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Harry Potter and the Cracked Reservoir
Chapter 36: Fred's Prank
By Musings of Apathy
Chapter 36: Fred’s Prank
Thank you to my Beta’s; Sparky40sw and Cateagle.
Wilhelm Vaisey was dragged before the Dark Lord at his own request. He and his father had gone to see Voldemort to pass on the information that seemed more important to the young man than anything else pressing. His father, Gunter, knew nothing of what Wilhelm was to tell the Dark Lord, only that it could mean a bad turn in the war for their side if the information was not passed. While Gunter was able to walk unharrassed, Wilhelm, as a non-member had to be escorted, and Death Eater escorts were not known for their wont to do anything easily, as such, he was dragged before their Master as they did with all others.
"What is this whelp doing before me?" hissed Voldemort.
"My Lord…" Wilhelm started only to be interrupted with a cruciatus curse inflicting unbelievable pain throughout his body.
"Do not speak until you are spoken to, child!" hissed Voldemort.
"Sir," Gunter said bravely, "The boy overheard something that he thought you would need to know, Master," he dropped to his knees, not wanting the same curse on himself.
"Very well, young Wilhelm," he said, showing that he did know who this was, but did not care. "Tell me what it is you overheard."
"Sir, there is a new prophecy," he said with a definite tremble in his voice. "It says that if you harm Harry Potter’s love, Ginny Weasley, he will gain the power to defeat you."
"Doubtful," Voldemort said, "But worth considering. Come forward. I wish to hear exactly what was said."
Wilhelm cautiously approached. As soon as he was in reach, Voldemort grabbed the young man by the back of his neck, holding him steady with his surprisingly strong left hand.
"Show me what you heard," he hissed, pointing his wand at Vaisey’s left temple and cast Legilimens.
Wilhelm Vaisey screamed at the anguish of the Dark Lord’s brutal intrusion to his mind. It seemed an interminable amount of time before his head was released from its prison. When released he hadn’t the strength to stand after Voldemort’s harsh raping of his mind. He collapsed to his future master’s feet, spent.
"Thank you, my loyal servant. You will do well in our organization. You show great potential," Voldemort praised.
The Dark Lord turned his attention to the boy’s father, "And you, Gunter. For aiding in bringing this forward, I shall spare your wife’s life and your family position."
Gunter sputtered in shock.
"Yes, I am aware of your wife’s attempts at my denouncement," Voldemort said. "You did an admirable job of restraining her and preventing her betrayal. I will overlook your weakness in not ending her blood traitor existence. When this is all over, she will be bent to your will."
"Thank you, my lord," was all the pureblood patriarch could say.
"Spread the word," Voldemort addressed the sea of white masks in attendance. "No one is to bring any harm to the Weasley girl. Strong magics fuel this prophecy and we shall crush Potter long before it comes to pass."
Harry was sleeping quite soundly, snuggled deep under the warm covers on his bed. He drifted slowly away from a very pleasant dream with one other main character, one that his conscious mind knew that he loved and his unconscious mind obviously wanted to explore a lot more. Hmm…Harry definitely wondered if she really looked like he imagined under those robes. The soft skin. The gentle curves. The plump…
Harry shook himself from his remembrance of his dream and the last vestige of his slumber but had to stop suddenly. Something was wrong. He had that prickly feeling in the back of the neck. Someone was watching him. Harry stopped deathly still and slowly parted his eyelids. His naked vision presented him with a smiling Weasley, one of the twins, who was actually close enough to be just somewhat blurry rather than just clouds of color without the aide of his glasses.
Now, waking to see someone less than an inch from your face is not a pleasant experience. Some would say that it is quite startling. Watching, you would have guessed that Harry would be one of those people to vote for startling if given a choice, when he scrambled back from the looming figure to the top corner of his bed in a defensive position.
Really, his discomfort was not solely at waking up to find someone there, which only was part of his distress. To wake from an erotic dream to find yourself faced with a brother of the other starring member of said dream and with visual evidence of the incomplete fantasy…evident, well, it could easily explain why Harry was balled up defensively, covering any…evidence. He really didn’t want to have to explain what he had been dreaming about. The twins were corkers and all, but no brother is that corking.
"Nice boxers."
"Um…thanks?" Harry said wearily as the last threads of consciousness came into his grasp and he took his glasses from the nightstand.
"Hearts?" the twin asked.
Harry blushed. This really was not someone that he had envisioned seeing his new silk boxers.
