Story: "Turlututu Chapeau Pointu", Gryffindors#2
Title: Turlututu Chapeau Pointu
Claim: Gryffindors
Prompt: Wicked, Table#1
Rating: PG
Summary: The Gryffindor common room door gets a new portrait. Chaos and humour ensue! Written for my Gryffindor table at hpfanfic10x10
Warnings: one of the pairings is slash, but it's really minor
Pairings: Harry/Ginny, Ron/Hermione, Seamus/Blaise
Word count: ~2670
Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize.
RF's note: All comments appreciated!
“I can’t believe we’re in our last year at Hogwarts!” exclaimed Ron Weasley as he and his two closest friends, Hermione Granger and Harry Potter, left the Great Hall, heading towards the Gryffindor dormitories.
“Yeah,” yawned Harry, patting his tummy, “that was quite the start-of-term feast, wasn’t it? The house-elves really outdid themselves this time.”
Hermione frowned. “Honestly, slave labor!” she muttered. “I can’t believe the little beasts actually enjoy it.”
Ron laughed. “Ah, let it go, ‘Mione,” he exclaimed, placing a hefty slap on the girl’s back, which nearly sent her flying forwards.
“Ron! I am not a male buddy of yours whom you can just slap around! You’ve got Harry for that!” seethed Hermione, turning an unattractive shade of red.
“What?” Ron waved his hand dismissively. “You’re my friend, like him. You’re no different.”
Ooh. The expression on the girl’s face went from angry to murderous. Harry didn’t know whether to laugh or blanch. “Ron, you dunce,” he mumbled, slapping his forehead. “Ah, the feud continues… Just get together already.”
“What was that?” Hermione turned on the bespectacled boy.
“Erm… nothing,” stuttered Harry, cursing his idiotic habit of talking to himself. “I didn’t say anything.”
The bushy-haired girl shot him a glare. Behind her back, Ron made a face and snickered silently. After knowing the boy for six years, however, Hermione knew exactly when to turn and catch him in the act. “Men!” she growled, and stalked ahead of her friends.
Ron shrugged. “I don’t know what her problem is,” he whined childishly.
Harry sighed. “Idiot,” he muttered.
“What was that, mate?” Ron looked at him suspiciously.
“Er… just a burp.” Harry affected an abashed air about himself and quickly fished for a new topic of conversation. “What’s all that commotion ahead?” He frowned, seeing a group of Gryffindors crowded around the common room entrance.
“Oi, what’s going on?” called out Ron.
“We’ve got a new portrait,” said Hermione in a huffy tone. “Let’s get closer.”
Harry winced as a path straight to the front of the gathering was cleared for him. As he walked through the crowd of kids, he could see newly sorted first-years point rudely at him and his scar. He growled to himself. “I hate being the world’s screwed-up notion of a celebrity.”
Ron shot him a look. “At least it’s useful.”
With a heavy sigh, Harry beheld the new portrait. He blinked. Greenish face… crooked nose… a hideous mole on the woman’s chin… Harry’s eyes darted down; sure enough, a pair of ghastly striped stockings covered the witch’s ankles.
“The wicked witch of the east!” exclaimed Harry and Hermione together.
“I thought the Wizard of Oz was a Muggle thing!” put in Dean.
The witch in the portrait made a face. “A stupid Muggle painted me,” she croaked tartly. “Then his even more idiotic wizard friend decided to surprise the git and animate me. Gods, I curse that day.”
Harry blinked, taken aback by her bitter tone. “Er, I’m sorry to hear that,” he offered. “Dancing hippogriffs.”
“What was that, boy?” snapped the witch. “Kids these days!” she scolded. “You didn’t even ask what to call me!”
“We’re sorry,” whimpered Neville, looking decidedly uncomfortable in the presence of the grumpy witch. “What should we call you, Miss?”
The ugly woman drew herself up to full height. “You will call me Mrs. Wicked,” she instructed pompously.
“Okay,” giggled Ginny, coming up to Harry’s side and slipping an arm around his waist. Harry smiled warmly at his girlfriend. “Now can we get in, please? Dancing hippogriffs.”
“What is that nonsense, girl?” grumbled the witch, looking decidedly angered.
“It’s our password,” explained the redhead. “Dancing hippogriffs.”
