This is a challenge HP fanfiction, a series of drabbles, on a series of objects, and it involves a potentially OOC Grantaire getting transported to Privet Drive. AU Fourth Year. Oh, er, and it was inspired, most certainly, by "The Scarlet Pimpernel in the 21st century" by BaronessOrc. I apologize gravely to Victor Hugo for writing R like this, but somehow, I could not resist. And he might just seem a bit foppish. Percy is stuck in my head… I think I shall have to make R meet Percy Weasley.
In response to alieboo's "A very weird challenge you can call it?"
Disclaimer: I don't own R, or any of the HP characters! And I think I ended up characterizing Grantaire as a sort of combination of Sir Percy Blakeney with Snape…
July: A Cell phone
Hmmm… Well, that was strange!
Erm… Excuse me, my name is Grantaire, generally called R, and, generally, people think I'm a bit dissolute. Alright, alright, I'll own up to it—the fée verte*, she is my one and only lover, as, although immeasurably incomparable we are, la liberté is the only love of Enjolras. So greatly impassioned, so greatly impassioned he is! In any case, I, for once in my life, stood up beside him, such an admirable man… only, I apparently disappeared only to reappear here in some other time, in England.
It seems, according to this odd woman I met, who owns a lot of cats, that I am, in fact, a wizard, and that I somehow managed to land myself in the year 1994. Now, frankly, I have no idea whether that is according to the old standard mode or that system Enjolras's idols imposed upon glorious France (although, to my relief, they seem to have a seven day week in any case—In fact, while on an outing today, I noticed a bunch of signs saying "24/7", an odd expression if I may say so, myself.), it might as well be either from my perspective. And my hostess, a Mme. Arabella Figg, seems confused about the fact that I have come to this time from another, and expects me to explain a device called a "mobile phone" to her.
It appears to be a very tiny mechanical device—I have never had time for things of this sort, and I am beginning to wish I had, and had not whiled my time away at the pleasant task of drinking and gaming. Although, according to her, it's a Muggle device, and therefore not many wizards would know about it… I have no idea what she's getting at, simply that I have never seen such a device!
Has been a month since I began my stay with this strange hostess. I have decided I bear intense antipathy towards felines. Am finally getting to the point where I do not constantly want a drink.
In any case, went for a walk this morning—am finally getting used to these newfangled clothes, which are, after all, quite a lot different from those of my time. Encountered a youngish boy weeding the flowerbeds at No. 4. He appears to be sunburned. Decided I ought to do the noble thing and inquire whether he oughtn't to be inside, considering that they now have a novelty called "air conditioning". At the very least, 'twould keep him out of the sun.
Woman of the house came out and acted rather persnickety. Gaunt man came up, dressed in queer clothing Mme. Figg deems "wizardly". Boy exclaims "Serious!" and runs toward man, who seems glad to see him. Woman seemed unsettled.
An argument ensues; the woman slaps the boy on the face. The two leave, and the woman enters her house again, but something shiny got left behind on the pavement. It seems Mme. Dursley has left her diamond ring behind. It is promptly returned with due ceremony, save that she treats me as if I'm a beggar or something. Do I still look a drunkard?
September: Hair brush
"Hello there, Arabella! How has Harry been?" Dumbledore asked through the floo, although the Squib was currently occupied purchasing Girl Scout cookies and couldn't see him.
Grantaire rose from his rather snug perch in a cat-covered armchair where he had been occupying himself with a most uninteresting volume of kneezle breed statistics.
"I think," he said, in a slight French accent, "that I would like to come to this wizard school of yours."
"Oh, why of course!" the headmaster said carelessly. "Lemon drop?"
"May I floo through?" he addressed the headmaster, having learned about wizard transportation during his months at Arabella's. It was considerably more interesting than the innumerable minutiae about cats he had also learned.
"Sure, Argus wanted a month or two off! Have you see—"
The headmaster's voice was cut off by the roar of the fire, as the Frenchman spoke "Hogwarts School of Wizardry!"
"—n my hairbrush, perchance? My beard's getting a bit tangled, and with these mountains of paperwork, I simply haven't time to search for it."
R gave him a wary look, and was granted reprieve from the bizarre dialogue by the entrance of Filius Flitwick, master of charms.
It would seem that I am currently within a girl's toilet. One that is always occupied by a petulant ghost—who, in some respects might remind me of myself in former days—mon dieu, I need a drink!
