Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
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Episode Two
MERLIN
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"Ah, a sight for sore eyes," Ron said wistfully as he placed his hand on the side of the passenger side door. "There's nothing like coming out to the parking lot after a hard day's work and relaxing in the Newsmaker 2000."
The car was a 1965 Firebolt, the best damn convertible a red-blooded man could find without knowing the dictator of a communist South American country. It was a cool shade of green, the same as Harry's eyes, or that's what the girls said anyway. It changed names almost monthly, as a semi-ritual - it had been called, among other things: the HMS Anchorman, the Mustache Machine, the East London Pussymobile, and, one of Ron's personal favorites, the Mustachean Falcon. He was the Han Solo type, but then again everyone was these days; it was the Luke Skywalkers - the unassuming yet confident Harrys of the world - that were going out of style.
"I've decided," said Harry, hopping over the side of his door and throwing the keys into the ignition, "that I could definitely use some curry. Some curry, some naan, and a big helping of Guiness."
"Amen!" Ron agreed. He took his seat to the left of Harry and rifled through the console, finally coming up with a miniscule comb. "Does your 'stache need combing? Mine got ruffled during the weather forecast. Lavender Brown is frustrating me. No, you're frustrating me, really. It's just one shag. I don't get why you're holding me back."
"It's not just one shag to her," argued Harry as they pulled out of the parking lot. "It means something to her. She may be twenty-six -" Harry and Ron were only six years her senior "- but she's still got a fifteen-year-old mentality when it comes to men."
Ron said, for summarization purposes: "You're cockblocking me."
"No, I'm protecting her. Besides, she's not the only lady around that fancies the YTV anchors."
"No kidding," Ron said happily. He placed his right hand on Harry's chest. "Whoa, slow down, mate. We're coming up to - one moment - MOVE, TREE! - ah, there we go!"
It was a beautiful large billboard that towered over the shopping district, and on it, back to back in suits of blue with green ties, were the two most eligible anchors in the city.
"God, we are two handsome motherfuckers," breathed Ron. "I just wake up every morning and thank God for blessing the people of London with my beautiful face."
"Our mustaches are even more epic than normal," Harry concurred, allowing himself some self-satisfaction, even though that was more of Ron's area of interest.
"If I were a woman, I would fuck myself," Ron stated in his most serious tone. "Hell, if I were a man I would fuck myself."
"Good thing everyone doesn't go along with that," Harry joked.
"Oh, some are just better at hiding it than others," Ron laughed, but his smirk turned into a sneer. "Agh, that reminds me of Granger. Can't believe she's trying to take our spots. Our spots! We're men, Harry! We can't get replaced by women!"
"Tell Ginny that," Harry countered. "She'd punch you halfway to Cuba."
"Okay, maybe it's not that she's a woman." And for Ron, it only partly was. "She's new and she just thinks she can come in here and it irritates me! Such arrogance! She thinks she's so damn gorgeous and it's getting on my nerves!"
Harry chuckled, asked: "Don't you think that's a bit hypocritical?"
"No! I'm just confident, not arrogant. Besides, don't you think that you're the most handsome man on Earth?"
"Of course," said Harry, because every news anchor on the planet believed that, and he was no different.
"Yeah, well, she's even above that! Grade A bitch, Harry, I'm telling you now." Ron looked out the window and stared at a car full of women pensively. "Hm. Maybe if I seduce her and knock her up - ugh, that's disgusting just thinking about it - she'll leave in shame. Crying, preferably. I would like for there to be tears."
"I don't think you'll be able to seduce her," Harry said. He frowned. "I think she's the type of woman that acts as the seducer, actually. She goes out and gets the man she wants, not the other way around. Shame, really. I wouldn't mind asking her out, and I'm not even trying to kick her off the team."
Ron gaped at him. "Why, pray tell, would you ask a siren like that out on a date? I was just joking! Harry, she'd bite your head off."
"Oh, that's exactly why," Harry said with a smirk. "She's intelligent, witty, and she'd put me right in my place. I find that ridiculously attractive. And she is rather pretty, by the by."
"She's already ensnared you in her trap!" Ron moaned. "She's going to seduce you and you're going to tell her all your secrets and she will use them against you! Mark my words!"
"Relax, Ron, I'm kidding. Sort of." He parked the Newsmaker 2000 between a motorcycle and a van and cut the engine. "C'mon, let's get it to go."
Five minutes later the two were walking back to the Firebolt with three boxes of the most gastronomically-destructive Indian food known to Londonkind. Ron suddenly stopped and growled.
