Fade to Black

By Perspicacity

At a café near the corner of Untoward and Diagon, a stunning, thirty-something blonde sips from a cup of lukewarm tea. She's awaiting instructions from one who's nominally above her on the org chart, the great 'hero,' Hermione Granger, she of the morally unblemished and insufferably sanctimonious side of the Ministry, the officious hangers-on, the gung-ho line-toers, those who are, at best, borderline intolerable.

A flick of her wand reveals the time. Granger's sixteen minutes late. Scratch the 'borderline.'

"Blue-category mission my arse," she mutters to herself, confident in her security charms. She'd been trained by the best, after all. "You'd think there might be a spot of urgency if the world were coming to an end."

A quiet ping on her proximity charm signals an apparition. She looks up as Hermione Granger walks toward her briskly. She appears to be under a bit of stress, her hair a bit more out of place than the norm, and is wearing her formal robes as Ministry Under-Undersecretary.

Curious. Little Granger's been chatting up the Minister.

"Clearwater." Her voice is clipped.

"Granger."

"I apologize for being late," she says, sliding the chair back and sitting slightly gracelessly.

Penelope waves away the apology. "No bother, it gave me the opportunity to enjoy this splendid tea—and I do so much complement you on your choice. And I must say, you're looking… nice."

"Spare me the sarcasm. The Ministry thanks you for acting on such short notice. We have a mission for you."

"I should think that would be rather obvious, given the circumstances."

"I suppose it would. I assure you, it's not a difficult or overly dangerous mission, not in the traditional sense, just aggravating, singularly so."

"Not overly dangerous, but somewhat so?"

"Possibly."

"And aggravating seems an apt descriptor for most missions my office handles."

"I suppose it would. But in this case it's the company."

"I see." She swirls her tea, waiting for Granger to continue. There's a pregnant pause as the two women, who mutually dislike one another, sit in silence.

Clearwater soon tires of the younger witch's dancing about the point, though she doesn't show it openly as it wouldn't do to reveal more of one's feelings than is strictly necessary, not in her line of work.

"Oh? Do tell."

Penelope's wand appears in her hand, as if summoned there, and her demeanor shifts just so as she grins predaciously at her purported 'superior.' Primal, reptilian-brain synapses fire and Granger shifts in her seat, feeling a moment of discomfort, as if reminded subconsciously that she's attempting to order about one of the most dangerous witches on the planet.

Granger recovers from her moment of insecurity and clears her throat. "Do you recall my schoolmate, Harry Potter?"

Penelope snorts. "I think the whole world might. Techy thing, Dark Lord killer, dreamy eyes, a bit mad…"

"I'm requesting—and please understand that I've cleared this through the highest channels—that you accompany him."

"On a mission?"

"Not quite; on a holiday."

"Ah, an escort mission. You have a read on a probable assassination attempt?"

"No assassins. We require simply that you to accompany Harry on his holiday."

"Is this some kind of a joke?"

"It's no joke, I assure you."

"Something doesn't add up. What you're describing isn't blue category, so it's not appropriate for my office." She starts to stand. "I'd ask that you don't waste our bloody time, Granger. We're professionals, not bed-warmers for glory-hound ex-fiancés."

"Don't be crude and do sit down. Please understand that it's Harry's unique brand of luck to get into all manner of trouble. He's always been like that, even in our Hogwarts days, and he's never had a proper holiday. While you may think he's off to do something benign, even a trip to the corner shop for Harry inevitably ends with him having to rescue the world from a Lovecraftian horror or some such."

"And you think something like that is likely to happen on this holiday?"

"The odds favor it, yes."

"There's something you're not telling me."

"There is, but you're not cleared to know more."

Curious. She sets her wand on the table and draws a two-toned SIG-Sauer P230 in her left hand. With a metallic slide-click, she eases a magazine into the grip.

"Fine. But if I'm to fuck him, you're paying double."

The sour expression on Granger's face is priceless. Perhaps there's something to the rumors of her still carrying a torch for her friend? Penelope almost resolves to go through with it, if just to see that expression again.

"Agreed," Granger says waspishly, "and I've no doubt given your, ahem, reputation, that my office should budget for it."

She raises an eyebrow and Granger flinches again. "Of course, if I'm forced to kill him, you'll never find the body."

"I'd ask that you please don't."

"And I'd ask that you please don't tell me how to do my job. I am rather good at what I do."

"And I'd ask that you recall that as Under-Undersecretary, I've the authority to have you assigned to liaison duty with the Centaurs."

