Sorry for the delay. As usual, don't try anything mentioned in this chapter, particularly News Pong.
And to clear this up for anyone I confused with my idiotic use of irony, yes, this fic is categorized correctly, despite what any of my self-deprecating jokes about my asinine sense of humor may lead you to believe.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
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Episode Three:
RACES AND CONTESTS
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"This is embarrassing."
"Pardon?" asked the incredulously delirious parent next to her, looking away from the ungodly video camera for one glimmer of an instant.
"I said this is highly entertaining," Hermione replied with a prim smile. She glanced at the cameraman - Colin - over the mother's mouth and silently gagged. Colin laughed far too loudly and Hermione winced.
"All right, the first act's winding down," Colin said after five minutes. "Let's go ahead and tape the reporting segment and then we'll get some more external shots and we're out of here."
"Good, I want to be back in time for lunch."
Hermione let Colin direct her back and forth around the area they'd set up for her report. It had a perfect background setup of the dancing first formers and her blue jacket went well with the curtains, although Hermione had never been one to care about her appearance.
"Now we don't know which one of them will be doing this story since we're not doing any live segments, so just say `back to you guys,'" Colin instructed her. "Standard look-live. If you're ready, we're rolling in five, four, three, two…"
She held the microphone to her mouth and beamed at the camera. "Disraeli Primary School, just blocks away from the famous statue of the man himself, is known for its excellent academics and national recognition four years' running. However, these first and second formers are giving the school something else to be proud about: interpretive dance."
The dancing pumpkins and dolphins and space aliens - some idiot teacher had come up with the idea of letting the children choose their own costumes, which for control freak Hermione was nothing less than a personal insult - pirouetted and spun behind her. The pair filmed the framing and wrap-up before grabbing the equipment and high-tailing out of the school auditorium to the van.
"You're driving," said Colin as he passed her the keys. "I'm going to start getting everything in place for editing. Since we're not doing live -" But we will be soon, Hermione thought with grim determination "- we can just splice it at the studio and do your narration there."
Hermione let her silence fill as an affirmation and Colin set to work in the back as she pulled the van out of the lot. Colin offered to provide directions, but she didn't need them. She'd paid attention on the way over to the school, and she had always been a good note-taker.
She pulled to a stop at a light near a high-end flat complex and sighed, running her hands through her bushy hair. The piece was simple, yet she was a worrier. What if her eyes had been droopy? Lipstick off? She'd personally prefer damning the lipstick to hell, but as a television reporter that wasn't much of an option, and a woman in this industry had to pay attention to her looks. Hence the blue jacket.
A striking green convertible pulled up in the lane to the right of her, but she wasn't much for cars and she didn't pay it any mind. Or she didn't until the car began honking nonstop at her.
She looked to the right, scowled, and rolled down her window.
"Granger!" called Idiot Number 1. He was in the passenger seat - the seat closest to her - and currently was leaning over his friend to honk some more. "Granger!"
"I'm listening, Weasley!" she barked back.
"How'd the assignment go, Granger?" Weasley shouted. "Did you get good video of all the prancing little kiddies?"
She glared at him and then fixed Idiot Number 2 with an equally icy stare. Potter was grinning at her, but while he was clearly in on the fun his countenance was nowhere near as acidic as Weasley's.
"Actually," she said, "the story is turning out fabulously. I think Minerva just wanted to ease me into taking your anchor spot next week."
Ron stopped smiling for the briefest of moments but then the smirk returned. "Tell you what, Granger - me and Harry here -" the idiot couldn't even use pronouns correctly! "- will race you to the studio. Five pound bet."
"Ten," Hermione said.
"You're on!"
Weasley turned to Potter and laughed. She couldn't help but notice the cool, confident manner in which Potter held the wheel, like he'd been born to drive this car at this moment and no other. She recognized the unmistakable feeling that told her she was about to lose.
I'm not going to lose. Her knuckles whitened. I never lose.
The light changed and the green car shot off like a CEO from an angry wife. She hit the gas pedal and the van screeched in hot pursuit of the convertible.
"Whoa, Hermione! Slow down!" Colin cried, but what did he know anyway?
A motorcycle swerved in front of the Idiots and they had to slow to avoid committing vehicular homicide; Hermione took her chance and accelerated off to the right.
She smirked. She had the lead. She was unbeatable in the lead. They were falling back. They were going to lose. They were passing her on the right!
Potter was driving on the opposite side of the road, and oncoming traffic was heading right toward him. The bus in front of him honked, but he waited until the last second; Hermione hesitated, slowed just in anticipation of the crash, and the convertible leapt at the opportunity, accelerating and squeezing past the van and to the left of the bus.
