Real Magic

The girl can't help it. Thank you soooooo much for the great reviews which inspired me for this chapter! I'm going out of town for six days but I'll be back awaiting reviews.

Real Magic

Chapter 4: Congratulations from WBS

Dear Real Magic Cast Member,

Congratulations! You have been selected to join the third season cast of the WBS1 hit show, Real Magic! You will be spending the next three months in sunny Southern California with seven other lucky winners!

The show starts when you meet your house mates at London's Heathrow Airport where you will fly to exciting Los Angeles by muggle transportation! Your first class air ticket is enclosed, please meet at Gate 4A at exactly 10AM June 15, wearing muggle clothes only and bringing along any necessary personals. Keep in mind that no magic is allowed in your Real Magic mansion! Spending money will be provided and your first Real Magic activity will be an all paid for shopping spree in fashionable L.A.! You are in for a great adventure and super stardom! Congratulations again from WBS!

Wayne Frickle
Executive Producer, Real Magic
*Also keep in mind that your audition marble and acceptance now binds you to a summer long contract according to the legal rights of Real Magic and WBS. WBS1 now contains the nonexclusive rights to your voice, image and name, any of which may be utilized for promotional purposes or sold to the highest bidder. Have fun!


Ron Weasley, legs complexly tangled in a web of Chudley Canon sheeting and in the midst of a particularly uncouth dream involving both Lavender and Parvati, inhaled a good amount of drool before a blood curdling shriek sounded from downstairs, ripping him from the land of what Ron had termed Parvati's 14th Curve and sending him scrambling to his feet, only to fall on his face before he grabbed for his wand and went stumbling out of his bedroom and down the stairs of the Burrow in preparation for a couple snaggle toothed death eaters, or perhaps Voldemort risen from the grave or at the very least a cranky baskilisk. Ron pounded down the hallway and skidded into the kitchen, eyes wide and wand drawn and ready for the next battle.


Not only the fleet of foot Ron, but two other equally alarmed Weasleys of the male persuasion, found themselves rushing down to the kitchen to come to the aide of the youngest, their baby darling sweetheart little sister who, instead of dyeing slowly between the unhinged jaw of a resurrected Nagini, was bouncing on her pink toe socked feet at great heights, grasping a long piece of parchment, a look of such euphoric glee on her face that Ron had not seen since Harry sleep walked into the common room three months ago wearing only Gryffindor colored boxer briefs.


Fred and George Weasley put their wands away and eyed their sister with typically Fred and George Brand Good Natured Amusement. They turned to Ron and grinned in typical Fred and George Fashion.

said Fred, looking all too sexy for his shirt*, she's your sister now.

George agreed, we leave all over protective tendencies to you. We've got things to do, people to flummox.

Fred and George went back upstairs to bed and Ron was left alone with his sister, the Amazing Bouncing Hyperactive.



You don't say.

Ginny came to a soft landing and attempted to bring her pulse back down to acceptable levels.

We could go on like this all morning.

Real Magic, Ron! You and I, we both got in! We're going to Los Angeles! To California!

You generally have to go to California to get to Los Angeles, Ron pointed out, though he too was grinning as the excitement started to hit him.

His sister gripped him by the shoulders, Ron, do you have any idea what this means?!

Yes, it means no more espresso double shots for Gin-Gin.

his sister said, a look of quiet and dangerous intensity in her eyes, this means that I, Virginia Weasley, get to wear... A BIKINI!

Ron began to convulse with a sense of horror he hadn't felt since a particularly ugly night of junior auroring. Oh... for... joy, he said thickly.

His sister realized her faux pas and grasped for something Ron could hold onto.

But Ron, you know what eeeelse, she said in a sing song voice.

Ron asked, You're getting something pierced?!

It's California, Ronnie. It's girls, Ginny said slyly. Girls, girls, girls for ickle Ronniekins.

Ickle Ronniekins blinked. Ickle Ronniekins imagined 15th, 16th and sizable 14th curves.



