Had to try it.

Into the Depths​

OoOoO​

Gringotts was burning.

People fled as the bank burned, the flames barely held in check by the combined efforts of Gringotts employees, human and goblin alike, and a group of Ministry officials whose numbers were growing by the minute. Dumbledore searched the Gringotts employees, looking for a familiar face, and felt his heart sink when he failed to spot Bill Weasley. He prayed that he had merely missed him but feared the worst.

He strode forward, inducing calm with his very presence, and drawing people to him in search of guidance. As a small command group gathered around him he inhaled deeply, tasting the scent of dark magic on the air.

“What happened?” he demanded of the highest ranking goblin, a gnarled old being whose ornaments marked him as a high ranking warrior.

The goblin spat something in his own tongue and Dumbledore paled.

“What did he say?” Kingsley Shacklebolt, the highest ranking auror present, asked. “What have the goblins done Albus?”

“He referenced an old goblin tale. A fable about the first goblins to settle in Britain. According to the story, they drilled to deeply in the depths of Gringotts, the early goblins did. Unearthed something they could not contain, were not ready for, until it was too late. They roused a creature of fire and shadow and Old Magic. It took Merlin and the goblins to seal the creature away but if I were to hazard a guess I would say that its prison has been broken open once again.”

“What creature is this?”

“A balrog.” The name didn’t provoke the fears that it should have. Tales of the Old World were just that to modern wizards, tales. Only a minority of wizards realised that the tales were born from fact not fiction.

“How do we kill it?” That was Dennis Creevey, Kingsley’s newest protégé. He had become a serious young man since the murder of his family and a talented dark wizard hunter, even if he had only begun his formal training relatively recently. Albus knew that if Kingsley had not taken him under his wing then the aurors would have been forced to hunt him.

“This foe is beyond any of you. Maintain the wards and contain it. It must be contained. I shall enter the bank and destroy it.” He hesitated. “Kingsley, contact Harry. If I fail he is one of the few people capable of the magic that can destroy the balrog.” A large enough group of lesser wizards working together could defeat the balrog, Albus knew, but the group would number in the dozens, possibly hundreds, and would suffer horrific casualties.

A worm of self-doubt entered his mind.

He wasn’t as young as he once was. His best years were behind him and he was acutely aware of the ache of a dozen old wounds. He wished Harry were at his side but the younger wizard was in France, tracking down Lucius Malfoy’s horcrux, under the cover of taking a post-war holiday. Anyone who knew him would spot the lie – Harry never stopped fighting – but those who knew him were few, reduced to a handful by the war.

“And contact the ICW. They need to know about this and they have the authority to summon my fellow Grand Sorcerers to deal with this menace.”

“We can help you,” Dennis protested.

“Yes you can, by maintaining the wards,” Dumbledore said, his tone brooking no argument.

“We’ll maintain the wards,” Kingsley said, shooting his subordinate a look that quelled any argument. “Good hunting Albus and good luck.”

“And to you my friend.”

Dumbledore breathed deeply and drew his wand, twelve and a quarter inch willow and dragon heartstring, excellent for charms and transfiguration. He strode forward, a tall, proud figure. The wards posed no problem, they were focused inwards, designed to contain the balrog, not stop someone from entering the bank.

The flames that had been spreading from the bank’s marble facade gave him a wide berth. He climbed the stairs and stepped into the bank in time to see the balrog break the back of a Chinese Fireball, one of the dragon’s that guarded the high security vaults. It hurled the carcass aside with terrible, casual strength and turned its eyes towards the new interloper.

It was a monstrous thing. It hunched to accommodate its height but its horned head still brushed the high ceiling, gouging the stone, while its wings were folded against its back. Rivers of fire ran through its body, generating sweltering heat. The destruction that it caused and its size made it easy to label the balrog as a mindless beast, a creature of destruction, but it was intelligent, it recognised Dumbledore for what he was. It saw beyond his frail exterior, saw the power that filled his frame, the strength that he possessed. It recognised his inner Light, knew him to be an enemy.