Oh, damned. There was that other time with Ron’s prank (the berk) but those had not been as embarrassing as they were solid color, not one of the patterned ones that Ginny and Tonks had selected for him.
Harry steeled his resolve and swallowed back the unusual, sticky taste in his mouth, reminding himself that he really needed to brush his teeth before he talked to anyone civilized. But first, he would give as good as he got.
"Your sister seemed to like them," Harry said bravely.
The Weasley’s face in question stormed over at the implication.
"And why has my sister had the opportunity to be admiring your choice of undergarment?" he asked dangerously.
"Normally," Harry said after viciously pounding his fear to the back corner of his mind. "I’d say that that subject was none of your business, but I could just point out when your dear youngest brother put me displaying my undergarments in all of their glory to the population of the school as one instance, but I’ll confess that she saw these when she picked them out for me."
A smile crept onto the twin’s face, "What would mum think of such a thing?" he asked slyly. "Doesn’t seem right proper, a young girl pawing through boy’s unmentionables in a store."
Harry smiled, "Your mum knows perfectly well. I’m sure that they shared that piece of girltalk sometime during the summer. She knew that Ginny was going with me to help select clothes and those are clothes."
"Okay, loverboy," the twin replied, "Just don’t let me hear about you doing anything inappropriate with my baby sister now, you hear?"
"Sure," Harry said. He really would, he’d make sure that the Weasley boys didn’t hear about anything inappropriate. What actually happened and what they heard about could be two different things. "What are you doing here, um, Fred?" Harry asked, guessing as to the identity of his assailant.
Fred presented his hands to Harry. Fred flipped his hands over and over before showing his bare arms in an exaggerated muggle magician shtick. He held his hand in front of Harry’s face and flipped it a couple of more times to show nothing there and then with a flick of the wrist, he brought a card from nowhere clutched between his thumb and forefinger.
Harry groaned, "Not you too."
Fred smiled broadly. Harry knew who this was with certainty now. Fred was the only Weasley left to prank him and the deadline was looming. They had less than two weeks until the end of the fall term and the start of the Christmas Holliday.
"But of course," Fred affirmed. "Save the best for last, I say."
"What now," Harry groaned in dread.
"And spoil the surprise?" Fred beamed.
Harry reluctantly took the gilded card and read his fate.
"‘Fred Weasley’," he read aloud, "‘A bit more than a pocketful of posies’."
Harry stared at the card in wonder, recalling a children’s rhyme he had heard the merrily playing children of the schoolyard singing.
"What does this mean, is it dung bombs?" Harry worried. "Am I going to stink? Is that your prank?"
"Why would you think that?" a bewildered Fred asked.
"The child’s rhyme," Harry said as if it were incredibly obvious. "Ring a Ring O'Roses? About the black plague?"
Bewilderment reigned in Fred’s uncomprehending eye.
"‘Ring a ring o'roses’," Harry sang, "‘A pocketful of posies’, ‘ah-tishoo, ah-tishoo’, ‘We all fall down’?" Harry finished questioning at the end.
"What in the name of Merlin does that have to do with some plague?" Fred asked.
Harry huffed. "’Ring a ring o’roses’ refers to the mark a muggle disease of several hundred years ago left on the skin when someone was infected," Harry informed him. "People would carry a pocket full of flowers, posies, to cover the smell of death and disease and some believed they would ward off the disease itself. ‘Ah-tishoo, ah-tishoo’ is like a sneezing sound and refers to people getting sick when they advanced in the disease and died, you know ‘We all fall down’? It killed a third of the British population at the time. It took more than a hundred years to return to pre-plague levels."
"And Ron says that Hermione is the smart one," Fred said as Harry blushed. "Angelina suggested it when we came up with the prank. Sounds awful gruesome when you think about it."
"Sorry," Harry apologized. "Can’t help it. Gruesome is hand in hand with my life."
"How maudlin," Fred deadpanned. "Oh well, have fun today," Fred piped up, suddenly chipper.
Without even a cursory glance about the room, Fred disappeared through the door.
At the thought of the day ahead, Harry groaned and slid himself under the covers pulling them tightly over his head. Maybe this day would go away if he was just able to ignore it.
His thoughts of a blissful day of ignorance were interrupted with a poking to his side. He cautiously lowered the covers to which he was greeted with the sight of another redheaded male. Why, just once, couldn’t it be a redheaded female that greeted him in his bed? Thoughts of waking up to Mrs. Weasley made him shudder.
"Time to get up, Harry," Ron said. "Was that George that I saw leaving?"
"No," he said handing over the card, "Fred."
