Harry Potter and the Twelve Talismen
Author's note: Well, I want ice crème! How about you? Delicious, tasty icecrème, with whipped cream on top. Covered in mini-chocolate chips! Yep, sorry this chapter took so long in the being updated, ya.
Disclaimer: J.K Rowling like fan fiction, so she says...you really think Jackie Chan would sue a cute little girl like me?
Read and review for best outcome, yo.
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Valmont was a busy man in many regards, he often found himself making lists in his head before going to bed, dreaming about those lists being played out, waking up bright and early in the morning, and setting about to do those plans. And ever since that unfortunate move that had taken place, he was busier then ever. But even so, he just couldn't bring himself to yank himself out of bed that morning. He woke up, and glanced at the clock, feeling wide awake at the usual eight fifteen he woke up at, but there was a nagging feeling in his head that he usually repressed. He just didn't want to get out of bed.
Moments passed. He glanced over at the clock again after a blissful moment of nothing. Eighty twenty. Five minuets was long enough to loll about in bed. There was just too much to do for that kind of nonsense. So, using all his will power (and he had a nice supply of will power) he forced himself out of his temporary bed.
Bheh, his thoughts shifted to the unfortunate circumstance he found himself in currently as get got dressed for the busy day. After the euphoria of being free from Shendu wore off, his plight came to light. There was a sizable chunk of his vast ill gotten wealth gone, vanished, missing! Since when did travelling cost that much!? This was distressing enough, without the Chan's and the infernal Captain Black knowing where his precious secret Headquarters' was. But never mind that, he was quick, resourceful even in finding a new one. It was a shab of a place, built by a man who was obvious impaired in some matter, and over looked quaintly China Town. Well, you know what they say, keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.
Patting himself on the back then, he wondered if it was time to look for someplace new. This was virtually the Headquarters equivalent of a Roach Motel, God help any roaches he saw in here. After grooming in his shoebox of a bathroom, he walked through the barley furbished living room which was connected to the kitchen, the dinning room assumingly in the middle, and walked down the inane amount of stairs that this building posses to get the mail he had neglected to pick up the day before. He had taken the jolly of alias of Nigel Peabody for this particular resident. This was a strangely pleasing ring to that name, Nigel Peabody.
He made his way back up stairs, finding himself strangely out of breath at the end of them this time. Was he getting out of shape? Parish the thought! He was just tired, he reasoned with himself. That's why he lingered in bed so long, he was just tired. He stopped at the closest wall to the refrigerator, and yanked it open. Seamlessly, flawlessly, as if by magic, the wall was really a door, and behind that door was a room large enough for a good sized filing cabinet, a fairly sized desk and three telephones and a coat rack. That was something he loved about the Chinese, they made fabulous secret compartments, rooms, and the like. He entered, as he was shuffling through the mail.
Credit card offering, and other various junk mail bet the waste bin besides the desk as he sat down behind it in a push red chair he had scooped off the street. Maybe it was high time to go back to the old place and snatch his old belonging back up, that is, if they were still there. Valmont threw another slice of junk mail into the bin before coming to the very last letter in the stack. A small square letter, white as butter, with jabby aggressive handwriting that stabbed across the centre of the letter that read as thus:
To Miss Emma Cilona
He shook his head. It couldn't be...but it was. Oh, it was. It couldn't- He just couldn't believe it. This (slightly less) wealth business man was flooded with memories he long since suppressed. Memories- along with family, religion, and friendship were demon's you needed to slay if you were to be successful. But looking at this envelope awoken what he long thought was dead-
A young boy, just shy of the age of twelve, stood in front of a soda machine, with a crumpled dollar in his small hand, and a nasty scowl on his face. The infernal machine wouldn't take his filthy American dollars. He rubbed George's face across the side panelling that meets the drink option buttons again, and stood up on his tip toes as hiiiiiigh as he could. Just barely, this pale blond haired boy with a rather pointed face and a slightly dark complexion reached the money slot and fed the machine his dollar.
He held his breath, eagerly watching as his dollar disappeared into the machine. Digital numbers came up red right above the selections. With boyish charm and utter glee he picked the first selection. Something or other called Prof. Moon. The Machine clanked and clinked before spitting out a can as big as a dinner glass. He reached down for it when a voice penetrated his happy moment.
"Never seen a pop machine before, kid,?" Said the voice, a mewly one, spoken through a very nasally nose, "I swear, could the Yuppies be any more obvious?"
Young Valmont was taken aback, how dare this scum speak to him this way! Did this punk have any idea who he was talking to?!
"Excuse me," Valmont snapped curtly, glancing over this boy. His clothes were to big for him, his eyes were pricing, like a hawk, only off, teal- a frightful stare, but other then that this boy was a moppy blond haired, baggy clothes no-name to Valmont. A filthy upstart about to be put in his place, "But I don't think you have the faintest idea who you're dealing with-"
"Chill it, kid," The baggy clothed boy said offhandedly, "Not like you're any different the Scrant back here," He nugged his head towards a tall, sickly tall boy on his side. He looked rather affronted by his, his milky eyes wide with resentment.
"At least I know how to use a pop machine," His voice cracked in subtenant glory as he jumped to defend himself. The girls around them giggles at this, clearly they hung around this group to poke fun at the misery of others, all set up to make fun of the new kids.
