GG&HTOTW...E,SI, Part 5
Aug. 6th, 2004 07:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
timerippleWell, aren't y'all in luck! DO NOT read this unless you've read Part 4, which I posted earlier today.
Disclaimer: The characters which belong to JKR belong to JKR. The bit about Expert Treasure-Hunters vs. Burglars is from Tolkien's The Hobbit, and the quotes from Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure are from... Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. The rest are mine, except for Phips, Lady Peabody, and Mr. Salmon P. Wiggle, Esq., Count of the Starry Down: Gentleman, because I share them with Melanie and Allie.
Having said his piece, the old man moved on down the beach and disappeared, whistling.
Harry shrugged. “That was weird.”
“I already know plenty about goat psychology, anyway.” This was from Goat-Girl.
“I concur. Nonetheless, the knowledge may come in useful some day.” The Gentleman had taken the occasional note, and was now perusing them with a sharp and shrewd eye. “I am curious, however, as to why he chose to enlighten us.”
Goat-Girl shrugged too. “Maybe he liked my jacket.”
There were more general shrugs all round. The chipmunks resumed their dance.
PART V. In which old friends, an enemy in the collective sense, an old enemy, and an even older enemy join the party, and bring some friends.
Hermione and Ron showed up a few minutes later, sans terriers. They looked slightly worse for the wear and extremely windswept.
“Flying carpet,” Ron explained shortly to Harry’s inquiries.
Hermione was more vocal. “We met a wizarding carpet merchant just after we got your – er – Yo-yo. He was having a spot of trouble getting this one to roll up properly – apparently it kept jumping about and causing a dreadful mess. So he thanked us to take it off his hands in exchange for a pair of guard terriers.”
The ex-balloonists stared around. The chipmunks were continuing their victory dance by the fire. Not far away, an army of squirrels scampered into view and set up shop. There was no carpet in sight.
“Confiscated by the wizarding border patrol,” Ron sighed. “Dad made sure they’re illegal in Europe now.”
Goat-Girl looked disappointed, but only for a moment. She was distracted by a small boat bobbing out in the bay. It had in fact been there for some time, but had gone unnoticed in the excitement. The Gentleman inspected it closely through a spyglass he produced from a coat pocket.
“Is that boat part of your excavation team?” Goat-Girl asked.
He shook his head. “No, it is unfamiliar to me. Perhaps it belongs to some tourists.”
It did not belong to some tourists. The travelers were as of yet blissfully unaware that it belonged, in fact, to Draco Malfoy. But, alas, their ignorant state was doomed as a black shape rose from the water not far out from the shore. It was none other than Draco Malfoy himself, dressed in a diving suit, walking toward them through the shallows. Even through the diving mask his smirk was unmistakable. He was carrying something in his hands, and looked extremely pleased with himself.
He spoke as soon as he was close enough to make a general visual sweep of the assorted travelers, combatants, and inanimate objects. Sweeping the mask off and shaking out his unnaturally perfect hair, he surveyed the scene with contemptuous eyes (only slightly bleared with salt). “Well well, what have we here? A traveling circus?”
Mr. Wiggle stepped forward. “What an interesting idea. I must look into it some time. I’m sure it would be a fascinating experience. At present, however, we are but a stalwart band of companions assembled here under – ahem – interesting circumstances. Would you be so kind as to allow me to introduce my friends and these – er – persons of brief acquaintance?”
Draco nodded slowly. This chap, wearing a black coat and white gloves in the middle of a Cretan beach and attended by a Persian cat and what was unmistakably a butler, was clearly not somebody to mess with. Even if one was Draco Malfoy, Artifact Recovery Agent and Expert Treasure-Hunter.
“Thank you. I believe you are already acquainted with Mr. Potter, Miss Granger, and Mr. Weasley. You may or may not know Miss – er - Goat-Girl here. Those striped whirling creatures on this side of the fire are members of the Chipmunk Combatative Flying Association. The gray ones on the opposite side there are their opponents, the Grand Squirrel Army’s finest. This is my butler, Phips. My cat, Lady Peabody. I am Mr. Salmon P. Wiggle, Esquire, Count of the Starry Down: Gentleman.”
“Draco Malfoy, Artifact Recovery Agent and Expert Treasure-Hunter.”
Mr. Wiggle brightened. “Are you really? I’ve heard of your exploits – there’s not a decent nautical archaeologist who hasn’t.”
Draco looked smug.
Goat-Girl narrowed her eyes. “Expert Treasure-Hunter? Burglar, you mean.”
His reply was a glare and a very slightly petulant correction. “The term is Expert Treasure-Hunter.”
“Yes, yes, you’re rather infamous, I’m afraid. I suppose you’re here on account of that top-secret Archaic-Period wreck, then?” his respectable interlocutor persisted. The Gentleman looked rather annoyed, though unsurprised, at Draco’s suddenly polite “You suppose correctly, sir.”