Hermione Granger was awake, was feeling that abrupt summertime jolt of readjusting to muggle life and trying to remember what setting of the toaster oven would not burn a partly stale cinnamon English muffin. Mione, as she was so belovedly coined, had all but forgotten about her fumbling audition marble. She'd done her best to that little test, wearing regular school robes, hair bushy as ever, face not only quite makeupless but unwashed and verbal presentation something other then sparkling. Hermione had done it all not so much to avoid becoming a cast member of Real Magic as to prove a point to Ginny. Having not for a moment, even for less then a millisecond considered the possibility of actually being chosen for the cast, Hermione had idolly imagined herself on a beach, lying back in the sun with a massive copy of An Anthology of 18th Century Arithmatic Conceptualization and The Portable Waffling, basking in the soft pacific scented breeze, toes in the sand, shades cooly pushed back over her hair, which soaking wet, would not seem bushy at all.

Hermione was ejecting another muffin now scalded the color of Severus Snape's dark soul, and cursing softly to herself while wondering what sort of breakfasts beach front restaurants served and what were the real ingredients of a California omelet when the owl came swooping in through the kitchen window, an unfamiliar bird with a somewhat condescending air that only came from being employed by a major network, magical or not. The owl dropped a small parcel atop the charred toaster biscuit after eyeing it with disgust and just as quickly left. Hermione watched the owl fly away and looked at the parcel, seeing the logo of WBS and wondering why a rejection letter required such heavy packaging. Hermione tore open the mailer and read the scroll contained within, staring at it and the included plane ticket (first class, of course), uncomprehendingly.

Hermione Granger breathed,


Pansy Parkinson was a natural snorer and only with the benefit of Miss Whisper's Silent Slumber Drought did she manage to avoid waking the house elves on the other side of the wall in the servant's quarters. Pansy's sleep disorder now muted, which otherwise would have exuded blasts only matched by the angry roar of the Hogwarts Express, included the use of a sleeping mask, a purple silk and velvet number that she wore over her eyes. In one of the six bedrooms of a quite respectable and beautiful mansion that Pansy liked to pretend was in some way comparable to Malfoy Manor, and under the satin sheets (that matched the sleeping mask, of course) and in the wrought iron four poster bed, lay Pansy dreaming involuntarily of six different kinds of food from which she'd attempted to abstain for the past three years, Clearabelle's Blemish Off applied to certain aspects of her complexion, arms spread out across the queen sized, her fingers hanging off each edge of the bed like she was a goddess awaiting holy vindication.

The vindication came in the form of an owl which poked insistently on her window early in the morning, and failing to wake the buxom Slytherin, seemed to roll it's owly eyes and flew down to the house elv's window, waking Yert who accepted the package for Pansy before he realized that he now was responsible for waking his mistress up which most Parkinson elves tried very purposefully to avoid.

It was necessary in waking Miss Pansy to skip all attempts at knocking and invade the bedroom, calling out Miss Pansy's name at gradually strengthening volumes until the girl twitched or as a last resort to actually throw something small at one of the fingers hanging off the edge of the bed.

First a whisper.

Miss Pansy...

A hiss.

Miss Pansy.

Heightened stage whisper.

Miss Pansy!

Yert, being an unusually ballsy sort of elf, one who might have been quietly interested in S.P.E.W. theory, hated this ritual and knew what would bring his mistress back from the world beyond of sugar frosting and ubiquitous calories.


Miss Pansy burst into wakefulness with such violence that for a moment she appeared to levitate underneath her sheets, every nerve in her body tensed.

WHAT IN THE BLAZES! Miss Pansy shrieked, yanking off her sleeping mask and glaring at the underling before her.

It was Yert. Any other house elf would have received a punishment or at the very least an inducement toward self-loathing, but Yert had been around since Pansy could remember and she had a certain amount of affection for the little gremlin. And besides that, Yert could be entertaining.

Yert, what the bloody hell-

Package for you, miss, Yert said simply.

It couldn't wait?

Yert shrugged. Would miss like to go back to sleep? Yert could bring miss some warm milk?

No, Yert.

Heating pad?

Yert! You've already woken me! I can't get back to sleep now.

Most grievous apologies, miss.

Miss Pansy snorted. I'll bet. Let's see the package then.

