The authors would like to warn their unwitting readers in advance that this fic contains all of the following, often in meticulous, albeit insane, detail: rape (hetero- and homosexual), slash, femmeslash, bestiality/zoophilia, nudity, cross-dressing, masturbation, drug abuse, and minor gore and profanity.

And, with this in mind, kindly enjoy. This serves as a liability waiver of sorts, so we are not legally responsible for uncontrollable vomiting, loss of childhood innocence, or other related symptoms. We know the beginning seems normal, even rather amusing, but do not be fooled. It gets worse. Anyways, this should probably be categorized as an AU. Set after HBP. The OOC-ness in this could make your eyes bleed. That enough acronyms for you? Flames will cause us to merely laugh our arses off. We seriously don't care.

-Christie (Voldie on Varsity Track) and Sarah (LittlePsychoWolf).

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‘Twas the evening before winter vacation, and all throughout Hogwarts School, preparations were being made. Possessions were stuffed into suitcases, first years tore about the corridors in vain attempts to catch their fleeing pets, and rogue owls swooped about the vaulted ceilings, depositing droppings on the heads of those below. From parapet to dungeon, the castle was filled with yells, laughter, and meowing; the latter being due once again to the first years, who from some source or other had gotten the impression that cats were the only true Wizarding pet. This would, in turn, be crucial to future events, but for the moment it was simply rather aggravating.

In the absence of Dumbledore, which would, regrettably, be permanent, McGonagall prowled severely down the hallways, disciplining everything in her path.

After the farewell feast that night, the already overworked house-elves were detailed to carry the luggage out to the waiting carriages. Being too short to successfully reach the doorknob, a rather drunken Hagrid was called in to assist them. Swaying slightly and letting loose a belch that knocked several house-elves head over heels, the gamekeeper staggered over and unbarred the door. This done, he shoved it open.

A perfectly mundane scenario, to be sure, were it not for the fact that the door disobeyed orders and remained tightly shut. Hagrid, his eggnog-hazed brain beginning to grow annoyed with the turn of events, threw his full weight against the door. The wood splintered, shattered, and crashed to the floor amid a welter of wood pieces, wrought iron, and dust, giving the entire assembly a fine view of a blank, solid wall of white that had apparently taken the place of the scenery. Hagrid grunted, the eggnog telling him that this was perfectly fine, and attempted to walk outside.

The snow was so tightly packed by this point in time, with more and more falling on top of it by the second, that even Hagrid’s bulk failed to leave a dent.

Bad, his brain slurred out painstakingly. Cold. Can’t get through it.

Turning, he called out, “Er, McGonagall, the door’sh blocked, by shnow ‘r shummat…”

It appeared as though the residents of Hogwarts would be spending their winter break, and possibly much of spring as well, encased firmly inside. Barely hours later, stagnation had begun to set in. And a building filled with hormonal teenagers and extremely bored, single adults is something to be reckoned with.

Gryffindor first years recoiled into various corners, quivering in terror, while those of Slytherin house looked on in wonder at the dark presence now walking coolly among them.

Malfoy the elder pretended not to notice. He rather despised children - Greyback could have the lot as far as he was concerned - but he had a mission here today. Arranged marriages were all but mandatory for pure-bloods; somehow they had infuriating tendencies to fall in love with Mudblood scum or worse, Muggles, if left to their own devices.

And his blasted son just wouldn’t accept that.

Draco Malfoy was, to his father’s abject horror as he came upon him in the hallway, snogging with a cat. Mrs. Norris, no less.

Reeling, Malfoy the elder spun around and vomited in a bowl of Christmas pudding lying conveniently on a nearby table. Crabbe and Goyle immediately ate some of this fine foodstuffs, enthused at the interesting new flavour. But Malfoy, sick to his stomach from both his own retching and the disgusting (and rather furry) image burned into his pitiful little brain, approached his son, shaking.

“Draco Kayla Margarita Malfoy,” he spat in fury, lips twitching over gritted teeth.

His son looked up, innocence and surprise sparkling in his eyes. “Why, Father,” he inquired in a sickeningly sweet voice, “what brings you here today?” Seeing as everyone could have seen you were a Death Eater barely four months ago, and probably did? he added silently, not daring to risk paternal fury.

“What brings me here?” his father repeated incredulously. “Draco, you know perfectly well why I’m in this…ah...lovely school.” (“Lovely” in this case, meaning something along the lines of “profaned by idiots and half-blood trash,” but there was always the chance some teacher would walk by and overhear.)

“Why’s that, Father?” The saccharine tones, it seemed, were here to stay.

“To find you a wife,” Lucius snarled, now thoroughly fed up with this little charade.

But he seemed to have touched some hidden nerve in his son, as little Malfoy drew himself up imposingly, a cold, defiant fury burning in his eyes. This would, unfortunately, have little effect, as obviously his father was much taller, and far better versed in the area of intimidating glares. Draco continued nonetheless.