“What a ridiculous notion!” Mrs. Wicked shook her greenish-looking head and Harry watched the sagging skin of her cheeks bounce and sway disgustingly. “No, my dears, your new password is Turlututu chapeau pointu,” said the woman in an impeccable French accent. “Be sure to pronounce it well.”
Ron’s eyes bulged. “Er…turtle…what?”
“Turlututu, you idiot,” hissed Hermione. “It’s the French abracadabra.”
Ron blinked. “Um… right. You’ll write it down for us, won’t you, Hermione?” It was more of a statement than a question.
Letting out a frustrated growl, the bushy-haired girl ground out the password and strolled through the door.
“I think she’s pre-menstrual,” whispered Ginny in Harry’s ear. Harry laughed. Picking up the slight redhead and kissing her gently, he carried her inside the room.
~*~*~
“Harry! Harry, wake up!”
Emerald eyes blinked open blurrily as Harry slowly came to. Ginny pushed his glasses onto his nose helpfully. “Wake up, Harry,” she said again, bouncing up and down on his bed. “The old cow won’t let me out!”
“Wwhat?” slurred Harry, trying to get his tongue to obey his brain. “Who? McmnmGonagall?” He sat up, shaking off the deep sleep he’d been in. “Gods, Ginny, what time is it?”
“It’s three in the morning,” said the redhead impatiently. “Seamus let me in. You have to help me!”
“I’m confused,” sighed Harry. “Where do you need to go?”
“The kitchen, of course!” hissed the girl. “You know I get terrible food cravings during torture week.”
“Oh… yeah, I do know.” Harry shuddered as the memory of seeing his girlfriend glomp down peanut butter and pickles invaded his mind. “We’d better sneak down to see the house-elves then.” He prayed that this time he wouldn’t have to prepare a mixture of ice cream and boiled carrots for his darling better half.
“Well, that’s the problem I’m telling you about!” Ginny squirmed with a frustrated growl. “Mrs. Wicked won’t let me out!”
---
Harry stood in the middle of the common room and stared at the door leading outside. “Ginny,” he croaked, “remind me… was there a portrait of Mrs. Wicked here when we went to bed this evening?”
“No,” sighed the girl. “There’s never been a portrait here, only on the outside of the door.”
Mrs. Wicked fixed her hair self-importantly. “Ah, yes, well,” she smiled, showing her crooked teeth, “dear Argus installed me here just minutes ago. Such a pleasant man he is.”
“Filch,” groaned Harry. “I should’ve known.” With a deep sigh, he fished a tattered piece of paper out of his pocket and peered down on it thoughtfully.
“God, I hate French,” he mumbled, reading over Hermione’s neat writing again and again. “Knew it the moment I met Fleur with her creepy accent, really. Umm… turtle-a-tutu… er... chay-pew pointy.” He glanced hopefully at the ghastly witch.
A mildly stunned look crossed the green face. “What’s that, dear?” asked Mrs. Wicked, quirking an eyebrow.
Harry sighed. “Um… ok,” he tried again, “turl-a-tutu…shapey…pointeww.”
The door remained firmly closed. Harry hung his head. “Ginny, you try.”
“I’m afraid it won’t help, my boy,” condescended the portrait finally. “I’m not to let anyone out after midnight.”
Ginny growled. “Listen here, you pompous witch,” she snarled, whipping out her wand, “let us out, or I will turn you into a fine batch of confetti and sprinkle you off the Astronomy tower.”
Harry blanched. Never stand between a girl and her food.
The portrait, however, was unperturbed. “I’m magically protected,” she stated self-importantly. “I’d like to see you try.”
An idea entered Harry’s mind. “Listen,” he started uncertainly, “you wouldn’t happen to be caught up on current events, would you?”
“Why, yes, I take my newspaper every day, like any proper witch.”
Harry brightened. “Okay,” he grinned, pushing back the hair of his fringe, “you know what this is?”
Mrs. Wicked gasped. “The famous scar! You’re that Potter boy!”
Harry winced and nodded, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Now, here’s the thing.” He tried to look tough and mature. “I like you, Mrs. Wicked, I really do… But, well… I know people. The Minister himself likes to have me over for tea every Sunday. So if my girlfriend here doesn’t get what she wants… well, legal measures can be taken against you. I wish it wouldn’t have to come to that, but what can I say… it’s a cruel world.”
The wicked witch paled to a lettuce-green color.
Silently, the door swung open.
~*~*~
“Let me in! Please, somebody let me in!”
