Chapter 4 A Day with the Potter Bunch -- PART A
Each day, Draco, Vince and Greg were stopped by random teachers and students in the hallway. Many asked boring, ridiculous questions (e.g. Rita Skeeter the Beetle: how do you feel about leaving your beloved Miss Granger behind to go to a new school?), some kept reminding them that they would get out of Hogwarts soon, and others simply pointed and jeered at them. Soon, a nickname was devised for them: the Three Muggleteers.
Señor Snape, Draco’s Head of House, had banned the name-calling in his class, but of course it wasn’t to be stopped. Besides, the three of them weren’t even in his class. They were spending every single day in the muggle studies class, where the teacher rambled on about Origami, which, according to Draco’s quick-quotes quill, was a form of East African interpretive dance performed by men who are courting banana-wearing women. They also had extra quizzes every day about muggles. Draco was appalled to open up his first quiz and find out that he knew almost none of the answers.
“How do muggles travel in the air?” he complained to Vince as he saw the big red gleaming F (Professor Royal, their tutor, used the American muggle grading standard) scribbled on his paper. “How was anyone supposed to know that they rode a creepy creature called Bigbird?”
“Actually, they didn’t,” Greg said. “Muggles ride in complex yet highly functional three-dimensional structures referred to as airplanes, or aeroplanes.”
“I have GOT to get rid of that quick-quotes quill and start taking notes on my own,” Draco said disbelievingly.
“All right, quiet down, you three,” Professor Royal said, looking very irritated. She was a tall, thin woman with the same thin light red hair and even thinner lips. She hardly ever smiled, and like McGonagall, she gave massive homework and more essays than they had ever done in their five years at Hogwarts (not that they had ever done much).
“Draco,” she said, reminding them that muggle teachers in America always addressed students by their first names. “Tell me who invented paper and the printing press.”
“Uh…” Draco’s brain went blank. “Pikachu?”
“Close, but not close at all,” Professor Royal said. “The ancient Chinese developed mentioned items far earlier than Pikachu, an animated cartoon designed by Japanese cartoonists, had even appeared on television, which is an electronic device that muggles have developed to view sounds and images.”
Vince raised his hand. “Professor…”
“Mrs. Royal,” she corrected.
“Mrs. Royal…how do you know all that?”
“I paid attention in muggle studies, Vincent,” she said irritably, sounding much like Hermione Granger (to us, of course; Draco, Vince and Greg don’t hang out with her that much, remember?). “Now, Gregory, what is a lawn mower?”
“Er…”
Professor Royal sighed. “I give up! Now, you three, listen carefully. You know Harry Potter and Hermione Granger?”
“They are brands of baking soda, sir!” Vince suddenly yelled, awaking from a long stupor.
“If only you had put that down for number three on your test, Vincent,” Professor Royal said, sighing deeply again. “Now…do you or don’t you?”
“Is that a trick question?” Greg asked.
“Long-legged tropical birds, I reckon.” Said Draco.
“They are muggle-borns,” Professor Royal went on. “So they know a lot about muggle life. Take these worksheets to them…” she handed them some papers. “And ask them what to fill in for each question.”
“No way!” Draco exploded. “We’re not asking those dirty little mudblood-lovers for anything!”
“Draco!” Professor Royal snapped, her eyes narrowing dangerous behind her small round spectacles. “That’s a detention! No, rather, I just thought of a better punishment! As a result of your rudeness to both myself and the muggle-borns of this school, the three of you will be spending the entire day tomorrow with Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, and Ms. Granger!”
“WHAT?”
“That’s right, Vincent,” Professor Royal said angrily. “When you wake up tomorrow morning, the three of you will go over to Gryffindor tower and wait for the said students to come out. You will spend the entire day with them and do whatever they tell you to do.”
“But that’s not fair!” Draco protested.
“I…don’t…care!” Professor Royal sank into a chair, panting heavily. “GO ON! I’ll see you…the day after tomorrow…and hopefully…you’ll be…smarter.”
***
“Hello,” Draco said monotonously to Harry, Ron and Hermione (Professor Royal had put spells in their brains so they had to mentally refer to the Gryffindors by their first names! Grrr!) as they came out of the Gryffindor portrait hole. (A/N: parenthesis indicates thoughts) (man, that fat lady is hot!)
“Hello,” Harry replied stiffly. (man, that fat lady is HOT!)