It spoke, a grating noise that sent a knife driving towards Dumbledore’s psyche, stopped only by his extensive mental protections. Dumbledore couldn’t understand the words but he guessed at the intent behind them.

“I shall not let you pass,” he said, stepping forward. “You will not pass,” he said with more strength.

It moved, striking at Dumbledore with a fist. A nimbus of power flared to life a foot from Dumbledore, stopping the fist cold. The wizard stabbed his wand forward and fired a blue bolt at the balrog, striking it in the chest. There was a moment where nothing happened, where the spell seemed to have failed.

And then the balrog began to scream.

Ice spread across the balrog’s body, turning fire to steam and black shadows grey. It slammed a hand against its chest and fire spread from its palm, melting the ice. When it drew its hand away the spell had been negated and the fire had become a sword. It looked for Dumbledore but his next spell had already been cast.

Thor’s Hammer, a concentrated blast of kinetic energy, hurled the balrog into a wall. If not for the sturdy construction of goblin-made buildings, and the magic imbued in the very foundations of the building, the shockwaves would have brought the roof crashing down. The effort of the spell made Dumbledore gasp.

He was getting old.

The balrog recovered quicker than he did and lunged forward, stabbing with its fire-sword. Dumbledore’s shield sprung to life in its path. Shield and sword met and exploded in a shower of broken magic. The shockwave buffeted Dumbledore and he stumbled, recovering too slowly to fully dodge the fire-whip that replaced the balrog’s destroyed sword. The very tip the fire-whip bit into his shoulder. The wound hurt, a lot, but worse than that was the fever-heat that swept through his body, inducing light-headedness and sickness.

A grating noise emerged from the balrog’s throat and it took Dumbledore a moment to realise that it was laughing. It was having fun. The Headmaster’s face twisted into a mask of concentration and he swept his wand through the air, summoning the Light within him and unleashing it with a word. The balrog’s laughter stopped as the Divine Light swept towards it. It crossed its arms over its chest in a brief protective gesture and then thrust its hands forward, sending shadow streaming from its palms. Light and Dark met and clashed before cancelling each other out.

Perspiration ran down Dumbledore’s face and he surveyed his opponent. Power, he decided, was not the way to defeat the balrog. He needed to fight smarter.

He slashed his left palm with his willow wand. He used the willing sacrifice of a small portion of his life-blood to animate the Chinese Fireball’s corpse. A normal animation charm wouldn’t have worked, not on a creature as magical as a dragon. Its broken back forgotten the Fireball hurled itself at the balrog, all furious claws and snapping jaws.

His enemy distracted for the moment Dumbledore turned his wand to the copious amount of rubble that littered the hall, bringing the pieces together to create a score of stone spearmen that flanked the Fireball and charged forward, unafraid of damage or destruction. With no fear of injury the Fireball was making a better showing against the balrog, opening wounds that dripped molten lava on its chest and arms, while suffering wounds that would have killed it had it been alive.

The balrog drew its fist back to cave in the dragon’s head but a strand of white light shot from the wall, ensnaring its wrist. It roared when a second strand of light caught its other wrist and both were drawn back, leaving its chest an open target. The dragon got in three good strikes before the balrog lifted its feet from the ground and grabbed it around the neck with the clawed limbs. It hurled the dragon aside using its feet and then stepped on the spearmen, destroying them all in one ground-shaking stomp.

Dumbledore hadn’t been idle while the balrog was occupied. He had broken remnants of magic that shored up the floor beneath his feet. It was just tarnished marble now and when the balrog stomped the spearmen he opened deep cracks across the floor. With a flick of his wand the bindings holding the balrog disappeared and the monster started towards him. Dumbledore smiled and flicked his wand once again and turned half the floor into fine rock dust.

The balrog fell fast, pulled down by its weight. Dumbledore knew what lay beneath its feet – the tunnels of Gringotts. The goblin had dug downwards for a long way, thousands and thousands of metres deep, some people said they’d dug their way to the centre of the Earth. The fall wouldn’t kill the balrog, Dumbledore knew, but it would hurt it enough to buy time for Harry to return from France, for his fellow Grand Sorcerers to gather, perhaps even enough that a group of lesser wizards could kill it.