A desperate thumping noise was coming from outside the common room door. Harry looked up from his homework and walked over to the portrait, noting that the witch seemed to be dozing. “Is someone there?” he called out.
“Harry, is that you?!” came Neville’s voice. “Gods, Harry, you’ve got to let me in! I need to pee so badly!”
Harry sighed. Several weeks had passed since the beginning of the term, and everyone except the ever-forgetful Neville had managed to master the password. “Ok, hold on, Neville,” he yelled. “Turlututu chapeau pointu.”
Mrs. Wicked’s eyes fluttered open. “Oh, well, that wouldn’t do, that wouldn’t do at all!” she exclaimed. “You can’t be letting others into the room, dear boy! What if he’s a Death Eater?”
“He’s not, he’s Neville!” exclaimed Harry. “You know him! Let him in!”
“I can’t do that, my boy.” The green head shook sorrowfully. “He must say the password.”
“Okay. Neville! Oi, Neville!” shouted Harry. “Repeat after me: Turlututu−”
“It’s too late,” sounded a weak voice. “It’s too late.” Covering his groin with his schoolbag, a much panicked Neville sprinted down the hallway.
~*~*~
“Tonight then?” whispered Blaise, placing a gentle kiss on his boyfriend’s lips.
“Tonight,” answered Seamus, hugging the lean young man. “Come to my dorm. We’ll set silencing charms on the bed, and then I promise I will make you scream with pleasure,” he purred, biting his lover’s ear lightly. “The password is ‘turlututu chapeau pointu’.”
Blaise shivered and then chuckled. “Pointy hat, huh? Your portrait has a sense of humor. And I’ll hold you to that promise.” With another gentle kiss that foretold wonders, and a sly wink, he slinked away into the shadows.
---
“Turlututu chapeau pointu,” stated Blaise confidently, looking in a small hand mirror to make sure his hair was impeccable.
Mrs. Wicked opened her eyes, looking obviously startled. “Who are you?” she inquired in a hostile tone.
“I’m here to see Seamus Finnigan,” replied Blaise archly.
Silence reigned as Mrs. Wicked looked the boy over with a critical eye. “You aren’t a Gryffindor, are you?” questioned the witch finally.
Blaise drew himself up, trying not to feel offended. “Certainly not! I am Slytherin.”
Mrs. Wicked nodded her head sorrowfully. “Thought so, thought so,” she muttered. “I can’t let you in, my boy. No strangers after midnight, I’m afraid.”
Blaise growled, stepping closer to the portrait. “Let me through, you old cow,” he spat. “I’ve got a date.”
“I can’t, my dear. Rules are rules.”
Blaise glared, and the witch glared back.
The boy sighed. “Seam?” he called out hopefully. There was no answer.
“Bugger this,” he muttered, and stalked away from the room.
~*~*~
“I’ve been such a git, ‘Mione.”
Sounds of gentle kissing echoed through the hallway.
“It’s all right, Ron,” whispered Hermione, kissing along the boy’s jaw. “I knew you’d come around. I’ve been mean to you, too. Forgive me?”
The redhead held his love close. “Only if you forgive me,” he whispered sheepishly.
“Agreed,” smiled the girl. “Come on,” she drew him toward the common room, “let’s go cuddle or something.”
Ron smiled when he heard his girlfriend say the password in a perfectly-tailored French accent. Such a perfectionist, he thought fondly.
“Oi, Ron!” sounded Harry’s voice behind him.
Hermione turned around. “I’ll let you guys talk a bit,” she said, winking at Ron. “I’ll be waiting on your bed,” she murmured, placing a light kiss on the boy’s neck.
The portrait door swung shut.
Harry’s eyes widened. “Nicely done, mate!”
Ron went red. “What’d you want to talk about?” he stuttered.
In the distance, the Hogwarts clocktower chimed six times.
“Oh,” Harry grinned, “I just wanted to let you know I’m gonna go practice flying some, before it gets dark.”
“Okay,” nodded Ron. With a wide grin and a thumbs-up, Harry disappeared down the hallway.
Ron turned to the portrait. “Turlututu chapeau pointu,” he managed, feeling decidedly giddy.
The door remained shut. Ron blinked. “Turlututu chapeau pointu,” he repeated. “Come on, I know I said it right!”
