[a/n]: Sorry for too many author notes last time (cause for rejection). The thing is, my grammar beta did not understand a few of the jokes and grammatically corrected them, that's why I felt I needed to include them for the mods. Anyways, THIS IS THE ONLY [a/n] IN THE FIC. THERE ARE NO [a/n]'s IN THE MIDDLE
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It was a usual sight nowadays to find unusual acts of wizardry in Muggle habitats close to magical ones. During the Dark Days, wizards cared less about mundane issues such as the Statute of Secrecy and more about covering your head and scurrying in case You-Know-Who turned up. But because now was a festive season - the Bill Weasley wedding was extensively gossiped about owing to the fact that he was a canon character - there was a more pre-Yule Ball kind of environment within the magical community far and wide.
The Burrow Express dumped our serpentine-Satan and his henchman (bewigged, perspiring and strapped at the former's back) at the Ottery St. Catchpole village, which was essentially a fearful and superstitious one, owing to the fact that Hangleton immigrants had warned them against large, unconventional dwellings and their unusual, forgetful inhabitants.
The Dark Lord walked with difficulty owing to the load he was carrying. His wand hand was free but the other, bonded to his servant, was stuck in his overcoat. He panted after finally reaching the Burrow and halted.
"OPEN THE DOOR!" Voldemort yelled, pounding on the modest frame of oak, "We've come for the - puff - wedding! Potter…huff…kill…puff…Firewhiskey …OPEN!"
No one answered. Voldemort wiped the smog that the un-seasonal mist had pressed on the window and peered in. The house was desolate. Instead, there was a note attached to the door.
Dearest Guest,
Excited as you are about the marriage, you should be commonsensical enough to assimilate that Christian weddings are held in Churches.
The venue of the wedding is St. Windell's church in Buddleigh Babberton.
So why, in the name of Merlin, are you still reading this? Get a move on.
Regards
The Weasleys.
PS: I don't want a wedding gift - Bill Weasley.
PS2: But I defineetly does! - Fleur Delacour.
"Buddleigh Babberton!" Voldemort cried, "That’s four-hundred miles from here! Why did they choose such a location?"
Because it's a canon village, a footnote on the sign read.
"Mmphf!" Wormtail extricated himself with difficulty and cocked his head out. "My Lord, I think we should Apparate to the location this time…"
"Don't instruct me, Wormtail," Voldemort flared. "I think we should Apparate, not you, understand?"
Saying so, he pressed hard and in a second's moment, they materialized in the small countryside of Buddleigh Babberton, whose landscape and houses were essentially nondescript.
"There's the Church," Voldemort pointed out and trudged forward, deciding that Harry-hunting was getting to be more trouble than it was worth.
* * *
The marquee was set with every cubic feet of its interiors loaded with celebration and pomp. The Weasleys had pulled all stops to make and let make merry on this last Golden Day after which they would be involved with the rather procrastinated, but urgent issues of Hogwarts decisions, Order wand-polishing and Dark force extermination.
Now that Arthur Weasley was rich and had eleven people reporting to him in office (including his wife Molly who flooed in occasionally to give domestic updates such as security, the tattle-tale Grandfather clock's status and things like "Bill's grown new canine teeth!" etc.) he had arranged a fabulous lunch party for the guests before the priest took over. The plan was to celebrate in all good spirit in a huge tent next to the church where the guests would be hurried over later during the "I do!" ceremony. There was happy gabbling amidst the spectacular decorations, platters and platters of home-cooked food, fun, games, music and a floating rumour that the Hairy Cousins would be performing in their midst.
Harry was found to be seated in a comfortable chintz armchair in a corner where for some reason, Mrs Weasley would materialise to give him continual motherly hugs. Professor McGonagall would incessantly pass morale-boosting snippets, leaving heavy hints of assuring a premature passing certificate from Hogwarts (if he promised to save the wizarding community) in her wake. Occasionally two cloaked figures (one with a furry hidden hand and the other with a funny wooden leg) would be seen aimlessly ambling across the chair, making it painfully obvious that they were guarding him.
