The Curse of Loki Trickster

CHAPTER ONE: Death of a Salesman

The Seventh Year students were all excused from classes after their NEWT examinations were finished. It was intended that the last few weeks they spent at Hogwarts be used for career advisement, job interviews, and such productive pursuits as that.

Most students did spend their time planning their next steps after they left school. After the defeat of Lord Voldemort the year before, the Seventh Year Slytherins found themselves with nothing to do but relax and spend their parents' fortunes while admiring their unmarked forearms.

Although they would never so much as admit it to themselves, they were grateful to the Boy Who Lived for disposing of the insane Dark Lord. This is why they accepted him into their fold as Draco's boyfriend. They still didn't like him very much, but they did put up with his Gryffindor attitudes. Their gratitude to Harry Potter, however, did not extend to any friends of Potter, so it was with light hearts and eager minds that they retired to the dungeons after their eventful Friday morning breakfast to make plans for the nine deaths of Ron Weasley.

To make things fair, they decided to draw lots to determine the order in which they would each take their turn at murder. The only rules they had all agreed to follow were: each death must occur in the nastiest, messiest, most excruciating and insulting way possible; Loki would be the final judge of whose method of execution fulfilled these requirements in the most imaginative way; and they would all help plan and carry out each death.

Loki had agreed to judge the nine deaths for adherence to the established guidelines, and at the end of their rencontre, pronounce as the winner the one who, in his opinion, best fulfilled the tenets of the contest.

"I now call this first meeting of the Weasley Must Die Society to order," Draco said when the nine Slytherins were settled in their dorm room. It was an established tradition among the upper year Slytherins that the each of the Sixth and Seventh Year classes shared a large co-ed dorm room.

"First order of business," he continued, "is to determine who will get the pleasure of being the first to kill the Weasel. Red stone, of course, murders first." Draco conjured a verdant green velvet bag and nine smooth, flat stones - eight black and one blood red. He poured the stones from his hand into the bag and offered it to each of his year mates in turn. In keeping with the spirit of the newly created WMD Society, they all kept their hands closed after drawing their stone until all nine had reached into the bag.

"Gentlemen, and ladies, on the count of three, show your stones," Millie rasped. Tracey and Daphne giggled.

The glistening red stone lay in the middle of Gregory Goyle's meaty palm.

"Looks like you'll be first, after all," Pansy said, sulking. "It was my idea to go to Hogsmeade tomorrow and kill him in the first place! Why should you go first?"

Tim grabbed Pansy by her hair and pulled her backwards across his lap. She yelled and clawed at him. "Pansy, darling," he chided, flipping her onto the floor and pinning her flailing arms with his knees, "we drew stones, fair and square. Stop acting like a little bitch and help us plan. You'll get your turn soon enough." He grinned wickedly. "Now, of course, if you can't say something helpful, I know what you can do to occupy your mouth."

Across the room, Draco raised his eyebrows and thought that, at that moment, Tim reaching into his robes was the bravest man he knew. What he had just suggested to Pansy was, in Draco's opinion, the equivalent of sticking a hand into a piranha tank. Worse, for a hand was easier to replace.

"Yes, well, surely it is not remiss to presuppose that this septet of crafty Slytherins shall devise the most brilliant and ingenious scheme," Blaise said, rubbing one hand high on the inside of Crabbe's massive thigh.

Draco wondered if he understood correctly that Blaise felt they were capable of making a plan without the now occupied Tim and Pansy, and how long it would be before there were only five devising the 'brilliant and ingenious scheme'; and why the hell Harry had not found his way to the dungeon by now. He harrumphed in dissatisfaction at his current singular status and turned his attention to the murmurs of his busily plotting friends.

"I don't think--" Goyle was saying, but Daphne placed one delicate hand on his gorilla-like forearm.

"Gregory, honey, hush," she said. "We'll work it all out for you. Don't worry yourself about it."

"So Weasley sells melons in Hogsmeade on the weekends," Millie said musingly. "We know exactly where he'll be tomorrow. Now the question is, how can Goyle best fulfill the terms and conditions of the game?"