“Father, I have a wife now. And I love her dearly. Don’t you want generations of Malfoys with night vision, the merciless instincts of the predator, lightning reflexes, and very sharp teeth? Think of the wonders we could accomplish!” His voice had risen shrilly throughout the little speech, to something of an impassioned scream.

Lucius blinked, twitched, shuddered, swallowed back another bit of vomit, and finally snapped, “I meant a wife with no fur, no tail, absolutely no whiskers, and only two legs.”

Draco, who usually would have hung his head in shame at his father’s obvious dislike of feline-human relations, and who would also not have had such relations on a regular basis, could only find himself continuing to defy his father. Mrs. Norris was smokin’ hot, and the feeling of her silky-soft fur cascading down on his erect penis while they made sweet love sent shivers of pleasure down his spine.

The argument would continue for quite some time, but elsewhere in the school, much more was astir.

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In a dark, narrow corridor, death lay in wait. Contrary to popular belief, Bellatrix Lestrange had not fled with the rest of the Death Eaters after Dumbledore’s murder. Little Longbottom was in this very school. It would be quite fun to personally have the little ass go the way of his moronic parents, and she intended to crouch here, in the dim half-light, munching on a stale treacle tart, until Neville just happened to stumble along.

Neville did, eventually – later. Little did Bellatrix know that Neville lay in his four-poster bed in the Gryffindor tower, wearing a silky dress he had stolen from Professor Sprout’s wardrobe. It was hot.

Among the ruffles of pink lace, Neville Caroline Longbottom giggled. This was a night he had been waiting for, the night during which he would feel invincible, would see colours and fairies and little smiling flowers – a night during which he would overdose on PCP. Smiling to himself, Neville rose from his bed, smoothing out his frilly pink dress. His little curls bobbed as he did so; in Orthodox Jewish fashion, he had curled his hair, though to Ron, his secret lover, Neville sort of resembled Cindy Brady crossed with a poodle.

He exited the dormitory, eyes glazed, tittering softly, maniacally, to himself. Fortunately, everyone else was too busy sleeping, engaging in their own strange little trysts, or engrossing themselves in thick books or wizarding chess to notice our mind-bending-drug-powered hero move off on his quest of angel-dust-fueled vengeance.

Bellatrix had remained in her corner, while time trickled slowly by, chomping on the last bit of tart, stroking the handle of her wand in anticipation, and cackling to herself.

Then she saw a shadow, padding down her corridor. It came closer and closer, and she could hear it talking to itself, see the smoky light glinting on the drool trickling from its slack mouth.

Intuition told her the truth. It was little Longbottom, come to her at last. Bellatrix could hold back her laughter no longer; she raced forward, howling in twisted delight, wand extended and the Cruciatus Curse on the tip of her tongue.

Seconds later, she was shoved up against the wall, wand lying uselessly on the floor. She vaguely recalled hearing a “Petrificus Totalus” somewhere, and, frozen against the wall, pinned down by the boy whose parents she had tortured, Bellatrix could not fight.

She could not even scream as the boy, in a PCP-induced haze, struggled to lift her; she could not move just an inch, much less strike the boy, when he placed her in the broom closet, when his hand reached up her skirt, not even when his extremely tiny penis, decorated with what Dolores Umbridge called “an experiment with card-stamping embellishing ink in colour number forty-seven, tickle-me-pink,” penetrated her opening with a force she never would have believed possible in such a weak child. It felt like a hammer smashing a pane of delicate glass. Bellatrix, though she was possibly a powerful enough witch to break the grip of the spell, was so horrified at the nasty display right in front of her eyes that she could do nothing.

Neville Longbottom laughed insanely as he carried out this mad act of depravity, flinging his body even closer to the paralyzed murderer (and thus, shoving his member in even farther) till Bellatrix almost became imprinted into the stonework under his weight. Her mouth was open in a silent shriek of horror, or perhaps simply revulsion. It was difficult to say. Having had little or no experience with females, Neville continued this for quite a while, completely oblivious to the fact that rape was generally more of a hit-‘n-run affair, not the three hours he would spend physically and mentally torturing-and ultimately impregnating- poor Bellatrix.

---

Far out across the snow from Hogwarts, someone raised his head, barely visible under its unkempt mane of curly brown hair, to scent the breeze. He had not been mistaken. Somewhere, not too far away, there was an abundance of nature’s most delectable creatures. Drool , mixed with old blood and tiny remnants of his past meals, spilled onto the snow, pooling rather stickily upon the hard white surface as he salivated eagerly.

Without further ado, Myspace Tom crouched upon the snow, and began digging, with his bare hands, a tunnel to this marvelous place only a few miles away. Visions of tasty cats danced in his brain, making him immune to the freezing cold, his numbed hands scooping away at the snow and ice, and his soaked clothing.

Myspace Tom wanted one thing and one thing only: cat. And oh, how he wanted them! So delicious, so chewy, so good dipped in barbecue sauce and served with a side of onions! The tunnel grew longer, resounding with his mad laughter as that smell tantalized his nostrils. Soon he would arrive, and then the wonderful feast would begin...

TO BE CONTINUED.