After a breakfast full of speculation by the surrounding Gryffindors as to the meaning of the prank announcement, Harry found himself in transfiguration with the Slytherins. He had been frank with his friends at the table about what little information he had. In total it didn’t add up to much. Now he could just go about his day waiting for the action to start. Perhaps the waiting was the best and worst of pranks, the nervous anticipation.
"Hello class," Harry was broken out of his thoughts. "Today," said Professor McGonagall, "we will be continuing with transfiguring inanimate objects into living objects. Today’s task is to transfigure a portion of the dirt in a small pot into a plant. Can anyone tell me a difficulty of this?" she asked looking around for any volunteers. "Miss Granger?" she prompted to the ever-present hand.
"Judging the correct amount of dirt to transfigure, professor," Hermione said confidently.
"Correct," the teacher said. "And another, Mr. Potter?" she said, skipping the thought of asking for volunteers.
Harry winced, "Um…the…dirt being many different pieces instead of just one?"
"Very good Mr. Potter," the teacher said. "An aggregate base material requires more care than a single cohesive base. Mr. Malfoy, can you tell me another difficulty?"
"The…uh…roots professor?" Draco answered with a guess.
"Yes, indeed," she answered. "The roots have to be made at the same time as the rest of the plant or you will not have a living, viable plant. Now class the general incantation for this transfiguration is Novota Florae. Recall your wand movement from the beginning of this term for the change from stone to bird as it is the same except for a less dramatic jab at the end. Pay attention to me and then proceed with the pots in front of you."
She waved and jabbed her wand while saying the incantation, causing a fern to grow from the reducing mass of soil in the pot.
"As you can see," Professor McGonagall said, "I pictured what I wanted before and during the casting of the charm. As with all magic, it is important that you maintain your concentration in order to achieve the correct results," she advised. "If anyone needs an idea for a clear picture of what plant they wish to transfigure, you may either copy what I have done or may come to the front and find what they wish in one of these catalogues. Proceed."
As the class bustled around him, Harry searched his recollection for a suitable plant. Beside him, Hermione was lost in a look of contemplation. On the other side of the bushy haired genius, Ron looked lost in his scrunched up version of a concentration face.
Harry settled on the pot of gardenias that he noticed at the Burrow. He had never seen anyone but Mrs. Weasley tend them and the results were amazing. A healthier plant could not be found.
Harry was the first in their little group to attempt the incantation, as the other two were still concentrating on the images in their own mind.
"Novota Florae," he said as he tried to precisely wave his wand at the pot in front of him.
From his wand sprung a bouquet of flowers. Harry knitted his brow at the misfire of the spell. There was no way that this should be happening. He thought that he said the spell right. He did the wand movement as prescribed. Yet he ended up with a bouquet of white roses. He didn’t even get the right kind of flowers that he was concentrating on.
He looked to his left to ask Hermione what she made of it, but did not have the heart to break the concentration of either of his friends, as Hermione would be unhappy to have any distractions before she successfully completed the task and Ron just looked too…well, too intent to interrupt.
Harry decided to use an old muggle adage. If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.
"Novota Florae," he said with more force, this time picturing red roses, their stems, leaves and roots.
Again from his wand sprung roses, again wrapped as a bouquet in fine tissue paper and a silver translucent cloth. At least they’re the right color, Harry thought, staring at the red roses. How about another color?
Harry concentrated on all aspects that he could imagine of a yellow rose as it if it were living in the barren pot in front of him. He concentrated on changing the dirt, in all of its varied glory, into the plant of his imagination.
"Novota Florae," he said with determination. From his wand, as he was looking very closely now, came not one but two bouquets of yellow roses, each perfect in their detail.
Frustrated with his failed efforts, Harry picked up one of the bouquets of roses and stalked up to the professor where she sat at her desk, taking a moment to grade some of the parchments turned in at the beginning of class. Harry stood in front of her and cleared his throat as she had when interrupting him so many times before. She stopped her marking with the dreaded red-inked quill and looked up at Harry.
"Yes, Mr. Potter?" she asked. "How can I help you?"
Harry held the bouquet of flowers that he had mistakenly conjured and held them up for her inspection. "Look at these, Professor."
A confused look crossed her face. "Really, Mr. Potter," she said quietly, "This is quite inappropriate and as I recall you already have a girlfriend."
Harry was forced to shake his head and look from the Professor’s confused face to what was in his hand…a bouquet of red roses. Oh, damn.
