Dennis Creevey and the Semi-Legal Movie Theater

"It's been a bit quiet, really." Seamus Finnegan, former Hogwarts student, current designer/carpenter, reclined thoughtfully on his old four-poster, regaling his best friend with details of his new life. "Mum's been crying terribly, o'course. Dad's left." The man grimaced. "Reckons You-Know-Who'll be ringing our doorbell any minute."

"I know it's been the same with me." Dean Thomas stared thoughtfully at a curtain. "'Course, I haven't been telling my mum about anything for years, but she's noticing things. Says I haven't been playing football as often as I used to." The student smiled slightly.

There came an impatient knock at the door.

"Come in, Creevey, I know you can't wait," laughed Dean. The fourth-year walked in, slightly abashed.

"Uh, thank you, Dean. Ah, I see our astutely artistic architect amigo already arrived... Damn, that was corny." Over the last week, Dennis Creevey had attempted to style his voice in a new and, hopefully, impressive way. While his basic instincts had told him that this was a bad idea, the teenager believed that is was a necessity after the events of the previous week.

The day following his conversation with McGonagall, Dennis woke up with a fresh feeling and fantastic fortitude. However, that was the end of the good "Fs." Despite the lack of classes, the young wizard ended up failing at most of his endeavors precisely the way that his good mood fooled him into thinking he wouldn't. He had learned long ago that, due to some yin-yang mish-mash, a good morning led to a bad evening. So it had been on the day of his expulsion from his muggle primary school, upon his return to Hogwarts a month ago, and his search through the Room of Requirement last week. He had hoped that his permission from McGonagall to start work on the theater had signified an end to his ill fortune, but, alas, he had been proven wrong.

At first, Creevey decided to set up a rendezvous with one Theodore Nott, the heir of a famous Death-Eater currently in Azkaban. The boy, now in charge of all monetary matters, had allegedly given up his family's old habits, so Dennis saw some potential for money. As Creevey thought, in order to make money, you first needed to get money. He had additional hope; of course, as he knew that Theodore was prone to making donations to artistic causes (as he was himself a poet). Of course, Creevey was getting films, rather than making them, but the difference, he hoped, was slight.

"Think again, Creevey."

In the dim light of a deserted section of the library, Dennis was sure that his ears had drooped, as if he were an animated puppy deprived of a bone and a house.

"Just, just work with me here, Theo, please, we need your hel-"

"Come back when you have something legitimate, Creevey." The Slytherin lowered a piece of parchment. "And make sure it's more... presentable next time, won't you?"

The heir was obviously enjoying himself, and Dennis, in all honesty, could not blame him. In a rather large file of his mind labeled, "retrospect," the young businessman knew that the paper Nott was currently holding - a contract - was the shoddiest piece of work he had done in months. The trouble was, Hogwarts lacked a legal section - the Slytherins, all lawyers by instinct, had made sure of that. The particularly smooth talkers managed even to placate the stolen (and highly enchanted) books into sitting calmly, drinking their ink tea and not running of to the library at full tilt. Consequently, the poor boy had no way of writing up something that was even halfway decent.

Of course, if our story had concerned another fourth year muggle-born film-lover, it would have concluded with him quitting then and there. But this was Dennis Creevey, and he went insane. That is the only excuse one can think of for writing a letter to Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. What he received though, was a strange response:

Dear Customer,

We appreciate your interest in our product, and would like you to know that we have sent you not only this letter, but also a catalogue of all our finest products and a surprise package.

Have a nice day, the management.

P.S. Nah, just kidding. We don't care about your interest at all. We're actually unavailable right now, as we are working on a top-secret experiment. Let's just say that it involves a Time-Turner and a green suit. Those "leper-cons" won't ever be the same, will they, George? No Fred. However, as we're no strangers to the problems of poverty, we would recommend Seamus Finnegan, #39, Diagon Alley, as he himself doesn't have two Galleons to rub together. Irishman.

Fred und George - Your Old Urchins

Naturally, Hogwarts no longer needed any Skiving Snackboxes, and Dennis ended up sending them to some muggle scientists for a laugh. He believed that after being refused by the Weasley Twins, destructive fun was the only thing that could bring his spirits up. (It may interest the reader to know that, unbeknownst to Dennis, this simple action completely revitalized the medical world, with new "miracle cures" being derived from the candies every day. Unbeknownst to the medical world, Dennis had, rather thoughtfully, kept the healing halves of the sweets for future use.) As for the mystery gift, Creevey just hoped that the little ticking sound coming from inside the large purple package was not the result of an old film cliché.

After a thoroughly relaxing session of using his imagination to figure out what kind of havoc the Snackboxes were causing, Creevey decided to take the twins' hint and owl Seamus. After all, he figured, he may as well get the rejection letter sooner rather than later and perhaps start anew. However, he could not decide on a format. Formal inquiry? Completely beyond him to write. Undignified begging? Too much of a familiar situation. Finally, Colin suggested an alternate route.

"Just send him a casual letter. Either he says yes, or we'll just have to tell him that I kept a photo diary of his exploits with Parvati Patil and that his mum's address is in the Hogwarts directory."

"Wow," Dennis paused. He had been pacing the room for half an hour now, and the rug was telepathically begging him to kill it. "That's actually a great idea. Thanks, Col."

"No problem," responded the photographer. "That's how I get the editor of Witch Weekly to feature my work."

"Wait!" Dennis skidded to a halt, and the rug screeched - both from the magical friction and the pain. "You've been featured in Witch Weekly? How come you never told me?"

Because I've sworn on penalty of highly incriminating article not to reveal that a major Wizarding magazine is getting its material from an underage wizard. That would discredit the entire business."

"But doesn't that mean that you're blackmailing each other?"

"Oh, that's just the first layer. The entire business world runs this way. I've taken to practicing 'Crucio' on the house-elves just in case."

"So that's why my plate always has what looks like little bits of toilet paper in it? And here I thought it had something to do with Dumbledore's preferences."

"Don't be thick; everybody knows that Dumbledore only liked raspberry jam."

"Right, so, why haven't you been - you know - sharing the profits with me or anything?" Dennis suddenly felt his cheeks growing hot and his voice going cold.

"You kidding me? After those pictures I took of Umbridge back in '95? I'm still paying off those Ministry assassins. Hell, I think we might even be friends now - they've started inviting me to parties."

"Oh."

Back in the present, Dennis considered that last experience. Right now, he was glad that he'd done something different - he went to Dean and asked him to owl Seamus for him. In the meantime, he suggested that the artist ask Colin about the magazine business. The day after Dean (suddenly far more chipper than he had been since last June) sent the owl, an answer came. Of course, the poor bird had to survive multiple screenings and super-screenings from Hogwarts' new security system (Filch in a pair of black gloves), but it delivered the letter, and Seamus decided to overlook the damaged owl and not to sue the school for the rest of its money. When the fourth-year read the reply, he heaved a sigh of relief. It was about this time when he decided to change his speaking style. This last memory jolted him like a bludger to the face.

"Relax, kid," laughed Seamus. The wizard, back in what had been his second home for six years, felt as if he had been sorted into Gryffindor all over again. And for the first time in a long time, Dennis did as he was told.