Mr Weasley was pretending to sketch out honeymoon plans with the nervous groom, his son, and laughing artificially while throwing fervent glances in Harry's direction. Tonks was cackling with youngsters, turning her nose one by one into a cup, locket, snake and something-of-Ravenclaw-or-Gryffindor for their entertainment. The rest of the characters, who have no use in this chapter except existing, were roving about randomly, making inconspicuous movements.
Ron and Hermione, on the contrary, were busy stationed at the entrance, making sure that only canon characters were permitted entry.
"Kevin!" cried Hermione, irritated to a gate-crashing young wizard of nine, "What kind of name is that? No alliteration, no Latin roots, no description-of-personality, no canon-"
"Excuse me!" burst his mother, "But if you read the fourth book carefully, Kevin is definitely mentioned!" She showed her a bit of dead slug sticking from her shoe-sole and was permitted entry.
"Horrible business!" Hermione exclaimed after the gleeful mother and son entered, as she added another character name in a lengthy list, "I mean, why allow such dubious characters? Walk-ins should definitely be charged…are you even listening to me?" she enquired suspiciously.
"Huh?" Ron looked around thickly. "No, thank you."
"How was it at the hospital?" asked Hermione, trying to get him to talk to a subject he could relate to.
"Not bad," Ron replied, "except that my bed was close to my Great Aunt Muriel's who's been there for three-hundred and fifty years due to her face getting displaced to the back of her head and a miscalculated dose of the Elixir of Life…"
"Mmm…that's bad." Hermione condoled, not paying attention, "What could be worse?"
"Worse? Worse?" Ron cried, his eyes widening, "The operating healer was absent and Madam Pomfrey had filled in to substitute! It was horrible! She had a good look up my…"
"Someone's trying to enter," Hermione snapped, turning to the doorway.
Too rightly, a huge form appeared at the doorway and Hermione's ordinarily condescending figure was drenched in its shadow.
"Er…excuse me?" Hermione interrupted as Lord Voldemort tried to cross the threshold, "But who are you?"
Voldemort stared at her, his menacing red eyes fixed at her distracting hedge of a hairdo while his flat nose was wrinkling at the overwhelming stench of Mudblood.
"Lord Voldemort!" he replied. "Now let me in, will you."
Hermione, who had only gone as far as pronouncing his name unflinchingly, now fully realised how Harry felt when encountered by him bodily and her hair began to go rigid.
"Mmphf!" reminded Wormtail's constricted voice.
"I mean…" Voldemort reconsidered, wearing an unconvincing smile, "Bob…er…Baldy-sort! Yes that's it, Bob Baldysort!"
"Baldysort!" Ron chuckled, "Well, name says all!"
Voldemort had a strong urge to do something to Ron, which the moderators here would never permit me to mention.
"I'll let you in," said Hermione, in an unnaturally high voice, "despite the fact that you are un-canon. But this is only because your name's interesting and alliterated."
Voldemort heaved a sigh of relief and was about to enter when Harry leaped forward from his armchair in slow motion and skidded in front of the doorway. "NOOOOOOOOOO!" he bawled.
"Hey mate, prat, git, chum! What are you doing?" Ron blurted out.
"Harry!" Hermione began, irritated, "Aren't you supposed to be relax - I mean supervising the subordinate task distribution and management issues?"
Harry ignored her. "This man is no Baldy-Shmaldy but a person who canon or otherwise, should be the last addition to this marriage!"
A silver bead of perspiration conceived itself at Voldemort's temple.
"No Harry, wait…" began Hermione.
"No, you wait!" Harry turned to her ferociously. "This man is none other than my universal tormentor Severus Snape but in a not-so-clever disguise!"
"Actually, if you look at him from this angle-" Ron began shutting an eye and squinting. "-he looks more like R.A.B."
"Whatever be the case, he is definitely not a part of this wedding!"