"Bastard!" she shrieked and floored the gas again.
The Dynamic Dolts held a comfortable lead for some time, but an old lady stepped into the road and the convertible had to swerve to avoid not hitting her. Hermione was able to pull even with the Idiots and glared at them through her window
She moved into position to take the entrance to the overpass leading to the studio, but for some inexplicable reason the green car stayed right and headed straight for a large park. She ignored them and focused on navigating the winding road hanging above the park.
I'm going to win. I'm going to win. I'm going to win…
Out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw the car in the middle of the square - on the sidewalk, brushing past restaurants and people and fountains like it was no problem - but she knew it was just a figment of her imagination.
Nowhere in sight! she crowed to herself as she merged onto the road leading to the studio. Her destination was only a hundred meters away. Silly fools -
While she was still entering the road a green car sped past her on the right and beelined for the station building.
"Gah!" she growled, and Colin whimpered in the back.
She had lost.
She slowed down to a less insane speed and parked. Face pulled into a permanent snarl, she exited the car, facing the Idiots, who were casually leaned against the hood of the convertible.
"Amateur," Weasley sneered. "Didn't even know about the park route. Of course, it takes some skill to pull it off without killing five people, so it's probably for the best that you didn't try it."
"You act as if you were actually the one driving," Hermione spat at the imbecilic ginger. She looked at Potter, admitting grudgingly, "Good driving."
"Not bad yourself, considering you were driving a van," Potter replied. He smirked and patted the hood affectionately. "No one beats the Firebolt, though."
No one dared Hermione Granger, either.
"We'll see about that, Potter."
"Hermione…?"
She sighed and went back to the van to check on a visibly disheveled Colin. She heard Weasley congratulate Potter about something called a Wronski Feint, but she didn't really care, and the van was somewhat of a mess.
"Ow…" whined Colin, rubbing his head, and Hermione cursed her life.
"God, life is great, isn't it?" Ron gloated, his arm slung around Harry's shoulders as they made their triumphant march toward the lifts. "We put her in her place!"
"She should've known not to challenge me to a race," Harry grinned back. "She does look somewhat cute, though, when flustered. You have to admit."
"Ugh! Bad images, mate. I think my brain is about to fry into a million little -"
"Hello, anchormen," came a seemingly celestial voice, and just like that Ron's insides turned to the vindaloo he'd consumed the night prior with Sirius and Harry and that cool stoner cat they called Merlin.
And then he saw her and things just got worse.
Her name was Luna Lovegood and she was an investigative reporter with a penchant for the bizarre. She was a fan favorite for her odd stories, even odder commentary, and unique clothing and jewelry choices - her earrings at the moment were pretzels in the shape of pentacles - and she was absolutely gorgeous, and if you were stupid enough to say any different Ron would most pleasantly enjoy introducing you to his right fist (codename: the Enforcer). She was blonde, beautiful, and absolutely bizarre, and Ron was absolutely, incontrovertibly, undoubtedly in love with her.
"I think I'll take the stairs," Harry said with a smile. "My legs are aching something terrible and I should probably work out the stress. See you two at the top!"
Ron mouthed uselessly at his bastard of a friend's retreating form - "Judas!" he tried to scream but it seemed unholy to bring up the untrue disciple's name in the presence of someone that was goddamn close to an angel - but Harry just laughed and disappeared back-first into the stairwell.
"I hope the lift doesn't break," Luna said serenely. "I'm starting work on a report on criminals who have been going around cutting lift cables. Several people have died."
"Oh," said Ron, her information doing nothing to ease the sinking feeling in his small intestine. Relax. She always does odd reports. It's no big deal…
"Yes, it's possibly connected with the conspiracy enacted by Cornelius Fudge against the Pakistani immigrants," she continued. "Which of course has been aided by the efforts of Thomas Riddle, Jr, and the like, who, by the way, is allegedly planning a nationalist movement to counter the Thatcher revolution in Parliament."
Ron let out a sigh of relief. It was just one of Luna's old theories. Then again, he'd never honestly been worried about the lifts, and in retrospect he missed the feeling of dread, as it had helped him stop focusing on the anxiety he felt in Luna's presence.
The lift opened, and they stepped inside. Ron instantly wished someone else had been standing inside the lift.
"There's a new girl," Ron said for conversation.
"You strongly dislike her," stated Luna as an afterthought.
"Er… how'd you know?"