"Selling melons," Tracey echoed, her cute little nose wrinkled as though something smelled. "How very. . .common."

"Well, Weasley is common, buttercup," Millie soothed. "We all agree on that."

"Anyone have an idea?" Draco asked. "We need to get this settled."

"Right," Millie said, sneering. "Potter would cry like a little girl if he heard us planning to kill the Weasel.

"Which is precisely why we should stop wasting time, and start making pertinent suggestions," Draco drawled.

"Greg could drown him in the lake," Tim said between groans of delight.

"Feed the Weasel to the Giant Squid," Crabbe added, perking up at the mention of eating.

"You're always thinking of food, fathead," Draco sneered.

"My head's not fat!" Crabbe said in an injured tone.

Draco snorted derisively.

"Don't listen to him, Vinnie," Blaise said, glaring at Draco. "His sperm is just backed up so far it's spilling out his mouth. Potter is so tight-laced; I'd be surprised if he can even get tongue with a kiss. Come here. I require sexual gratification."

"Does anyone else have anything derogatory to say about my love life?" Draco demanded, looking around.

"Tim and I would be more than happy to train him to satisfy you, Draco," Pansy purred, wiping her mouth as Tim helped her sit up.

"No, thank you," Draco replied sourly. "I'm perfectly capable of training him himself. All of you stop changing the subject. We are discussing the death of Weasley, in case you've all forgotten. In Hogsmeade tomorrow, not in the lake, Tim," he added with a sneer.

"I was distracted," Tim shrugged, unconcerned.

"Now, does anyone have anything useful to contribute to our discussion?" Draco asked with a pout.

"OH GOD! That is the appropriate spot, indeed! Stimulate me further, Vinnie!"

Draco rolled his eyes, frustrated in more ways than one. "Anyone else?" he inquired dryly.

"We could lure him into the pub, and . . . Never mind," Daphne said, a calculating look crossing her pretty face. "Maybe that would be better at a later time."

"Run him through with a sword," Tracey suggested indifferently. "He's not worth this much thought."

"There's not much thought going on, if you ask me," Draco sulked. "It has to be appropriate to the situation, and humiliating, even if he won't remember it come midnight. Hurry up you tossers, before Harry gets here."

"Decapitate him with a sword," Tracey said brightly.

"Almost decapitate him with a sword," Millie added, "then he can't join the Headless Hunt and he can become Gryffindor's new ghost."

"Ooh, I like the way you think, Daddy," Tracey giggled.

Draco sighed. His head was beginning to pound. Would he have to plan all nine deaths himself?

"I know just the thing, boss," Goyle said. "I'll take care of it, no problem.

"What do you intend to do?" Draco asked suspiciously.

Goyle grinned. "Don't worry about a thing, boss, the situation is under control."

Draco opened his mouth to demand an explanation from Goyle. At that moment, Harry poked his head into the room.

"Your. . .friend is here," Millie pointed out, unnecessarily.

"Thank you, Millie," Draco said through gritted teeth. He pasted on a big smile, and wrapped his arms around his boyfriend.

"They make me nervous," Harry whispered in his ear as he nibbled on Draco's earlobe.

That made no sense. It wasn't as though the Slytherins were going to kill him, or anything. Draco chose not to answer that. Instead he asked, "What took you so long, baby? I missed you."

"Well, Ron wanted to --" Harry broke off what he was saying when Pansy started coughing. "Is she okay?" he asked, alarmed.

"She's fine, Potter," Tim said, pounding her hard on the back to help mask her laughter. "Something went down the wrong way, I'd say."

Draco stuck his lower lip out for Harry's benefit. "I have a headache," he whined. "Fix it for me?"

Harry nodded. "You know I'll do anything for you," he said. Draco shot a gloating look at his roommates as he led Harry toward his bed.

~*~

"Melons! Get your fresh melons right here! I've got the largest, ripest melons you've ever seen! Not at all hard, these melons are soft and plump! Melons! Get your melons here!"