“Yes, well, I’m afraid I shall have to put a stop to whatever profit-mongering scheme your nefarious company is up to this time – goodness, is that a late-Archaic-period Mycenaean dagger?”
It was, or so Draco indicated. A monocle appeared out of Mr. Wiggle’s breast pocket, and the two of them proceeded to examine the bundle Draco had brought ashore while the young people gaped, Phips calmly examined the horizon, Lady Peabody stared regally, and the squirrels and the chipmunks continued their respective victory dances while making the occasional threatening gesture at one another. (Eventually, they got bored and started negotiating a peace treaty just for the fun of it. From what Goat-Girl could hear, it sounded as though they were planning to use the Rubik’s Cube of Doom to take over the world, then share joint dictatorship until they could invest in a space-travel program designed to conquer hitherto-unknown planets.)
These happy negotiations, examinations, and ruminations of various sorts were sadly cut short by an off-key fanfare. Harry sprang up from where he had been lounging and adopted a defensive stance. “He’s here! Him and his minions; I’d recognize that theme music anywhere!”
“Who?” shouted a dozen voices, both human and and rodent.
“Me!” exclaimed Lord Voldemort, appearing suddenly from behind a particularly impressive rock. Several Death Eaters, sweating in their robes and masks under the Mediterranean sun, whirled into formation behind him.
Mr. Wiggle, Phips, and Lady Peabody were perhaps the only members of the previously-tranquil group who were far too genteel to mentally echo what Goat-Girl said in response to that.
Lord Voldemort stared at her. “Not you again!”
“Yes me again!”
“No way!”
“Yes way, Ted!”
“Don’t call me Ted!”
“Sorry. California pop culture, and all that.”
Harry, confused, stepped between the two, who were glaring at each other. “Wait, wait, you two know each other?”
“Unfortunately,” Goat-Girl ground out.
Lord Voldemort didn’t look any happier than she, but managed a look of unconcerned bravado (he’d spent years practicing it during his second visit to Albania). He gestured, not at Goat-Girl, but at Ron and Hermione. “Stun them.”
For once, the Death Eaters were efficient and effective. Ron and Hermione lay Stunned on the sand, and Voldemort turned back to Goat-Girl. “You are of no consequence to me or my plans!”
Goat-Girl’s - ah - creative vocabulary was apparently not limited to exclamations of surprise. Lord Voldemort eventually tired of her tirade, turned his attention to Harry, and launched into a long speech about the benefits of joining the Dark Side.
Disclaimer: The characters which belong to JKR belong to JKR. The bit about Expert Treasure-Hunters vs. Burglars is from Tolkien's The Hobbit, and the quotes from Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure are from... Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. The rest are mine, except for Phips, Lady Peabody, and Mr. Salmon P. Wiggle, Esq., Count of the Starry Down: Gentleman, because I share them with Melanie and Allie.
Having said his piece, the old man moved on down the beach and disappeared, whistling.
Harry shrugged. “That was weird.”
“I already know plenty about goat psychology, anyway.” This was from Goat-Girl.
“I concur. Nonetheless, the knowledge may come in useful some day.” The Gentleman had taken the occasional note, and was now perusing them with a sharp and shrewd eye. “I am curious, however, as to why he chose to enlighten us.”
Goat-Girl shrugged too. “Maybe he liked my jacket.”
There were more general shrugs all round. The chipmunks resumed their dance.
PART V. In which old friends, an enemy in the collective sense, an old enemy, and an even older enemy join the party, and bring some friends.
Hermione and Ron showed up a few minutes later, sans terriers. They looked slightly worse for the wear and extremely windswept.
“Flying carpet,” Ron explained shortly to Harry’s inquiries.
Hermione was more vocal. “We met a wizarding carpet merchant just after we got your – er – Yo-yo. He was having a spot of trouble getting this one to roll up properly – apparently it kept jumping about and causing a dreadful mess. So he thanked us to take it off his hands in exchange for a pair of guard terriers.”
The ex-balloonists stared around. The chipmunks were continuing their victory dance by the fire. Not far away, an army of squirrels scampered into view and set up shop. There was no carpet in sight.
“Confiscated by the wizarding border patrol,” Ron sighed. “Dad made sure they’re illegal in Europe now.”
Goat-Girl looked disappointed, but only for a moment. She was distracted by a small boat bobbing out in the bay. It had in fact been there for some time, but had gone unnoticed in the excitement. The Gentleman inspected it closely through a spyglass he produced from a coat pocket.
“Is that boat part of your excavation team?” Goat-Girl asked.
He shook his head. “No, it is unfamiliar to me. Perhaps it belongs to some tourists.”