"You scratched your nose earlier," Luna answered. And to her it was obvious. "You scratch your nose when you're irritated, and I saw her outside, so therefore it's quite likely she irritated you when you encountered her. Oh, here we are! Until later, Ronald!"
She skipped past the desks and into one of the conference rooms. Ron gaped at her until Harry forcibly pulled him out of the lift.
"One of these days, mate," Harry said, squeezing his shoulder. "One of these days you will manage to actually have a real conversation with her without having a nervous breakdown."
Ron frowned and mumbled, "Not bloody likely."
"Oy, you two!" Seamus was bumbling over to them, pinstriped suit and all. "Check this stuff out!"
In his hand were two blue pills.
"No thanks, Seamus," Harry said. "I don't have a headache."
"What are those, vitamins?" Ron asked derisively.
"No, you dunce," Seamus replied. He leaned in for a conspiratorial whisper. "I know a lad that goes to one of the universities around here. Well, to be honest he's my pot dealer, and he just got this stuff in. Apparently it's some fantastic aphrodisiac thing that gives you lots of energy and makes you a lion in the sack."
"Why a lion?" joked Ron. "Monkeys fuck a lot too!"
"And they also throw their shite at each other." Seamus smirked. "One of these before bed tonight and I'm gonna give one of these birds a night they won't forget!"
He winked at some of the women working at the desks nearby, but they largely ignored him.
"Finnegan," boomed McGonagall's stern voice. She approached from behind Seamus's shoulder, his hand still outstretched. "Make sure you're keeping a tab on that injury to the cricket player. You know the one."
Seamus saluted her with his free hand. "Aye, madam!"
"Just wanted to check. Oh good, painkillers," she said, observing the pills in his hand. "I've got a terrible headache. Thanks, Finnegan."
She deftly retrieved the pills from his hand and walked away, leaving Seamus stupid and shocked.
"Nice going, you Irish dick," Ron said. "Of course, knowing the legality of those pills and what might be in them, I wouldn't be surprised if McGonagall's the one that ends up with a new dick."
"That makes me want to vomit," said Harry.
"Oh my God I hate my life," said Seamus.
"Hey, what's going on?" Dean asked as he walked by, manila folder clutched to his chest.
Ron let out a guttural growl and Dean slowly backed away.
"Whoa, down boy," Harry commanded, taking a solid hold of Ron's shoulders. He nodded to Dean. "Nice seeing you. Lovely weather."
"Yeah… er, I think I'll be leaving now," Dean stammered, darting around the Dynamic Duo and taking solace in the comfort of an empty lift.
"You really need to take a valium, Ron," suggested Seamus. "You can't go around growling at every man your sister shags. It's just not good manners."
"They're not shagging!" Ron insisted, looking to Harry for support. "Right, Harry?"
"Ah… well, you know," said Harry - because he'd be damned if they weren't shagging - as he rubbed his hair awkwardly, "that's Ginny's business and Ginny's alone…'
"I refuse to believe that Dean effing Thomas deflowered my sister!" Ron exclaimed.
"Oh, then there's no problem," replied the ever-oblivious Seamus, chuckling out of relief. "You see, I know for a fact that your sister was deflowered long before she started banging Michael Corner a few years back, so you have nothing to worry about with Dean!"
Harry made gagging motions behind Ron's back. "Uh, Seamus…"
"Yeah," called out Zacharias Smith from his desk, voice as grating as ever, "don't worry, Weasley. Your sister's already damaged goods."
"You little rat! I swear I'll stick your head so far up your own arse -"
Desks were knocked over in the ensuing scuffle and Seamus let out a high-pitched shriek. Harry dashed to stop Ron from pummeling Smith into a prune-like corpse, but then one of the women started throwing things and everything just devolved into one big mess and -
BANG.
"He's shot me," Smith wailed. Ron stopped punching him for a moment, stared at him in disbelief, and then socked him in the jaw again.
"Weasley's shot Smith!" one of the women cried.
"No I haven't!" Ron yelled, never stopping his assault.
BANG.
"That was me, you blithering fools." On the opposite corner of the room stood Severus Snape, brandishing a pistol and pointing it at the ceiling. The door to his recording booth lay open. "Now, if you're done turning that chubby excuse for a fact-checker into beef jerky, Weasley, I would appreciate it if you would calm down and let me have some peace and quiet. Some of us actually do work around here."
"Right," spat Ron, dropping Smith's collar. Smith fell and hit his head against the side of the neighboring desk. "Sorry, Snape."