Dumbledore turned away from the broken floor, intent on gathering the force that would be the balrog’s death blow. He never noticed the fire-whip that flickered through the rock dust until it ensnared his ankle and yanked him backwards. His wand tumbled from his fingers, falling down the shaft, and he scrabbled for purchase on the smooth marble floor for a brief moment before realising the futility of his actions.

Death had finally caught him.

He smiled.

Then he fell.

 

Fuck Yeah.

But... you butchered the "YOU SHALL NOT PASS" bit. :| Can't tell if intentional or not, though...

 

My first thought was HP/His Dark Materials, which makes a lot more sense given the second's multi-verse nature... and the dementor-like things.

 

Pretty sure it was intentional. No one fucks that line up accidentally anymore. And it makes a nice distinction between Gandalf and Dumbledore. Awesome job Alive :awesome

 

It was intentional. I did it for the same reason that I didn't have Dumbledore use the Sword of Gryffindor to fight the balrog (though I considered it) - he's Dumbledore not Gandalf.

 

My thought was HP/Discworld, with the Auditors of Reality.

Why don't we each write one? Anyone else interested?
Kthr, T3T, I'm game if you both are

 

I would, but I haven't read HDM in so long I'd get lost. Fuck. And it's a really good idea, too.

 

That would be awesome to see. Hope you guys do it!

Seeing as some of the challenges of late have been given more toward scale and satisfaction than the initial, limited lengths, I've decided to follow the trend.

Of drunken wizards and dragons.

"Another one?" Harry asked reluctantly, watching the title flicker out before the rising glow of the sun, high above the atypical Scottish village.

Ron groaned. "Harry, can't you just be satisfied and enjoy the film?" He asked in return.

Not in particularly, no, Harry thought, given we've seen just about every sword and sorcery muggle fantasy film since they first developed the art a century ago.

Aloud, he said, "How about something different next time? Something without a lumbering, flame-breathing beast?"

Neville spoke up before Ron could. "Does Godzilla count? I thought you didn't have anything against him, though..."

Harry brought up his bottle of butterbeer and chugged it down as he thought. Good on you, Neville, prodding a hole in my argument.

He was silent long enough for the other two men, one his fellow Auror, and the other a Professor at the school, to turn up the volume and begin playing the film again.

"Actually, Godzilla was more of an atomic-energy kind of monster. Nice try, but I'm not nursing a bottle of fire whiskey this time, guys." He interrupted with a soft smirk curving up the edges of his lips.

"Dammit, Harry!" Ron bellowed in frustration. "Fine! You pick out the film next time, you bloody arse!"

Harry leaned over and flicked his empty bottle into the bin next to the telly. "Agreed. Reign of Fire." He stated almost as soon as his best mate finished.

Both of the other men frowned at him, and Neville actually lit his wand with a quiet "Lumos," before asking, "Isn't that another film you despise?"

"No. At least they got the details right that time, I could almost swear they had a muggleborn from the Tournament on as graphic artist." He answered.

"Oi! Will you just conjure the fire whiskey and let us get on with this?" Ron interjected before the conversation could derail any further.

"Right-o, ol' chap." Harry mock-responded, already holding a pre-transfigured and shrunken bottle in one hand as he poured into a shot-glass held in the other.

With a grimace Ron pressed down on the play button and resignedly sank back into the couch.

O'T-O'T-O'T

Screams rent the air as fire and flame spread in thick, billowing streams across the low level hovels and otherwise pitiful looking shacks.

Dissolute squalor encompassed the low lying village in all its burning glory, and men, women, and children were snapped up into the surging rush of it all indiscriminately.

"Pass the bottle back, Neville," a quiet voice intoned at the same point as a great, red leather-winged beast descended from on high and spewed another torrent from its jowls.

"Ssh!" Another voice complained as the dying screams suddenly grew louder.

Almost unheard came the clink of glass brushing against alike before a bottle passed in front of the beasts nose.