"Well if it isn't Ron Weasley." Draco Malfoy, lead anchor for News 3 and the number four on Ron's list (pinned to the refrigerator wall) of the biggest cunts in England, only slightly trailing the bastard who'd created the sobfest known as Coronation Street and thus the dreadfully boring Ken Barlow. "How's life treating you, Weasel? Got enough cash now to move out and stop mooching off your boyfriend?"
"Draco Malfoy," Ron sneered back. "Sorry, I heard about Cedric Diggory getting the promotion to News 2. Real shame for you. Of course, with the way his career's going, he'll get the bump to national and they'll have to bring in someone else to News 2 instead of you, and God knows that'll be a hassle!"
"If Crabbe and Goyle were here, Weasley, I'd teach you some manners!" Draco spat. "Unfortunately, their bowels are as weak as their brains, so consider yourself spared!"
"Spared from what?" Ron retorted. "The sight of a ménage a trios between you and the two grunts? Let me guess, you're the one taking in that situation, right?"
Draco took a step forward, snarling, "You're going down, Weasley!"
"Only fair, I suppose," said Ron with a shrug. "After all, your mother went down on me last night and tonight I should be a gentleman and return the favor."
Draco raised his arm but Harry stepped between the two. "That's all, Malfoy. I don't want any trouble - people actually watch our show, after all, and we can't have your blood on our new suits. Run along with your cronies and leave the big boys alone."
"You're lucky I'm in a conciliatory mood, Potter." Draco, still fuming, smoothed down his light blonde mustache and ruffled his collar. "I'll see you two extras later."
Draco stalked off. Ron raised his hand and called after him, "Good luck with sweeps ratings! Hope we don't beat you too badly this month!"
Estimable news anchor Draco Malfoy kicked over a trash can, tossed aside a little girl, and screamed out the longest string of profanities that either Ron or Harry had heard since the Mollywobbles Incident.
"Wow," said Ron, grudgingly admiring Draco's list, "I didn't even know half of those were words."
"I don't think he's speaking English anymore," Harry commented. "In fact, I think he might be making up his own language. I think some of that is Tolkien Elvish."
The men loaded up inside the Mustachean Falcon with their food (Draco's curses still echoing off the cheap red wood of Indian To-Go-Go) and set out to drive nowhere in particular, neither one wondering if the situation was indicative of their lives as a whole.
"Let's go to Merlin's," Harry stated, and it wasn't a question. There was never a bad time for Merlin's.
Merlin lived in the coolest high-rise in the coolest part of the coolest city in England. Merlin was far-out, one of the most far-out cats the anchormen had ever known, and one of the only men in the world who deserved all of his multiple nicknames (of which Merlin was undoubtedly the best and most accurate).
The elevators to Merlin's floor (thirty-three) were filled with stoner businessmen and uptight musicians and some bizarrely beautiful women wearing strange costumes who were possibly hookers but no one could really tell because, hint hint, it was the Hogwarts High-Rise and strange - but damned cool - stuff happened at Hogwarts.
How cool was Hogwarts? Well, innocent reader, at Hogwarts they didn't even have room numbers. No no no: at Hogwarts, if you wanted people to recognize your room, then you took care of it yourself. Pictures on the door, guards outside (for the richer patrons), dogs, ornaments - one guy even had beads instead of a door. It was convenient for drug dealers and prostitutes: they just left their doors unmarked and let customers find them, making it even harder for police to track them down.
Merlin's door had a gargoyle off to the side. It was one of the niftier tricks either of our heroes had seen. Harry pressed a button on the gargoyle's head and a grainy recording played. "Password?"
"Lemon drop," Harry said.
The voice recognition system took a while, but eventually the gargoyle made a sound and the door just barely popped open.
"I think we have visitors," the two heard as Harry pushed the door open.
"Two ugly mugs, too," agreed another voice.
Harry stopped in his tracks and grinned. "Sirius! I thought you were backpacking through the Continent!"
"Just got back," Sirius replied. He laughed and pulled Harry into a warm embrace, ruffling Ron's hair to be kind. "I'm crashing at Remus and Tonks's for now, and since they're just a couple floors down I thought I'd come say hi to the Professor."
Sirius Black - Harry's godfather and, by default, main father figure - was the last of a long dead family line and one of the richest men in England. He was 192nd in line of succession for the royal throne (proper title: Lord Black) and a well-known philanthropist and orator. He was a consummate playboy and had slept with every famous woman worth bedding and a few famous men, too.