"And I'd… You know what? Just fucking die, Granger. And tell me where I can find Potter."

The door shuts loudly behind her as she enters the pub and finds the place empty save for the greatest Wizarding hero in the world, who has his back to her as he polishes glasses from behind the bar with a white towel.

"Sit wherever you like."

She chooses a spot by the bar and slides onto the chair, picking up a menu. She's dressed to kill, literally, a dark green cocktail dress hiding pistol, stiletto, and wand.

"The Pub at the End of the Universe. I never took you for an Adams fan."

He turns to her, amused. "I'm not. Why do you ask, Penny?"

"Let me guess: Granger chose the name?"

"Got it in one." He vaults the bar in a fluid, practiced motion, and sits next to her, learning back on the counter. "How have you been? I haven't seen you in years."

"Well enough, ever since I ditched the idiot." She takes the menu he offers. "Yourself? I hear you're off on holiday soon?"

He freezes and his smile vanishes. "Who told you that?"

"Who do you think?"

He runs his hand through his hair. "I could say, 'Hermoine, the meddling bint who just can't leave things alone,' but that'd be redundant. Let me guess, you've been asked to be a 'security detailee' or something equally silly?"

"Apparently, though if you ask me, I rather doubt you'd need it."

"You're right. I suppose I wouldn't mind some company, especially that of such a beautiful and deadly woman. My last companion was somewhat less in both respects, and, of course, she wouldn't shut up, which made things awkward as I found myself quite incapable of listening."

"Granger?"

"Ah, that'd be telling. Are you still with The Department Of-Which-We Cannot-Speak?"

"I really can't tell you that either," she says with a slow smile.

"Or you'd have to kill me, yes. But in all seriousness, I don't need the company. Not for a run-of-the-mill adventure, at any rate."

She winks at him. "Perhaps with the right company it might be less run-of-the-mill?"

"With you, my dear, I couldn't imagine it being anything other than extraordinary." He takes her hand and plants a gallant kiss upon the back of her knuckles.

"If you don't mind my asking, where are we going?"

"Now? To the cellar. Have you chosen a wine?"

She looks at the menu in her hands and her eyes slide down, as if guided, to an entry that looks surprisingly interesting. "A glass of Château McGuffin '99, please."

"Ah, tricky to find, that bottle. Care to assist? I can promise you that this cellar is not a sight to be missed." He offers a hand and she feels oddly obliged to follow. They pass down a narrow, winding stairwell lined with ancient bricks. At the bottom, they duck beneath a lintel, the light cast by her Lumos revealing that it's covered in ancient carvings. She feels the briefest moment of lightheadedness…

And then she awakens to oppressive desert heat as her hair is pulled back sharply. A brown-skinned man holds a knife beneath her throat.

A crowd surrounds them. Arabic men in white thobes and keffiyehs shout in a tongue she doesn't understand. A whispered translation charm and she is shoved roughly downward, landing on hands and knees.

"Infidel!"

"Witchcraft!"

"Stone the witch!"

She wonders if not knowing the words might have been better.

She tries in vain to Apparate away, but an invisible force prevents her. The crowd rouses and she struggles as men rush toward her, grabbing her arms, pulling them behind her. She's hoisted into the air. She kicks at one of her captors, catching him in the chin with her heel, and he responds with a dizzying strike to her face with his fist. She blinks and starts kicking some more.

"Let me down!" She catches the eyes of a woman in a black abaya, who turns away, stepping behind a broad-shouldered man.

She's thrown into the side of a building and the crowd backs up, giving a semi-circle of space. After a moment's respite, there's a cry and a fist-sized rock flies toward her. She flicks her wand, having miraculously kept hold of it, and causes the stone's trajectory to shift. The screams intensify, calling for her death. More rocks and she is forced to put up a shield, a semi-opaque, shimmering barrier stopping the stones behind a wave of force.

A drop of blood rolls down the side of her face from where her head was struck upon the wall.

The crowd quiets as a man with a wide sword pushes to the front of the crowd. He's flanked by an official, who turns to the crowd.

"Cease this at once!" The man fires a handgun into the sky. Then, he turns the handgun to her and snarls to the man with the sword, "Behead the infidel."

The crowd cheers raucously.

"Wait! There's been a mistake! I don't even know why I'm here or what I've done!"

She starts to cast a spell, but a bullet crashes into the stone near her head. She backs away from the man with a sword, scrambling back against the wall.

