Disclaimer:  This is a parody, and we realize that as such many of our depictions of J. K. Rowling's characters are OoC, or are at best stretched very finely.  That said, we do not own any of the characters, settings, or anything else even remotely connected to the Harry Potter Universe created by J. K. Rowling, nor are we making any money from this work.  We DO thank JKR for allowing us to play seriously in, as well as parody, her world.  All other OCs--Abby Loomis, Alex Lennox, Errol Klarion, Viviane Chance and Malheureuse, and the fanfic Queenie Greengrass--appear with the full permission of their creators.

***

Authors’ Note:  The Murderous Hussies’ Manifesto

 

We are the Murderous Hussies, a cabal of literary witches armed with steel-trap minds and freshly sharpened Fwooper quills. One day we made a momentous discovery…

 

Sweet, shy, freckle-faced Ginny Weasley had been abducted – whether by Narcissa Malfoy, Wormtail, Voldemort himself, we are not quite sure – and replaced by a monster.

 

We’re talking FANON GINNY here. You know the one – that titian-tressed, ivory-skinned, freckle-free, True Seer, Wielder of Untold Magical Powers, Feisty Redhead! The sassy spitfire with the cayenne/cinnamon/paprika mane of cascading waves who pines for her hero, Harry the Magnificent. (Sometimes she’s paired with Draco, but that’s another episode.)

 

The Murderous Hussies were resolved that this spawn of the Dark Lord, this minion of evil, this carnelian-haired, alabaster-complected spitfire of doom, Had To Be Eliminated. We, being clever hussies and armed with the Loom of Abby and the Sword of Viviane (among many other weapons) resolved to eliminate this blot upon fan fiction’s escutcheon. Trouble is, that little wench, that titian temptress, was so FREAXIN’ hard to send to her reward. Rather like a cockroach. A flame-winged one, that is.

 

The Founders Four would be proud of us, we know. Meanwhile, sit back and enjoy. And remember, it’s all in the spirit of good, slightly dingy fun.

 

***

 

 

 

Killing Ginny: Chapter One

George Gets an Idea

 

By

 

Hussy Mincot

 

            Afterwards, they never could decide who alerted the Daily Prophet.  But, as George pointed out, that just made the game more fun. 

            It started on the Hogwarts Express, at the start of the Trio’s fifth year.  Ron sat reading, and Harry stared out the window listlessly, while Fred and George huddled over a price list for Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.

“Now, just snap out of that depression, Harry,” Hermione said.

Lost in his own thoughts, Harry paid almost no attention until Hermione said, “It doesn’t take that old dingbat to predict that this year you’ll nearly die again, and someone else will almost certainly die.  And then you still will have two more years, if you survive this one.  So there’s really no point in you going off the rails now.”

            “Wonder who it’ll be?” asked Ron, who had been leafing through his battered copy of Flying with the Cannons.  “The person who snuffs it this year, I mean.”  For Ron’s birthday last year, Harry had bought a Magical Update subscription that would keep the Cannons’ stats and ratings completely current.  As they had never stood anywhere other than last in the League, and their score was inevitably 0-something, Harry supposed it didn’t really matter.  But it made Ron happy.

            “Well, there are some people I suppose I wouldn’t … miss … as much as others,” Hermione said.  “The usual suspects, of course, starting with Mr. Malfoy.”  She began to tick them off on her fingers.  “Crabbe and Goyle, of course.”

            “All of the slimy Slytherins,” Fred said.  “Snape at the head of the list.”

            “And their parents,” Ron added, with disturbing relish.

            Harry looked up.  “I suppose the Creevey brothers are going to get into harm’s way at some time or another ….”           

            “Yeah, yours, following you around the way they do,” Ron snorted. 

            “Eloise Midgen,” Hermione said thoughtfully.

            “Why Eloise?” George asked.

            “Her nose isn’t dead center,” Harry said, beginning to get into the spirit of the thing.  “That’s an automatic death sentence.”

            Hermione nodded.  “It’s the only thing worse than being on Star Trek and wearing a red shirt and having no real name.”

            “Huh?” Ron asked.  He stared down at his book for a minute, and then looked up at Harry.  “You know, Sirius is always sticking his paws into things.  And his tail.  That’s bound to get him into trouble.  And Professor Lupin might bite somebody and get the Ministry after him.”

            “Well, and look at Hagrid!” Hermione said.  “Nobody knows where he’s off to.  Snape, either, for that matter.  They could both have been killed already, and after, well, they’re both close to Harry.”