"Sirius was just telling me about Paris," said his wizened counterpart. "Sit, both of you. It's been too long since we've had a chance to chat."
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore - alter egos: Merlin, the Beard, the Professor, Supreme Mugwump - was older than television news itself and still the best news anchor in the world, even though he was retired. He was Cronkite before Cronkite, he was Owen Wilson's nose before it burst its way onto the celebrity scene in Shanghai Noon, he was Merlin in the modern day (the seventies). He was, in essence, cool personified, and if sometimes he seemed a little creepy, hey, that just came with the package.
"How're you doing, Professor?" Ron said, extending his hand. Dumbledore politely shook it with his good hand. "Harry and I were just in the neighborhood and though we'd say hello. We brought in dinner, if you'd like - we always over-order."
"I'm fine," said Dumbledore, but Sirius grinned and said, "Thank God, I'm starved! Please tell me it's something spicy."
"Vindaloo?" asked Harry, grinning.
"Oh I did miss Indian-to-Go-Go," Sirius groaned, greedily taking the proffered box. "You don't get this in Vienna."
"But then again you don't get Austrian women in London -" Ron didn't know that there was an Austrian prostitute just next door, but his point still stood "- so it's really a fair trade."
Sirius laughed heartily. "Oh, and I do love Austrian women, you know…"
"You dog, Sirius!" chuckled Harry.
The conversation proceeded in this vein for several minutes, mainly between godfather, godson, and best mate, as the Beard was somewhere between asexual and homosexual and had no interest in bragging about women he'd slept with (which was none).
"Harry, Ron," said Dumbledore at a natural pause in the conversation, "something is bothering you." Freaky mindreading: a skill of Merlin's. "Can I be of assistance?"
"Well, to be honest, Professor, there is a slight problem…"
And Ron took over from there. "This new broad, Hermione effing Granger -"
"Interesting middle name," Sirius piped up.
"- has come in and she's going to be doing some investigative work. No big deal, right? Wrong. Apparently she'll be doing `spot' anchor work and we'll be doing more on-the-spot reporting. Granted, we're the best reporters in the city, but, Merlin, this is just offensive! Some scarlet woman is coming in and stealing our mojo, and it's royally pissing me off!"
"Hm," was all Dumbledore had to say.
"I've heard good things about her," Harry said. Ron viewed him with betrayal. "What? I have. I saw some of her work when I was staying in Coventry for that wedding. Mind you, I'm not going to lie - I am vaguely threatened - but I think it could be interesting. I don't know. It will either work great or everything will go to hell."
"The latter," Ron decided. "We just need to figure out a way to get rid of her so the Dynamic Duo can prevail."
"Interesting," said Dumbledore. "I've heard of this woman, too, and I agree with Harry: she is competent. I would warn you against assuming she is unintelligent, Ron, as in all likelihood she is nothing short of cunning and fiercely independent to thrive in an industry dominated by men. Do not sell yourself short. It'll be good for you to do some investigative reporting. I made my reputation on it, after all, and it's good for an anchor to get out into the world and see what's going on."
Dumbledore was the king of investigative reporting. He'd been in Normandy twenty years before Cronkite had been in Vietnam; he'd been integral in the investigation of Kennedy's death; he'd been an advisor to the Washington Times during the Deep Throat and Watergate controversy. He'd sparred with Winston Churchill and William Buckley and any dictatorship worth its salt had endured an Albus Dumbledore exclusive report, whether on radio or television or in print.
"Whatever," Ron said breezily. He grinned. "A year from now, Harry and I will be making news, but this time from YTV's national desk. Granger can have the bloody job after that."
"From the vibes I got from her, I think she'd follow us there just out of spite," Harry joked.
"Luckily, I have a shotgun under my bed that will do the job nicely -"
"You're attracted to her, aren't you?" Sirius asked quite suddenly.
Ron, indignant, growled, "Of course not! She's attractive, but she's a fucking wench if you ask me -"
"Not you. Harry."
"Of course," Harry replied. "She's rather beautiful, of course, and I've always liked independent, assertive women. She's intelligent to boot. I'm still threatened by her, but part of that stems from the attraction."
Sirius rubbed his full beard, salt and pepper scruff across his chin, and grinned. "A smart, fierce newscaster who makes you both scared for your jobs. As your godfather, I officially approve! I'm not sold on Ron as the best man, though…"
"Hey, you git! I'd be an excellent best man!" He punched Sirius in the arm. "Of course, I'd also boycott that wedding from hell, but it's the thought that counts, eh?"
