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timerippleBreathe, everybody, I'm BACK! More on San Francisco later. Since a few of my friends seem to be about to asphyxiate themselves with worry over the fates of our heroes, without further ado (except for the disclaimer) I present Part 6.
Disclaimer (sort of): All characters belonging to JKR belong to JKR. All characters belonging to Melanie, Allie, and myself belong to us. All other characters belong to me. I've never been to Crete, so I have no idea what it actually looks like, and have not bothered with much description here anyway.
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.
PART VI. The Big Voldie Smackdown Scene
While Voldemort was speaking, Mr. Wiggle had half turned and was holding a whispered conference with the chipmunks and squirrels which, as the Death Eaters were busy watching Lord Voldemort and Harry, no one on the Dark Side noticed. Goat-Girl and her companions did, however, and re-grouped slightly so as to be out of range of the chipmunks and their catapult. One never knew with rodents.
Meanwhile, Voldemort was winding up his Dark Side Promotion speech, and his Death Eaters broke into applause. Draco Malfoy, a wetsuit menace standing behind Harry and looking distinctly uncomfortable, idly tapped his fingers together. Voldemort sent him a special glare to make sure he was properly appreciative, then turned back to his nemesis with a proposition shining in his red eyes.
“Join with me, Harry. Join with me, and we shall forge a Hairstyling Empire the like of which the world has never seen!”
Harry appeared to consider this. “A Hairstyling Empire, you say?”
“Yes, young Potter. We shall have franchises all over the world! Londoners will worship us! In Paris, we shall be the New Order of Style! I’m sure even the Americans could be useful in some way or another. The Muggles will be our slaves forever!” Lord Voldemort’s glowing, mad red eyes glowed even more madly than usual.
“Wait…” Harry, confused, rubbed absently at his prickling scar. “I thought the plan was to kill the Muggles, not enslave them.”
“Well, yes, that was the original plan. But you know how these things can change…” Voldemort let out what might have been an attempt at a chuckle. It wasn’t a particularly evil chuckle; just slightly embarrassed. “I’ve decided that, after the latest census reports, the wizarding population simply isn’t going to be sufficient as a worshiping body. It’ll be far better to enslave everybody, rather than kill them, in the long run. Trust me on this one, Harry, I’ve checked the statistics many times.”
Goat-Girl, Mr. Wiggle, Phips, Lady Peabody, and the assorted rodent armies could only watch dumbly as Harry slowly nodded his head. “Yes, I suppose that does sound reasonable. Tell me more about this Hairstyling Empire.”
Voldemort grinned hideously. “We shall have an army of Stylin’ Death Eaters under our command, led by young Malfoy here. The profits of our enterprises shall go toward glorifying ME – I mean, us.”
Aforesaid young Malfoy winced. He wouldn’t mind leading an army of Stylin’ Death Eaters, but the way things were shaping up, he didn’t stand to profit much by it. Treasure-hunting wasn’t really his thing either, but at least it was profitable. Highly profitable. Besides, it was extremely gratifying to see one’s face on the cover of National Geographic now and then.
Voldemort wasn’t finished. “The hum of the dryers shall be a hypnotic drone, inciting our victims to pay homage and serve only m- US. The spray nozzles shall sing of eternal servitude to m- US. The shampoos, the conditioners, the rinses, and the dyes – oh yes, particularly the dyes – shall fill the air with an irresistible call to serve m-US.”
Harry, looking bored, said, “That’s it? I mean, hair dye is all very well, but it seems so… impersonal, somehow.”
“Ah, but this is the best part, young Potter. You yourself shall wield the Shears of Diabolical Will-Bending. You shall have supreme power over every haircut that leaves our studios.” His voice dropped from ringing proclamation to what he imagined was a persuasive purr. Actually it was more like a cat trying to speak through a hairball. “For this is true power, young Potter. Any fool can cut a person’s hair according to the victim’s desire. But it takes true integrity, true power to ignore simple instructions and construct one’s own style.”
At this there was a loud snort from Goat-Girl. “I’ve had loads of haircuts where the stylist ignored what I wanted. It doesn’t take true integrity.”
Voldemort looked irate. “Those stylists were under my command! They were Agents of Evil! They –“
“No, really, I’m pretty sure they weren’t. It doesn’t take a genius or an Agent of Evil to chop six inches off somebody’s hair instead of two.”
Voldemort looked livid this time. “They were, I tell you! Harry, ignore this frizzy-haired magic-deprived freak. You alone shall have the true power of shaping the world’s haircuts to your will!”