"Good. Oh, and if any woman - or man, for that matter," Snape added, throwing a pointed glance at Seamus, "elects to let out another girlish yell, I will promptly toss them into the wood chipper parked at the appliance store next door in an effort to determine how sharp the chipper's blades are. That will be all."
Snape put his gun in his jacket and retreated back into his recording booth, the door slamming shut behind him. The only sound in the large room for the seconds following was Ron's muttered insult: "Git."
Severus Snape was a former SIS officer and one of print journalism's most respected voices. To add to that, he also hosted a lunch-hour radio show several days a week that was a rampant success due to his cold intellect and habit of mocking both guests and callers - in London many considered it a challenge to call into The Radio Hour with Severus Snape and get, as the kids called it these days, "Snaped." He often served as a commentator on national news - he'd had a long working relationship with Dumbledore before the latter had retired - and occasionally did commentary for YTV London as a favor to McGonagall, another old friend.
When the Duo had started off, Dumbledore, an old family friend of Harry's - and the Duo's main inspiration for getting into the news industry - had taken them under his wing and mentored them, and part of that tutelage had engendered a working relationship with Snape. Neither side had enjoyed the professional marriage, and relations were still strained between the group. Of course, going into the relationship, it hadn't helped that Snape had hated both Sirius and Harry's late father since he was eleven years old.
"Get up, Smith," Harry said, his voice less menacing than Ron's (but by no means friendly). He extended a hand. "We can't have your fat arse lying down instead of checking facts. I don't want to look like a complete dick up there tonight."
"And if we do end up looking like dicks tonight because of one of your fuck-ups," Ron hissed in Smith's ear as Harry helped him into his seat, "I swear to God I will bite your right nipple off and give it to my one-month old niece as a chew toy."
Smith swiveled to the side, vomited in one of the trash bins, wiped off his mouth, and weakly nodded.
"Good." Ron folded his arms over his chest and scowled at the rest of the team. "Today just took a real bad turn for the worse, mate. I'm totally hacked off. I need something to take my mind off things… something to make me feel better…"
"I know what you need!" Seamus exclaimed from his seat on one of the ladies' desks.
Harry and Ron grinned at each other.
"NEWS PONG!" they shouted.
News Pong (copyrighted 1978 Weasley Wheezes Incorporated) was an immediate pick-me-up and also one of the fucking scariest games you could possibly play. It was a bizarre mix between Hollywood Squares, Ping Pong, pub drinking games, and pyrotechnics, but everyone loved it and it always made for a good time.
There were many ways to set up the News Pong Wallboard (also copyrighted by WWI, so don't get any ideas!), and today the group went for the Malfoy-centric spread. There were other set-ups: the Filch-centric, the Skeeter-centric, or, if you felt really rambunctious, the Holy Center (with someone such as Cronkite or Merlin in the center and numerous bastards outlining the frame).
To clear up any confusion, let's explain the Malfoy-centric spread. The team got nine posters and pinned them to the wall in the shape of a square. The eight outlying posters were posters of people that just about everyone liked - as already mentioned, the Cronk, the Beard, the Weird Sisters, etc - and then a right prick occupied the center (in this case, Draco Malfoy).
Each game consisted of two teams. Each team had two roles: Sprayer and Lighter. The Lighter took a regulation pong ball, doused it in lighter fluid, lit it on fire, and tossed it into the air. The Sprayer, using a pong paddle, attempted to hit the flaming ball into the wall on which the posters were spread. The goal was to hit the center spread - in this case, Malfoy's ugly mug - and scorch it. (Kids: don't try this at home.) Any hits to the "Good Guys" (the outlying eight posters of cool cats) resulted in a drink for that team.
Roles switched with each hit and teams took turns and losers (although were there really any losers in such an awesome game?) had to pay for property damage. It was an undeniable work of art and everyone agreed that whoever the Weasley twins had stolen the game from was a goddamn genius and possibly wanted for arson and vandalism in several different countries.
"C'mon, Harry!" Ron cried, reveling in his role as the Lighter as he doused a ball in fluid. "Make this a good one!"
The ball was tossed; Harry swung; and -
"Not Ludo Bagman, Harry!" Ron wailed; Malfoy smirked undeterred at the disconsolate pair. "I can understand hitting that bloke from the Weird Sisters, but Bagman was my favorite player growing up! He's the finest defenseman England has ever seen!"
"Shut it and drink, Weasley," Seamus gloated. He had pulled over the affable and shy Neville Longbottom, one of the studio camera operators, to be his partner. "Let Longbottom and I show you how it's done."
Neville took his role as the Lighter and Seamus took an extravagant swing and hit Winston Churchill in his plump left cheek.