            “Hermione, please!” Harry grimaced.  “Some images I didn’t need, and that includes Snape close to anyone. Let alone me.  Hagrid, too, for that matter.   --Hang on, it could be the new DADA teacher.  Whoever it is can’t be as good as Professor Lupin, anyway, so no great loss there.”

            “Hermione’s got a point,” George said slowly.  “It could be … one of us.”

            Ron shook his head. “Can’t be me or Hermione; we’re the Faithful Sidekicks.  You and George, though, are prime cannon fodder.”

            “Sidekicks die in some stories,” Fred reminded him. “Besides, we’re the Comic Relief.  That’s equally indispensable.”

             Ron glared at his brothers. “Not necessarily—sometimes the Comic Relief dies pathetically to up the emotional ante.”

            Fred nodded.  “Yeah, and Percy’s too obvious.  Besides, who would kill him?  We’d hear a three-week eulogy in which the major topic was cauldron bottom thickness.”

            “Mum and Dad are too … parental …” Ron said.

            “But I like the idea of it being one of you Weasleys,” Hermione said.  “You’re close to Harry … family figures … but expendable, too.”

            George stared at Hermione in mock affront.  After a moment, he nodded.  “That leaves Ginny,” he said.

            “Ginny! Good call, George,” Ron said.  “After all, she’s already nearly died once; nobody will be suspecting it.”

            Hermione thought it over.  “I like it.  She’s young and sweet, and very much loves Harry.”  She eyed him.  “In fact, she’s so sweet she rots teeth at six paces.”

“Have you seen some of those Ginny stories, Hermione?  Sweet isn’t the half of it,” Fred added.  “Most of the time, our little sister knows more spells than Dumbledore.”

“But she remains beautifully vulnerable,” George said, hands clasped in mock piety. 

“She always knows what to say, and she’s so womanly-wise, she might as well be our mother, even though she’s younger than we are,” Ron finished. 

Hermione was scribbling a list.  “And Viktor Krum was attracted to her, and Cedric, and Neville, and probably Parvati and Lavender, too.  In fact, just about anyone who matters.  I hate to say it, but anyone with that beautiful translucent skin and perfect hair—even when she hasn’t brushed it for days—deserves to die.  Not counting also having an excellent figure and luminous eyes.”

“Plus there is the issue of her doe-eyed adoration,” Harry muttered.  “Her only flaw is that she writes very bad poetry.”

George and Fred suddenly became very interested in the sides of the train compartment, and Harry said sternly, “All right, you two—what is it?”

After some foot shuffling, Fred said, “Well, Harry, that poem … your second year, the one sung by that rancid dwarf … “

“Yes, I remember it excruciatingly well, thank you,” Harry cut in, not too keen on allowing Fred and George any opportunity to begin singing ‘His eyes are as green as a new-pickled toad.’  “You don’t have to elaborate.”

“Er…”  The twins glanced at each other.  Finally, George said, “Uh, that one was ours.”

“I could have told you that,” Ron said.

“Well … uh …  Ginny’s poem …. “

“Let’s say that it could have won the Taliesin Contest for poetry, hands down.”

“Actually, it did—she sent it in before Christmas.”

Hermione gaped.  “That’s the contest for the best poem in the entire wizarding world for that year!”  After a moment or two, Ron reached over and gently closed Hermione’s mouth.

“The reviews were spectacular—a mature sensibility, brilliant insight, subtle invocation of imagery ….”

“We couldn’t stand it,” George said decisively.  “So we substituted a different version in her singing Valentine.”

“The dwarf didn’t even need to be bribed,” Fred said.  “She wrote a twelve-part motet to accompany it, and it would have taken a whole ruddy orchestra to play it.  He only had two hands and a harp.”

“Some reviewers have compared it to Bach or Brumel,” George said gloomily.

Hermione shook herself.  “Right.  These all sound like excellent reasons for her to die.”  She turned to Harry.    “How do you feel about it, Harry?  Ginny being the next person to die?  ”

            “Relieved,” Harry said promptly.  “I’m so tired of everyone shipping me with Ginny …”

            “—Or with Hermione,” Ron muttered. 

            “And I just want to be left alone to find my own OC to marry.  Later.  Much later.  After I survive the end of the world.  If I get that far.  And after what you said about Ginny being as wise as your mother … Ron, I love your mother, but I don’t want to … er … um … marry someone just like her.  Especially when that someone is younger than I am.” 

Ron nodded. “You know, I hate to say it, but with Ginny gone, things might be a little better.  At least I might have a chance at having a pat of butter that doesn’t have an elbow-print in it.” 