"Harry!" The same voice as before bitched as the action before them suddenly and violently halted, then seemed to flow in reverse for several lengthy seconds until the obstruction was out of sight.

The initial speaker shrugged as he leaned forward and downed the remainder in one slow, loud gulp, straight from the neck.

An exasperated sigh rang out before the action halted once again.

"Look, Harry, if you want to get drunk off your arse, by all means. That's what these nights off are for. But at least cast a silencing charm on yourself so the rest of us can watch the movie in peace!" Neville, ever the mediator in these things, piped up for the umpteenth time that night.

Harry shrugged noncommittally, then brought up his old and worn holly wand, and a moment and two swishes later he mouthed something noiselessly at the other two on the blue couch.

Neville smiled wearily, then turned back to the third member of their troop and waited.

The large red lizard leaned down and snapped up a hastily crawling child between its ivory fangs, swallowing in two efficient crunches and a gush of blood spilling over the rugged lips.

O'T-O'T-O'T
​

Half an hour later and the second conjured bottle had finally penetrated his occlumency shields.

He watched as the lone survivor of the doomed village dove from the overhanging ledge of the cave and onto the back of the red scaled dragon's upper back, then as he grappled with a set of spines emerging from the sides of its neck for support, all the while struggling not to be spun off into what would surely be a fatal landing.

The action was sufficient for a muggle-made film, but compared to the real-life equivalents available throughout the world, it was a poor substitute.

And he would know, having done it before his eighteenth birthday in the middle of a large scale spell-assault inside of an underground cavern.

Compared to that, what the would-be-hero had just done was about the same as wrangling up an irritated Hippogriff; dangerous if you were lazy, but not of the same magnitude.

As the furious struggle continued on screen, his mind and the fierce ale lead him toward other thoughts regarding dragons, and in particular back to the time of his fourth year at Hogwarts.

A rough smile graced his lips as he remembered, briefly closing his eyes as the details came to mind a little hazily.

The sheer terror invoked at the Horntail's presence, bearing down menacingly over her nest of eggs and breathing out threads of sharp gray smoke; her yellowed eyes, narrow and fierce above the long maw, and the way they tracked his movements.

The exhilaration of racing among her spouts of brilliant, orange and yellow flame, and feeling the rush of scorched air press against his arms and face, weaving a deadly display of close calls and near misses.

And, of course, snatching the golden victory-egg from the heart of her nest and slipping past the whistle of talons, as long as his forearm, as they sank toward his unguarded backside.

Good times, he thought, as his eyes flickered back open, and he felt a disappointment ring in his heart as the dragon on the telly thrashed and spun the poor sap off, only to see the man dashed against the rocks below.

Something within him changed at the sight of it, kindling a desire to relive the sensation, to succeed where the character before him had just failed.

One too many muggle fantasy films had finally done the inevitable to his sense of reasoning, Harry thought through the light buzz of fire whiskey-- he was going to saddle and ride that bloody Horntail, even if it killed him.

And he knew just the man to contact to set the situation up.

O'T-O'T-O'T

"How in the hell did you convince me to go along with this, again?" Charlie Weasley asked quietly, well aware of the slumbering dragon a couple of hundred feet ahead of them and her abundantly sensitive hearing.

Harry shrugged. "Two failed Killing Curses, mate? Five encounters with Voldemort? Ten more years of hard Auror trials besides?" He answered.

Charlie grimaced. "You weren't drunk during any of those events, now were you?" He asked heavily.

"I'm a mean drunk, Charles. I'll firewhip her ass if she gets antsy, or Imperius. Don't look at me like that- I've contested Voldemort's mind enough times, I think I can handle whatever she has inside of that thick skull." Harry shot back, already leaving a low red trail in the dirt in preparation.

Charlie paused him with a hand on the left shoulder. "Harry, whatever this is, you shouldn't let it push you into going forward. You're too young for a mid-life crisis, but I can't honestly label it anything else."

Harry shrugged loose. "I've already been killed before, you know. The second time the curse hit me, in the forest. I'm not afraid of facing down the old man a third time."