An engine revs loudly and an automotive horn plays 'Spirit of Dixie.' Seconds later, a yellow Ferrari screeches to a spinning stop as the crowd rushes to get out of the way. A door opens, rotating upward, and a corpulent man manages, after a bit of effort, to stand after sliding out of the low car. He's decked in gaudy gold jewelry. He raises his arms to the executioner as he walks forward.

"Burhan, my old friend!" The man speaks in a booming voice.

"I do not know you," the official says.

"Brother, what are you doing with my wayward wife?"

"This filth is guilty of appearing in public without proper attire and for practicing witchcraft. You must know that the penalty is death."

"I am no wife of yours," Penelope hisses.

The man turns to the official, who raises an eyebrow.

"She cannot help her insolence," the wealthy man says, then stage whispers, "She's American." He turns his head toward Penelope. "Silence, woman, and cover yourself," he growls raising a hand, as if to strike her, and she stands, defiant, a drop of blood dripping off her chin. The man throws a black garment at her and in her mind she hears a voice. Keep calm. And get ready to get in the car.

"Harry?"

The man winks at her.

"Stand aside so that she can receive her punishment. We must follow the holy ways."

"Please, let us not be hasty. I assure you she is a good, Muslim wife, if somewhat spirited." He starts counting $100 bills from a large roll and says over his shoulder, "Put the bloody garment on, now!"

The man takes the money, counting it, and then raises his gun, pointing it at Harry. He motions for the rest of the roll of bills.

Harry tosses them up into the air, where they scatter in the wind. The crowd rushing forward to grab them and there's a sudden explosion of sound and light that leaves the crowd frozen in place.

Penelope opens her eyes as she feels a tug upon her arm.

"Get in."

She rushes to the door. "Where'd you learn that spell?"

"Dumbledore, fifth year." Harry slides into the seat and revs the engine; the tachometer racing past 8000 RPM and they rocket backward, slamming through the tables and blankets of the suq, then accelerating forward, throwing her back into the seat. When she looks at the driver, Harry's removed his Glamour.

"Where are we?"

"Riyadh."

"How?" They narrowly miss an old Toyota pickup with several men on back, who yell at them as they pass.

"No idea."

"How'd you know to find me?"

"Does it matter?"

"What do you mean does it matter? Of course it matters! How did we get here?"

"You said you were up for an adventure, and not some plain, run-of-the mill thing. Haven't you seen a Bond film? This is just the setup. In media res, it's not supposed to make any sense. Besides…"

A racing motorcycle pulls beside them. The rider fires an automatic rifle into the side of the car, peppering it with bullets. Harry swerves left, than takes a hard right down a narrower street.

"We're about to move into a chase sequence, which traditionally seems to remove all need for logic. Here, take the wheel a moment."

She grabs it as Harry breaks the window outward with his elbow, as it's been shattered by bullets. He leans out the window, rapid-firing blasting curses behind them. One catches the front petrol tank of one of the the motorcycles, causing it to explode in an improbably large burst of fire. More gunfire barks out behind as Harry slides back inside, retaking the steering wheel, driving more wildly than before. He gestures for her to take the wheel again.

"This makes no sense. Who are they?"

"Mindless goons who always die in the chase scene. Now bear right, take us up to the straight-away so we can lose them." He fires a few more curses, and one of then causes a lorry to swerve into and over a motorcyclist.

She obliges, bottoming out the vehicle in a flurry of sparks as they hit the ramp at over 100 miles per hour.

Harry takes the wheel and accelerates, fishtailing as motorcycles attempt to pull up beside him. The two remaining bikers drop behind and their riders raise their automatic rifles.

Harry pops the roof, which rips off, slamming into the men and preciptating a violent crash. A taxi swerves suddenly into their lane and Harry jerks the wheel sideways, causing them to slide sideways, scraping against the concrete barrier as they pass.

A moment later, they are in the clear, barreling down the highway at over 200 miles per hour, the car smoking badly beneath the bib.

Penelope jams her wand into Harry's torso. "Now you're going to tell me what's going on, how we got here, why we're here, or so help me…"

"Not just yet, love."

A fighter jet screams overhead, firing missiles at the road. There's an explosion of dust and broken concrete shatters the windshield. Harry slams the brakes, sliding the car sideways into a stop as the plane, a Eurofighter Typhoon bearing the coloring of the Royal Saudi Air Force, turns about for another pass.

"Do you trust me, love?"

"Fuck no."