"Who are you then?" The thin boy demanded, trying to regain control of the group he thought was his, but Valmont could see that the baggy clothes boy had more control over it then the thin boy could have ever imagined, "Can't be more important then Cilona or Scrant." He added, huffily.
Valmont didn't even bother trying to repress his sneer, "I'm a Malfoy," He said magnificently. Surely they'd all bow to his might in wonderment!
The whole group, minus the baggy clothed ashened face boy who spoke in the first place, exploded in cattle walls that sounded something like this, "Malfoy at Hexes! Squib! Squib, Squib-alert!"
Valmont could feel the rage rush warningly to his face, flushing.
"Enough guys," The boy said, dully, raising his knoby hands up. When they didn't stop , he took three steps towards a very angry and confused Valmont, who was clenching his Prof. Moon for protection.
The thin boy caught himself in mid-laughter, "What are you doing, Clive?"
"Whatever I want," Clive, the baggy clothed boy retorted, "Now get gone."
The thin boy gave a scowl and a shrug, taking control of the pack once and for all. They moved from the empty cafeteria, with its disarray of chairs and strange cleaner emptiness like a massive herd. Before they were gone, Valmont heard the tall boy mutter, "Squib".
There was an awkward moment of silence between the two remaining boys. Clive broke it by yanking the pop can from Valmont's hand, and opening it loudly over Valmont's protests with a loud snap and a hiss. He grinned, handing it back to him.
"I had trouble opening it on my first time too," He said, looking down at Valmont. That was the trouble with America, Valmont thought, all the steroids in meat, making the boys his age taller then him. He hated it. Little Valmont avoided eye contact with this boy's piercing eyes.
"Why'd you do that?" He simpered.
"I was a Yuppie too," His voice was beginning to annoy Valmont, who replied with an eyebrow raise.
"A Yuppie...?" Clive said again, but when Valmont just scowled at him, he quickly explained, "Its when a magical dude from a magic family starts out learning with Mug' stuff, see?"
"I see very well," Valmont sneered, "I don't speak American." Briskly, he took a drink from his sofa, thinking him self right ace there, when the liquid he put in his mouth caused his tongue to rebel, spitting the vile stuff right out. Clive burst into laughter, a loud blusterous laughter that filled the empty cafeteria.
"That was awful!" Valmont exclaimed after he was done choking on the liquid evil.
"Wait 'till you try Diet!" Clive said under his great big belly laughter, clamping a knobby hand on Valmont's thin shoulder, and for once Valmont didn't really mind being touched.
Valmont finished opening the letter, clamping a hand tightly over top for a moment of to as the measure sort of wiggle like in his hand before taking out the contents. He glanced at the introductory letter. It was just a copy, not even hand-written, what sort of scum ran the building now? How lazy! That thought crossed his mind when he heard a thunderous clamour from somewhere in the front of the building. Terrified that something was broken, he swiftly moved out from behind his desk, and was out of his secret room as quick as you can say flapjack. And I'm sure you can say flapjack pretty quick.
There was no damage to the front room, so, he reasoned, that someone was trying to break in. Well, that was one crook who was about to regret his choice in docile dearly.
He threw open the ill painted door that blocked the upstairs from those devil stairs, leaning back with his arms folded, striking an impressive pose to who ever had the gall to break in. At the bottom of the steps was no a robber, however, but a mass of black robes that slowly crawled up the steps, using the railing to pull himself up.
"Well, well, well," Valmont said softly, but his voice carried down the stairs, "So the prodigal eldest brother has come to the young castaway for help, isn't this a biblical moment?"
"Oh, due shut up, Valmont," The mass of black retaliated, working his way up to the second step. Valmont was waiting in anticipation for his older brother to ask for help, but his waiting was in vain. He would no sooner ask for help from him then hold his breath and die. So Valmont, sickened to the core by this display of weakness, bounded down the stairs to help him. His older brother was only on the third step when Valmont reached him, hunched over like, well, a hunch back. An old crippled hunch back.
Valmont pulled his free arm of his brother over his shoulder and started to lug him up the stairs. He cased a glance at him, once, before setting his eyes on the door, reach had decided to creak itself shut right then. Lucius's face looked bad, once full of pride and glory was now swallow and grey. His eyes had lost that gleam of ambition. Valmont shuttered inwardly. That could have been him.
"Magic not as useful as it was?" Valmont said snidely, having a funny feeling that Lucius wasn't even trying to get up the stairs.
"Crime not paying what is use too?" Lucius countered masterfully, putting Valmont right in his place. It took a moment for Valmont to think of something ("Don't make me drop you down these stairs") but Lucius knew he had won that repartee, just like he always did.
Just a few more steps. "But now that you're here," Valmont started, slyly. What an opportune visit, it was almost, pardon the pun, by magic, "You can take your niece shopping."
Lucius's lacklustre face looked confused for a comment, before the light of realisation shone through. No...that couldn't be. He was about to ask, when he suddenly grabbed his left arm, placing all his weight on Valmont, who wasn't expecting it, was trusted into the door, causing Lucius to topple on to him.
"Exactly what I wanted to do with my summer," Lucius groaned, rubbing his upper left arm.