Fat Lady: (*blushes* I didn’t know I was so rad…)
Hermione: (why do those guys keep staring at the fat lady?)
Ron: (why is Hermione staring at these guys?)
Harry: (why is Hermione staring at us?)
Hermione: (why is Harry staring at me?)
Ron: (why are Harry and Hermione staring at each other?)
Hermione: (why are Harry and I staring at each other?)
Harry: (why am I staring at Hermione?)
Hermione: (why am I staring at Harry?)
Harry: (why is Hermione staring at me?)
Vince: (I’m hungry.)
Greg: (the effects of too much critical thinking…*shakes head*)
Glad that Vince had thought that stupid yet helpful thought at that particular moment (how did they read each other’s minds, anyway?), the six of them walked silently to the Great Hall. There was a table of six provided especially for them in the middle of the Great Hall, with polished silverware, embroidered napkins, golden goblets enameled with rubies, sapphires, emeralds and filled to the top with rich, soothing quality grape wine. A golden lamp encrusted with thousands of glittering white diamonds hung above the smooth, unscratched and probably very expensive mahogany table and its matching mahogany chairs (comes complete with delicately-designed and sewn soft cushions). Each of their names were written on gold plaques next to the golden plates. They went in the following order: Draco, Harry, Vincent, Ron, Greg, and Hermione. Gryffindor, Slytherin, Gryffindor, Slytherin, Gryffindor, Slytherin. All of them groaned silently when they saw the arrangements.
Breakfast began as usual (although it was not so usual this time). In the snap of a finger, mountains of varieties of food had appeared on the plates. They dug in, ignoring each other and thinking the following things:
Draco: I wonder if the food at the muggle school will be this good.
Harry: I hope at the muggle school they won’t feed those three creeps.
Hermione: I should get to the library and do a little research on why the fat lady is so attractive to sixth year boys. Maybe if I could find enough information, I could write a whole paper on it! Who knows, next thing, I could appear on television, recognize my lifelong dream and become the next Martha Stewart! Mwahahaha…
Vince: damn, this piece of pork’s stuck to my teeth.
Greg: there’s something wrong with this new brain I’ve got…I keep wanting more bananas.
Draco: Whoa, is Greg addicted to bananas or something?
Ron: I wonder who’s up for a burping contest?
When they finished breakfast (and Greg had slipped several bananas into his pockets), the six of them trotted silently out of the Great Hall and stopped in the entrance. “Well?” Draco asked.
“Well what?” shrugged Harry.
“We’re supposed to follow you around all day,” Draco said grumpily. “Where do you usually go after breakfast?”
“Well…since today is Saturday, I would go to the library,” Hermione said.
“You go to the library?” Draco pulled a face. “No, I’m not going. I went last year already.”
“Well, Professor Royal told you three to follow us, so we’re going to the library!” Hermione snapped, adjusting her heavy bag in her arms.
The five boys trailed after Hermione, who looked very angry and ill-tempered about something, with the three Slytherins bringing up the rear. They took a shortcut into a hallway. Draco immediately recognized this place; it was where he and the rest of the Inquisitorial Squad had caught Potter and his D. A. back in fifth year for la Señorita Umbridge.
I need to get better at muggle studies, he thought sullenly as they walked. Or I’ll spend the remainder of my time at Hogwarts following Granger down stupid hallways to get to the stupid library.
It was then that he heard a very tiny, soft gasp from beside him and a sharp pain in his side.
“Look, Draco!” Vince whispered, pointing to the right.
Draco’s mouth fell open. It was The Room.
***
It was known as The Room to the Slytherins; to the ex-Inquisitorial squad members, at least. It was where Potter and his darling little army had held their secret little meetings…they probably had a cauldron bottom thickness-measuring club, thought Draco. And it was where Pansy had found the list of names, taped to the wall of The Room.
I can’t believe it’s really here, thought Draco. He tugged on Greg and Vince’s robes, and seeing that none of the three Gryffindors before them were looking back, they backed into the room and shut the door quietly.
It was a really wondrous room, almost like one taken straight out of a piece of the Gryffindor common room. There were shelves of books, a cozy fireplace with a red-hot fire burning cheerily, and a couple of comfortable couches by the shelves.
“What the…” the three of them heard Harry’s voice in the hallway. Then Ron’s. “Bloody hell! Where’d the three of them go?” and then Hermione’s, calling, “Come out, you three! Come out!”