"Too bad." He unshrinks a Firebolt, grabs her hand, and the two streak upwards a fraction of a second before a missile strikes the car, destroying it in a fireball.

They continue to streak upward as the plane passes beneath, the twin jet engines screaming.

"We have to leave the perimeter and get clear of these charms blocking our exit."

"Apparition?"

"Portkey too. It's why it took so long to find you."

They've gone more than a mile above the ground and the Typhoon pilot has apparently drawn a bead on them. Tracer bullets streak below in a phosphor-white, glowing arc that draws close.

Too close.

They have only a few seconds.

"This should do it. Portus."

She feels a familiar tug beneath her navel.

And then an unfamiliar, sideways one.

"Fuck."

She opens her eyes when the world stops spinning. It's dark and wet and they're in an odd sort of glass half-sphere deep beneath the water. A tiger shark swims overhead.

"Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. We meet again." A glowing, ghost-like projection of a man stands there. He has angular features, his face drawn and severe, with a trimmed, pointed beard. His left eye is covered in a patch and a scar runs from his forehead to his chin. His right is squinted, giving one the sense of a half-blinded rat.

"I'm sorry," Harry says, rubbing the back of his head. "You must know I'm really bad with names. And you are?"

"Don't play stupid, Mister Potter."

"Ah, yes, Omar the Accountant. Mate, how've you been? Still balancing those spreadsheets?"

"I'll have the location of the shard, Mr. Potter, or your precious invisibility cloak will be taken from you… forever!"

"I haven't the faintest clue what you're talking about. And the cloak is worthless in your hands because I'm its master and it only works for me. And, well, Snape that one time in the Shrieking Shack. And, well, Dumbledore used it off and on, as did Ron and Hermione. Oh, and… uh, well, I just shot down my argument didn't I?"

"Find the shard, Potter." The apparition vanishes.

"Wow, looking a bit wan, man. Might want to try stepping into the sun once in awhile."

"He's gone, Harry."

"Damn, I always think up the best lines after they leave. 'Wan man' is pretty good for spur-of-the-moment, don't you think?"

"I've heard better." Penelope says. "What now?"

"Now we wait. The berk will make his next move, we counter, and then it's game on in an increasing series of challenges until the climax. So, enjoying your adventure?"

"Not particularly. For me, a good day usually doesn't entail being threatened with a beheading."

He shrugs. "For me, that's just Tuesday. Besides, you were the one who used magic in the capital of Wahabbism as, you know, they sort of stone you for witchcraft there." He sits down gingerly, in obvious pain. "So why'd you take Granger's job?"

"Here, let me look at that." She touches her wand to his back, magically tugging shards of glass from the flesh. A wave causes the wounds to glow blue for a moment, then to close. "Curiosity, for the most part. And I got a bit tired of listening to her natter on. Who knows? Maybe I just wanted to see what a man like you gets up to. So where are we now?"

"An undersea lair or prison of some sort, it's not really important. Since we were brought here magically, it looks like there's no obvious way out, just a flimsy hull that ol' Omar can collapse and drown us whenever he feels up to it. I wouldn't put it past him to do so at some point in the next several minutes." He stands, testing out his back, and smiles at her, offering his arm, which has some more shards of glass embedded. "Well, nothing for it. At least it's away from the hustle and bustle, the price of fame and all that."

"You run a pub," she says drily.

"When I feel up to it, which isn't so often anymore. And it's not really a pub, actually, more of a drinking club—you know the type, smoking room, paneled veneer, invite only, very posh. Built it on a nexus."

She finishes patching up Harry's wounds and turns her neck toward him so he can reciprocate. "A nexus? To where?

"Ah, that's the question, innit?" He opens his wallet and reaches into the expanded space, pulling out a bottle. "Care for a club soda?

"Have you anything stronger?"

He shakes his head and starts attending to her wounds. His fingers gently probe the gash on her forehead.

"Don't you work in a pub?"

"I've not touched the stuff, not since proposing to Granger after getting blackout blotto. Woke up the next day naked next to her with a magically binding promise and had to metaphorically (or maybe not so metaphorically) gnaw off my own magical arm to get out of it. This is going to sting, by the way. I'm as good with healing charms as you."

"I'll manage." She winces as he closes her wound. "So, you and the encyclopedia, still a thing?"

"Why, are you interested?"

She sends him a withering look.

"We were never a thing, not in the proper sense, at least when I was sober. It was hardly the stuff of a relationship to only be able to tolerate the other party when inebriated. Here, I'm going to try something."