Mrs. Wicked sighed. “Didn’t you hear the chime? It’s six o’clock, so the new password’s in place now. The memo’s been up for days.”
“A new password?” stuttered Ron. “No! Don’t do this to me. Come on, just let me in.”
The wicked witch shook her head. “I’m sorry, my dear, but I can’t do that. The rules are clear.”
Ron growled, going beet red with anger. “Listen, I was about to get some! You know what that means? There was a good chance that I, Ron Weasley, was going to get some! From Hermione! You know how bloody unbelievable that is?” he was shouting now. “Let me in!!”
…
…
“…Bloody hell.”
---
“Hermione, I swear−”
“You swear what?” shouted the girl. “I know how it went. Darling Harry came to talk to you about Quidditch, and you waltzed off to practice!”
“No, that’s not−”
“I don’t want to hear it!” growled Hermione. Without another word, she stalked out of the room.
“What’s going on?” asked Harry, ducking through the doorway. “I’ve just got back from practice.”
Ron stared blankly into the flames of the fireplace. “What’s the new password?” he asked lifelessly.
“Chapeau pointu turlututu,” answered Harry bewilderedly. “Why?”
Ron’s head hit his desk with a hollow thud. “I swear that portrait’s out to ruin my life,” he mumbled into the cool wood. “I swear it is.”
~*~*~
“Professor McGonagall…!”
“−I had to pee−”
“…and then the password changed!”
“−she wouldn’t let Blaise in!”
“…and she wouldn’t let us out after midnight, and I get these terrible…”
“She’s…”
“She made ‘Mione mad at me!”
“…like a Nazi, Professor!”
“She’s worse than You-Know-Who!”
“−and I hate the French!”
…
“Er… I mean, I hate French… French as in the language, not the… …I’m an idiot.”
…
…
“…Professor?”
…
…
“I don’t think this jumble of a mess dignifies a response, Miss Weasley.”
…
…
“But…”
…
…
…
…
“I guess we’ll just go now.”
~*~*~
“Chapeau pointu turlututu,” hissed Harry from underneath his Invisibility Cloak. Darn Ginny and her food cravings, he growled to himself. Now I’ve got Filch on my tail!
“What? Who’s there?!” perked up Mrs. Wicked. It was the middle of the night.
“It’s me, Harry Potter,” ground out the boy as softly as he could. “Let me in!”
“Show yourself,” demanded the wicked witch.
Harry groaned. Filch had rounded the corner and was steadily approaching. “I can’t,” he hissed. “Filch will see me!”
“Oh, well,” the green woman waved at the caretaker, “Argus is such a nice man, why ever would you hide from him? Argus, there’s a boy here who doesn’t like you! Come get this straightened out!”
---
“Two hours of detention,” groaned Harry, handing a bowl of strawberries to his girlfriend. “Ah, the things I do for love.” He flopped down onto the couch and grinned as Ginny promptly curled up on his chest. He kissed the top of her head. Oh well, he thought. The rewards still outweigh the price by a ton.
Hermione sprang up suddenly. “One of my extra Ancient Runes books is missing,” she whispered, eyes wide in terror. She gasped, clasping a hand over her mouth. “I must have left it in the classroom! I have a test tomorrow! I have to get it! No one else here would have it.”
She rushed over to the portrait, saying the password hurriedly.
Mrs. Wicked sighed. “It’s past midnight, dear. You’ll have to do without.”
“No, you don’t understand!” exclaimed the agitated girl. “I’ll fail if I don’t get it!”
“That isn’t my problem, little girl. Go away.”
Hermione growled. “Let. Me. Out,” she squeezed through her teeth. “Or you’ll pay.”
“How many times must I say that rules are rules?!” exclaimed the wicked witch.
“Aargh!” Hermione let out a shout. Whipping out her wand, she glared murderously at the wicked woman. “Parvi Viri Oppugnatis!”
Mrs. Wicked screeched suddenly as multitudes of Munchkins rushed into her portrait.
Harry watched with his jaw on the floor as the little people flowed over the ghastly woman and pulled her to the ground, dragging her away; all that was left behind was an empty frame. Soon, the witch’s screams died away.
Hermione huffed. Putting her wand away, she stalked out of the room.
A minute passed in silence as Ron, Harry, and Ginny contemplated this recent development.
“Well,” said Ginny slowly, “I guess the ghastly cow’s regime is over.”
Finally, Ron and Harry grinned at each other. “Wicked!”
