Selfinsertion O'Bugger-Subtlety tapped his foot impatiently as he waited for Finnegan's kid - some stupid Gryffindor, whatshisname. Self couldn't stand him when they were in the same JIRA class and the Hat only vindicated his opinions. It was nice to know that a talking piece of haberdashery agreed with you - you never know when that could be useful. Glancing down at his watch, he noted that Finnegan was late, an attribute he suspected was hereditary, as Finnegan Senior was always late with his explosions too. Made them look like amatuers he did, with his explosives going off five minutes after everyone else's had.

"Oi, you're O'Bugger-Subtlety's kid, right?" he heard someone call out from behind him. Whirling on his heel with his wand in the prescribed 'Come any closer and I'll hex you into next month' position (well, he called it that in his head, it actually had a more formal name, but Self thought it was stupid), he grinned at Finnegan's wide-eyed expression. Putting his wand back into it's easy-access pouch attached to his arm (he was the fastest draw of his year because of it and was much the envy of his housemates as well) he nodded sharply once. Finnegan pulled out a large package from his backpack and hefted it awkwardly. Self took it from him, startled by the weight and put it into his backpack.

"One dragon, complete with egg," Finnegan gasped out, his face red. Self noted absently that it looked dreadful with his hair-colour - although he couldn't think of a hair colour which would flatter a brilliant red face. "Tell your father that my da would like to be paid at the end of the month - those bastards at Gringotts fired my mammy. He has to teach them that you don't mess with us."

"By us, do you mean the IRA, Irish wizards or witches, your family or the Irish population in general?" Self asked in genuine curiousity. Finnegan shrugged. "You really don't know? Well, that sucks for you, doesn't it."

"It's the right thing to do!" Finnegan protested. Self rolled his eyes at the Gryffindor bravado. "Alright then, what would you do then?" he demanded. Self sighed heavily.

"For one? Actually know why I'm doing something. I wondered why you were put into Gryffindor - your background would have put you into Hufflepuff easily. Now I know." Ignoring Finnegan's angry protests, Self turned his back on him and headed off to his first class, Potions. Much as he didn't particularly like this class, as there was too much theory and not enough cauldron destruction for his liking, it was still preferable to hanging around a Gryffindor.

He brightened as he remembered that Professor Snape was going to allow Ernie and Eric to work together during the practical side. There had been many combinations tried to curtail Ernie's destructive habit, some resulting in, in Self's opinion, utterly brilliant results. Sadly, Professor Snape did not view destroying a third of the Potions classroom as a laudable achievement. It was a point of contention between him and the Hufflepuffs.


Professor Snape was not amused.


Before they knew it, it was a Hogsmeade weekend and Self was caught unawares. As such, he had the delightful task of finding a third year willing to perform a favour for him. This was a more difficult task than one would imagine, not because of the nature of the task, merely that they were busy with more important tasks - the irregular replenishing of their stash of junk food. Normally, Self would sympathise - not everyone had parents willing to send their child necessary things such as Mars Bars - but this was important. Why could they not understand this? Finally he managed to find a student willing to perform the task, a repulsive individual named Boris.

"Look, all you have to do is make sure that you lose the egg," Self explained for the fifth time. Boris squinted at him hazily before picking his nose. If you knew his history, Boris was a tragic figure indeed. The hope of Hufflepuff House, Professor Sprout had thought he was capable of great things. Then he discovered the dual demons - girls and firewhisky. Unfortunately for Boris, most girls did not find an individual intent on destroying his liver at the age of twenty remotely attractive, so he had to resort to other means. The underground trade of Playwizard flourished at this point. Boris' addition had grown to the point where he was perpetually in debt and was now willing to perform anything if the fee was high enough.

"Whatta I get outta it?" he slurred. Self shuddered as he belched noxious gases into his face. There had to be laws against that sort of thing. Boris had really been born out of his time. Had he been born in the mid seventies in the US, he could have been used as a biological weapon by the president of the time against whatever Middle-Eastern country had the largest stakehold in oil at the time.

"Three magazines, one bottle and I'll try to negotiate a date with someone for you," Self replied quickly, hoping that the quicker he spoke the faster he could be away from this noxious individual. Boris frowned in thought, his alcohol-pickled brain struggling to ask the questions a more alert person would be able to articulate; how an eleven year old could possibly have any influence over a thirteen year old girl. Finally, he nodded and Self breathed a sigh of relief before making a quick retreat. He hoped that whatever Boris had wasn't catching.


After confirming that Boris had in fact lost the egg to someone (Boris wasn't particularly clear on the details, much to Self's dismay), Self had the uneviable position of waiting to see if his plan worked. Days passed, and Hagrid's hut still remained non-crater-shaped. If the Finnegans had played a joke on him, it was one in very poor taste. Out of sheer desperation, he emailed his father, requesting his expertise in such areas. A very terse email was his only response, essentially telling him to either develop patience or become a banker. Self was not amused.

His housemates were not impressed with his constant worrying and one morning, Self found himself thrown into the lake and told to 'have fun' by a grinning Professor Sprout. Fun seemed to be an elusive thing to find, but he did find the giant Squid who, rumours to the contrary,did not want to have a relationship with him. From what Self could ascertain, the Squid was involved in a long term relationship with both the Whomping Willow and Fawkes the Phoenix and Self did not feel that he could possibly offer anything that those two illustrious characters could not. Instead, he bowed out gracefully and closed his eyes when the Willow and the Squid 'bonded'. There was such a thing as too much education.


Another week passed and there was still no explosion. Self felt betrayed.


The Irregularly Delivered But Is Called Daily Because Of False Advertising Prophet (believe it or not, it's all there - check the fine print the next time the paper's delivered) arrived in it's usual manner - by a kamikaze owl barrelling through the Hufflepuff table, knocking over milk jugs and the smaller children in it's passage. Many complaints had been made to the Daily Prophet about the nature of their owls, but after meeting the editor, the malcontents quickly saw the error of their ways. After Self's enrollment to Hogwarts, Professor Dumbledore had opened negotions with said individual about obtaining some of the less suicidal owls, a diplomatic effort that ended with failure.

Self opened the paper and flicked through it casually, ignoring the death stares from those less-fortunate than him in the reflexes department and were now wearing their breakfast on their robes. While he knew very well that it was his fault that the owl had to deliver the paper, it wasn't as if he made the owl do it, was it? A headline caught his eye.

People were very confused when Self threw the paper to the table, complained bitterly about "only page six! Come on, that was a page two at least!", and stalk out. If this story wasn't following the adventures of Selfinsertion O'Bugger-Subtlety, we could hover around the table for a couple of minutes and see that a dragon preserve in Romania was now a very unaesthetically pleasing crater.


To: p.o'

It appears that we have hit a slight snag in the project. Am requesting your assistance in this matter.


Self really didn't want to call his father in on this one. This was supposed to be his project. But now things had gone terribly wrong, and maybe it was time for him to contact the expert on these matters, thus allowing him to focus on his magic-work. If Hogwarts was going to be blown up, he'd like to have as much magical knowledge under his belt beforehand, if given a choice. You never know when that could come in handy.

Authors Note: Wow. It's been a while between chapters. About six months or so, or so I think. It's not that I mean to neglect little Self. It just happens. And thank you to everyone who has read/reviewed this silly little idea. It's a great thrill, knowing that others are being amused by your opinions on the Potterverse.