“Even her nervousness is just too cute,” Hermione said.

Ron eyed Fred and George.  “Who will you use to test out your Wizard Wheezes on?”

“You,” George said promptly, and the others laughed.  Ron grimaced, a resigned look on his lanky face.

Harry looked at the other four.  “So, how do we get Ginny dead?”

            George said, “Well, first off, will we do it, or will Voldemort?”

            “That depends,” Hermione said.  “I get awfully tired of waiting for him, after all; for a powerful wizard, he’s frightfully slow, always waiting until just before term ends.  I think we should have a go ourselves.  Keep our mind off other things.”

            Fred nodded.  “Good idea, Hermione.”  He jogged George’s arm.  “Hey, George, we can get a betting pool going for how long she lasts.”

“Do we want to get others in on the action?”

“Why not?  It’ll be more fun that way.”

            “Oh, I think we can take care of her ourselves,” Hermione said.  “But I’ll take you up on that bet.  Five Galleons says we off her within a month.”

            Harry looked thoughtful.  “She’s pretty resourceful, you know.  All those spells and worldly wisdom, not to mention international attention and lots of powerful friends and allies.  You’d better put me down for ten Galleons and the Christmas holidays.”

            Ron shrugged.  “I don’t have any money, but I’ll bet you being a guinea pig against her surviving all through next term.  I’ve had to live with the little Mary Sue, you know.  She’s got superb survival training … picked it up at a two week Girl Guides camp when she was six.”

            Fred was scribbling furiously in a little black notebook.  “Five Galleons … ten … brother being our guinea pig … got it.  George?” 

“I’m with Ron—three Galleons says end of term.”

Fred nodded, and wrote some more.  “Right.  I’ll bet with Hermione, three Galleons and within a month, just to make things more sporting.”  He snapped the book closed and shoved it in his pocket.  “So … who gets to try first?”

 

Killing Ginny: Chapter Two

The Klarion Way

 

By

 

Hussy Catherine

 

“I suppose that we have to watch how we do it,” said Ron. “It’s very likely that over the summer, Ginny’s picked up incredible hand to hand skills.”

 

“I do wish you’d be serious, Ron,” said Harry. “I can certainly appreciate Ginny’s perfections in all other arenas, but I don’t think she’s a peerless martial artist.”

 

“I only wish I were joking. I’m not aware of anything in particular, but since we’ve covered just about every other possible perfection for her, I imagine it’s only a matter of time since my little sister becomes a mistress of ninjitsu or something.”

 

Hermione looked up from the Potions text she was studying. “You’re probably right, Ron. That, or she’ll become a weapons specialist.”

 

“Don’t you two think it would be sufficient for these writers to decide she’s the best at dueling club?”

 

“Harry,” said Hermione, “do you know what anime is?”

 

“No,” said Harry. “Should I?”

 

“Yes,” said Hermione. “I think you should. You see, the same writers who give Ginny all of her perfection, also like watching these cartoons from Japan, many of them, and so Ginny is likely to be good at something like martial arts.”

 

“I suppose because a giant robot wouldn’t work at Hogwarts,” said Ron.

 

“Honestly, Ron!” said Hermione. “A giant robot. That’s pretty far fetched.”

 

Ron rolled his eyes at Hermione. “Right. As if the rest of it isn’t.”

 

“Hermione,” said Harry, “did you find anything that might lead you to believe we could kill Ginny with a Potion?”

 

“Oh, there are tons of them!” Hermione began flipping through the pages gleefully. “I asked Professor Snape the other day, and he began to tell me about this one that you give the victim in three parts so that it’s virtually untraceable.”

 

“That sounds quite good,” said Harry.

 

“Unfortunately,” said Hermione, “he stopped telling me about it. Wanted to know what I wanted it for, and after I sort of explained, he suggested that Ginny didn’t deserve quite that elegant a death.”

 

“Fine,” said Harry. “We need another option.”

 

“What about Professor Klarion?” said Ron. “He’s a Binder. He might have an idea.”

 

They found Professor Klarion in the Dark Arts classroom, petting his cat. “Professor Klarion,” said Ron. “D’you suppose we could borrow Isis for just a bit?”

 

Professor Klarion glanced up and continued to pet Isis distractedly. “Why?”

 

“Oh,” said Harry, “well, we just thought that we might ask Isis if she’d kill Ginny for us.”

 

Professor Klarion nodded. “I suppose she might. For such a favor, I think she’d probably appreciate a special treat afterwards.”