Well, I suppose that might be inadvisable. Apparently, Headmaster Dumbledore, who, in spite of his being a greatly esteemed member of the wizarding world, I cannot help but find a rather ignorant old fool, failed to make any arrangements whatsoever to deal with my being here at Hogwarts, and so I find myself rooming with a downright mad "Auror" who has lost not only a partial limb, but an eye in the line of duty. Harder to catch than the National Guard, I would suppose… except that Mr. Moody changes appearance when he sleeps, and something about his monstrous trunk seems to be inciting suspicion among the castle's resident spirits. Furthermore, he is constantly swigging something from a flask that most certainly is not any known variety of spirits—I know my alcohol!
This is why, I suppose, I have sequestered myself, Peeves, and the Bloody Baron in a never used restroom, to attempt to deal with the trunk.
Of course, in retrospect, Reducto, an offensive spell, might not have been the best thing to cast on the trunk—it was blown to smithereens, something that occurs in a rather mind boggling course of events for something that has more compartments than it has interior, and Moody, who appeared to be the real Moody, and who had a half flask of brandy rather than some nasty grayish stuff, came out, angrily, and burst out of the restroom.
Note to self: Snakes on sink may be cause for further investigation in the future, per reports by Myrtle, the ghost of the girls' toilet.
November: Toilet paper
The thanks a fellow gets! I was having a half way entertaining conversation with Professor Snape, who seems to think I'm a bit odd (but I am… having traveled so far into the future and discovered I was a wizard of all things), when the Headmaster decides that I ought to take up the position of caretaker, and clean up a mess that some apparently Muggleborn students made in the corridor.
I do not know what makes them think that—well, I retract that. Actually, I do see some amusement in it, but anymore it requires me to make myself think as my former, Abaisse self, a person I look ruefully upon these days.
I actually, thanks to the ghosts, helped reveal Moody as an imposter—the real Moody, while a somewhat reluctant roommate, is a bit fonder of me. And he got all upset because apparently the imposter, who is a "Death Eater" or some such thing, had been the one to put some boy—a Harry Potter, apparently Mme. Figg's neighbor, the one that I saw weeding some months ago—'s name in this magical goblet, meaning he had to participate in some dangerous magical tournament!
Oh the things these wizards get into. I desperately need a drink.
December: cat food
The school is desperately crowded, any more, some Yule Ball coming up. But I shall not drink the eggnog. Not the spiked… In any case, I have been sent to a grocer on errand!
Dumbly, as I and Peeves have decided to call him, decided he wanted a variety of books, 14.227 kilos of hard candy, including 10 kilos of lemon drops… a vacuum cleaner, 10 dozen eggs, a quart of cotton candy ice cream, and two gross of candy canes. Guess who gets to go shopping? I also decided I would go ahead and repay Arabella by picking up her monthly order of 70 kilos of cat food.
And the books I have to scrounge up?
Hairstyles for Dummies
The Idiot's Guide to Alchemy
100 uses for (night?) shades
The Pudding Book
Cacao for Oompah Loompahs
What sort of books are those?
Addendum, 26 Dec.: It seems that the headmaster wanted to give the books to his staff members. Neither Hairstyles nor the volume on alchemy was appreciated by Professor Snape, and it seems Pomona (who asked me to call her that) wanted a new book on magical applications of nightshade, not a book on window shades… Profs. McGonagall and Flitwick were baffled by their gifts, that "Cacao for Oompah Loopahs" and that odd title, respectively. I received The Pudding Book. Pity I don't know how to cook, I suppose!
It would appear that I am not particularly good at evading the Headmaster's questions. He wants to know repeatedly what I've made from my book. Thus, I have been hiding in the library, getting intimately acquainted with the volumes on Life-Giving Potions, Amateur Animagus Studies, and the librarian—do wait a moment—that came out wrong! Rest assured, there is nothing whatsoever intimate about my relationship with Madame Pince. I am still corresponding with Mme. Figg, but especially considering that I make a rule of flirting with no female more than ten years my elder, (Oui, they are technically far younger than me. Too young, if I hadn't managed to jump through time. Ignore the fact, please!) there is nothing further between either of us!
The former volume is rather interesting, and I have copied a certain curious recipe ("For the Purpose of Reviving the Incorporeal") down and stuck it in my notebook by the recipe for "Boston Cream Pie", both things I am curious about.
I have been enlisted to assist a young Mr. Colin Creevey with his progress on a "scrapbook/yearbook", and the experience has actually been rather pleasant, although I am getting a headache that would be bettered by a dose of spirits… And my hands, as well, are cramped from using the scissors so much. Still, I am determined to make something of myself, especially since I have spent some fairly unproductive months shelled up here in the castle.