He stands and casts a spell at the glass overhead, which does nothing. Then the wall starts creaking ominously.

"Hmm. Not good."

There's a sharp crack and a slow dribble of water starts down the interior of the half-sphere.

"Find anything?"

"Just hmming. So what's your angle? Weren't you resigned to being Percival's upwardly mobile bit of arm candy?"

"I'd rather not talk about it. Suffice it to say that we were different people who grew to be rather more different than we thought."

She stands and casts her own detection spell. She follows the gentle tug on the tip of her wand.

"Fair by me, his loss. For someone so brilliant, Perce is a daft idiot."

Her spell pings loudly.

"You're good at this. Better than me."

"I'm better than you at a lot of things, Potter. It appears to be a dimensional distortion of some sort. And let's please not talk about Percy. I'm not bitter, just bored with the topic."

"Got it; Ixnay on the Erce-pay. And I can understand, seeing how Ministry-Hermy became even more insufferable after working there. There's something about that place that just sucks the soul out of whoever works there. I swear, it's how they got the idea to make Dementers."

"The Ministry made Dementers?"

"I'm just saying it wouldn't surprise me if they did."

"I'll remind you that I still work for the Minstry."

"Ah, but you're the sidekick. Sidekicks get to be plucky and spirited."

"How do you know that you're not the sidekick?"

"Trust me, I know." His is a thousand-yard stare.

"So what is your story with Granger?"

"Not much of one; you know the high points now. And as of now, I'm just a man on a quest—with a beautiful woman, thanks to Hermy."

"Does the bitch know you call her that?"

"Oh, she does, she hates every minute of it and, by extension, me quite thoroughly. Though leaving her at the altar might have contributed somewhat."

"Congratulations on that, by the way. I think it may have been the first time I've ever seen her at a loss for words. And the quest, is this about the shard?"

"That's the thing, I don't really know, though that's hardly surprising. I never do until I need, as that's part of the way things work in an adventure. I'm sure what we need to do has something to do with Omar's shard, but bugger if I know. I will, of course, in time. We've got to feed a bit of story-line first, build some rapport between hero and sidekick, share some backstory, then I'll learn that I need to go slaughter a race of pan-dimensional beings made of eyeballs and tentacles; or, maybe rescue a buxom accountant's assistant from a life-threatening audit; eat the last Klondike bar; save a cat. It's different every time yet somehow the same." He touches her cheek with his fingertips. His eyes are warm.

"So we're trapped in a story?"

"What is a story? What isn't?" It's such obvious rubbish, yet he seems so earnest.

"Real life isn't. Real life is ugly and people hurt and hurt one another. And life goes on."

"While's there's rarely a credit reel at the end, life is a story when we tell it. I'd say the line between is blurrier than you might think. And I'll remind you, I built the pub on a nexus."

"And the story this time?"

"Dunno, but seeing as you're the side-kick, that means you'd better start side-kicking."

She leans in, as if to kiss him, and kicks him hard in the shin.

"Ouch, woman. I should have seen that coming."

"Who's Omar?"

"Tall guy, dark wizard, villain, looks the part, sort of your generic stand-in sociopath. Every proper story needs a villain and we have Omar."

"You seemed to know each other. Why does he call himself 'The Accountant?'"

He looks at his watch. "We're getting a bit much into exposition here, telling rather than showing; let's shelve that question as the action's going to ramp up soon."

"Fine." She draws her wand.

"So, what'd you order again back in the bar? That's usually a good foreshadowing of how things will play out."

"Didn't you hear?"

"I never can, something about the proximity of the nexus and my fate as its guardian. I just knew I had to go to the cellar for some reason."

"A glass of Chateau McGuffin."

Harry titters. "Really? Oh Merlin. And with a straight face too. So I guess we have a chase-after-something quest. I just have to locate the whatsit, do a nasty boss fight, badda-bing, badda-Buddha, and Bob's your fat uncle. Well, pull up your knickers, enough down time, things are about to ratchet up."

The area near the dimensional portal starts to glow faintly. There's a grinding noise and Harry moves to the other side of the dome, Penelope moving to stand by his side. There's another loud crack and more water starts dripping into their chamber.

An eldritch being slithers through a hole that appears in space.

"Confringo." Harry's jagged, yellow blasting curse crashes into the thing, exploding a crater on its surface, which oozes back into place.

"I have to say, this is about a four on the suck scale," Penelope says. A second being squeezes through the portal before it closes. She casts a freezing charm at the other horror; it's ineffective. "Make that a six."