It did not belong to some tourists. The travelers were as of yet blissfully unaware that it belonged, in fact, to Draco Malfoy. But, alas, their ignorant state was doomed as a black shape rose from the water not far out from the shore. It was none other than Draco Malfoy himself, dressed in a diving suit, walking toward them through the shallows. Even through the diving mask his smirk was unmistakable. He was carrying something in his hands, and looked extremely pleased with himself.
He spoke as soon as he was close enough to make a general visual sweep of the assorted travelers, combatants, and inanimate objects. Sweeping the mask off and shaking out his unnaturally perfect hair, he surveyed the scene with contemptuous eyes (only slightly bleared with salt). “Well well, what have we here? A traveling circus?”
Mr. Wiggle stepped forward. “What an interesting idea. I must look into it some time. I’m sure it would be a fascinating experience. At present, however, we are but a stalwart band of companions assembled here under – ahem – interesting circumstances. Would you be so kind as to allow me to introduce my friends and these – er – persons of brief acquaintance?”
Draco nodded slowly. This chap, wearing a black coat and white gloves in the middle of a Cretan beach and attended by a Persian cat and what was unmistakably a butler, was clearly not somebody to mess with. Even if one was Draco Malfoy, Artifact Recovery Agent and Expert Treasure-Hunter.
“Thank you. I believe you are already acquainted with Mr. Potter, Miss Granger, and Mr. Weasley. You may or may not know Miss – er - Goat-Girl here. Those striped whirling creatures on this side of the fire are members of the Chipmunk Combatative Flying Association. The gray ones on the opposite side there are their opponents, the Grand Squirrel Army’s finest. This is my butler, Phips. My cat, Lady Peabody. I am Mr. Salmon P. Wiggle, Esquire, Count of the Starry Down: Gentleman.”
“Draco Malfoy, Artifact Recovery Agent and Expert Treasure-Hunter.”
Mr. Wiggle brightened. “Are you really? I’ve heard of your exploits – there’s not a decent nautical archaeologist who hasn’t.”
Draco looked smug.
Goat-Girl narrowed her eyes. “Expert Treasure-Hunter? Burglar, you mean.”
His reply was a glare and a very slightly petulant correction. “The term is Expert Treasure-Hunter.”
“Yes, yes, you’re rather infamous, I’m afraid. I suppose you’re here on account of that top-secret Archaic-Period wreck, then?” his respectable interlocutor persisted. The Gentleman looked rather annoyed, though unsurprised, at Draco’s suddenly polite “You suppose correctly, sir.”
“Yes, well, I’m afraid I shall have to put a stop to whatever profit-mongering scheme your nefarious company is up to this time – goodness, is that a late-Archaic-period Mycenaean dagger?”
It was, or so Draco indicated. A monocle appeared out of Mr. Wiggle’s breast pocket, and the two of them proceeded to examine the bundle Draco had brought ashore while the young people gaped, Phips calmly examined the horizon, Lady Peabody stared regally, and the squirrels and the chipmunks continued their respective victory dances while making the occasional threatening gesture at one another. (Eventually, they got bored and started negotiating a peace treaty just for the fun of it. From what Goat-Girl could hear, it sounded as though they were planning to use the Rubik’s Cube of Doom to take over the world, then share joint dictatorship until they could invest in a space-travel program designed to conquer hitherto-unknown planets.)
These happy negotiations, examinations, and ruminations of various sorts were sadly cut short by an off-key fanfare. Harry sprang up from where he had been lounging and adopted a defensive stance. “He’s here! Him and his minions; I’d recognize that theme music anywhere!”
“Who?” shouted a dozen voices, both human and and rodent.
“Me!” exclaimed Lord Voldemort, appearing suddenly from behind a particularly impressive rock. Several Death Eaters, sweating in their robes and masks under the Mediterranean sun, whirled into formation behind him.
Mr. Wiggle, Phips, and Lady Peabody were perhaps the only members of the previously-tranquil group who were far too genteel to mentally echo what Goat-Girl said in response to that.
Lord Voldemort stared at her. “Not you again!”
“Yes me again!”
“No way!”
“Yes way, Ted!”
“Don’t call me Ted!”
“Sorry. California pop culture, and all that.”
Harry, confused, stepped between the two, who were glaring at each other. “Wait, wait, you two know each other?”
“Unfortunately,” Goat-Girl ground out.
Lord Voldemort didn’t look any happier than she, but managed a look of unconcerned bravado (he’d spent years practicing it during his second visit to Albania). He gestured, not at Goat-Girl, but at Ron and Hermione. “Stun them.”
For once, the Death Eaters were efficient and effective. Ron and Hermione lay Stunned on the sand, and Voldemort turned back to Goat-Girl. “You are of no consequence to me or my plans!”
Goat-Girl’s - ah - creative vocabulary was apparently not limited to exclamations of surprise. Lord Voldemort eventually tired of her tirade, turned his attention to Harry, and launched into a long speech about the benefits of joining the Dark Side.