-------
Please click on the tag for more Gryffindor-centric stories!
Claim: Gryffindors
Prompt: Wicked, Table#1
Rating: PG
Summary: The Gryffindor common room door gets a new portrait. Chaos and humour ensue! Written for my Gryffindor table at hpfanfic10x10
Warnings: one of the pairings is slash, but it's really minor
Pairings: Harry/Ginny, Ron/Hermione, Seamus/Blaise
Word count: ~2670
Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize.
RF's note: All comments appreciated!
“I can’t believe we’re in our last year at Hogwarts!” exclaimed Ron Weasley as he and his two closest friends, Hermione Granger and Harry Potter, left the Great Hall, heading towards the Gryffindor dormitories.
“Yeah,” yawned Harry, patting his tummy, “that was quite the start-of-term feast, wasn’t it? The house-elves really outdid themselves this time.”
Hermione frowned. “Honestly, slave labor!” she muttered. “I can’t believe the little beasts actually enjoy it.”
Ron laughed. “Ah, let it go, ‘Mione,” he exclaimed, placing a hefty slap on the girl’s back, which nearly sent her flying forwards.
“Ron! I am not a male buddy of yours whom you can just slap around! You’ve got Harry for that!” seethed Hermione, turning an unattractive shade of red.
“What?” Ron waved his hand dismissively. “You’re my friend, like him. You’re no different.”
Ooh. The expression on the girl’s face went from angry to murderous. Harry didn’t know whether to laugh or blanch. “Ron, you dunce,” he mumbled, slapping his forehead. “Ah, the feud continues… Just get together already.”
“What was that?” Hermione turned on the bespectacled boy.
“Erm… nothing,” stuttered Harry, cursing his idiotic habit of talking to himself. “I didn’t say anything.”
The bushy-haired girl shot him a glare. Behind her back, Ron made a face and snickered silently. After knowing the boy for six years, however, Hermione knew exactly when to turn and catch him in the act. “Men!” she growled, and stalked ahead of her friends.
Ron shrugged. “I don’t know what her problem is,” he whined childishly.
Harry sighed. “Idiot,” he muttered.
“What was that, mate?” Ron looked at him suspiciously.
“Er… just a burp.” Harry affected an abashed air about himself and quickly fished for a new topic of conversation. “What’s all that commotion ahead?” He frowned, seeing a group of Gryffindors crowded around the common room entrance.
“Oi, what’s going on?” called out Ron.
“We’ve got a new portrait,” said Hermione in a huffy tone. “Let’s get closer.”
Harry winced as a path straight to the front of the gathering was cleared for him. As he walked through the crowd of kids, he could see newly sorted first-years point rudely at him and his scar. He growled to himself. “I hate being the world’s screwed-up notion of a celebrity.”
Ron shot him a look. “At least it’s useful.”
With a heavy sigh, Harry beheld the new portrait. He blinked. Greenish face… crooked nose… a hideous mole on the woman’s chin… Harry’s eyes darted down; sure enough, a pair of ghastly striped stockings covered the witch’s ankles.
“The wicked witch of the east!” exclaimed Harry and Hermione together.
“I thought the Wizard of Oz was a Muggle thing!” put in Dean.
The witch in the portrait made a face. “A stupid Muggle painted me,” she croaked tartly. “Then his even more idiotic wizard friend decided to surprise the git and animate me. Gods, I curse that day.”
Harry blinked, taken aback by her bitter tone. “Er, I’m sorry to hear that,” he offered. “Dancing hippogriffs.”
“What was that, boy?” snapped the witch. “Kids these days!” she scolded. “You didn’t even ask what to call me!”
“We’re sorry,” whimpered Neville, looking decidedly uncomfortable in the presence of the grumpy witch. “What should we call you, Miss?”
The ugly woman drew herself up to full height. “You will call me Mrs. Wicked,” she instructed pompously.
“Okay,” giggled Ginny, coming up to Harry’s side and slipping an arm around his waist. Harry smiled warmly at his girlfriend. “Now can we get in, please? Dancing hippogriffs.”
“What is that nonsense, girl?” grumbled the witch, looking decidedly angered.
“It’s our password,” explained the redhead. “Dancing hippogriffs.”