“But won’t customers… er, victims, notice that no matter what they tell us, they come out of the salon with haircuts they don’t want?” Harry was still puzzled. Something just wasn’t adding up.
“Er, well, they will be powerless to resist! The hair dryers and conditioners and all…” Voldemort seemed to be floundering under this barrage of independent thinking.
Harry finally seemed to reach a conclusion. “Seems to me that it’d be simpler just to give people the haircuts they want and have a lot of satisfied customers. Then they’d worship us anyway, since no stylist has ever produced the exact cut a person asked for. It’d save a lot of bother with the equipment and shampoo and all, and we’d get voluntary worship and undying gratitude anyway, which seems a lot better than this enforced slavery stuff.”
Several things happened in unison after this remarkable statement. Voldemort let out a scream of rage.
Draco shook his head in admiration. Now, this was what he called profitable thinking. He had a feeling he’d never look at Potter the same way again. He knew there was a reason he’d always let his mother cut his hair, but he was prepared to be flexible about such things with the sort of guarantee Potter was proposing.
A large golden dragon swooped out of the sky and landed behind Goat-Girl, who muttered something inaudible and probably rude.
Mr. Wiggle coughed slightly, possibly at the unexpected arrival, but more likely at Goat-Girl’s language.
Harry advanced on Voldemort as Goat-Girl shoved her precious pink Fiskars Safety Scissors into her friend’s hand. He was in his element, brandishing his wand in one hand and clutching the pink Fiskars Safety Scissors in the other. “What kind of Evil Plan was that anyway? You don’t even have hair; how are you supposed to relate to your customers’ needs?”
Voldemort sneered. “You cannot intimidate me with your little Fiskars Safety Scissors!”
This struck Draco as rather unfair. “They’re pink Fiskars Safety Scissors, you lunkhead!”
Everybody turned to stare at Draco, who was now standing, rare and newly-recovered late-Archaic-period Mycenaean dagger in hand, on the sidelines.
“So! Even you desert me in my hour of need?”
“Well, I wouldn’t quite put it that way. All right, yeah, maybe I would.”
“But why? You could have led an Army of Stylin’ Death Eaters!”
“Sure, but you wouldn’t have paid me.”
“You would have been rewarded for your services! Rewarded beyond your wildest dreams!”
Draco smirked. “Grovelling minions every which way you turn are all very well, but I ask you, have you ever thought about what I really want out of life? I’m talking cash, O my ex-master.”
“That’s really what you want out of life?” Harry stared at Draco with something like awe. Goat-Girl poked him hard in the back.
“The scissors, you rock-brained idiot!”
“Oh, right.” Harry hurled the scissors at Voldemort, which struck him in the forehead. Voldemort flew backward a few paces and began to fizzle gently. Mr. Wiggle tossed his ubiquitous purple yo-yo, which further incapacitated the Dark Lord, and the squirrels and chipmunks set off their Rubik’s Cube of Doom-catapult with deadly aim. The result was a charred and unrecognizable twist of metal, a purple blob of plastic, and a spectacular multicolored fireworks display which expanded across the entire sky. The lights were so beautiful that nobody minded being uncerimoniously thrown to the ground by the explosion. They picked themselves off the ground and one another (some more quickly than others) and stood dazedly staring at the remains of Lord Voldemort, which were gleefully sparkling across the sky in a manner which suggested that they rather preferred this form of existence.
Ron and Hermione had recovered from their stupor and sat up, staring about. “Oh, Harry! Where’s V-Voldemort?”
“Blimey, mate, you look terrible. And what’s he –“ here Ron pointed to Draco – “still doing here?” The rest of the Death Eaters had Disapparated in an effort to avoid the falling sparks, which were oddly pink in color. Goat-Girl watched the darting pink lights flare and wink out with something like regret.
“Perhaps I’d better explain,” said the unflappable Mr. Wiggle, who proceeded to do so with clarity, detail, and a certain amount of flair.
Lady Peabody added an emphatic “Mrow!” in especially dramatic parts.
Phips calmly produced tea for everyone from the hamper.
Disclaimer (sort of): All characters belonging to JKR belong to JKR. All characters belonging to Melanie, Allie, and myself belong to us. All other characters belong to me. I've never been to Crete, so I have no idea what it actually looks like, and have not bothered with much description here anyway.
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.