"Suck it, you Irish drunk," Ron retorted. "Give me that paddle, mate, you don't know how it's done…"
"Whatever you say, Ron." Harry held his lighter, or as he called it, Hedwig, a nifty little contraption in the shape of an owl that his old friend Hagrid had bought him in a trashy shop down by some trashy pub Hagrid frequented in the center of London. "You ready?"
"Was born ready, you cad," Ron hissed.
The flaming ball went up and it was going, going…
Malfoy's smirk now had a little `o' in the middle, burnt black and looking for all the world as if the smarmy bastard had been just been caught with his pants down in a female coworker's kitchen.
"EAT IT, MALFOY!" Ron's guttural scream drew a muffled, `SHUT UP, YOU IDIOTS!' from Snape's recording booth, but no one paid the greasy prick any mind. He whooped and high-fived Harry. "Mouth shot!"
"Don't let down your trousers quite yet," Seamus grumbled. He handed the paddle to Neville. "Let's go, mate. You can do this. Just clear your mind. Don't think about the game. Don't think about that bird over there with the wonderfully short skirt, although dear God, that is like Christmas come early. Don't think about -"
"Seamus, trust me." Neville tried a grin. "I've got this."
Seamus nodded, looked back to the short-skirted lady to try to catch a glimpse of thigh, and finally lit it and flipped it.
WHACK.
"Forehead!" Seamus announced happily. "Good one, Neville. Should've known you'd -"
"MALFOY IS ON FIRE!" Ron yelled. "FIRE EXTINGUISHER ASAP!"
"I don't know where it is," whined Hannah Abbot, who had been watching the game and making eyes at Neville. "I can't find it!"
"It's not in its usual spot, Ron!" Harry called back after checking the back door.
Malfoy's poster was now split into shriveled black cross-sections by curved lines of flame, which were threatening to spread to the Good Guys.
"Someone take down King Arthur!" Ron shouted over the mayhem. "I don't care if this place burns down, but that's my favorite poster!"
Harry rolled his eyes and whacked Ron across the head, growling, "Ron, I don't think now is the time!"
"It's spreading!" Seamus exclaimed.
"I don't care if it's the time, Harry! Sometimes you have to risk your life to save others! King, I'm coming for you!"
Ron stumbled toward the wall in a vain attempt to save his favorite piece of sheen paper. Hannah yelped when bits of Malfoy's poster began hitting the floor, but Neville quickly stomped each piece out.
"Nice going, Weasley," commented Zacharias Smith in his snidest tone. "Real genius. You care almost as much about that dumb poster as you do about your sister's nonexistent virginity."
"SHUT UP, SMITH!" Ron roared. "I WILL BREAK YOU, YOU SLIMY -"
"Back up!" ordered a loud, authoritative voice over the chaos. "Back up, let an expert take care of this mess!"
If the command didn't do the job of dispersing the crowd, then the ensuing stream of cold sodium bicarbonate did the trick. It was hard for either Harry or Ron - or anyone not named Neville, as he was still dealing with Malfoy's ashes - to see what was going on near the poster, but obviously someone had a fire extinguisher and was taking care of business.
The blue cloud began to spread apart and the fire was dead.
"You buffoons are lucky I went into the staff room to get a silencer for my pistol when I decided to murder you all in cold blood," Snape drawled, fire extinguisher hanging loosely from his thin fingers. "I was just opening my locker when I heard all the commotion. Oh, and whoever decided to use a fire extinguisher to cool their cheap alcohol? You are officially a Neanderthal."
No one disputed the claim, although Seamus did redden considerably.
"I'm done for the day, so don't try this again - I won't be here to save you." Snape threw the extinguisher at Harry's feet, swished his long black coat behind him, and headed for the lift. "Good luck with the broadcast, children."
Ron waited for the lift door to close before he turned to Seamus and declared, "You guys are paying for the wall. Mouth shots count more than forehead."
"That's a load of bullshit if I've ever -"
"No it isn't and you know it, Finnegan -"
"You trollop, take one step closer and I'll -"
"Vomit all over my shoes, probably, you cowardly -"
"WILL YOU BOTH SHUT UP AND START GETTING READY FOR TONIGHT'S BROADCAST?" Their mouths hung open as Minerva McGonagall emerged from the opposite lift. Harry noticed with some discomfort that the top two buttons of her blouse were undone. "And someone clean up this mess!"
She stalked past them and into her office, fuming.
"Mouth shots do count more," Ron grumbled.
Seamus whacked him in the arm and scampered away.
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