"Harry wait, listen!" Hermione snubbed, her self-proclaimed logical-reasoning and intellectual smugness almost overpowering the boys in front of her. "He - tuh - can't be - tuh - Voldemort! Because if he - tuh - was, he would - tuh - think of a - tuh - better disguise than - tuh - a handlebar moustache…"
Hermione was gulping breath faster than a Boggart in maternity.
"…anyways, don't you realise how what you decide is always wrong and leads to disastrous results where people instead of appreciating my logically accurate word of caution support your mistake covering gallantry and stroke of luck…tuh tuh tuh tuh tuh?!"
"So what do you suggest?" Harry asked her while in the lengthy explanation, the Dark Lord conveniently slunk into the commotion.
"Well," explained Hermione, piping down, "Voldemort wouldn't want his game to be up so easily. Evil though he may be, he is intelligent, calculative and meticulous ("Mmphf!" said Wormtail). He could have sent one of his look-alike giant henchmen to go first and then make a sinister entry later in a disguise so indiscernible, so ethereal and so climactically-shocking (Ron peed) that it would…um…shock the climax! So, I believe - if I can comprehend his psychology roughly well - he is actually there!" she pointed dramatically to the doorway where a frail and pitiable figure of Arabella Figg was making its way in baby steps.
"One million, seven-hundred and thirty five…Aha!" the old woman exclaimed, panting. "Finally made it! Nice of Molly to inform me five weeks beforeha…Aaargh!" she yelled as two young boys leaped over her and pinned her to the floor.
"So, Voldemort!" Harry cried angrily, his hand at the poor cat-lover's throat, "you thought you could fool me this time?!"
Figg almost choked, screaming things like "Anti-Squib" and "my nephew".
"You thought you could fool me this time?" Harry screamed unoriginally.
"Harry, what are you doing!" a cloaked figure barked, throwing its hood up to reveal the perturbed face of Alastor “me-not-imposter” Moody. "Get back to your chair!"
Moody forced the scar-bearing screamaholic back to his chintz armchair which actually had a cushion with a Shield Cover to help deflect minor jinxes and illegitimate bodily intrusions. He then strapped him tight with a length of rope and stuck a Legilimency sensor on his head.
"…And stay there!" Moody growled in finality. Saying so, Moody tumbled back to the doorway to assist Figg on her feet again.
‘Hey!’ he thought to himself while helping her up, ‘This act isn't relevant to the fic!’ and let go of her hand as she roughly thudded back to the floor and moaned.
* * *
It had been an understatement to say that the Weasleys had pulled all stops for the pre-wedding lunch party as the Hairy Cousins arrived, setting the tent on fire with their music (mostly rip-offs of earlier Weird Sisters numbers). For a moment, even our lovably hated Pythonic Nemesis was forgetting his plan and tapping a foot (or two, or four) with the beats.
Hell broke lose when little Kevin, who some how yet again came in possession of his father's wand, began an uncontrolled spelling spree in his vicinity. Wizards, witches and weirdos shrieked as they tried to escape the wrath of his wooden weapon and wriggled free of his way.
"Adhesio Relapsis!" the boy shrieked, pointing his wand mysteriously and accurately at Voldemort. A silver beam issued from his wand.
The latter felt his hand freeing from his sidekick's and the tension in his forearms relaxed. But the spell came as a shock for Wormtail, whose legs were hitherto asleep and he haphazardly tumbled, impacting on the hard floor. His limbs hopelessly scraped the insides of the moleskin overcoat to prevent himself from depositing in an embarrassing heap, and consequently causing the cloak to tighten its grip on his masters' neck.
"Gack!" choked Voldemort, attracting an undecided amount of audience attention.
But it wasn’t over. In fear of his mistake, Wormtail hastened to face Voldemort's neck by rotating within the robes and leaped around the latter, his limbs wrapping around Voldemort tightly as he made sure that no bit of his body was seen outside the cloak.
"Argh! Wormtail, your foot just hit my - Ladies and Gentlemen." Voldemort stealthily changed tone, simpering, as the staring people around were getting too hard to disregard, "On this happy, happy occasion, atmosphere of joy, merriment…and…er…music, despite my weight, I simply cannot stop myself from joining in. So watch as I…I…traipse across the floor in my own unique s-style of…er…" Wormtail couldn't hang on any more and slipped, his legs now clearly visible under the coat, "The Four-legged Tap-dance !" announced Voldemort, grasping at the first thing he could think of.