Ron Weasley hated hawking melons, that must be clearly understood. It was one of the most humiliating jobs he could have imagined, but he was poor and needed money. He needed money because he was desperately in love. And love, as we all know, means that you need to buy expensive things.

So, Ron was shilling melons in Hogsmeade every weekend. He didn't make much money, but he had calculated that by the end of the year, he would have enough to put a down payment on a diamond engagement ring for his sweet Hermione.

As he took a deep breath to make his pitch again, he heard an outraged shout from the end of the lane. "Where is he?" the voice said. "Where is that worthless Weasley? I'll hurt him. I'll hurt him a lot. No! I'll kill him! A lot!"

Kill him? Kill

me?!? This is bad, this is so very bad, Ron thought hysterically. But he hadn't done anything! Especially not anything that someone would want to kill him for. He hadn't even earned a sound hexing lately.

"Weasley!" roared the voice again. Ron peered up the lane and saw- Oh God, it was Goyle, one of Malfoy's tame gorillas. His face was scarlet red, and his massive chest was heaving in rage.

I'm so dead,

he thought. He looked around frantically. If he ran, Goyle would see him, no doubt about it. He had to hide, but where?

"I saw you looking at her!" Goyle hollered.

Looking at who?

Ron thought, desperately afraid of impending doom. His gaze fell upon the cart of melons in front of him.

"Daphne is my girlfriend!" Goyle bellowed. "I'll eat your eyes from your skull for that!"

Goyle has a girlfriend?

Ron asked himself, wondering just what the hell was going on. Who is Daphne? If I'm going to die over a girl, I think I ought to at least know her. But there was no way he could explain to an enraged Goyle that he had no idea who Daphne was. Reasoning with one of the Stupid Twins was like reasoning with a brick wall -- but the wall might listen.

Ron pointed his wand at the melons. "Melons Leviosa!" The pile of melons rose shakily into the air, revealing the cart beneath. He peeked around its corner, saw that Goyle was stalking towards his cart, and dove beneath the pile. The spell ended, and several melons bounced painfully off his head, but he dared not cry out.

"Weasley!" Goyle shouted. "I saw you! I did, with my own eyes! Come out and face me like a man!"

Ron was quaking in fear; sure that he would wet himself. He was convinced that Goyle would hear his teeth chattering together, if he ever stopped bellowing long enough to take a breath.

"Any luck finding him?" That was Malfoy's drawling voice; he'd know it anywhere, that evil git.

"No," Goyle said, breathing heavy. "This is his melon cart, but he's not here."

"I wonder why he ran off," Bulstrode's gruff voice asked. "He's too poor to replace his stock if they go bad."

"Let's smash them all!" Goyle was always ready to break something -- or someone.

"Excellent idea," Nott said. His real name was Theodore, but everyone called him Tim. No one knew why, least of all Ron.

"You're no judge of an excellent idea," Parkinson sneered, and there was a wet sound, like a melon being broken over someone's head.

"Hey, those things are fresh. Nice and soft," Nott said in surprise.

"Soft?" Parkinson shrieked. "I'll show you nice and soft, you wanker!"

There was another wet splat of sound accompanied by a growl of rage from Nott. Ron groaned. They were going to destroy his entire profit margin. He winced as the cart he was hiding in rocked alarmingly. "I'm all sticky now, Theodore, thanks to you," Parkinson said very close to Ron's ear. "Lick me clean, bastard. Ow! You fucker, don't bite!"

"Don't call me Theodore, you little slut," Tim spat.

Standing behind Draco in his discorporate state, Loki could only imagine rubbing his hands together in anticipation of the bloodshed to come. He felt almost fond of these vicious little tykes.

"Am I to understand that those which yield slightly to gentle tactile pressure are superior specimens for consumption?" Ron couldn't understand a word of what the girl said, so it must have been Zabini. At least he thought Zabini was a girl. It was hard to tell. Sometimes she seemed more like a he. But Ron had more important things on his mind right now. Like avoiding certain death at the ham fists of Gregory Goyle.

"Umm.. Sure, Blaise," Crabbe said, smacking his lips. "They taste best, too."