Harry stammered, "This…Oh! No Professor…this, I mean, this is what happened when I tried to cast the spell," he blurted out amidst a furious blush.
Professor McGonagall’s brow raised in query, "Did you manage to miscast the spell as an amorous spell on yourself by accident, Mr. Potter?" she asked at barely above a whisper.
Harry’s entire face heated to resemble a Weasley at their best. "N-no Professor. This was conjured when I attempted the spell." Harry surreptitiously looked around to find, to his relief, that none of the students were paying him any mind.
Professor McGonagall had to struggle to maintain her stern face. The situation was just too comical, but years of dealing with intentionally and unintentionally humorous students had built a fabulous immunity to expressed emotions. After all, one Saint Valentine’s Day a straight-faced James Potter had presented her with a similar bouquet of red roses and a heart shaped box of Honeyduke’s Best without her ever breaking into the laughter that was threatening her inside. She was nearly certain at the time that it had been the result of a lost bet with Mr. Black.
To cover for the cracking façade that was surfacing in the corner of her lips, she turned to retrieve another dirt-laden pot from the table behind her desk. Professor Sprout had been gracious to supply many spare pots for Professor McGonagall’s sixth year students. By the time she returned to the emerald-eyed student with the pot her demeanor was that of a strict professor not an amused adult.
"Now, Mr. Potter," she said to the student, "Perform the spell again so that I may observe. Picture a pot of bluebells this time, if you will."
"Yes, Professor," Harry said. He concentrated on the image of the potted bluebells and pushed as he said, "Novota Florae."
From his wand, once again, sprung a fresh bouquet of wrapped roses, this time blue in color.
"Bloody hell," Harry exclaimed.
"Language, Mr. Potter."
"Sorry," Harry said sheepishly. "Looks like the only thing that I can change is the color of the bloom."
"Yes," she said. "I do not believe that I have ever seen quite that blue of a rose before."
"Well," said Harry, "You’re welcome to it."
"It would seem that you have been pranked again, Mr. Potter," she stated.
"It would seem," Harry said. "It was Fred Weasley this time. Caught me asleep in my bed in the dorm this morning."
She smiled at the humor in his voice. "I do believe that Albus has said that you have been practicing at putting more power behind your spells at will? Try putting as much force behind the spell as you can manage. This will, most likely, break the enchantment that has been placed on you."
"O-Kay," Harry said dubiously. He concentrated on something that he thought might help. Maybe if he were to picture a mixed color flower he would be successful. He decided on a pot of Harlequin Flowers, a mixed color bulb that his aunt had ordered through the mail in an attempt to best her neighbors in the unofficial ongoing neighborhood competition for the best yard. Harry slowly opened his reservoir for the spell, something that he would normally never do, but there was little chance of a bouquet of flowers killing or even severely harming someone.
Once his power was opened fully, he cast, "Novota Florae," to the surprise of the rest of the class. Where, before, they were not paying attention to anything but their own potential potted plants, they were now staring around them as the entire class was coated in thousands of roses in all colors and varieties. A four-foot deep layer of beauty covered the room with a rich, pungent smell of fresh roses. Albeit pleasant, the smell was almost enough to bowl you over.
"Mr. Potter," Professor McGonagall said, "I do believe that today you shall be excused from classes. Let us hope that the problem is routed by tomorrow. See me after this lesson concludes."
"Yes, Professor," he said only to be met with the background sound of several girls giggling.
The giggling was broken with the violent sound of someone sneezing. The sneezing continued as all eyes turned to one Draco Malfoy with his droopy eyelids, bloodshot eyes and beet red nose. He looked pathetically to the teacher in a moment of respite before continuing his sneezing.
"It would seem, Mr. Malfoy," Professor McGonagall said, "That you are allergic to rose pollen. Miss Parkinson, please escort Mr. Malfoy to the hospital wing for treatment."
A brief look of disgust crossed her face in nothing more than a brief glimpse before the sneering queen was back with a mask of compassion. She led him through the sea of roses on the way to the door. Their movement must have only stirred up more pollen, as he launched into a fresh bout of sneezes.
After a short bit of instruction, the class proceeded to vanish the flowers by the dozen. Covertly, several girls in the room set one or more bundles into their book bags for a purpose known only to them.
After consulting with the Professor, Harry discovered that he was still able to transform into his panther form, causing him to decide on a day of running and terrorizing any small woodland creatures that he could find in a snow covered glade hidden from the rest of the school by the Quidditch pitch. The day probably would end up rating better than most for the fun that he had exploring the instincts of the large cat.