Yert handed his mistress the package and the mistress, seeing the WBS logo on the front began to shriek again to Yert's bemusement, began to scramble out from underneath her covers and ripped open the parcel and reading the parchment, began to squeal in a most undignified manner that Yert happened to know the elder Madam Parkinson tried most heartedly to discourage.

Would miss like a valium?



Harry Potter's feet were cold and if much of the female magical community had known it, they would have scuttled over magical and muggle streets and up the poplar outside his window and into his begrudgingly given bedroom to personally warm them with techniques having very little to do with conventional sorcery. Sadly, they did not know and so Potter was forced to go to the trouble of tucking his feet beneath his undersized woolen blanket and half awake to turn onto his side, his head propped on his hand and giving the darkened bedroom a sleepy, unspectacled, tousled expression of contentment that would've sent the Potter Foot Warming Society gasping for their collective breath. Potter was ruminating on the state of life since the ending (we hope) of the dark lord the year before, was reflecting on the sudden quietness of the Dursleys who themselves had come face to face with the darkest magic in the known world and lived to never speak of it through no actions of their own, who saw Harry Potter's so noble heroism up close and personal and never thanked him for it, was reveling in the very great favor they had done him of leaving him completely to himself.

Harry was looking forward to a happily uneventful summer of visiting the Burrow, possibly Mione's house and most probably a few trips to Sirius' flat on Diagon Alley where Sirius, long since cleared of all false accusations, enjoyed a relatively normal life of auroring alongside Lupin,both of them named in Witch Weekly's Most Eligible Bachelors Issue and both of them dating a certain number of hot under the collar, doe eyed auror groupies. Harry kicked off the blanket and stretched, exposing a goodly amount of bare chest above his infamously crimson boxer briefs and was reaching for his glasses when the owl tapped on his window. Harry rolled over and opened the window, frowning when he didn't recognize the owl and accepted the package. And the owl exchanged a coo of approval with Hedwig who sat calmly perching on Harry's desk chair before it flew into the sunrise.

Harry eyed the WBS logo with suspicion and wondered which promotional offer this pertained to. He was not expecting the Real Magic rejection letter, but rather got letters from WBS, WWN, Witch Weekly, The Daily Prophet, Warlock's Quarterly, various witch and wizard authors hoping for a favorable blurb on a new book as well as a myriad of brand names several times a week, most of which he immediately threw away unless they contained a free sample or gift basket.

Harry read the letter and looked at the plane ticket and fell back on his bed and groaned most heartedly and cursed Ron Weasley to the marrow of the redhead's bones.


Draco Malfoy, at his window, his arms like that of a greek vision and languidly above his head, his self most decidedly naked... apart from a pair of black silk boxers. Draco put his arms down, whilst staring out of a ridiculously oversized window in the ridiculously oversized Nearly-the-Master Suite of Malfoy Manor, and scratched an itch on his shoulder, eyeing the dismal grounds, the typically British moores in the tradition of Bronte novels outside his room, with a differently sleepy, tousled and hopelessly seductive expression of contentment and expectation that would have frozen the Potter Foot Warming Society where they stood, causing them whip their heads back and forth between the two, their poor, overwhelmed hearts nearly imploding under the weight of such a decision.

Another spectacularly dull day in life of Draco Malfoy, he muttered to himself.

He stretched again and closed his eyes, opening them to see on the other side of the window a pair of peepers beholding an air of arrogance much like his own except that they belonged to an owl.

Draco sighed, opening the window. Another one of my admirers, I suppose?

The cooed and Draco noted just a hint of what might've been sarcasm before it dropped the parcel in Draco's hands and flew off. Draco opened the package and read the letter and his mouth twisted into a leering half smile of satisfaction, his eyebrow raised, his knowing look of smugness belying the excitement inside him.

he said lazily, raising his head and dashing through the bonds of reality to gaze upon you, the reader, and gesturing toward himself, you don't think they'd turn all this down, do you?

A/N yaaaaaahoo! Reviews loved! *Right Said Fred. If you don't get that reference, look it up in and think back, waaaaay back. Toss me the reviewage!