“What a ridiculous notion!” Mrs. Wicked shook her greenish-looking head and Harry watched the sagging skin of her cheeks bounce and sway disgustingly. “No, my dears, your new password is Turlututu chapeau pointu,” said the woman in an impeccable French accent. “Be sure to pronounce it well.”
Ron’s eyes bulged. “Er…turtle…what?”
“Turlututu, you idiot,” hissed Hermione. “It’s the French abracadabra.”
Ron blinked. “Um… right. You’ll write it down for us, won’t you, Hermione?” It was more of a statement than a question.
Letting out a frustrated growl, the bushy-haired girl ground out the password and strolled through the door.
“I think she’s pre-menstrual,” whispered Ginny in Harry’s ear. Harry laughed. Picking up the slight redhead and kissing her gently, he carried her inside the room.
~*~*~
“Harry! Harry, wake up!”
Emerald eyes blinked open blurrily as Harry slowly came to. Ginny pushed his glasses onto his nose helpfully. “Wake up, Harry,” she said again, bouncing up and down on his bed. “The old cow won’t let me out!”
“Wwhat?” slurred Harry, trying to get his tongue to obey his brain. “Who? McmnmGonagall?” He sat up, shaking off the deep sleep he’d been in. “Gods, Ginny, what time is it?”
“It’s three in the morning,” said the redhead impatiently. “Seamus let me in. You have to help me!”
“I’m confused,” sighed Harry. “Where do you need to go?”
“The kitchen, of course!” hissed the girl. “You know I get terrible food cravings during torture week.”
“Oh… yeah, I do know.” Harry shuddered as the memory of seeing his girlfriend glomp down peanut butter and pickles invaded his mind. “We’d better sneak down to see the house-elves then.” He prayed that this time he wouldn’t have to prepare a mixture of ice cream and boiled carrots for his darling better half.
“Well, that’s the problem I’m telling you about!” Ginny squirmed with a frustrated growl. “Mrs. Wicked won’t let me out!”
---
Harry stood in the middle of the common room and stared at the door leading outside. “Ginny,” he croaked, “remind me… was there a portrait of Mrs. Wicked here when we went to bed this evening?”
“No,” sighed the girl. “There’s never been a portrait here, only on the outside of the door.”
Mrs. Wicked fixed her hair self-importantly. “Ah, yes, well,” she smiled, showing her crooked teeth, “dear Argus installed me here just minutes ago. Such a pleasant man he is.”
“Filch,” groaned Harry. “I should’ve known.” With a deep sigh, he fished a tattered piece of paper out of his pocket and peered down on it thoughtfully.
“God, I hate French,” he mumbled, reading over Hermione’s neat writing again and again. “Knew it the moment I met Fleur with her creepy accent, really. Umm… turtle-a-tutu… er... chay-pew pointy.” He glanced hopefully at the ghastly witch.
A mildly stunned look crossed the green face. “What’s that, dear?” asked Mrs. Wicked, quirking an eyebrow.
Harry sighed. “Um… ok,” he tried again, “turl-a-tutu…shapey…pointeww.”
The door remained firmly closed. Harry hung his head. “Ginny, you try.”
“I’m afraid it won’t help, my boy,” condescended the portrait finally. “I’m not to let anyone out after midnight.”
Ginny growled. “Listen here, you pompous witch,” she snarled, whipping out her wand, “let us out, or I will turn you into a fine batch of confetti and sprinkle you off the Astronomy tower.”
Harry blanched. Never stand between a girl and her food.
The portrait, however, was unperturbed. “I’m magically protected,” she stated self-importantly. “I’d like to see you try.”
An idea entered Harry’s mind. “Listen,” he started uncertainly, “you wouldn’t happen to be caught up on current events, would you?”
“Why, yes, I take my newspaper every day, like any proper witch.”
Harry brightened. “Okay,” he grinned, pushing back the hair of his fringe, “you know what this is?”
Mrs. Wicked gasped. “The famous scar! You’re that Potter boy!”
Harry winced and nodded, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Now, here’s the thing.” He tried to look tough and mature. “I like you, Mrs. Wicked, I really do… But, well… I know people. The Minister himself likes to have me over for tea every Sunday. So if my girlfriend here doesn’t get what she wants… well, legal measures can be taken against you. I wish it wouldn’t have to come to that, but what can I say… it’s a cruel world.”
The wicked witch paled to a lettuce-green color.
Silently, the door swung open.
~*~*~
“Let me in! Please, somebody let me in!”