"Your ability to reason out the most important facet of any dilemma is one of the things that arouses my lust for you, Vinnie," Zabini said coquettishly.

"Stop thinking about food, fathead!" Malfoy snapped.

"My head's not fat!"

"We need to find him before midnight, otherwise the contest is over," Malfoy reminded his fellow Slytherins, unaware that Ron was eavesdropping.

Midnight?

he wondered frenetically. What is so important about midnight?

"He can't have gone far; we'll find him," said a sultry voice. Ron recognized it as belonging to Tracey Davis, Bulstrode's sexpot girlfriend. What a looker like that saw in someone like Bulstrode, Ron couldn't begin to say; unless it was that she was more of a man than most of the males at Hogwarts.

Ron had no time to come up with an answer as he felt a searing pain in his scalp, and daylight found him again. Goyle had grabbed onto his hair and dragged him out of the pile.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" Malfoy said nastily.

Goyle gripped Ron's head in his big hand and squeezed. Ron wanted to shriek, but the pain was overwhelming. Goyle kept squeezing, and the light faded as his skull imploded. Blood and brains went everywhere. Goyle grinned. "Hey, I found a good one!"

"Oh, Gregory, you're so strong," Daphne said in a breathy voice. "You're my hero."

Fifty feet away, a Ravenclaw girl shrieked. "Oh my God! They killed Ron!"

Standing next to her was a Gryffindor girl. "Who cares?"

"This was you having the situation under control?" Draco demanded of Goyle. "Did you even think about it first?"

"I pretended his head was a melon," Goyle said, puzzled at Draco's unfavorable reaction. "I thought it would be pretty embarrassing to have your head mistaken for a melon. And it was messy enough."

"Very messy," Crabbe agreed. "You've got Weasel brains on your robes, Greg."

Still discorporate, Loki laughed maniacally at the gullibility of his partners in this game. Daphne shivered and looked around for the source of the breeze she'd just felt blow across the back of her slender neck.

Draco ground his teeth in frustration. Good goons were so hard to find these days. "Crabbe, Goyle," he snapped, "Take Weasley's body back to the school through the tunnel from the Shrieking Shack and leave it in the abandoned classroom, like we discussed. I have to meet Harry for a butterbeer in the Three Broomsticks.

"OK, boss," Goyle said. "Order me a large milk, sweetie?" he said to Daphne. She nodded and kissed him, careful to avoid the blood and brain matter decorating the front of his robes.

"What tunnel from the Shrieking Shack?" Blaise asked curiously, as they walked toward the pub.

"Harry has a map that shows all sorts of interesting things about Hogwarts, including secret passages in and out. He made me swear on my mother's grave to never tell another soul, so don't tell anyone non-Slytherin," Draco answered.

~*~

Ron awoke with a shriek of half-remembered pain. He clutched at his head and wept, rolling on the cold stone floor like a hurt child.

"Do stop that, Weasley," Malfoy said scathingly. "It was over quickly enough. The rest may not be so painless."

"What- what happened?" Ron asked, his voice trembling. "Malfoy! Why are you here? What's going on?"

"Sorry, Weasley. As much as I would enjoy describing your fate in exquisite detail," it might have been Ron's imagination, but Malfoy actually did sound regretful, "you wouldn't remember..." Malfoy drawled in his excessively bored tone of voice. He pointed his wand at the prone boy on the floor. "Obliviate!"

Weasley's eyes went blank. Draco knew that there would be a few minutes before he came back to himself and pointed his wand again. "Obdormiscere!" Weasley's head bounced off the stones as he went into a deep sleep.

Draco tucked a black stone into the sleeping Gryffindor's trouser pocket and turned away with a satisfied smirk. One down, eight to go. It had been a very good day for him and his friends, and tomorrow promised to be just as much fun, if not more. He sauntered off to the seventh year's dorm room, where Harry was waiting for him. By Draco's calculations, they had more than enough time for a satisfying session of sex and a good night's sleep, then it would be time to plan the next death of Weasley.

End Chapter One