"I think," stated Dumbledore, somehow managing to be both amused and omniscient at once, "that it is time to relax with some of Ogden's finest."
Ogden's finest. Pineapple express. The Andromeda strain. Reefer, cheeba, grass, nugs, budz, midis, fuzzies, hash, ganja, and, most famously, pot or weed. Ogden's finest was some of the, you guessed it, finest marijuana around, and it was even more of a trip when served with Ogden's whisky and cheese nachos with chocolate sauce on top.
The old man Merlin always told the boys that for all his best newscasts or reports he'd been high - it made him seem more knowing and cerebral - and that his lemon drops that he so famously sucked during commercial breaks usually had a little extra kick to them that made the candies illegal in every country north of Columbia, but there was no need to spread that information around, boys, or else good uncle Albus may get jail time, okay? (Okay, Professor, Harry and Ron agreed, grinning.)
"I love you, Sirius," Ron said after two glasses and a joint. He was drunk, not high, but the two in combination provided an interesting effect. "In fact, I love everyone. Except Granger. I hate her. Oh, fuck me, tonight I love her too."
"Oh man oh man oh man," Harry sighed, taking a puff from Dumbledore's favorite bong, the Pensieve. He licked his mustache. "Oh man oh man oh man."
Dumbledore blew smoke rings from his pipe, for all the world looking like a more badass hippy Gandalf sitting with Bilbo in Bag End.
"Breaking news, everyone," Sirius announced. "I am officially inebriated!"
Harry drove home, as he'd abstained from the alcohol. His driving was still rather roughshod, and he had to stop himself from swerving into the wrong lane from jitters several times.
The Firebolt navigated itself into the driveway, knocking over a garden gnome and bumping the front corner of the complex garage in the process. Harry put it in park, hopped out of the car, and helped Ron stagger into No 12.
"I love you, Harry," Ron gasped.
"I love you too, Ron," Harry said.
Harry put Ron to bed with a bucket for good luck and went to relax on the back porch with a Coca-Cola and his favorite bathrobe. The Grimmauld Place flat complex was upscale, hip, and very modern; there wasn't a person over forty-two on the entire row and the twenty flats making up the complex encircled a huge common pool that everyone enjoyed.
"Evening, Harry," called Lee Jordan from the grill behind No 10. "Loved the dog story tonight. I think I'll be subbing in once for the radio show next week, so hopefully I'll be able to watch you both from the studio."
"Thanks, Lee," replied Harry. "Where're Fred and George?"
"Closing up shop," Lee said. "I'm just getting dinner started. You want some?"
Harry declined and relaxed in his recliner, comfortably observing his neighbors and their friends splashing about in the pool and picking up one of his favorite books.
Two hours and one hundred pages in, the Weasley twins had come and gone (their antics with the pool denizens effortlessly comical) and many of the neighbors had retreated to their flats. Harry closed his book with a sigh, putting out his cigarette in the ashtray, and retired to the living room.
He was still high, he knew, considering that he'd been smoking pot since six-thirty and hadn't taken too long of a break, either. He was a deliberate smoker and knew his limits and if he'd had any questions about his sobriety they were all cleared up when he decided that it was a marvelous idea to shed his robe and begin plinking around on the piano in his briefs and socks.
"I am playing a sonnnng," he sang, out of key with the C minor chord he had hit. "I'm playing a sonnnng and it is so funnnnnnn and I am loved by everyonnnnnne including Ronnnnnn (and that's slightly weird)."
He growled and hit the piano with all his might. "Don't take my job, Granger! We shouldn't be strangers! I am not a park ranger!" Harry often tried too hard to rhyme when improvising. "We are anchormen, we'll be them again, even if we are not… abstinent?"
It was a terrible song and soon the exertion caused Harry to fall off the stool and pass out in a shameful heap on the floor.
"What the hell?" Ron yawned, stumbling out of his bedroom. He blinked, saw Harry, and then sat on the floor, curling up next to his friend and throwing a brotherly arm around him. "I love you, mate… love, love, love…"
"I hate those two idiots," Draco Malfoy muttered in his sleep.
"They won't expect a thing," Hermione Granger muttered into her mirror.
"One day Ronnie will love me," Lavender told her roommate Parvati.
"Pie is delicious," Seamus sighed happily, leaning against his refrigerator.
"I think this news team is going to be the death of me," McGonagall grumbled against her pillow.
The Dynamic Duo stirred and held each other in their slumber.aHahH
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