 

“That’s it?” said Harry. “That easy?”

 

“Well, certainly. Of course, if I were you, I’d make sure that Isis finished the job.”

 

“How do you mean?” said Hermione.

 

“Isis is a cat in appearance, correct?” Professor Klarion smiled as Isis licked his hand. “Cats like to play with their prey. So, she’d probably have a good start with killing Ginny, then she might take Ginny to the Abyss, and that could be a problem.”

 

“I’m still not following,” said Hermione.

 

“You know, I’ve noticed an annoying tendency, Weasley, in your sister, to become as perfect as possible.”

 

“Yeah,” said Ron. “That’s one of the reasons we’ve decided she has to go.”

 

“If Ginny were to go to the Abyss, unsupervised, well, she might be running the place in a week. Can you imagine what would happen if she found out who was responsible for Isis’ attack?”

“That’s a good point,” said Harry. “I think we’ll try something else.”

 

“I’m not saying that it couldn’t be done,” said Professor Klarion. “I’m just saying that the three of you would have to make sure of absolute follow through. That’s all.”

 

“Well,” said Hermione, “Thanks, Professor, but we’ll try to think of something less risky.”

 

Errol shrugged. “You could try merging her with a magical object. That will kill someone nine times out of ten.”

 

“No,” said Ron. “Ginny would be the eleventh time.” The three left the room to contemplate their next move.

 

 

Killing Ginny: Chapter Three

Suffering for Beauty

 

By

 

Hussy Alkari

 

 

 

“Harry!  Oh I’m so sorry!  Do let me help you!”  Ginny bent over him, sweetly scented with Odour L’Adoro, but Ron shoved her away angrily.

 

“He’s all right, just hit his arm.  Anyway, aren’t you late for class or something?”

 

“It’s Saturday, Ron,” said his sister condescendingly.  “I was just going to offer to bandage his arm, but if you can do it better than I can – then go right ahead!” And she swept off elegantly down the staircase, her glorious red hair flowing down her perfectly straight back. 

 

Harry and Ron looked at each other.  “Great idea, Harry,” said Ron, helping him to his feet.  “You might have known my dear sister would come down and knock you into the trick banister.”

 

“I only needed another couple of seconds and I would have Charmed it to trip HER,” muttered Harry.   “And with any luck, she would have fallen down the stairs and broken her perfect little neck.  Anyway – OUCH!  I think my arm’s broken.”

 

 “What have YOU been doing, Potter?” said Madam Pomfrey crossly when they reached the hospital wing.  “Something stupidly dangerous again?”

 

“No,” Harry muttered.  “I was trying to Charm the staircase from the Gryffindor corridor up to the fourth floor.”

 

“And what were you doing that for?”  Hogwarts’ matron was highly suspicious of anything involving members of the Potter or Weasley families.   “You could have killed someone.”

 

“We were trying to!” burst out Ron.   “We were trying to get it to kill Ginny!”

 

Harry had a sudden sinking feeling in his stomach as he looked at Madam Pomfrey’s face.   Ron’s mouth occasionally ran away with him …

 

“You wanted to KILL your sister?”   Madam Pomfrey looked awfully like that Hungarian Horntail when she was angry, thought Harry, his heart sinking a little bit further.  

 

“Er – um – well, yes – you see …”  Ron was edging to the door, and seemed to be about to make a dash for it. 

 

“Come here, Mr Weasley,” said Madam Pomfrey, and Harry was shocked to see her smile.   “Come in and sit down.  Now, just wait a minute while I heal Mr Potter here – nasty break, that one.”  

 

Two minutes later, Harry and Ron were sitting in the Matron’s office, sipping cocoa and munching on strictly medicinal chocolate cake.

 

“Now then,” said Madam Pomfrey kindly.  “Tell me about this plan to kill Ginny.  I must say, it’s certainly not before time, either!”

 

“Er – you mean – you mean YOU think she should be killed?”  Perhaps there was something in the cocoa, Ron thought dazedly.

 

“Of course she should.” The Matron’s voice sounded brisk and no-nonsense.  “That child has been quite dreadfully perfect since she started here.   Well, she did have that unfortunate little incident in her first year, but since then – absolutely nothing.   Never get injured at Quidditch – never explodes a potion over herself - never so much as a sniffle or a sneeze.    Never even gets a headache.   Her skin is perfect, her hair is glorious – and her weight is exactly right.   Only last week that pet Manticore of Hagrid’s escaped and tried to attack her – and she got it back into a cage without a mark on her.   That is not a normal girl, I tell you.”