Silence hung in the air between them at that for a long few seconds, before the other man sighed and hefted the leather harness in his other hand over one shoulder.

"She won't stay down for more than a few seconds once this touches her back, and I can guarantee you fire and claws are going to come the instant the straps reach her belly," he said. "You need to be up and running before that moment."

Harry grinned. "That the way to do it. Your count." He said.

"Don't make me have to write mum with your demise, Potter," Charlie ordered with a grimace, and at the fierce look he received, brought the saddle into the air with his wand and began to levitate it slowly forward.

"Three... two... one..."

Ten seconds later, the roar echoed off of the cavern walls and down among the hills for a half a mile around.

Atop it, the exhilarated screams of a young adult wizard, spanning much, much farther in the minutes ahead.

Fin.
​

Roughly 1500 words.

Also, the strange scene-breaker up there? A reference to this post

​

 

See, I was thinking a Reign of Fire cross for the Gringotts prompt and mid-life crisis!Harry for this one. Good job thou.

:awesome

I'm gonna need a prompt sometime soon. Something to kill my next weekend with.

 

Cant, have 2 essays due this week, some random code I have to cook up on Java plus figuring out how the hell will I control 3 servo motors with a pic in assembler due next week. And I still have a challenge in my name before I pick another up.

But yea, I have something in mind already. I'll see if I can find the time to write them both.

 

To all who want a challenge, check this post.

@Minhoto:
Take one from above or try this on for size:

@Zenzao:
Good one. Although, the scene-breaker is "the fuck?" :awesome

@T3T, Kthr:
You pussys. Or pussies. :x
Oh well we can try some other time, who knows.

Edit: Maybe we can make this a "One Prompt, X of us" contest, each picking one fandom to cross HP with? Anyone else interested?

 

Oh this is gonna suck so much. It'll be up by the end of the week, I still have a shit ton of writing to do for my classes.

Why would Moody care... never mind, I'll figure something out.

 

Eh, I kinda took a break in between those parts, must have forgotten. Proofreading fail.

Anyway, someone throw me another?

 

Thanks, minhoto, Oruma.

 

Maybe modify it to something else, like,

whichever you like.

 

Moody's eye might pop out because he (aka Crouch) put Harry's name in, not Malfoy's.

 

No, I made the mistake of making Malfoy the Hogwarts champion.

 

He hadn't meant to get drunk off his ass an hour before the first task of the Triwizard Tournament. Honest.

It had all started out innocently enough. Harry was sitting in the Gryffindor common room, thinking pensively on his upcoming battle. He'd been working feverishly on the summoning spell Hermione had taught him, but he wasn't entirely sure he could trust his firebolt to reach him before he was being picked out of a dragon's teeth.

It was there that Fred and George Weasley found him. Any pranks or mischief (mostly) fled from their minds at the bleak look on their champion's face. Both sat themselves down on an armrest and slung an arm around Harry's shoulder, joining all three in a manly side-arm hug.

"What's troubling you, Harry?" Fred asked. Harry turned startled eyes on both of them, before shrugging.

"It's nothing. I'm just having some doubts as to how I'm going to do." George tsked disapprovingly. Fred stood up and began to pace.

"Now that won't do. We've already got one Hufflepuff as champion, we can't have you turning your back to your Gryffindor roots." At Harry's confused gaze, Fred elaborated. "You need to stand strong, mate! Don't let something like a giant fire-breathing dragon dampen your spirits. You've gotta take home the gold."

"I agree with George, you can't go into this half-cocked Harry my boy." George nodded sagely, patting Harry's free shoulder. Harry didn't look convinced.

"I don't know. This isn't quidditch, guys. People die in these things." Fred waved his hand dismissively.

"Pffft. Only the losers. And you Harry, are no loser." Harry sighed and stood up, thanking them for their pep talk and heading for the portrait. Fred and George huddled together.

"This isn't good. He's got no confidence in himself." George murmured. Fred inclined his head.

"The big guns?"

"The big guns."

Harry had one foot out the door when he was roughly grabbed and sat back down in his chair. He angrily opened his mouth to ask just what the hell they were doing when Fred shoved a bottle in his hands. It had no label and was warm to the touch.

