Daily Deviant
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19th November 2007 03:52 - FIC: "WRiNCL-on-Thyme" (Everyone, R)
Title: "WRiNCL-on-Thyme"
Author: [info]pre_raphaelite1
Characters: Everyone? Remus/Sirius, Tonks/Ginny, Harry/Ron/Hermione, Albus/Gellert
Rating: R
Warnings: Excessive use of parentheses, implied bestiality and public sex, disturbing visuals of Hagrid
Themes/kinks chosen: phony spoilers and Teh CRACK
Word Count: 1850
Summary: 34 35 of the 81 fake spoilers provided, plus a few more. Can you find them all? :P
Author's notes: I am so, so sorry, world. This is complete and total cracked-out crack, though there is sex in it! Briefly. Sort of. At least it's not my art? And I sporfled while writing- not sure if that bodes well or not.

"WRiNCL-on-Thyme"
It opened as another typical morning in Heaven- the sun rose with a cheery grin and birds started chirping just on cue. Flowers bloomed in perfect yawns as a faint breeze ruffled their dainty edges.

But the breeze grew fiercer and louder until it was a near roar and rattle of metal and dust. A moment later a motorcycle sped through the field of flowers, crushing them under spinning rubber and sending dirt flying up enough to darken the sky and make the sun glare in vain at the leather-clad motorcyclist and his tweedy passenger. The passenger raised a single finger at the disapproving sun and with a huff, it dragged a rain cloud over itself. There was a whoop of triumphant laughter that sent the scared-silent birds into abrupt flight.

Because really, this wasn't Heaven- not as traditionally formulated anyway. This was where the deceased and retired characters of Wizarding Britain came when they finished their appearances in block letters and crisp pages. This was the Wizarding Retreat in Nirvana in County Lacewing-on-Thyme. WRiNCL-on-Thyme as it was known to its inhabitants.

And the early morning hooligans were none other than Sirius Black and Remus Lupin. Padfoot and Moony- Marauders, Backdoor Lovers, and all around good blokes- unless you were a Death Eater, an Imperiused lesbian, or a field of flowers.

The Imperiused lesbian was at that moment fast asleep on top of her girlfriend, mousy brown hair tangled up with red. After the disastrous attack on Bill and Fleur's wedding and the subsequent deaths of Moody, Kingsley, Percy, and the Delacour parents; Tonks had found herself locked in the broomshed with Ginny Weasley. One thing (spying a spider on Ginny's shirt) had led to another (Tonks' tongue thrust into Ginny's cunt) then another (Fred and George's joint shout of “We told you she was a todger dodger, Mum!”). And, still tasting of Ginny, Tonks was successfully freed of the Imperius Curse by a greatly relieved, and openly gay, Remus.

Despite Molly Weasley's shock and general confusion at the notion of two women together, she begrudgingly accepted Tonks and Ginny together because Remus was sadly convinced of his homosexuality and Sirius had returned from beyond the veil and was attached at the hip (and sometimes mouth or arse) to Remus. Sirius kept growling when anyone so much as looked at the aging, but fit werewolf. And at least sapphic love meant Molly's youngest wouldn't be getting knocked up with quadruplets at sixteen by some Boy-Who-Shagged or worse yet, Snape. Molly had seen how the polar-opposites of Snape and Hermione were inexorably drawn together by their mutual know-it-all-ness and academic drive to succeed. Or maybe it was just the teenaged-girl's fascination with vampires; after all Molly had caught Hermione eying the blood-sucking Creevey brothers too.

The Boy-Who-Wouldn't-Shag, as Ginny had dubbed Harry Potter, now ran a sweet-shop with his two chosen life-partners, Ron and Hermione who, along with Harry, had grown into heart-stoppingly sexy teens during the summer before what would have been their seventh year at Hogwarts. To see them all together now was rumoured to send even the most chaste and impotent of wizarding monks into endless lust. But seeing as how there weren't actually any wizarding monks or even a chapel at Hogwarts where Harry could mourn his extended relatives, no steps were taken to keep the threesome (in all senses of the word) from public view. Since Hermione had spent that particular blossoming summer studying the most powerful of sex spells and courtesean charms, all included in Hogwarts: A History; these threesomes were frequently, perhaps inadvertently, a WRiNCL-on-Thyme spectacle.

Harry had never bothered to finish his schooling and missed the all-important NEWTs that would allow him to be employable in order to chase the whorecruxes (now properly spelled after it was revealed that little Tommy really liked the loose ladies). This ridiculously long and drawn-out adventure filled with weeks of mindless, unproductive camping in the snow naturally involved the heirs of Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw (Dean, Zacharias, and Luna respectively) and the ever present Ron and Hermione. Despite one intended-three-hour-turned-three-week trip to Hogwarts' library (during which time they discovered not only the identity of the whorecruxes but also discovered to their horror that Pince was a total vampire stalker who kept climbing into Snape's bed), they eventually destroyed all but one of the whorecruxes.

