Moulin Rouge

sarahmay

Rating: PG13
Genres: Angst, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 26/06/2004
Last Updated: 26/06/2004
Status: in_progress

*Challenge* My response to the 'Moulin Rouge' challenge...please read and review! Venture behind the red velvet curtain and witness a spectacle beyond the imagination. Enter a fantastic world where nothing is forbidden and everything is possible - the world of Moulin Rouge! - off the back of the dvd case:D...sarah may

Chapters

1. Freedom. Beauty. Truth. Love.

1. Freedom. Beauty. Truth. Love.

Disclaimer: I don't own it? Not one single thing…which really sucks, so why did you have to remind me that I have NOTHING??? ::rollseyes::

A/N: Okay everyone, this is my first challenge response…don't know why everyone thinks my other fic “There Goes My Life” is one…could someone please show me the challenge? I've never seen it! :s…anyways…please go easy on me…and tell me if it's too scripty sounding! Thanks! And PLEASE review…it means a lot to me:D…so that's all for now…I think…ok, thanks! - Sarah May

Regular font: Dialogue/Story

Italic font: Harry as Narrarator

Bold font: Singing

Moulin Rouge

Paris, 2000

“There was a boy,” Ron Weasley sang, as he stood atop the roof of the Moulin Rouge. “A very strange, enchanted boy. They say he wandered very far, very far, over land and sea. A little shy and sad of eye, but very wise was he...And then one day.”

Inside a small, dirty room, the floor littered with paper and bottles, sat crouched in the corner, head in his arms holding a near empty bottle, none other than Harry Potter. A young man sunk into the depths of despair.

“One magic day he passed my way. And while we spoke of many things; fools and kings, this he said to me...”

Harry sat at the dusty typewriter and began to type. “The greatest thing you'll ever learn, is just to love and be loved in return.”

The Moulin Rouge . . . a nightclub, a dancehall and a bordello. Ruled over by Draco Malfoy. A kingdom of nighttime pleasures. Where the rich and powerful came to play with the young and beautiful creatures of the underworld. And the most beautiful of all these was the woman I loved, Hermione, a courtesan. She sold her love to men. They called her the "Sparkling Diamond", and she was the star of the Moulin Rouge. I first came to Paris one year ago.

It was 1999, the summer of love. I knew nothing of the Moulin Rouge, Draco Malfoy or Hermione. The world had been swept up in the Bohemian revolution, and I had traveled from London to be a part of it.

On a hill near Paris was the village of Montmartre. It was not as my mentor, Albus Dumbledore had put it: `A village of sin!', but the centre of the Bohemian world…with musicians, painters, and writers. They were known as the “children of the revolution”.

Yes, I had come to live a penniless existence. I had come to write about truth, beauty, freedom and that which I believe in above all things...love. There was only one problem - I'd never been in love!

Luckily, right at that moment an unconscious man fell through my roof. He was quickly joined by a tall redheaded man dressed as a nun.

“How do you do? My name is Ronald Weasley. Call me Ron though” The redhead introduced himself.

“What?” Harry asked.

“I'm terribly sorry about all this. We're just upstairs rehearsing a play,” Ron went on.

“What?” Harry repeated, getting more confused by the moment.

A play, something very modern called “Spectacular, Spectacular.”

“And it's set in Switzerland!” Ron exclaimed, continuing to ignore Harry's question.

Unfortunately, the unconscious msn suffered from a sickness called Narcolepsy.

“Perfectly fine one moment, then suddenly unconscious the next,” Ron laughed. At that moment, three bohemians appeared above the hole in the ceiling.

“How is he?” One man, later identified as Seamus, asked.

“Wonderful. Now the narcoleptic man is now unconscious, and therefore the scenario will not be finished in time to present to the financier tomorrow,” Another man, Colin Creevy, exclaimed hysterically.

“He's right, Ron. I still have to finish the music,” Seamus added, looking worried.

“We'll just have someone to read Neville's part,” Ron told them.

“Oh, where in heaven's name are we going to find someone to read the role of a young sensitive Swiss poet/ goat herder?” Colin asked, looking at Ron.

Harry felt everyone's eyes upon himself.

Before I knew it, I was upstairs standing in for Neville.

Upstairs, Harry stood on a ladder in front of a backdrop with the Alps painted on it. Seamus was playing some tune on his absinthesiser - a piano type instrument that ran off absinthe - and Ron was singing in his nun costume.

“The hills animate with the euphonious symphonies of descant!”

“Oh stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop!” Colin cried, and everyone stopped and turned to him. “Stop that insufferable droning! It's drowning out my words! Can we please just stick to a little decorative piano?”