"What’s this?" He asked cautiously, unscrewing it and taking a whiff. He grimaced.

"That, my friend, is liquid courage." George said, grinning widely. Harry's eyes went wide.

"Like... a potion?" He asked in a hushed voice. George glanced sidelong at Fred, who shrugged ever so slightly.

"Uh, sure thing mate. Just make sure you take a stiff drink before the match and you'll be right as rain." And with that the Weasley twins departed from the common room, discretely slapping themselves a high five along the way.

Harry stared down at the potion uncertainly, unsure of whether he wanted to drink this mysterious liquid given to him by the Weasley twins. Then he remembered he'd be fighting a dragon in less than hour and knocked back as much as he could in one gulp.

It tasted worse than any potion he'd ever drunk before. He barely kept it down and it felt like liquid fire trailing down his throat. Besides a rather fuzzy feeling in his stomach he didn’t feel much of a change. So with a shrug Harry downed the rest of the bottle.

And suddenly he was king of the world. He jumped to his feet, a shit-eating grin on his face. Twirling his holly wand between his fingers he swaggered on out of the common room and towards certain victory.

OoOoO​

"What in Merlin's name is wrong with you Harry?" Hermione hissed in his ear. She'd embraced him only to find his breath reeked of firewhiskey. Harry's answer was to grab her bum in both hands and squeeze, pressing her body flush against his.

Hermione jumped back with a screech. Harry grinned at her shocked expression. He gave her a saucy wink and a thumbs up, striding away to join the other champions. She hurriedly exited the tent, her cheeks burning, silently wishing for him to survive the dragon. She had first dibs on his life.

Meanwhile, Harry was (rather successfully, actually) chatting up Fleur while he waited for his turn. When she left to fight her own dragon he stood around literally twiddling his thumbs and whistling a jaunty tune.

"Harry Potter!" A roar followed this statement. Harry couldn't tell if it was the crowd or the dragon it had come from. He jogged out into the light, blowing kisses to all the attractive girls in his line of sight. A rumbling growl caught his attention and he turned a suddenly shocked gaze on the Hungarian Horntail situated over a nest of eggs.

A shouted ‘Begin!’ started the task and Harry took a moment to admire the dragon in all its scaly glory. And then he had an idea. It was such an amazing idea that Harry couldn’t wait to rub in Hermione’s face the fact that he’d thought of it first. He flicked his wand and held his weapon of choice at the ready. He vaguely heard the gasps of shock from the crowd, but his attention was focused entirely on his future steed.

One too many muggle fantasy films had finally done the inevitable to his sense of reasoning, Harry thought through the light (Ha!) buzz of fire whiskey in a sudden moment of clarity-- he was going to saddle and ride that bloody Horntail even if it killed him.

Harry roared a challenge and leapt forward, a bit of accidental magic propelling him high into the air and onto the surprised dragon’s back. A timely sticking from the saddle to the dragon and himself to the saddle was all that kept him on board as the dragon reared on its hind legs, roaring furiously and belching flames. Harry whooped and slapped the dragon’s hide, knowing it had only just begun.

“Yippee Ki Yay, motherfucker!”

Needless to say, Harry was never allowed near liquor again.

OoOoO

​

AN: ... So there. (998 words)[FONT=&quot]
[/FONT]​

 

We're half-way through with these prompts, fellas.
---
A/N-0: All glory to DisposableHead.

Moody Eyes​

“Please, Auror Tonks, sir. I can explain about all the eyes.”

At least, that’s what Lee Jordan wanted to say. With What came out, though, was nigh incomprehensible. Then again, with a hand squeezing his throat and a wand halfway up his nose, it was rather understandable that the purple-haired Auror in question couldn’t make out what he was saying. What he intended, though, was fairly obvious, so Tonks released her grip on his neck slightly.

“Go ahead, but talk fast.” She said tersely.

Lee rubbed his throat and winced. The witch in front of him was a lot stronger than he expected.