"Only a six? Wake me when we're at eleven. By the way, try physical damage." He pulls a couple of claymores from the shrunken space inside the wallet, tosses her one, and leaps ahead, slashing at the horror and hacking a large chunk of slime off.

She tucks her wand into the holster on her leg and grabs her handgun. Three shots strike in a tight pattern. She follows with stabbing deep into the muck with the claymore.

"Um, love, you may not want to shoot that thing in here. What if you miss?"

She smirks. "I never miss."

Harry's creature morphs suddenly into red-haired being, one with freckles. The beast begins to speak in a plaintive voice. "Why, Harry? Why did you leave me? I wanted your babies. Lots and lots of Weasley grandbabies for Mum to spoil."

He stabs a jagged hole in the Ginnymonster's face, gummy grey matter geysering up onto the dome. The hole in her head seals again, slowly.

"Harry, honey," it slurs, "please… Come back. I'll even learn to swallow."

"Really?"

"Of course not really, that's nasty." Ginny swipes at him with a tentacle.

"Got your hands full, Potter?"

"Hardly. Besides, speaking of hands full…"

Penny's monster morphs into a tentacled version of Percy, who scolds his sister. "That's enough of that, Ginny. It's improper to speak of such matters in public."

He turns to Penelope. "Miss Clearwater, I still don't see why you can't be more amenable to a strategic rapprochement to facilitate our advancements in the Ministry. We were Head Boy and Girl and would go far in the Ministry were we to present ourselves as a proper couple."

She hacks off one of its legs, though it slithers on its own back to its body.

"A proper couple? Please." She hacks an arm off. "Harry, what are these things?"

Harry slashes at his creature, then headbutts it, causing it to stumble backward. It oozes into a puddle, then re-forms as his ex, arms akimbo.

"An Omar specialty, Luna calls them Hermiones. Apparently, they're like Boggarts, only they turn into our most regrettable relationships."

"Hermiones?"

"I didn't care to ask."

"What are their powers?"

He lands a spinning downward slash on Ginny, knocking the creature to her knees and splashing warm goo from the shoulder wound.

"To annoy, mostly, but on the bright side, they're great stress relievers. Just don't…"

"Ridikulous!"

"Cast that spell."

Creature-Percy's slimy tentacles writhe agitatedly as his face flushes with arousal. With a sticky sound, they wrap around Penelope's torso, drawing her close, the sudden motion causing her to lose her grasp on her wand.

"Harry? Some help please?"

Percy leans in to kiss her cheek. The peck leaves a snail-track of slime dripping down her neck. She forces herself not to look down, but the rhythmic pressure feels like he's starting to hump against her leg.

Harry jabs at his foe, laughing. "Ooh, look at you, Penny, rocking the slime thing."

She knees her captor, which doesn't seem to do anything. Then the Percy creature starts licking her ear, coating it in thick mucus.

"Some help, please?"

Harry says to Ginny, "Sorry, love, but there's this thing I have to do."

She gives him a watery look. "You called me 'love.'"

"I know. But I just don't feel that way about you. Darling, please believe me, it's not you, it's… well, yeah, it's you, totally you. Bye now."

He slices through her vertically, dispelling the creature into a puddle of slime.

"Harry? Get this thing off of me!"

"You sure? It seems like it's doing a pretty fair job of getting off on it's own…"

"Harry, I will kill you."

"Fine." He kicks the creature off Penelope and dispels it with a vicious slash.

"Gah." She wipes slime from her forehead. "So now what?"

"That was too easy. I expect we'll now have a quick beat, maybe some snappy dialog, and then a moment of abject terror. Oh, and we're going to have to loot the corpses since the first confrontation always leads to a proper clue. What kind of adventure would this be otherwise?"

"A sane one?"

"That's the spirit."

"You're impossible."

"And you're covered in slime. Go see if you can find Percy's Lloyds card or something. I'm going to look through this." He starts rifling through Ginny's handbag, tossing items over his shoulder. "Okay, a woman thing, another woman, a third woman thing—Merlin, how many of these do you need at a time? A condom, a tin of Tic Tacs... Aha!"

He holds up a ring.

"My dearest fiancée's engagement ring. This is a key, no doubt. "

"My, it sure looks like a key, that ring. Very keylike."

"It has a sense of keyness, yes."

"Right. A key to what?"

"To my fiancée's heart. Merlin, woman, what kind of callous bloke do you take me for?"