 

The two boys stared at her.  She cut them another enormous slice of cake each.

 

“I think it’s about time somebody did something.  No good will come of having a perfect girl here at Hogwarts, you know.   I told Professor McGonagall that only the other day.   Even your mother Harry – yes, your dear, beautiful mother – even she got the occasional headache.  Of course, that could have been from your wonderful father and all his …”    Poppy Pomfrey paused abruptly to wipe her eye with a spotless white handkerchief.

 

Harry thought it best to keep eating.   He glanced at Ron, who was staring at Madam Pomfrey with rapt attention.

 

“Madam Pomfrey.”  Ron took a deep breath.  “Madam Pomfrey, we’ve been trying to kill Ginny for some time now.  And nothing seems to work.   I even got Fred and George to try and curse her broom last week – but she’s put an Uncursable Charm on it.  And it screams loudly if anyone other than Ginny even touches it!”

 

“We tried to get Colin Creevey to take a picture of her at practice last week, and blind her with the flash so she’d fall off her broom.  Only he wasn’t quick enough, and he took Katie Bell instead.   Lucky George was able to catch her.”

 

“I see.”  The Matron was looking thoughtful.  “Well, no use you trying to kill her – she’ll always be suspicious of you and your brothers.   Hmm – let me see.”

 

Harry and Ron finished their cocoa and cake, watching as Madam Pomfrey took down a series of volumes from her shelves, flicking through them and muttering under her breath.

 

“Hmm – Dissolvo potion - no, that won’t work.  Tastes much too obvious.    Pestilentia  essence – no, no, that won’t do either.   Might infect the other students.  Hmmm ...”  

 

Just then, Hermione appeared at the door.   “Madam Pomfrey – oh, there you are!” she exclaimed, seeing the two boys.   “I’ve come to tell you!”

 

“What?” asked Ron gloomily.  “Ginny has survived an attack by twenty three Death Eaters in Hogsmeade?   She wrestled the Giant Squid and won?  She’s tamed a Lethifold? ” 

 

“NO, you idiot.   She’s got a PIMPLE!”   Hermione’s face glowed with triumph.  “A great big, ugly, fat pimple on her chin.”

 

“A pimple?  On that perfect, satiny skin?”  Ron was sceptical.  “She’s been the flawless beauty lately.”

 

“I didn’t see it when she bumped into me,” muttered Harry.

 

“Men never see things right under their noses,” said Hermione matter-of-factly, sitting down on a spare chair.  “But she’s up in the dormitory now, trying to fix it.”

“That’s it!” cried Madam Pomfrey in triumph.  “Miss Granger, once again you have come up with the perfect solution.   My cure for pimples!”

 

“We’d rather you didn’t cure it, actually,” said Ron.  “We really wish you weren’t so efficient, Madam Pomfrey.    Can’t you just make a mistake or something.   I mean – I’ve never heard of anyone dying from a pimple – but at least she won’t look quite so perfect for the next few days.”

 

“Mr Weasley, of course I am efficient.  But I’ll have you know that curing pimples can be a difficult and dangerous matter.   Mistakes can be made.  Oh, not that I would normally make those mistakes – but there’s always a first time for everything.”    And with that, she started to rummage in cupboards and on shelves, pulling out bottles, jars, vials and other containers.    “Now, let’s see, where is it – aha! That’s what I need!”  And she patted a fat brown bottle affectionately.

Harry, Ron and Hermione stared at the school matron .   She smiled warmly at them, looking positively cheerful.  Did she really mean what they thought she meant?

 

“Now boys, off you go.  Don’t worry about anything, just leave it to me.   Miss Granger, I need a word with you.  We need to make sure Miss Weasley comes down here.  And by the time I’ve finished with her, she won’t have a pimple left.  She won’t have much of a face either – but that can’t be helped, can it?  Sacrifices must be made, and I always find too much beauty quite distressingly unnatural.”

 

Harry and Ron headed back to Gryffindor.   Why hadn’t they thought of Madam Pomfrey before?  If she could cure you, she could kill you …

 

The day was suddenly much, much brighter.

 

 

Killing Ginny: Chapter Four

Death to the Wanna-Be Carmen Weasley!

 

By

 

Hussy Clarimonde

 

“Queenie?”

 

“Yes, Blaise?”

 

“Did you know that the Weasleys are going to take over the entire wizarding world in the space of five generations? That our great-great-grandchildren will, in fact, be little Weasleys?”

 

“WHAT?” Blaise had said one thing guaranteed to divert Queenie from her Transfiguration homework.