“My friends own this shop called Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.” At the sound of the name the Auror exchanged a glance with her partner, a dark-skinned wizard with a large, good hoop earring she called ‘Shack’. He could only hope that it was something good. “They love making these joke items—which, I may add, are quite the fad these days—and I’ve been helping them out with materials and production. We’ve been mates since Hogwarts, see, and I have contacts in the muggle world, and some things are just cheaper to procure that way.”

“And that has what to do with the eyes, exactly?” The other Auror demanded.

“I’m just getting to that. They’ve been making these dolls about our professors, especially the DADA professor we had last year. They can’t use her name, of course, so they just called it ‘The Pink Cardigan’. They had the doll spouting phrases on educational decrees and docking points for not wearing pink and everything. It’s been so popular that the Weasleys had decided to expand on the product line to our other professors.

“You’re going to make a doll of Snape, Moody, and the others?” Tonks asked incredulously.

Lee couldn’t help grinning at her dumbfounded look. “Yeah, but we won’t be using their real names, naturally. Snape is going to be The Nose, Moody’s The Eye, and so on.

"Which brings me to these eyes I have in the box. Each professor doll is going to have a unique feature, and the one on Moody is going to be his fake eye. I’ve charmed these with a low-level seeking charm, like what you’d have on a sneakoscope or a Dark Detector. They’ll spin like mad—to match his nickname, Mad-Eye, see?—and if things go really wild the eye will pop out of the socket.”

The other Auror, Shack, shot Lee a look and picked up one of the tiny eyes. Putting it in the center of his palm, he watched as the eye spun around, until it fixed itself on Lee. Tonks glared at Lee again, who chuckled nervously. “Anything else you want to share with us?”

“Hmm, ha, well…” Lee secretly cursed as the tiny blue-pupil eye as well as the two Aurors fixed their gaze resolutely on him. “If you shout his catchphrase, Constant Vigilance, the Moody doll’s eye will pop out immediately? The louder you shout it, the farther it flies?”

Tonks narrowed her eyes. The dark-skinned ex-Gryffindor gulped.

“All right,” She finally said, lowering her wand. Lee let out a sigh of relief. “Here’s what I think. You can explain to our team leader about the box and the eyes, and if he lets you off this time, then you’re off.” She pointed him in the direction of a wizard some distance away. “Go!”

It took all of Tonks’ self control to not burst out laughing, as Lee Jordan grabbed his box full of tiny eyes and ran toward the Auror team’s leader. Kingsley Shacklebolt was openly grinning, however.

“You evil, evil witch, Tonks.” He said. Even at this distance, they could hear Lee Jordan’s girly scream as he found himself face-to-face with the Auror team leader, Alastor ‘Mad-Eye’ Moody. “Remind me to never, ever make you angry, alright?”

“No promises, Shack,” Tonks said, and flicked the tiny toy eye away. “So you'd do well to apply Constant Vigilance.”

Fin​

---
A/N-1: Clocked at 660 words, about 1 hour.
---
Stage EX: A mini story.​

The ragged-looking man couldn't believe what he was seeing.​

"Bloody Dementors?" Sirius asked, looking out over the battlefield. "I wind up in an entirely new world of magic, and some fucker has still managed to introduce Dementors to this plane of reality? Really?"​

"Dementoids?" Jacob asked, confused. "Those are Vampires, sir."​

"Vampires aren't supposed to sparkle in the sun, you know," Sirius shook his head. "Granted, neither would dementors, but that feeling of despair and hopelessness? Definitely Dementors. Trust me, kid, I know."​

"If you say so, sir." Jacob replied. ​

Sirius gave the man--the werewolf--a look. He tried, he really tried, but he just couldn't bring himself to like young Jacob. On the other hand, he had been perfectly polite and at least less disturbing than that Edward fellow... or the necrophiliac... he shuddered at the memory.​

Maybe he should just break out the AK and kill them all, Sirius thought as he drew he wand. Who knows? He's growing to like his adopted world, and he should do some thing for it.​

"Oh, Jacob?"​

---​

A/N: Sirius saves the world.​

 

Realllly funny, Oruma. Nice!