Till Death Do We Angst

Till Death Do We Angst theme song, inspired by the shitty works of Effervescance or whatever. (We wrote it ourselves.)

I see a pretty twinkle in your multifaceted, prismatic colored eyes.
Your Golden hair speaks to me in love,
And that’s when I know,
I love and hate your beautiful face!

(Heavy breathing sounds.)

(Chorus)
Oh yeeee-aaaah! Love it!
All your jewels and money could buy me.
My heart doesn’t cost a thing,
Except a diamond riiiiiiinnnng!

(Ka-Ching!)

Don’t leave me in the dark side of your salty tears,
Our love will last forever, unless we die.
So fall into the dark coolness that is my soul!
Something, something, something,
I’m dying and loving yooouuuuu!

(Melodramatic thunder crashing)

Oo la la la la la! x 8

Chapter 1-- St. Mungo’s Hospital: Heartbreak Ward

A hopeful ray of sunlight filtered through the pristine window of room sixty-nine at St. Mungo’s Hospital. This room was occupied by the one and only Albus Dumbledore, decaying Headmaster and defender of the beautiful and Gryffindor. Once so proud, now, his bowels so loud, he lies in his Wizard sized bed, (that’s bigger than a King sized by half a Queen) contemplating his death in words no one can hear. The smooth, aristocratic voice of Draco Malfoy breaks the ugly silence.

“What the hell is he saying?”

Malfoy senior leans his maturely handsome face far enough away as to not smell the dying man’s rancid, un-lemoney breath.

“It’s just a bunch of breathy noises. And sooo unattractive.”

Draco was a boy fresh out of sixth year with a youthful ambition to love money as much as his father does. He was elegantly dressed in the latest wizard fashions, that if possible, made him even more good-looking. His luminous silver- white-gold locks lit up his flawless porcelain complexion. He cast his cool gray eyes, which by the way, also have silver rings around them, at his father Lucius. The older Malfoy was no less stunning, and had only ripened with age. The Malfoy features were displayed majestically on his lethally gorgeous face. He gracefully tapped the I.V attached to Dumbledore’s hand with a solid gold pimp cane.

“Have you made the necessary arrangements Albus?” he asked in a mocking tone. “I hope not, because if you fail to do so before assigning your fortune to anyone, it will fall into my willing, manicured hands.”

Draco pulled his eyes away from his own entrancing reflection.

“Why would that lousy, diamond-eyed, loose thread give all his gold to us?”

Lucius raised his eyebrow like the sun rises over a gloriously shaped hilltop.

“In case you’ve forgotten, I’m Chief, Supreme, Head, President, Director of Important Things at Hogwarts. That means, my fair-haired offspring, that if this grumbling gut kicks the Sorting hat without naming his inheritor, his gold jewels, and weird, whirring desk toys will be mine.”

Draco looked up at him adoringly.

“Oh father, you’re my anti-hero!”

Just as the father and son duo were admiring each other’s profiles, a very masculine knock interrupted them. A tall, dark and mysterious figure entered the room.

“Aha,” Draco said timelessly. “So what is his condition Doctor....”

He searched the man’s broad chest for a name tag, but it was masked by a flourishing rose in nestled in his lapel.

“Well,” the doctor began. “Albus Dumbledore has simply been living too long. We don’t know why or how or even when, who or what, but his long years have finally caught up with him. He’s dying.”

The good doctor’s voice was deep, primal, yet tender and filled with loving sympathy despite the fact he did not know the Malfoys. Draco frowned effortlessly.

“He doesn’t look like he’s dying.”

A truer word was never spoken. Dumbledore’s hair had never been more silver, his nose never more crooked, and his face would never lose that kind, oh-so-forgiving look.

“Oh, sorry,” the doctor apologized as he crossed the room to turn off a ruby encrusted light switch. “I forgot, you didn’t pay for this flattering lighting. It’s called The Aurora Beautialis Two Thousand. Now this is Dumbledore in his true essence.”

The moment the two men laid eyes on the Headmaster, they gasped in obvious horror.

“Oh God!” Lucious breathed as he dug through his pockets frantically. He threw a fistful of gold at the doctor, screaming ,

“Turn it on! Turn it on!”