 

“I did the arithmetic. There are seven Weasley children. Now if each Weasley has seven children, there will be forty-nine Weasley grandchildren. These forty-nine Weasley grandchildren will have three hundred and forty-three great-grandchildren, and in the fifth generation there will be two thousand four hundred and one Weasleys. And being that Ginny is a sassy, spitfire redhead -”

 

“Aieee! That does it!” Queenie put her hands over her ears and stood up. “Come on, Nemesis!” she called to her Angora cat. “We’re going to defuse this carroty population bomb once and for all! We’ll start with the titian temptress, then we’ll go for the boys! I happen to hate red hair!”

 

“Where are you going?” Blaise shouted after Queenie as she grabbed her wand and ran from the Slytherin common room, Nemesis following close behind.

 

“Saving the world from drowning in a tide of Weasleys!” Queenie replied over her shoulder.

 

“Where are you, you coppery excrescence?” Queenie turned round a corner somewhere in the darkest, dankest corner of the Hogwarts dungeons. Judging from the smell, Snape’s rooms were not that far away. Then she heard a muffled sobbing. Was it the new DADA teacher, whoever she was this year, pining after Professor Snape?

 

“Oh, Harry, Harry, if you were here, you could fill my arms with heather!”

 

“Silly girl, heather doesn’t grow in dungeons. Expelliarmus!”

 

“What?” Ginny squeaked as her wand flew out of her pocket and into Queenie’s outstretched hand. Then her eyes turned from brown to violet, signaling that her Spitfireyness was upon her.  She stomped her little feet and tossed her paprika-toned ankle-length mane of silken, cascading waves. Her flawless, alabaster skin, unmarred by the slightest freckle, blushed a faint tint of the rosiest shell pink, like a sunset over the Caribbean. “What have you done with my wand, you, you…Slytherin you!”

 

“Imogen Weasley, you are an ecological hazard and a right pain in the arse to boot! You are nothing but a Mills and Boon Feisty Redhead and your whole family is too fertile for the wizarding world! I don’t want any red-haired sons-in-law infesting my family! Muridus!” Queenie pointed her wand – eleven inches, laurel with a dragon heartstring – at Ginny and instantly the red-haired girl was transfigured into a little ginger mouse. “Go get her, Nemesis!”

 

But Nemesis saw something – or someone – even more enticing than a juicy rodent. Crookshanks, Hermione Granger’s ugly ginger tomcat, had followed them into the dungeons. He was now strutting before Nemesis, who rolled around, making kitty goo-goo eyes at what she obviously thought was the handsomest and most virile of tomcats.

 

“Damnit, Nemesis! Don’t shag, stalk! Pounce! Kill!”

 

Nemesis and Crookshanks ignored her.

 

The little ginger mouse, seeing a chance at escape, squeaked and ran for it – straight into a hole which led to Snape’s dungeons.

 

Queenie sighed. Then, looking at Nemesis and Crookshanks, grumbled, “Looks like I have a ginger-haired son-in-law, after a fashion. At least Crookshanks is not a Weasley cat. Not yet, anyway.”

 

 

Killing Ginny: Chapter Five

Death American Style

 

By

 

Hussy Yolanda

 

 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione were getting desperate.  None of their previous solutions had panned out and with each passing day, Ginny was becoming more stunning, more intelligent, more invulnerable, and more annoying.  How anyone could possibly be so chipper in the face of danger was beyond Harry.  

 

Hermione grabbed Harry’s arm as they walked to the common room early one evening before dinner. “Harry, what if you ask Alex?  She’s your godmother, isn’t she?  She cares for you and she wants you to be happy.  Why wouldn’t she help you with this?” 

 

“I bet she’s got some sort of Yank solution that will involve weapons!” Ron said, rubbing his hands together.

 

They found Alexandra Lennox in the kitchens cooking a five-course dinner for Severus Snape, no doubt, while reviewing a case file and teaching the house-elves how to play the electric guitar.  If she weren’t in love with Professor Snape she would have been almost as maddening as Ginny herself, but Harry felt sorry for her instead.  Besides, she had great legs.

 

“Alex, I was wondering if you could do me a favor,” Harry began.

 

“Anything, dude.  What’s up?  Can I work over the ferret for you? Make him an offer he can’t refuse?”

 

“No, something even more satisfying than that, Alex.”  Ron said. “It has to do with my sister.”

 

“Whoa, dude, you want me off the little red-haired girl?  Charlie Brown will never forgive me.”  They gave her a collective confused look, arching their eyebrows in unison. 