Draco smiled contently. Playing tricks on the Gryffindors had always proved to be a great entertainment. He strode over to the bookshelves and examined their titles. Muggle Studies: a Guide to the Modern Life of Our Fellow Non-Magic Communities. The Daily Life of a Muggle. The Adventures of Martin Miggs the Mad Muggle. How to master Muggle Studies Class in a short period of time. Muggles and tobacco: why did JK Rowling name them after such a fatal substance? See more explanation inside.
“This is great!” Draco exclaimed. “All this stuff…it’ll help us learn about muggles!”
“We’ll just have to come back here each day and read the books!” Greg said, looking excited and impressed. “I wonder how we’ve never seen this place before last time?”
“Wait,” said Draco, screwing up his eyebrows. “Last time it looked different…there were pincushions…and defense against the dark arts stuff…”
“It is my guess that the room changes according to the occupant’s will,” Greg said, sounding very smartypants-ish again.
“Yeah?” Draco’s eyes gleamed. “I need…” he pondered slowly. “To see how my father is doing in…the slammer.”
“The slammer?” Vince repeated, puzzled.
“Azkaban,” Draco supplied the synonym tonelessly. “I need to see how my father is doing in Azkaban.”
And he instantly spotted a small mirror lying on a bookshelf. Grabbing him, Draco wiped the dusty surface and looked inside. There was his father, Lucius Malfoy, and the rest of his poker-playing friends (known to US as death eaters) and golf buddies in the cells. Draco looked intently at it, straining to hear their voices.
Lucius Malfoy was pacing slowly in a small cell. His long blonde hair, which was usually slick and smooth, was now ruffled and messy (practically a poodle afro). The sky blue robes that he had loved so much were now stained, torn, and dirty. He seemed to be deep in thought, yet his hollow eyes gave no impression of what he was thinking at the moment.
Bellatrix Lestrange was talking animatedly to Antonin Dolohov at a corner. She looked rather spirited and well-fed, and her dark hair had hot pink streaks in it.
“Yes,” she was saying cheerfully. “That new dementor---her name’s Elizabeth. Have you seen her before, Andy? Real nice girl. She is simply wonderful at french-braiding. And she showed me how to dye my hair and put a charm on it so the color would change according to my mood.
“Really?” Andy raised his eyebrows slightly. “Can she do dreadlocks?”
“I assure you, Andy, she can do any kind of hair known to humans,” Bellatrix said sincerely. “You say dreadlocks…she’s on it. Would you like to contact her? I can give you the number of her salon.”
“Her what?” Andy looked quite confused.
“Her beauty salon,” Bellatrix said, looking surprised that Andy had not heard of it. “That one in cell #15? It offers a 40% off special on hair-curling on Wednesday, you know.”
“Yes…fascinating,” said Andy. “Now…what is her number? I am rather fond of the idea of taking a bold step with my hair and experimenting with dreadlocks.”
“1-800-COME-DIE-AT-MY-HORROR-PLACE,” Bellatrix recited in one breath. “Quite an interesting number system, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes…yes,” said Andy, his eyebrows raised.
“SHUT UP!” Lucius suddenly thundered, turning to the pair of them. He looked very angry and was evidently on a roll. “I am trying to THINK, if you don’t mind! I would rather not have my ears filled with tedious nonsense about a dementor-operated beauty salon, thank you very much! That means YOU, Lestrange and Dolohov!”
“Jeez, calm down, Luce,” Bellatrix said easily. “You know, you could take that 600 tons of hair you have and go to Elizabeth’s parlor. You’d look good with a French twist.”
“ENOUGH!” roared Lucius. “As if I would disgrace myself by acquiring a feminine hairstyle! This place is going to the DOGS! WhatEVER happened to the old groovy dance club that was previously in cell #12? I…need…to…feel…the vibe…again,” he moaned, falling to the ground and twisting violently, as if having a seizure.
“There’s a booty-shaking dance club in cell #9 right now,” another death eater said uncertainly. “If you want to go…”
“Booty-shaking is just not the same as the radness of disco,” Lucius sighed, looking crestfallen. “Need… tight…outfit…and…spinning…disco…ball.”
“Well, there’s always Irish dancing lessons in cell #14,” Bellatrix said cheerfully. “Anyone else feel the urge to tap your feet out?”
“Yeah!” “I’m on!” “Definitely!”
Everyone filed out of the cell, chatting excitedly about Irish-dancing. Even Lucius Malfoy, who had looked dejected the moment before, followed them.