"Hear, hear!" cheered Fred and George Weasley from somewhere as people whistled and joined in to clap.
Nose flat, breath objectionable and sidekick strapped safely, Voldemort braced himself to dance. As the guests cleared a way for him on the floor, he began a supposed tap-dance, kicking Wormtail on the shins to begin doing it too. So his minion began, aimlessly tapping while his sweaty and fearful face was concealed behind a thicket of moleskin. Voldemort steered across the floor with some difficulty. He tried to maintain a smile on his face even though his quickstep soon changed to salsa and for an unknown reason caused Figg to rush forward to the stage and indulge in a bit of hip-hop with him.
‘Cruc off, you bag of a Squib!’ Voldemort thought relentlessly, as Figg's mock rapping right in front of him obstructed him from moving forward. "Oh, thank your stars today I'm enjoying myself…or else…" he gritted his teeth.
But Figg, who couldn't tell Legilimency from bonsai gardening, continued to dance, causing Moody to wolf-whistle and clunk a bit of wood on the floor. Diligently, Vodemort waded through and stopped, panting, only when he reached the end of the great tent. The audience, thanks to euphoric amnesty and Firewhiskey affected brain ability, applauded hard when Voldemort finished.
"Phew!" said the Dark Lord to himself, wiping perspiration from his dome of a head and wriggling a bit to oust his servant from his hiding place. Wormtail tumbled out unceremoniously and formed a heap on the floor.
"My Lord, forgive me…I…" he began, while Voldemort checked to see that every guest was engaged in dancing.
"Quiet … huff … let me … puff … will Crucio you later…" he panted, "Quick, hide under the table while I think of a better way to accommodate you!" Wormtail tentatively hid under a dining table nearby while his master hoisted up his right sleeve, ready to perform a spell at him.
"Master … what exactly…?"
"Don't worry!" Voldemort assured him, "Dumbledore thinks I can do only Dark stuff. Well he'll think different soon … Where is he, by the way?"
Wormtail couldn't say so, and hence didn't try.
"Ah, never mind," Voldemort began as Wormtail shut his eyes tight. "Attirio Feminiscine!"
A pink glitter issued from his wand towards his servant. Wormtail's clothes metamorphosed smoothly to a banana-yellow Cinderella costume. The skirt was huge, balloon-like, the straps spangled and an elaborate opal pendant suspended from his hirsute neckline. His immaculate blonde wig merged perfectly with his feminine appearance. Save for his dental overload and grizzly sideburns, he looked like a perfect harebrained lass. When he resurfaced from the table, Voldemort couldn't help but admire his own magical prowess.
"Ah!" he sighed, "I knew that my Halloween special Charms still had it in them!"
This was humiliating for Wormtail, even more that the snubbing he faced from the Death Eaters during the Death-Eaters United Morale-Boosting (D.U.M.B.) sessions that took place in Voldemort’s rebirth graveyard. Feeling a strong urge to hide his face, especially from Remus Lupin, who being a marauder might recognise him, Wormtail tentatively looked at his reflection on a nearby silver plate and gasped.
“No time for last-minute preening, Wormy,” Voldemort said sternly. “Come here and sit still with me.”
Wormtail turned around and was horrified to see Voldemort cosily assembling himself in a two-seater sofa. He couldn’t take any more of all this and intended to escape as fast as possible without being noticed.
“Er…master,” he mumbled, while seating himself next to Voldemort, “do we really need to rush up on things? I mean…”
“These are Dark times, Wormtail,” Voldemort said gravely, “I don’t think anyone should have an issue if urgent things are rushed into doing, because the fear of death and destruction lurks…”
“But sir, you are the one spreading the “ ”
“Silence, Wormtail.”