 

“How did you know, Alex?”  Hermione asked.

 

“I make it my mission to know everything.” She winked at them.  “Sophisticated surveillance equipment that every American Auror worth his salt has access to.”

 

“Speaking of American Aurors, you aren’t bothered by the . . .er illegality of this enterprise?”  Hermione queried.

 

“Hey, I’m loyal to the people I love—it’s that one pesky flaw I have. How else do you think I can put up with Severus’ hygiene issues?  Besides, no one gets to be as cute as I am.  Some of these insane people have actually paired Ginny with Severus.  If he’s going to prison for being a child molester, I want him go to prison for doing someone a little less aggravating.”  Then she became serious, frowning at Hermione.  “But don’t get any ideas.”

 

“So, what’s your plan?” Ron gave her the once over.

 

“There are a couple of angles I could pursue, all of them involving Muggle weapons.  Do you think she might like a game of Glock, paper, scissors? I know paper covers Glock, but I can still use the Glock to shoot her!”

 

They gave her a puzzled look.  “It’s a handgun.  I forget, even the Muggles in your country don’t carry guns.  You do know what guns are, right?

 

They nodded in unison.  “Well, when the obligatory invasion of the Great Hall by Death Eaters happens, which you know it will any day now, I can save the day and get rid of Ginny at the same time with my .44 Magnum. It shouldn’t be too hard.  My partner’s ready at an instant to Apparate into the school with nuclear weapons, if need be, so we have nothing to fear but fear itself.”  She looked at Hermione, who was frowning.  “I know, you can’t Apparate into the school, Hermione, but we’re Americans.  We break the rules all the time.”  Harry looked at his friends’ astonished faces and shrugged.

 

She continued. “It should go like this.  After we shoot up the Great Hall—I’ll take care to only use five of my six bullets—I’ll corner her with my weapon pointing right between her eyes.  Picture her cowering in her seat, with me pointing my gun right at her.”  Alex shoved Hermione into a chair and pretended to hold a gun to her head.  “When she makes an involuntary move, because you know she will, I’ll just say, ‘Ah-ah.  I know what you’re thinking.  Did she fire six shots or only five?  Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement, I’ve kind of lost track myself.  But, being that this is a .44 Magnum—the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you’ve got to ask yourself one question.  Do I feel lucky?’  Then I’ll narrow my eyes and ask ‘Well, do ya, punk?’”

 

Alex had moved dangerously close to Hermione, whose eyes were wide and frightened.  Harry looked over to see Dobby bouncing from one foot to the other nervously.  “Miss Lennox, you is needing to get your gateau out of the oven.  If we is late with Professor Snape’s tea, you is not getting your engagement ring.”

 

“Oh, Dobby, thank you,” Alex said, straightening herself up and moving toward the ovens.  “Sorry kids, I have to run.  You know what they always say?  It don’t mean a thing if you ain’t got that ring!”  She turned her attention back to the meal and dessert, muttering something like, “Go ahead, Severus, make my day.”

 

“Er, maybe someone else might be able to come up with something, Harry.  I mean, knowing my sister, she’s wearing invisible body armor and a Muggle gun won’t work anyway.” Ron looked back at Alex and shook his head as they left the kitchens. 

 

 

Killing Ginny: Chapter Six

The Seamstress and the Abominable Redhead

 

By

 

Hussy Katinka

 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione walked slowly up Hogsmeade’s High Street, their young faces glum.  So far, their odds of survival remained as before – Ginny had proven surprisingly resilient, managing to duck, dodge, and evade each attempt on her life. 

 

Ron was the first to speak.  “Golly,” he said, “I know we dropped her a lot when she was little, but I still wouldn’t expect Ginny to be so hardy.”

 

“Well, I’ve seen this coming for years,” Hermione replied crisply, as the group stopped outside of Gladrags Wizardwear.  “She’s one of only a few people to survive Voldemort’s influence as such a young age, thus putting herself in the perfect position to become a font of loving wisdom and nurture to you.” 

 

She looked pointedly at Harry, who gave a stricken gulp. 

 

“So,” she continued, “Unless you want to be saddled with that sassy little spitfire for the rest of your life, we need to get cracking!  Now come inside while I buy some Dander Deterrent for my robes.  Crookshanks is a dear, but he has some hygiene issues…”

 

Seizing her friends by the arms, Hermione dragged them through the flower-festooned door and on into the clothing shop.  While she perused the display of familiar-friendly fabric treatments, Ron and Harry continued to concoct strategies for Ginny’s demise in low, conspiratorial whispers.  They were deep in their plotting when a cheery voice interrupted:

 

“Oh, hello!”  All three students turned to see Abigail Loomis, Gladrags’ manager, standing behind them with several bolts of fabric in her arms.  “I’m so glad to see you today.  Did I hear you correctly just now?”