A desperate thumping noise was coming from outside the common room door. Harry looked up from his homework and walked over to the portrait, noting that the witch seemed to be dozing. “Is someone there?” he called out.
“Harry, is that you?!” came Neville’s voice. “Gods, Harry, you’ve got to let me in! I need to pee so badly!”
Harry sighed. Several weeks had passed since the beginning of the term, and everyone except the ever-forgetful Neville had managed to master the password. “Ok, hold on, Neville,” he yelled. “Turlututu chapeau pointu.”
Mrs. Wicked’s eyes fluttered open. “Oh, well, that wouldn’t do, that wouldn’t do at all!” she exclaimed. “You can’t be letting others into the room, dear boy! What if he’s a Death Eater?”
“He’s not, he’s Neville!” exclaimed Harry. “You know him! Let him in!”
“I can’t do that, my boy.” The green head shook sorrowfully. “He must say the password.”
“Okay. Neville! Oi, Neville!” shouted Harry. “Repeat after me: Turlututu−”
“It’s too late,” sounded a weak voice. “It’s too late.” Covering his groin with his schoolbag, a much panicked Neville sprinted down the hallway.
~*~*~
“Tonight then?” whispered Blaise, placing a gentle kiss on his boyfriend’s lips.
“Tonight,” answered Seamus, hugging the lean young man. “Come to my dorm. We’ll set silencing charms on the bed, and then I promise I will make you scream with pleasure,” he purred, biting his lover’s ear lightly. “The password is ‘turlututu chapeau pointu’.”
Blaise shivered and then chuckled. “Pointy hat, huh? Your portrait has a sense of humor. And I’ll hold you to that promise.” With another gentle kiss that foretold wonders, and a sly wink, he slinked away into the shadows.
---
“Turlututu chapeau pointu,” stated Blaise confidently, looking in a small hand mirror to make sure his hair was impeccable.
Mrs. Wicked opened her eyes, looking obviously startled. “Who are you?” she inquired in a hostile tone.
“I’m here to see Seamus Finnigan,” replied Blaise archly.
Silence reigned as Mrs. Wicked looked the boy over with a critical eye. “You aren’t a Gryffindor, are you?” questioned the witch finally.
Blaise drew himself up, trying not to feel offended. “Certainly not! I am Slytherin.”
Mrs. Wicked nodded her head sorrowfully. “Thought so, thought so,” she muttered. “I can’t let you in, my boy. No strangers after midnight, I’m afraid.”
Blaise growled, stepping closer to the portrait. “Let me through, you old cow,” he spat. “I’ve got a date.”
“I can’t, my dear. Rules are rules.”
Blaise glared, and the witch glared back.
The boy sighed. “Seam?” he called out hopefully. There was no answer.
“Bugger this,” he muttered, and stalked away from the room.
~*~*~
“I’ve been such a git, ‘Mione.”
Sounds of gentle kissing echoed through the hallway.
“It’s all right, Ron,” whispered Hermione, kissing along the boy’s jaw. “I knew you’d come around. I’ve been mean to you, too. Forgive me?”
The redhead held his love close. “Only if you forgive me,” he whispered sheepishly.
“Agreed,” smiled the girl. “Come on,” she drew him toward the common room, “let’s go cuddle or something.”
Ron smiled when he heard his girlfriend say the password in a perfectly-tailored French accent. Such a perfectionist, he thought fondly.
“Oi, Ron!” sounded Harry’s voice behind him.
Hermione turned around. “I’ll let you guys talk a bit,” she said, winking at Ron. “I’ll be waiting on your bed,” she murmured, placing a light kiss on the boy’s neck.
The portrait door swung shut.
Harry’s eyes widened. “Nicely done, mate!”
Ron went red. “What’d you want to talk about?” he stuttered.
In the distance, the Hogwarts clocktower chimed six times.
“Oh,” Harry grinned, “I just wanted to let you know I’m gonna go practice flying some, before it gets dark.”
“Okay,” nodded Ron. With a wide grin and a thumbs-up, Harry disappeared down the hallway.
Ron turned to the portrait. “Turlututu chapeau pointu,” he managed, feeling decidedly giddy.
The door remained shut. Ron blinked. “Turlututu chapeau pointu,” he repeated. “Come on, I know I said it right!”
Mrs. Wicked sighed. “Didn’t you hear the chime? It’s six o’clock, so the new password’s in place now. The memo’s been up for days.”