Wormtail groped around for another excuse, "Aurors!" he said, "Th-there are Ministry Aurors in here..." he pointed frantically at two pot-bellied bearded men, one snoring while the other dipping a dough-newt in coffee. "We could get in tr-"
"Silence, Wormtail."
“Ah, yes…” Voldemort whispered, as his eyes fell upon the image of Harry Potter sitting lazily on a chintz armchair, an antenna sticking out of his head, “There he is…Now we must think, plan and act…carefully.” Hating himself, Wormtail cursed his luck while mustering every bit of Occlumency he could think off, into his useless head.
* * *
“Yesterday, when I was logging into the Crystal Ball to check if its Omniscient Portents had left any Message for me, I was quite Mystified by something seemingly Mundane lying in the room. And because I knew Destiny had preferred it, I walked towards it as if in a Trance and picked it up…”
This wasn’t the first time that afternoon that Professor Sybill “Pathetic-Powers” Trelawney had been talking about her orb-gazing. She had recited five different fraudulent anecdotes to five different members of the audience pertaining to what happened to her yesterday morning. This time, the victim was Nymphadora Tonks.
“Okay, let me guess,” she said boredly, “you saw a weirdo symbolic death omen of some sort or a Seeing Eye or something…”
“If you ask my opinion,” Trelawney snapped, “I don’t much trust people with detachable eyes!” She turned to scowl at the figure of Moody who was flamboyantly engaged in a boogie-woogie with Figg.
“Then what did distract your attention?” Tonks asked, yawning.
“My Sweet Sixteen Diary!” Trelawney exclaimed, making Tonks wake up in shock. “And when I turned its pages, I was shocked to find that all my sixth year, I had done nothing more interesting than swigging tea and staring into glass balls!”
“I’ll bet that,” said Tonks, smiling twistedly, softly playing her fingers with the Butterbeer glass she was holding.
“So I decided,” the Divination teacher continued, “to promote the importance of my “ er “ love life over other Mundane matters.”
“So…” Tonks mocked, “Who is your dream man? Mundungus Fletcher?”
Trelawney ignored Tonks’ jibe, stared into space dreamily, a soft expression alighting on her face. “I won’t tell you,” she said childishly.
“Oh, come on!” Tonks became petulant. “At least give me a hint! For example, is he canon?”
Professor Trelawney nodded, enjoying the sudden attention bestowed on her.
“And I may give you a hint,” she said mischievously, “considering you are my best friend!”
She was surely out of her mind. Tonks would rather fly a broomstick the wrong end front than make Trelawney her best pal. But she still kept a mockingly eager face, just to humour her quickly and escape from the scene.
“Well, he was a teacher at Hogwarts,” she chirped, “Good-looking and an excellent wizard! Ah, since yesterday, whenever I look at anything, I see his face smiling at me…Ah…he was on my dinner plate, my radio and even my toilet seat…Ah… why even a werewolf like that…Ah…” she was lost in a trance.
Tonks expression sharply changed from eagerness to a stern frown and her brows furrowed in doubt.
“Do you mean to say, Remus Lupin?” she enquired.
But this simply washed over the almost mesmerised Professor Trelawney who was looking in another direction, dreaming, in love…
Tonks meant to shake her and demand an explanation, but bit her lip at the prospect of creating a scene in the middle of a party. She backed off from the latter and slipped into the ladies’ loo.
“What has Trelawney got to do with Remus?” she thought. “And does he too…? No, no, that’s impossible!”
But quashing this uncomfortable truth was difficult for her. She looked into the mirror and paused for a stretch of time.
And then she decided.
I know what you are going to do, ol’ Sybill. I’ve got my eyes on to you today…Take one wrong step…
And then she stepped out, doubly determined to face the marriage, and all that it had in store for her.
The Summer of Ninety Seven by SevenAndMoreToGo
Chapter Notes: DISCLAIMER: I do not own JK Rowling and neither her characters. And I don't want to own them anyway, they are too complicated. So I love to play around with them and unleash my OOCness!
Thanks to babekitty_92 for her terrific grammar-beta'ing.
And thanks to all the reviewers for their encouragement!
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