The doctor flicked on the decadent light switch with relief showing on his rugged features. Draco noticed the soft swish of a cloak and serene mumbling coming from the far corner of the room. There knelt Minerva McGonagall, dressed in full tartan garb. She smiled gently at them without opening her eyes.

“I know you have acknowledged my presence. Young men, please keep your voices down and do not interrupt my humble prayers.”

With that she blew them a kiss and backed into the darkness. Lucius turned to Draco in one sweeping motion.

“Did you just have the same morphine hallucination I did?”

Draco shrugged nonchalantly. Suddenly, everyone’s attention - except for Dumbledore’s- was drawn the the sound of passionate footsteps pounding their way towards them. Just then, a long, slender body threw itself against the doorway dramatically. It was none other that the wondrous Harry James Potter, tears streaming from the corners from his emerald green eyes, and flashbulbs exploding behind him. In one graceful, dancer’s leap, he landed at Dumbledore’s bedside and took his hand.

“A- am I too late?”

More tears cascaded onto his boyish face. The room fell silent. And Harry sang.

“Did you ever know that your my heeerrro!”

It was quiet at first, but then rose in a perfect crescendo.

“You are the wind, beneath my-ey-eye-y wings!”

The doctor cleared his throat professionally and the reporters tsked him for interrupting Harry’s solo. Draco took his fingers out of his ears cautiously. Suddenly, something inside of Harry awakened.

“S-Sirius?” His eyes leaked new tears, tears of joy. He dropped Albus’ hand like a bag of dead weasels.

“I thought you were dead.” More flashbulbs. Sirius stroked his goatee.

“Didn’t you hear? I came back from the dead, cleared my name, earned a medical degree, all in the span of one week. And look how many animals I can change into.”

Sirius then transformed into a sea cow, a wombat, a sloth, and a three-legged, technicolored kitten in rapid succession. Cheerful applause filled the room as Sirius transformed back into his dapper self. Harry managed to salvage the attention of everyone by sighing loudly in Dumbledore’s face.

“Oh professor D, I will remain here at your bedside... right after my Quidditch game... and the ensuing romance.”

With that he mounted his newly waxed firebolt and flew out the window, reporters oooing and awwing in his wake.

“Damn him,” Draco cursed. “Damn that waxy sonuva witch!”

* * *
The shabby little sign, with the words The Burrow painted hastily upon it was now overshadowed by a larger more formal sign donated by the St. Ottery of Catchpole Historical society. You see, according to town records, ‘The Burrow’ as it is so fondly referred to as, is the oldest house in the district and therefore has earned the grand title of ‘Manor’. And so the formidable sign proclaimed this derelict home as Weasley Manor.
Sitting at the cheap pine table in the modest kitchen of “the manor” was the aging beauty that was Molly Weasley. In her motherly lap was her latest knitting project, or, rather, practice for the knitting competition she was participating in that afternoon.

“I plan to make a prize-winning sweater,” she thought to herself aloud. “Not for Ron, nor Bill, nor Percy, nor Charlie, nor Fred, nor George, not even for Ginny dearest, but for.. Harry.”

Bill Weasley sauntered into the kitchen wearing a lumpy green sweater over top his faded, denim overalls. His lush copper mullet made grease marks where it fell on the green wool. All Mrs. Weasley’s constant nagging and steady stream of badgering had finally made Bill relinquish the ponytail, but had also driven him to the ways of the River People. Before old Molly knew it, Bill was cooking up raccoons and swapping his fang earring for a large, dangling dream catcher with white peace beads. He remained the only Weasley without shockingly good looks.

“What’s your game face, maw?” Bill said excitedly, banging his fist on the rickety table for effect.

Mrs. Weasley crinkled her face into a baseball glove sized wad, baring her wicked wango teeth and snarling, spittle flying in all directions.

“You call that knittin’, bitch?!?” she cried in a vicious war rattle. “I’ve shit better cross-stitch than that!!”

With a final tongue waggle, Mrs. Weasley’s kind, newly- thinned face returned to it’s true nature.

“What do you fancy for supper, dear?”

“Naw, I’m right full, I am,” Bill assured her in his hand-picked mix of Southern and Cajun accents. “I had me a big fat road roast right off the tire tracks.”

“Have you seen the paper today, dear?” Mrs. Weasley asked him. “I don’t know if the advertisement for the room we’re renting out has appeared yet.”

