ten inch ball of iron would go right through you. Or take off your head. Can being a wizard protect you from that?"

"Errr. . . no."

"Then pretty much everyone who's ever played Quidditch should be dead," she said, nodding and settling back in her seat with a significant look at her nephew.

"She's right, you know," nodded Mr. Wonka.

"Well, I declare this conversation at an end," sighed Lupin.

"Hold it! You haven't told me what the Snitch if for yet!"

"The Sneetch!" screeched Harry.

"It's pronounced 'Snitch,' you twit."

"No! Sneetch! Sneetch! Sneeeeeeeeeetch!!!!!!!"

"The Golden Snitch," said Lupin with a weary, let's-get-this-over-with-quickly air, "is a little golden ball, about the size of a walnut -- "

"I have trained squirrels that crack walnuts," interrupted Willy Wonka brightly. "Did I show them to you?"

"Yes!" everyone chorused at once. That was an episode they weren't going to forget soon.

"There was Tinkums," said Dumbledore, his eyes brightening, "and Bushybum, and Hopsy-Pooper and -- "

"So the Golden Snitch has wings and it flies around very, very quickly," said Lupin loudly. "The Seeker's job is to catch the Snitch -- "

"Sneeeeeeeeeetch!" screeched Harry, going into a dive and grabbing some lint off the carpet. He waved it triumphantly.

"For which he receives a hundred and fifty points," finished Lupin, like a man reaching a finish line after a long, brutal struggle against mighty odds.

"And ends the game," added Draco.

"And ends the game," agreed Lupin. He brushed hair out of his eyes. "Satisfied?"

"Well, no," admitted Mr. Wonka. "You mean the game ends when the Snitch is caught, even if it just started two minutes ago?"

"Yes."

"Aren't the spectators disappointed when that happens?" he asked. Petunia harrumphed in her corner.

"Well, they prefer it when the game goes on and on for weeks -- "

"Weeks?" Mr. Wonka's jaw dropped. "Hold it - are you saying that the game doesn't end until the Snitch is caught? There's no time limit?" From the tone of his voice, he was beginning to believe this whole Quidditch thing was a great joke they were having at his expense.

"No."

"What if gets lost? Or wedged somewhere?"

"Then the game doesn't end until everyone involved dies of old age, I suppose," said Lucius languidly. "Hasn't happened yet, so no one's worried."

"What's the point of having people shoot goals if one twit can catch this Snitch thing and get a hundred and fifty point?" demanded Petunia. "The other team would have to be sixteen goals ahead to win - it's ridiculous! Football's a much more sensible sport."

"Uh-uh," said Harry.

"Why not?" she asked coldly.

"Because you can't do this!" he cried, going into a Wronski Feint. Unfortunately, his pencil wasn't quite as agile as his Firebolt and he ended up skimming along the carpet, earning quite a rug-burn. "Owie, my nipples!" he squealed.

Lupin opened his mouth. "Yes, absolutely, we'll ban all further mention of Harry's nipples!" Arthur agreed hastily. No one dissented, for once. Except for Harry.

"Wow, the left one's nearly rubbed off," he observed, pulling up his shirt to take a look. Lupin put his foot over the tiny boy again.

"Do you want your pencil back?" he inquired of Mr. Wonka.

"No."

"Good."

"In fact, I've really gone off wizards after this Quidditch thing. I'm thinking of tossing you out in the hall to face the Knids."

"Oh, I say!" said Lucius, genuinely taken aback. "Have a heart. We don't all do that Quidditch thing, you know."

"And it would be terrible for your publicity," Lupin added.

"Nonsense. To date I have caused nine children to swell up, shrink, get coated in garbage, turn blue, turn into chewing gum, nearly drown, choke, and get inappropriately accosted by bees. It hasn't harmed my publicity yet. After all, what are the lives of you lot worth next to an extra rich serving of my caramel fudge dark cocoa ice cream topping?"

Well, Lupin had to concede that point. There wasn't a person in the room he'd spare if it meant giving up chocolate for the rest of his life.

"Oh, please don't throw us to the Knids!" blubbered Draco, his cowardly tendencies coming to the fore. One might have thought this was an excellent opportunity for Harry to show off his Gryffindor courage, but the tiny twerp had scurried under a cabinet instead.

"Draco, be reasonable," said Lupin patiently. "There are four of us, discounting Harry and Dumbledore -- "

"Why discounting me?" Dumbledore demanded.

"Because you're a dead old poof who won't be of any use in the situation."

Dumbledore wailed. Unmoved, Lupin continued. "And there's only one of him. I suppose he could call in some Oompa-Loompas, but they barely come up to my knee. I can't see he and a bunch of midgets can manhandle us out into the hallway to be devoured by Knids."

"I'd love to be manhandled by midgets," moaned Lucius happily.

They chose to ignore this.

"Well, you do have a point there," Willy Wonka frowned. "I'm a bit of a wuss. Oh, well, I suppose I'll just have to let you live for now. What should we talk about next?"

Dead silence. The clock resumed its supernaturally loud ticking.

"I'm sorry," said Mr. Wonka after what seemed an eternity. "I just remembered that I have a flying glass elevator, so I suppose I don't have the right to complain about your broomsticks. Anyone want a piece of candy in apology?"