PART VI. The Big Voldie Smackdown Scene
While Voldemort was speaking, Mr. Wiggle had half turned and was holding a whispered conference with the chipmunks and squirrels which, as the Death Eaters were busy watching Lord Voldemort and Harry, no one on the Dark Side noticed. Goat-Girl and her companions did, however, and re-grouped slightly so as to be out of range of the chipmunks and their catapult. One never knew with rodents.
Meanwhile, Voldemort was winding up his Dark Side Promotion speech, and his Death Eaters broke into applause. Draco Malfoy, a wetsuit menace standing behind Harry and looking distinctly uncomfortable, idly tapped his fingers together. Voldemort sent him a special glare to make sure he was properly appreciative, then turned back to his nemesis with a proposition shining in his red eyes.
“Join with me, Harry. Join with me, and we shall forge a Hairstyling Empire the like of which the world has never seen!”
Harry appeared to consider this. “A Hairstyling Empire, you say?”
“Yes, young Potter. We shall have franchises all over the world! Londoners will worship us! In Paris, we shall be the New Order of Style! I’m sure even the Americans could be useful in some way or another. The Muggles will be our slaves forever!” Lord Voldemort’s glowing, mad red eyes glowed even more madly than usual.
“Wait…” Harry, confused, rubbed absently at his prickling scar. “I thought the plan was to kill the Muggles, not enslave them.”
“Well, yes, that was the original plan. But you know how these things can change…” Voldemort let out what might have been an attempt at a chuckle. It wasn’t a particularly evil chuckle; just slightly embarrassed. “I’ve decided that, after the latest census reports, the wizarding population simply isn’t going to be sufficient as a worshiping body. It’ll be far better to enslave everybody, rather than kill them, in the long run. Trust me on this one, Harry, I’ve checked the statistics many times.”
Goat-Girl, Mr. Wiggle, Phips, Lady Peabody, and the assorted rodent armies could only watch dumbly as Harry slowly nodded his head. “Yes, I suppose that does sound reasonable. Tell me more about this Hairstyling Empire.”
Voldemort grinned hideously. “We shall have an army of Stylin’ Death Eaters under our command, led by young Malfoy here. The profits of our enterprises shall go toward glorifying ME – I mean, us.”
Aforesaid young Malfoy winced. He wouldn’t mind leading an army of Stylin’ Death Eaters, but the way things were shaping up, he didn’t stand to profit much by it. Treasure-hunting wasn’t really his thing either, but at least it was profitable. Highly profitable. Besides, it was extremely gratifying to see one’s face on the cover of National Geographic now and then.
Voldemort wasn’t finished. “The hum of the dryers shall be a hypnotic drone, inciting our victims to pay homage and serve only m- US. The spray nozzles shall sing of eternal servitude to m- US. The shampoos, the conditioners, the rinses, and the dyes – oh yes, particularly the dyes – shall fill the air with an irresistible call to serve m-US.”
Harry, looking bored, said, “That’s it? I mean, hair dye is all very well, but it seems so… impersonal, somehow.”
“Ah, but this is the best part, young Potter. You yourself shall wield the Shears of Diabolical Will-Bending. You shall have supreme power over every haircut that leaves our studios.” His voice dropped from ringing proclamation to what he imagined was a persuasive purr. Actually it was more like a cat trying to speak through a hairball. “For this is true power, young Potter. Any fool can cut a person’s hair according to the victim’s desire. But it takes true integrity, true power to ignore simple instructions and construct one’s own style.”
At this there was a loud snort from Goat-Girl. “I’ve had loads of haircuts where the stylist ignored what I wanted. It doesn’t take true integrity.”
Voldemort looked irate. “Those stylists were under my command! They were Agents of Evil! They –“
“No, really, I’m pretty sure they weren’t. It doesn’t take a genius or an Agent of Evil to chop six inches off somebody’s hair instead of two.”
Voldemort looked livid this time. “They were, I tell you! Harry, ignore this frizzy-haired magic-deprived freak. You alone shall have the true power of shaping the world’s haircuts to your will!”
“But won’t customers… er, victims, notice that no matter what they tell us, they come out of the salon with haircuts they don’t want?” Harry was still puzzled. Something just wasn’t adding up.
“Er, well, they will be powerless to resist! The hair dryers and conditioners and all…” Voldemort seemed to be floundering under this barrage of independent thinking.
Harry finally seemed to reach a conclusion. “Seems to me that it’d be simpler just to give people the haircuts they want and have a lot of satisfied customers. Then they’d worship us anyway, since no stylist has ever produced the exact cut a person asked for. It’d save a lot of bother with the equipment and shampoo and all, and we’d get voluntary worship and undying gratitude anyway, which seems a lot better than this enforced slavery stuff.”