There seemed to be artistic differences over Colin's lyrics to Seamus' songs.

“I don't think a nun would say that about a hill.” Dean, the finally member of the group pointed out.

“What if he sings `the hills are vital, intoning the descant'?” Seamus offered.

“No, no. The hills quake and shake…” Ron interrupted him.

“No, no, no, no. The hills…” Dean stuck in.

“The hills are incarnate with symphonic melodies,” Neville stated, and promptly fell back asleep.

“No.”

“The hills…” Harry attempted to put in.

“No. The hills.” Ron interrupted.

“The hills...” Harry tried again.

“The hills…”

“The hills are chanting the eternal mantra…” Dean stated loudly.

“The hills are alive,” Harry tried yet again.

“Frank is living in my foot!” Seamus cried out of nowhere.

The bohemians began fighting over the lyrics, while Harry helplessly waved his arms around, trying to get their attention. Finally, getting frustrated, Harry sang.

“The hills are alive with the sound of music!”

Everyone stopped arguing and stared at Harry, when suddenly Neville jumped up from the bed. “The hills are alive with the sound of music. I love it!”

Harry let out the breath he didn't realize he had been holding.

“The hills.”

“Are alive.”

“With the sound of music,” Seamus finished Dean and Ron's sentence. “It fits perfectly.”

Harry, now filled with confidence, continued, “With songs they have sung for a thousand years.” At the delighted gasps that filled the room, Harry grinned.

“Incandiferous! Colin, you two should write the show together!” Ron exclaimed, and the others nodded their approval.

“I beg your pardon?” Colin asked incredulously.

But Ron's suggestion that Colin and I write the show together was not what Colin wanted to hear

“Good-Bye!” Colin yelled, slamming the door behind him.

“Well, here's to your first job in Paris,” Ron made to hand Harry a glass of absinthe.

“Ron, Malfoy will never agree!” Seamus exclaimed, before turning to Harry, “No offence, but have you ever written something like this before?”

“Uh, no?” Harry asked, still confused as to what they were getting at.

“Come on, the boy has talent,” Neville grinned, putting his hands up and accidentally grabbing Harry in the crotch. “I like him!”

At Harry's gasp, Neville quickly removed his hand, blushing all the while. “Nothing funny, I just like talent.”

“But how will we convince Malfoy?” Seamus asked, glancing worriedly at Harry.

But Ron had a plan.

“Hermione,” he told him. The bohemians huddled together and listened to Ron's plan, while Harry stood on the ladder above them, trying to hear.

They would dress me in the Neville's best suit, and pass me off as a famous English writer. Once Hermione heard my modern poetry, she would be astounded, and insist to Malfoy that I write “Spectacular, Spectacular”. The only problem was, I kept hearing Dumbledore's voice in my head saying, “You'll end up wasting your life at the Moulin Rouge with a can-can dancer!”

“No! I'm sorry, I can't write the show for the Moulin Rouge!” Harry exclaimed, as he bolted for the ladder in the hole in the floor, and began climbing down it.

“Why not!?” Ron exclaimed as the Bohemian's rushed over to him.

“Well, I don't even know if I'm a true Bohemian revolutionary!” Harry replied, and made to continue down the ladder.

“Do you believe in beauty?” Ron asked, and Harry stopped.

“Yes,” he replied.

“Freedom?” Neville questioned.

“Yes, of course!”

“Truth?” Seamus inquired.

“Yes!”

“Love?” Dean asked and Harry looked at him as if he were mad.

“Love? Love. Above all things I believe in love. Love is like oxygen. Love is a many-splendoured thing; love lifts us up where we belong. All you need is love!”

“See, you can't fool us! You're the voice of the children of the revolution!” Ron exclaimed excitedly, as the bohemians pulled Harry back out of the hole. “Let's drink to the new writer of the world's first bohemian revolutionary show!”

It was the perfect plan. I was to audition for Hermione, and I would taste my first glass of Absinthe.

They toasted to Harry and the show and Harry downed his glass of absinthe.

“I'm the green fairy!” The fairy on the bottle of absinthe smiled and flew off into the sky.

“The hills are alive, with the sound of music!” The group sang, and suddenly they were out on the porch, all in their best clothes. “Freedom, beauty, truth, and love!”

“The hills are alive!” The green fairy continued.

“You won't fool the children of the revolution. No, you won't fool the children…” The bohemians and Harry sang, while laughing.

“…With the sound of music! Of the revolution, the revolution, the revolution, of the revolution…” the green fairy sang.

We were off to the Moulin Rouge, and I was to perform my poetry for Hermione.

Document created with wvWare/wvWare version 1.0.0

-->