She points her wand at his crotch. "One who's going to be a penis-less one in a moment."

"Okay… talk about skipping all the subtlety and nuance. You're really aren't much into this sidekick thing, are you?"

A spell flies his way, ricocheting off the dome, causing another crack overhead.

"Better. But we're short on time. It's a clue, obviously, since why would a slime beast have a diamond ring? Or a purse, for that matter? The out of place item is always a clue. Onward!"

"To the McGuffin?"

He opens his wallet and pulls out a towel and some soap.

"To your cleaning yourself up. Seriously, woman, you're letting yourself go, lying with the worst sorts, covering yourself in their bodily fluids, what would prim and proper Percy say?"

"I think we heard what he'd say. And you?"

"I'm going to work out the clue. How about you clean yourself up and I'll take this relative moment of calm and find out more. Knowing how these stories go, nothing important should happen until you're ready."

He sets the ring in his hand and mutters some identification spells. Nothing.

Penelope runs her hand through her hair. It comes back covered in stringy, greenish gunk. Cleaning up does seem the right thing to do.

"Any luck?" she asks. She's clad in a white robe and is brushing her hair, her wand puffing up her coiffure with a dry air charm.

"Nada. Nice transfiguration on the robes."

"I was tops in my year at Hogwarts. Is there any reason you own a Harry Potter hairbrush?"

"I can have anything I want, can't I? I'm the Boy Who Lived."

"A hairbrush that's a likeness of yourself? Tell me you see at least something wrong here…"

"I learned from my hipster godson that I am allowed to own anything I want, provided I own it ironically."

"Right. Keep telling yourself that."

He looks at the ring in his hand.

"Hmm. I wonder…" He reaches into his wallet and pulls out a shimmering cloak.

"You carry an invisibility cloak? The one Omar spoke of?"

"Do you know the tale of the Three Brothers?"

"That's one of the Deathly Hallows?"

"Of course not, love. I left that at home, though it looks like Omar's broken my security charms. No, this is just a run of the mill invisibility cloak, Mundugus Fletcher's from the war, worth maybe a small fortune on an insane day, not an insane one on a small day. But there's this little trick I learned you can do with them that reverses the concealing charm…"

He turns the cloak inside-out, wads the fabric in his hand and places the ring inside.

"Quintessentia Revelo."

The cloak glows violet for a moment, then fades into vapor, leaving a small, dark stone in his hand. The ring has changed.

"Odd."

"What is it?"

"The last time I'd seen this, I'd given it the heave-ho in the Forbidden Forest. I was rather hoping it'd stay lost this time."

"Is that?"

"Yep, the Resurrection Stone. That, my dear, is a Hallow."

There are several loud cracks and torrents of water rush in.

"And that would be our moment of abject terror."

They're atop a mountain in the Austrian Alps overlooking a small village of ski chalets and rental shops.

Harry takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, admiring the view. "This works. Penny, be a dear and put up a perimeter, please?"

"Why are we here again?"

"Scenery. And symbolism. We're on top of the world. What better place to start drunk-dialing the dead."

As Penelope starts laying the intricate charm work, Harry chatters on, "The spirits are the key, of course. Usually, if the Resurrection stone shows up, it means someone on the other side is keen on making contact. I find it's a good idea to hear them out… Unless, that is…"

"Unless?"

"Unless they're Snape, in which case, fuck him. Seriously, fuck him sideways."

He turns the Stone three times in his hand.

"Okay, big, spirity spirits, hit me with some juicy plot intrigue!"

"Merlin, you're an idiot."

"An attractive one, admit it."

She rolls her eyes.

A spirit rises from the earth, a woman clad in a white, gossamer film, a slender circlet upon her forehead. As Penelope watches, the being tells a story of a rising horror, one of the ancient ones from before the founding of the world made to sleep in a distance place. She tells of a scepter crafted by the Wizard Asheton, shattered in battle with an ancient one, of fragments of the scepter distributed among a secret order of knights, each sworn to protect the secret. Only one shard remains lost, last seen in a temple on the Isle of Drear, guarded by quintapeds. The island itself has been lost to man for centuries, unplottable save for the lost bearer of the secret, himself lost long ago. The knight had magically inked it into his son's skin, teaching the secret, each time passing from father to son through countless aeons.

Realizing how difficult it is to make herself care about filler plot, she finds herself coming to appreciate Harry's outlook on adventures.

"But now, I fear, all is lost, oh Master of Death." The spirit kneels before Harry and bows her head in silence.