“Naw,” Bill drawled, plucking at the strings of his banjo. “Red, the Ragin’ Cajun’ says readin’s for pussies. Besides, I plum forgot how.”

“Well,” she said softly. “I do hope someone responds. Your father is in a bad state.”

“How so, maw?”

“Oh, the usual,” Molly sighed femininely. “Now that Percy has become Arthur’s boss, we have to survive on a reduced, reduced salary that comes but once every two months. Then there’s Ginny. Running off with that wild centaur. Your father and I don’t agree at all.”

Bill didn’t reply but strummed exuberantly, pursing his lips and tapping his bare foot on the floor.

“Don’ worry maw,” he said with a vacant, but sincere smile. “I’ll play a tune for yous.”

“Son of a gun,
Gonna have big fun
On the bayouuuuu!
Whooo!”

* * *
Not too far from the Weasley Manor- in fact, right beside it- was a vast, uncharted ocean. Standing on the cliff overlooking the roaring waves and jewel colored sunset were the dream couple, Ginny Weasley and Firenze Le Centaur. On closer inspection, but not too close, their beauty is too great to look at directly, (like the sun. Or venus in the third Trisector) the two radiated an aura of deep love.

Sitting atop Ginny’s long, flowing mane of crimson hair, was a stylishly jaunted black beret. She had bought matching ones for herself and her “beau man” in her “sejour” in France.

Ginny had blossomed into a beautiful young, fifteen year-old. Her body was lithe and full of energy that she kept hidden by her new snooty French exterior. Her most recent splurge was a full Chanel outfit, purchased with half the Weasley family bank account, but it looked stunning on her anyway. Her dainty, ivory hands were clasped onto those of a brutally handsome centaur.

Firenze was a much lusted after creature. From his white-blond human head and his solid, bronze torso, sought after by numerous human females, to his rippling, muscular, palomino, hide. He was by far, the most exotically perverse being around. They were in the process of staring into each others’ eyes, as only people in love can stand to do, when Firenze’s deep, resounding voice brought delight to her ears.

“Oh darling, I could hold you like this for the rest of your limited human years. I love you.”

Ginny smiled her dazzlingly white smile and batted her eyelashes.

“And I you, my filet mignon.”

Firenze stared deeper into her eyes. “Oh mon delicatessant, will you do me the honor of becoming, Ginny Le Centaur?” Ginny’s full, pouting lips parted lightly in surprise. “Yes, yes, YES!” As Firenze pulled her into a tight embrace, the mighty waves crashed against the side of the cliff as if in song.

“I see a pretty twinkle in your multifaceted, prismatic colored eyes. Your Golden hair speaks to me in love.”

But even as they enjoyed this passionate moment, they knew in the depths of their souls that evil forces were at work, trying to tear them apart. And even though they could not be together, they must be... in love.

“Don’t leave me in the dark side of your salty tears,
Our love will last forever, unless we die.”

* * *
Back in the homely kitchen of “The Manor,” Molly Weasley was gathering her knitting supplies with bright enthusiasm.

“I’m going to win this one Bill, I know I will.”

Bill leaned back in his chair and loosened his rope belt.

“That’s fo’ sho,’ Maw. You give’em what for!” He the yawned and got up from his seat.

“Well, I think I’m gonna hit the hay, and by the hay I mean the hay on the floor in the tool shed.”

But before anyone could vacate the kitchen, Ronald slid smoothly down the stair railing and made a perfect dismount. He then slowly ran a youthful hand through his thick, luxurious hair in obvious satisfaction. His blue sweater matched his clear, blue eyes and sowed off his fit body.

“My, you look lovely tonight, dear,” Molly exclaimed joyfully. Ron lifted his sculpted chin another half inch.

“Hhm,” he murmured.

Ronald was a man of few words, and communicated mostly in monosyllables and deep, soulful looks. When Ron uttered a word, his expression spoke a thousand. Molly stood in awe of his soulfulness.

“Where are you off to, dear?”

“Yeah,” Bill added. “Didja’ get yous a woman?”

Ronald looked far out into the distance, picked up his broom and fastened his cloak- head boy and achievement badges flashing- before replying,

“Yes.”

As he exited through a hole in the roof, Molly waved her arms and her eyes watered.

“Goodbye, my handsome darling!”

And with that, she hurried off to her fifth annual Knit-Off.