Several people made affirmative sounds.

"It's experimental," Mr. Wonka added.

They sagged back into their seats.

"Just invented it yesterday," he cajoled.

As one, they shook their heads.

"Oh, please!"

Still no volunteers.

"I'm sure it's yummy!"

"Really?" asked Dumbledore. "Well, all right, then." He obligingly opened his mouth and Willy Wonka popped it in.

"You're doing me a big favor, thanks!" he called cheerfully as he dove for cover behind his desk.

Dumbledore'e eyes bugged. He began emitting some high-pitched whistling noises.

The rest of the group, taking their cue from Mr. Wonka, sought shelter behind whatever bits of furniture they could find as the old man's body began to shake and writhe.

"I knew we should have talked about midgets," grumbled Lucius.

* * * * *

"Poopie!" Voldemort was losing air rapidly. "Poopie! Poopie! Poopie, poopie, poopie!" His face shone with sweat and they figured it was only a matter of time before he wet himself. Not that anyone was watching the Dark Lord specifically. They had their own problems to worry about - such as surviving both the influx of twisty black creatures with huge teeth and the increasingly foul atmosphere. Even Snape had stopped suggesting that they make an escape down the hole Hagrid had created - the smell was just too dreadful.

"We're doomed," said Tonks, watching numbly as yet another oozy black monster crept under the door. "This is it. The end. We're finished, and I didn't even have time to tell Remus -- "

"What?" asked Sirius, intrigued.

"None of your business!"

"Hey, you're going to die anyway. Might as well let me know so I can tell him in case you don't come back."

"Yeah, right. You're just hoping it's something dirty." She gazed mournfully at the creepy black beast, which were now more than halfway into the room. "I see what you meant about the teeth."

"Impressive, aren't they?" Sirius agreed.

"You needn't sound so nonchalant. I remember you were pretty terrified when you were all alone in the hall."

"Honey, back then I thought they might be hungry enough to try to inhale me. But with solid meat around, I'm quite sure they won't spare a thought for me."

"Oh, thanks for referring to me as 'solid meat'."

"Just trying to see things from their perspective. Wait! I have an idea! Why don't you offer Hagrid as a sacrifice? He's big enough to bloat them all."

"Hagrid's out of reach," replied Tonks mournfully, gazing at the floating oaf.

"Oooh-hya-yah?" asked Hagrid, sensing he was being spoken of.

"Yeah, whatever. Could you come down here and - I dunno, fight off the monsters or something?"

"Fight them? Ya mean -hurt them? They're horribly misunderstood and highly useful beasties," said Hagrid, his voice going hoarse and his eyes misty at the thought of all the atrocities heaped upon poor, wee, vicious, sharp-toothed, man-eating carnivores of the world.

"Yep, they probably are. Why don't you get down here and save them?"

"Wow, you really took to the idea of feeding Hagrid to the monsters, didn't you, coz?"

"I am half a Black," she reminded him.

Hagrid was game, but -- "I dunno how to get down."

"You need to release air," said Fred helpfully.

"Nigh?" This was too complicated for Hagrid.

"Like this." Fred demonstrated by emitting a long belch. George laughed heartily. "There. Can you do that?"

"Oh, yah, that's easy." Hagrid obligingly followed Fred's example. The smell he released from the pit of his belly rivaled the stench from the hole for pure noxiousness.

Bellatrix, just to keep her contributions flowing, farted again. Even the creatures were starting to look disgusted. If one could judge by their expressions, they were thinking something along the lines of: 'Let's eat this lot quickly and get out of here!'

"Maybe the stench will kill them," suggested Sirius.

"I'm not amused, Sirius."

"I probably wouldn't either, if I had to breathe."

Hagrid's feet touched the floor. He strode boldly forwards. "Come here, ya poor wee beasties. Mummy Hagrid will take care of you."

They came willingly. Eagerly even. One took hold of his left arm and began to gnaw. Another wrapped around his head while two more began on his legs. A particularly brave or stupid brute chewed on his bottom. "Ah, bless them, they're such playful little poopsies!" Hagrid cried, delighted.

"Well, that solves that," smiled Sirius.

"I'm afraid not," said Narcissa. "Look again."

Three of the creatures were already backing away, shaking their heads as if they'd like to spit the taste out of their mouths. Only one remained, chewing determinedly on Hagrid's arm, although it didn't seem to be making much progress.

"Giant flesh is tough stuff," observed Narcissa sadly.

"Aw, don't leave Mumsie l'il poopsie-ums!" cried Hagrid.

But they did. Truly irritated now and hungrier than ever, the monsters turned their gazes to the rest of the group. They seemed to have taken Hagrid's lack of scrumptiousness very personally.

"Well, it was a nice thought," sighed Tonks.

"Get ready!" cried Kingsley, putting the final touched on his candy fort and diving inside. There was a yelp and a growl - Greyback had already taken refuge inside. "Bad doggie!" Kingsley scolded. Greyback bit him on the ankle.

"Here they come!" cried Fred gleefully. The monsters gathered themselves together into a hissing, hungry, furious mass and seethed forwards, like a storm cloud composed of teeth and anger. The group braced themselves for the assault.

Voldemort promptly wet himself.