“A new password?” stuttered Ron. “No! Don’t do this to me. Come on, just let me in.”
The wicked witch shook her head. “I’m sorry, my dear, but I can’t do that. The rules are clear.”
Ron growled, going beet red with anger. “Listen, I was about to get some! You know what that means? There was a good chance that I, Ron Weasley, was going to get some! From Hermione! You know how bloody unbelievable that is?” he was shouting now. “Let me in!!”
…
…
“…Bloody hell.”
---
“Hermione, I swear−”
“You swear what?” shouted the girl. “I know how it went. Darling Harry came to talk to you about Quidditch, and you waltzed off to practice!”
“No, that’s not−”
“I don’t want to hear it!” growled Hermione. Without another word, she stalked out of the room.
“What’s going on?” asked Harry, ducking through the doorway. “I’ve just got back from practice.”
Ron stared blankly into the flames of the fireplace. “What’s the new password?” he asked lifelessly.
“Chapeau pointu turlututu,” answered Harry bewilderedly. “Why?”
Ron’s head hit his desk with a hollow thud. “I swear that portrait’s out to ruin my life,” he mumbled into the cool wood. “I swear it is.”
~*~*~
“Professor McGonagall…!”
“−I had to pee−”
“…and then the password changed!”
“−she wouldn’t let Blaise in!”
“…and she wouldn’t let us out after midnight, and I get these terrible…”
“She’s…”
“She made ‘Mione mad at me!”
“…like a Nazi, Professor!”
“She’s worse than You-Know-Who!”
“−and I hate the French!”
…
“Er… I mean, I hate French… French as in the language, not the… …I’m an idiot.”
…
…
“…Professor?”
…
…
“I don’t think this jumble of a mess dignifies a response, Miss Weasley.”
…
…
“But…”
…
…
…
…
“I guess we’ll just go now.”
~*~*~
“Chapeau pointu turlututu,” hissed Harry from underneath his Invisibility Cloak. Darn Ginny and her food cravings, he growled to himself. Now I’ve got Filch on my tail!
“What? Who’s there?!” perked up Mrs. Wicked. It was the middle of the night.
“It’s me, Harry Potter,” ground out the boy as softly as he could. “Let me in!”
“Show yourself,” demanded the wicked witch.
Harry groaned. Filch had rounded the corner and was steadily approaching. “I can’t,” he hissed. “Filch will see me!”
“Oh, well,” the green woman waved at the caretaker, “Argus is such a nice man, why ever would you hide from him? Argus, there’s a boy here who doesn’t like you! Come get this straightened out!”
---
“Two hours of detention,” groaned Harry, handing a bowl of strawberries to his girlfriend. “Ah, the things I do for love.” He flopped down onto the couch and grinned as Ginny promptly curled up on his chest. He kissed the top of her head. Oh well, he thought. The rewards still outweigh the price by a ton.
Hermione sprang up suddenly. “One of my extra Ancient Runes books is missing,” she whispered, eyes wide in terror. She gasped, clasping a hand over her mouth. “I must have left it in the classroom! I have a test tomorrow! I have to get it! No one else here would have it.”
She rushed over to the portrait, saying the password hurriedly.
Mrs. Wicked sighed. “It’s past midnight, dear. You’ll have to do without.”
“No, you don’t understand!” exclaimed the agitated girl. “I’ll fail if I don’t get it!”
“That isn’t my problem, little girl. Go away.”
Hermione growled. “Let. Me. Out,” she squeezed through her teeth. “Or you’ll pay.”
“How many times must I say that rules are rules?!” exclaimed the wicked witch.
“Aargh!” Hermione let out a shout. Whipping out her wand, she glared murderously at the wicked woman. “Parvi Viri Oppugnatis!”
Mrs. Wicked screeched suddenly as multitudes of Munchkins rushed into her portrait.
Harry watched with his jaw on the floor as the little people flowed over the ghastly woman and pulled her to the ground, dragging her away; all that was left behind was an empty frame. Soon, the witch’s screams died away.
Hermione huffed. Putting her wand away, she stalked out of the room.
A minute passed in silence as Ron, Harry, and Ginny contemplated this recent development.
“Well,” said Ginny slowly, “I guess the ghastly cow’s regime is over.”
Finally, Ron and Harry grinned at each other. “Wicked!”
-------
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