The final whorecrux turned out to be not Harry, but Ginny, in the wake of the whole diary fiasco- really the collection of snakes that followed her everywhere she went should have given it away. Despite her enjoyment of the very obedient and rather pervy reptiles, Tonks fought valiantly to save her lady love from the bloodthirsty trio. It only ended when, in some freak of magical timing that only happens in the worst of b-rated screen-adaptations of harlequin novels written by underaged, virginal Mary Sues, everyone tried to sacrifice themselves for everyone else. This created a martyrdom vortex which triangulated off of the actual body of Voldemort and Peter's shiny silver hand and negated the entire war in one sparkly, magic-sucking swan-song.

Snape was quite put out that he missed the chance to save the world by sacrificing himself. Again. He didn't even get to lick the blood up as there simply wasn't any. Bodies shattered apart then reformed, never spilling a single drop of scarlet. Sometimes Snape really hated magic. Then again, the Trio's latest Blood Biscuits began to make up for it.

Biscuits weren't the only treat popular in WriNCL-on-Thyme. Trio's Total Taste Truffles (which unjust and unalliterative critics liked to call Total Waste Truffles) had edged out Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans as the favoured multi-flavoured sweet of choice of the retired Wizarding populace. This pendulum swing in the sugary world might have been aided by the discovery that the latter's poison flavoured beans were, in fact, poisoned. If only little Albus Severus James Gemini Victor Victoria Hugo Chiquita Black Unicorn Weasley-Granger-Potter had known that iocane was odorless, tasteless, dissolved instantly in liquid, and was one of the more deadly poisons known to man.

But the Tasty Trio as they were now known had learned from their predecessor's mistakes so every time they introduced a new flavour, the lines of people waiting to get the first taste put even the most rabid of midnight release fangirl line-parties to shame, especially with the sparkling gold stars and Ron's now familiar cry of “Oi! Get those hands off my butt, man!” rising above the squeeing.*

One familiar face among the crowd was former Hogwarts Headmaster, and current hosiery magnate, Albus Dumbledore. Now free of the tedious job of running a revolutionary band of renegade witches and wizards from a bloody painting, Albus spends his days knitting socks and the occasional tent with Molly Weasley. He keeps a careful eye on his son, Dudley and his band (Big D and the Two Thugs, managed by Regulus Black who had finally dropped his stage name after too many people speculated- in person and in print- about the origin of his name). Dudley was very slowly understanding his magic that had been forced dormant when Harry was taken in by the Durselys, and he was acquiring a love of the Self-Squeezing Accordion.

That last night of anonymous sex had cost Albus and made him set a few rules for himself on who he would fuck. Despite mistaking Petunia Dursley for a man, it wasn't the different bits he decided against. Or the fact it resulted in a bastard butterball. No, Albus swore to himself after that night, he wouldn't shag the dogs. He'd leave that to Petunia's sister-in-law. But at least Petunia's husband had helped end the war at last with one well-aimed shot of his rather-bent rifle. Who knew old Snakeface could be killed with a handful of buckshot? Well Albus Dumbledore did, but he wasn't about to tell that to anyone- he'd have to listen to them whine for an eternity- literally.

Mind you, he might have been wrong about a few things.- Let's face it. He was crazy and overly-intentioned and perhaps more than a bit egomaniacal, so he was bound to make the occasional ridiculously huge mistake with dire and even fatal consequences.

That Hagrid for one. Albus always figured he was the loveable giant sort- or lovable half-giant type. But maybe the assumption was a false one. Or maybe it was that the decades doing nothing but carrying keys about and mowing the quidditch pitch and exterminating flesh-eating slugs had taken their toll. Whatever it was, because of his actions in the last book, Hagrid wasn't permitted into this particular County of Nirvana. He retired with Bellatrix Lestrange, Peter Pettigrew, Percy Weasley and the rest of the Death Eaters to Billywig-on-Thyme, south of Lacewing-on-Thyme. This worked out well for all and prevented any reprises of Severus Snape's use of an incendiary charm to kill Hagrid before he could ambush the Trio on the even of the last battle. The trio still held grudges against the former Groundskeeper for the betrayal and the sheer number of rock cakes they had to consume on behalf of their 'friendship'.

Now, Hagrid ran Billywig-on-Thyme's grooming salon, catering to pets and people alike, making no distinction between Peter and poodle, despite his specialty in arm and bikini waxes. Hagrid himself was hairless as a newborn flobberworm, proudly displaying the mark of the skull vomiting a snake, the mark which had been hidden all those years under layers of dirt and fur that may or may not have been all his.

But at least, Albus figured, he got through the books without his deepest secret being revealed. He was safe. He could live out his days with his skeins of rainbow yarn and sherbert lemons without anyone ever knowing. Smiling, he picked up a picture of Gellert and him on their wedding day and kissed it tenderly then had to readjust his purple feathered hat. That Gilderoy really did have excellent taste in clothing.

Dorsal Fin.

*This brilliant line of dramatic dialogue provided by the ever eloquent [info]lysa1.



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