"Finally. Are you quite sure your name isn't Hermione?"

"Again, I tell you that it is not, oh Master of Death."

"Right, so let me make sure I have this: to defeat a Big Bad, I need to complete the Scepter of Awesomesauce, nabbing the shard from a lost island guarded by beasts. What was the knight's name again?"

"Sir Gawaine Filch."

"Filch you say?"

"Aye."

"Thanks. You can go now." The spirit nods her head and disappears. "Yo, Filch, I'm summoning you."

The Hogwarts caretaker's spirit appears.

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but take off your shirt."

"Do I have to watch?" Penelope asks.

"I wish I didn't have to watch."

"Go to Hell, Potter," Filch says, unbuttoning his shirt, glaring as he is forced by ancient compact to obey the Master of Death, no matter how annoying.

"Oh, I'll be there soon. Now off with it."

"Wretched students, I should have strung you by your toes when I had the chance. There, happy? "

Harry glances at him just long enough to record the map for viewing in a pensive later.

"Got it, thanks." Filch's spirit disappears. "Come my dear, let's go rock us some quintapeds."

Through the open portal, she sees Harry sprinting through a tropical forest, a massive being, nearly as tall as Hogwarts, smashing trees behind him."

She hears a tinny voice in the mirror she holds in her hand. "Get ready to close the portal!"

"Got it!"

The being gains on him just before he reaches the portal. He leaps through, landing on his back. In his left is a dark blue jewel.

"Close it!"

She waves her wand and the charms holding open the portal begin to release and the portal begins to close. As it does, a large pair of jaws snakes through, clamping down on Harry's arm and severing it from his body.

"God damn, that stings!"

He sits up and touches the Elder Wand to the wound, sealing it temporarily.

"Harry, your arm!"

"It'll grow back."

"Really?"

"No, of course it won't." He steels himself and stands, defiant. "Now open this thing. I'm going to fuck this Quitaped up so badly its grandkids will rate me five Xs."

She opens the portal as Harry turns the black stone over in his hand.

"Potter, you insufferable fool!"

"Can't talk, Snape. I need you to walk out there holding this."

He hands his Potions professor a large horn pulled from the space in his wallet.

"An erumpent horn? Are you an imbicile, Potter? What am I supposed…"

A large set of jaws clamps upon the Potions professor. A moment later, there's an explosion and gore starts raining down.

"Time to get the shard." He looks at the stump on his left shoulder. "And, hopefully, my arm."

Penelope sips a tropical drink beneath a full moon as she reclines on a beach chair. Beside her, Harry is stretched out on another chair, enjoying the light sea breeze and the crash of waves upon the shore.

"So after I was knocked out, you managed to double-cross Omar the Accountant, getting back the cloak and the scepter."

"There's always a double-cross in these sorts of stories. I just figured it should be me doing the doubling and crossing."

"And the scepter was actually an attractor of the ancient ones, so you were in fact threatening the existence of the entire world simply by recovering it? And you couldn't use it because that would attract the attention of even more of the ancient ones?"

"Unfortunately."

"So you really did face down an existential threat and save us all?"

"Pretty much."

"Damn. Granger was right."

"She'll be happy to hear you say that, I'm sure."

"And then you managed put the scepter someplace it couldn't be found and couldn't harm anyone."

"Got it in one."

"Where?"

"Where are we now? Bora Bora. I thought we both needed a break after the day we've had."

"No, I mean where did you place the scepter?"

He is quiet for a long moment.

"Have you ever wondered how fast a broom could go if you took off all the limiters?"

"It's well established that they can go no more than 200 knots. Air resistance makes it impossible to fly faster."

He looks up at the Moon. "What if there were no air?"

There's a moment of peace. She leans over and kisses him on the side of the mouth. "I feel like I missed the big climax."

"Oh, it was pretty exciting. But then you were the sidekick. These things happen."

"I see how Hermione must have felt. So now what?"

He stands, taking her hand, and they walk barefoot along the shore, the occasional wave rushing over their feet. A moment later, she finds herself in his arms and she enjoys the moment.

Harry tugs gently on the string of her bikini top, loosening the knot.

"We've just saved the world and we find ourselves alone, two beautiful people, on a beautiful beach, on a beautiful night. Now, my dear, we fade to black."

Note: Written for a bit of meta fun, not profit (obviously) for a DLP Flamingo contest with the theme, "Must be adventure, must be complete." It took second place to a very nice story by R-dude (which I imagine he'll post soon).