Several things happened in unison after this remarkable statement. Voldemort let out a scream of rage.
Draco shook his head in admiration. Now, this was what he called profitable thinking. He had a feeling he’d never look at Potter the same way again. He knew there was a reason he’d always let his mother cut his hair, but he was prepared to be flexible about such things with the sort of guarantee Potter was proposing.
A large golden dragon swooped out of the sky and landed behind Goat-Girl, who muttered something inaudible and probably rude.
Mr. Wiggle coughed slightly, possibly at the unexpected arrival, but more likely at Goat-Girl’s language.
Harry advanced on Voldemort as Goat-Girl shoved her precious pink Fiskars Safety Scissors into her friend’s hand. He was in his element, brandishing his wand in one hand and clutching the pink Fiskars Safety Scissors in the other. “What kind of Evil Plan was that anyway? You don’t even have hair; how are you supposed to relate to your customers’ needs?”
Voldemort sneered. “You cannot intimidate me with your little Fiskars Safety Scissors!”
This struck Draco as rather unfair. “They’re pink Fiskars Safety Scissors, you lunkhead!”
Everybody turned to stare at Draco, who was now standing, rare and newly-recovered late-Archaic-period Mycenaean dagger in hand, on the sidelines.
“So! Even you desert me in my hour of need?”
“Well, I wouldn’t quite put it that way. All right, yeah, maybe I would.”
“But why? You could have led an Army of Stylin’ Death Eaters!”
“Sure, but you wouldn’t have paid me.”
“You would have been rewarded for your services! Rewarded beyond your wildest dreams!”
Draco smirked. “Grovelling minions every which way you turn are all very well, but I ask you, have you ever thought about what I really want out of life? I’m talking cash, O my ex-master.”
“That’s really what you want out of life?” Harry stared at Draco with something like awe. Goat-Girl poked him hard in the back.
“The scissors, you rock-brained idiot!”
“Oh, right.” Harry hurled the scissors at Voldemort, which struck him in the forehead. Voldemort flew backward a few paces and began to fizzle gently. Mr. Wiggle tossed his ubiquitous purple yo-yo, which further incapacitated the Dark Lord, and the squirrels and chipmunks set off their Rubik’s Cube of Doom-catapult with deadly aim. The result was a charred and unrecognizable twist of metal, a purple blob of plastic, and a spectacular multicolored fireworks display which expanded across the entire sky. The lights were so beautiful that nobody minded being uncerimoniously thrown to the ground by the explosion. They picked themselves off the ground and one another (some more quickly than others) and stood dazedly staring at the remains of Lord Voldemort, which were gleefully sparkling across the sky in a manner which suggested that they rather preferred this form of existence.
Ron and Hermione had recovered from their stupor and sat up, staring about. “Oh, Harry! Where’s V-Voldemort?”
“Blimey, mate, you look terrible. And what’s he –“ here Ron pointed to Draco – “still doing here?” The rest of the Death Eaters had Disapparated in an effort to avoid the falling sparks, which were oddly pink in color. Goat-Girl watched the darting pink lights flare and wink out with something like regret.
“Perhaps I’d better explain,” said the unflappable Mr. Wiggle, who proceeded to do so with clarity, detail, and a certain amount of flair.
Lady Peabody added an emphatic “Mrow!” in especially dramatic parts.
Phips calmly produced tea for everyone from the hamper.
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no subject
Date: 2004-08-10 07:03 pm (UTC)Feeeeed meeeee! I want more! :D
Sequels, prequels, anything. Whyyyyy does moldie-Voldie know Goat-Girl? Why? Tell me, please!
no subject
Date: 2004-08-10 07:31 pm (UTC)you are wonderful, fiona
Date: 2004-08-11 10:00 am (UTC)now, i second rachel's cry for a sequel - or, better, a prequel...please???
and how was sf?
~siena
Re: you are wonderful, fiona
Date: 2004-08-11 10:26 am (UTC)The last part of GG&HTOTW...E,SI will be an epilogue of sorts with a lot of things being explained. It includes most of the stuff that would go in a prequel, only in an abbreviated form. I think I need to elaborate just a little on a few details, and (providing anybody wants to read it) then it shall be ready for general consumption. I could get used to this let's-play-author thing!
Re: you are wonderful, fiona
Date: 2004-08-12 12:22 am (UTC)Re: you are wonderful, fiona
Date: 2004-08-12 08:22 am (UTC)you'd better! you are in demand.
~siena