Mr. Creevey has told me some interesting tales, including a good many about his idol, a certain Harry Potter. In sum: P. defeated Dark Lord at age one, eleven, and twelve, (But did not do a good job, clearly!) has a convict for a godfather—oh, all right, an acquitted convict, and is an orphan and the savior of the wizarding world.
Interesting character him. Not near as impassioned as Enjolras, though. I miss mon amis, badly. All of them, including Marius, lover-boy though he was!
Mmm… I rather hope these young wizards get out of here like I got out, although I don't wish upon them the loss of all their friends.
Went… home(?) to Mme. Figg, and all had dinner at The Burrow, which is the Weasley family's house. I finally am personally acquainted with Mr. Harry Potter, although I cannot say, despite his impressive lightning bolt scar, that he looks very much like a hero. Of course, I suppose I judge my heroes by a different era and world…
In any case, had an interesting Italian dish called "pizza" there. Children enjoyed it greatly. Was novel to me.
I am now back at Hogwarts, although a strange incident occurred while walking through Hogsmeade.
A ratty little man, a weaselly fellow, if you will, if there ever was one, seemed intent upon borrowing my Christmas book… which I had disguised as Life-Giving Potions, so that I would not embarrass myself so in puzzling over it while in public. He seemed especially interested in the draught I had copied down. I have to wonder if something is afoot.
But no time to wonder! I have been called upon to help trim the labyrinth for the final task in the Tournament, for once an important chore.
After chatting briefly with one of the red-haired Weasley clan, a Percy, about cauldron bottom thickness… a topic I'm afraid Professor Snape is far more interested in than I will ever be, the imposter-Moody grabbed me and apparated—I have learned that's what it's called—away from… well, wait! I suppose it was actually a portkey, as one cannot apparate on Hogwarts grounds…
We arrived in a rather grim graveyard. If this was meant to be a headquarters for a revolutionary movement, I must say our barricade was a rather better one. The ratty man, who I now know is Pettigrew, or Wormtail, is attempting to make up the potion or something else from my book(Oh, yes, I didn't copy the instructions!) while being instructed by a rather malevolent sort of ghost… or at least I suppose it's a ghost.
I offer to help, and Pettigrew accepts, although it then becomes apparent that he is actually making the custard filling—I really don't understand the moniker now—for the recipe.
As I am stirring the cauldron in a futile wait for it to thicken—I don't think it likely, and regardless of how beloved they are to potions master, I don't think it the best vessel for this function—Cedric Diggory, the sole Hogwarts champion after Mr. Potter was properly withdrawn, appears in the graveyard, holding the cup.
The spirit seems infuriated, but it evidently bizarrely instructs Pettigrew to put some of Diggory's blood in my custard… a waste of the vital fluid, really. As nonsensical, in terms of practicality, as watering the meadows of France with blood.
So Pettigrew slits the boy's arm, and sticks a random bone in the custard.
"Do come on and help me with the master!" Pettigrew hisses at me as Diggory faints—at that much blood? Really!
I am badly in need of a drink.
Pettigrew and I coax the spirit into the custard—a step I am sure is not part of the making of Boston Cream Pie, even though that seems to be a misnomer, being scarcely Bostonian, containing custard rather than cream, and being quite frankly a cake rather than a pie. Thank Jupiter—or I would under any other circumstance—the custard has thickened. Bubbles of a sort of fog emerge from the stuff with a slurp as the thing is submerged.
Pettigrew—and a bunch of the other black robed figures waiting around—seem to panic, and try to pull the thing out of the custard—how do they expect to get a handhold on such an incorporeal being?
I really need a drink.
It seems now, that they were attempting to revive the spirit—and by the looks of them, it wasn't anyone good, but it seems—perhaps fortunately?—that it has suffocated as soon as it gained a sort of body.
Good riddance. Anything that is daft enough to allow its servants to manufacture custard in place of, or mixed with, a life-reviving potion probably deserves to suffocate.
And there you have it, the insane story of how Grantaire defeated Voldemort with Boston Cream Pie… I wrote this while somewhat loopy due to a sinus infection. I'm not on anything besides an antibiotic, either! It really is pure insanity. R&R, s'il vous plait.
*Translates to "green fairy", another name for absinthe… although I don't speak French and am not altogether too familiar with French culture.