A/N: Something light and fluffy as a antidote to all the cold chillies of ADD. This is meta-fiction, which is fiction about writing fiction. It's intended as humor, a la Colbert.
There is implied consumption of alchohol in this fic.
Love to my reviwers.
"Look, there's just no other way. You have to write another chapter." Bright green eyes widened to make themselves as pitiful as possible.
The author shook her head. "Sorry, I have to finish that term paper. Either of you know anything about Margery Kempe?"
The taller figure glared malevolently. " No, and even if I did I'd be disinclined to help you. You've known this project was due for what, two weeks? And yet you waited until the last minute?"
The author groaned. "Once a professor…Look, I can't write another chapter right now. Why don't you both watch a DVD?"
The boy pouted. "You haven't got a thing worth watching."
"Keep it up and I'll write in a cross over." Both figures got quiet. The younger one looked ready to cry. "Can't you write for just a few minutes? You'll be up all night anyway."
Now the author looked ready to cry. She reached into her mini fridge and pulled out a bottle, opened the cap and poured a small amount into a dubious looking glass. She opened a soft drink and poured it in, took a generous swallow. "Ah, aqua vitae . Whatever would I do without you?"
The boy waited until neither she nor Snape were watching. His hand fastened on the bottle and he sneakily undid the cap, lifted it to his lips---the taller one lashed out like a snake and took the bottle. He walked to the closet and used his great height to push the bottle as far back in the closet as it would go.
"The next time, Potter, I transfigure you into a seven year old girl." The boy rooted for a moment in the fridge's dark recesses, came up with a slightly dusty box of chocolate covered cherries and popped one in his mouth. Then another. He was poised to take a third when the author got his shirt collar in a death grip.
" He took my bottle, I don't recommend you take my other drug of choice. Unless you like the idea of Draco slash." Snape gave a snort of laughter from the dirty little corner by the bed. "And you, Professor, if you don't give it back, I'll--" Snape's already pallid face lost a few shades as she spoke. "Black, Lupin and Mundungus Fletcher?"
" All at once. Unless you want to give me my drink back."
Snape shook his head piously. " Dear lady, much as I'd love to, you have a term paper to write. About a Madam Kempe, I believe?"
The author balled her hands into fists. "Snape, so help me, if you don't--"
Snape gave a malevolent grin. "I expect you'd best start writing. That term paper will take you some time, and then the chapter will take you at least two hours, and it's seven o'clock right now. If you want to be done by, say, three AM, I'd begin."
She looked ready to say something else. Harry, sensing she was beginning to weaken, rushed into the breach. "Please, Madea? Please? It's been a long time. We miss hearing from you." He gave her his best puppy dog eyes and a charming smile.
" Fine, fine, you win. You're both awful." Harry and Snape exchanged significant looks.
Six hours later the author slumped, exhausted, in her hard, narrow dorm bed. The gentlemen were well pleased by their latest chapter. Snape had even looked over her essay and declared it 'barely passable, almost tolerable.' High praise from Snape, really.
Seeing everything safely posted on various websites, the two wished the author a good night. Slipping a cherry in Harry's hand 'for the road, kiddo, okay?', she wished them a good night. She felt tired, so tired. She wouldn't go out tonight after all, she decided. She would put on her baggy sweats, maybe watch 'Serenity' and go to sleep a little on the early side. She smiled.
A knock at the door. Was it the RA, perhaps checking to see what the noises had been? (She'd had to rescue the soft drink mixture herself; Snape maintained stoutly it was a bad example for her to set for younger readers and therefore wouldn't retrieve it).
She flung the door open and gasped with horror. A man in sober black robes stood on her doorstep, holding a clipboard.
"Yes, sir, that'd be me."
He nodded. " I'm from the office of Magical Plotbunnies. Sign here please." He produced a fluffy white quill and she signed, not without some hesitation. The man bowed slightly and vanished.
Where he'd been stood a trio. Not the Trio, a wholly different trio. The author shivered. What godless plot bunny, brought from the pit of despair, had conjured this? What old God had she offended, and would s/he accept an offering of diet cola and chocolate cherries?
"Lady, sweet lady, surely you would not deny a wretch such as myself a one shot? Just one tiny one shot, madam? A drabble?" He put his stubby hands together in a gesture of supplication and twitched like, well, a rat.
The blonde at his side looked around. "What a dump this place is. Don't muggles ever clean?" He wrinkled his aristocratic Malfoy nose and huffed, annoyed he had to go to this dirty place.
Not to mention, the unkempt woman looked as though she'd slept in her clothes, and the room had a strange smell he could only describe as a mixture of chocolate, dirty laundry and something sweet and fizzy touched with fire whiskey. Her hair was a different color at the roots than at the ends, and it needed a cut. Potter and even Snape might be willing to tolerate such slovenliness in their fan fiction authors, but if she was going to write him, things would change.
The third one ignored this. She stood by herself near the fire escape, singing along to music only she could hear. When she deigned to notice the muggle standing with her nephew and the little man-rat, she pulled her wand and laughed.
" A muggle! What fun! Crucio!"
Nothing happened. She tried again. Tried a third time. Nothing. Draco put up a hand.
" No use.' He turned to the stunned author and gave her his best sneer. "Well? Are you mannerless as well as slatternly? Invite us in."
Resigned, she stepped back. " Would anyone like something to drink before we begin?"