 

Hermione scrambled for an answer.  “Oh, yes,” she said quickly, “I have a cat named Crookshanks, who has the most gorgeous ginger fur, and I like ginger things, you’ll see, as I’m standing rather close to Ron, and anyhow, we were trying to figure out if this potion contributes to hairballs, because Crookshanks has some awful ones, and Lavender about killed me the last time he – ”

 

“Listen,” the sweet-faced witch said, leaning in and lowering her voice an octave, “you’re not fooling me.  I heard what you were talking about, and I think I can help you there.”

 

Hermione eyed Abby suspiciously.  Harry’s mouth gaped.  Ron scratched his head and belched.  Abby turned on him first.

 

“Weasley, tell me this.  Is that Ginny’s natural hair colour?”

 

“We all have the same hair colour,” Ron answered confusedly.

 

Miss Loomis growled in exasperation.  The boy didn’t seem very bright.  “Well then, is that your natural colour?” 

 

Ron nodded, to which she just shrugged her shoulders.  “You never know,” she said.  “Gilderoy Lockhart was down here once a week for touch-ups.  I just thought I’d ask.  Anyhow, I find it patently unfair that I got stuck with this mousy brown, while she got hair like that.”

 

“I think your hair looks nice – ” Ron started to say, before Hermione leveled him with an elbow to the gut.

 

Harry pushed his glasses up his nose, a sweet and endearing gesture, and stared at Abby.  “But we don’t want Ginny to croak because of her hair, Miss Loomis, even if it does rival the beauty of a thousand setting suns.  We’re not that shallow.”

 

“Well, neither am I,” Abby rejoined, with fire in her eyes.  “But do you know what she did the last time she was here?  We were trying out some new hair baubles – only trying, mind you – and the little minx scampered off without paying for them.  That went straight out of my bottom line, and I’m peeved.  Besides that, I heard that Ginny has her eye on becoming a robes designer after she leaves Hogwarts, so it’s in my best interest to see that she leaves the picture now.”  Her voice began to rise shrilly.  “There’s only room for one fashionista in Hogsmeade, do you hear me!  One!  I drove Malkin out, and I’ll drive her out, too!”

 

She curtailed her rant when customers began to stare.  She paused, shook her head slightly, and her face resumed its placid veneer.

 

“Anyhow, count me in.”

 

“Miss Loomis…” Ron began uncertainly, staring at the plush carpet, “…you seem kind of, erm, enthusiastic about this.  Ginny said you were always so nice to her before...” 

 

The veneer departed when Abby fixed a steely gaze on the redheaded lad.  “I don’t know what you’re whinging about,” she snapped.  “You’re the one who wants to off his own sister.”

 

“But Miss Loomis,” Harry said, “there’s no need to worry about yourself, you know.  You’re not really connected to me.”

 

“But if Ginny kicks it, those in your immediate circle have a better chance of staying alive, right?”

 

“Well, yeah, but – ”

 

“That’s all I needed to know.”

 

“Who’re you worried about?”

 

“No one.”

 

“Then why are you – ”

 

“I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

 

Ron’s eyes grew wide.  “Hey, Harry, d’you think she fancies Sir – ” he began, but his speculation was cut short when Miss Loomis kneecapped him with a bolt of aqua tulle.

 

By now, Hermione had grown certain of the shop manager’s dedication to the cause.  “Do you have ideas, Miss Loomis?” she asked.  “Ginny’s managed to outwit everything we’ve come up with so far.”

 

Placing a finger to her lips, Abby dragged the students to a remote corner of Gladrags.  Once she’d given Ron a small slap to pull his attention away from a picture of Celestina Warbeck in a low-cut evening gown, she unfolded her plan.

 

“Harry, can you spare a few Galleons from your ancient ancestral fortune?”

 

“Uh, sure.”

 

“Ron, can you imitate your mum’s handwriting?”

 

“Er, okay.”

 

Abby rubbed her hands together gleefully.  “Goody, goody.”

 

 

**

 

Several weeks later, jaws dropped as a titian-haired lass walked into Gladrags, a ratty piece of parchment in her hand.  The audible gasps caused Abby to look up from the counter of ladies’ “unmentionables”, where she’d been hunting out the best items for herself.  Her eyes focused on Ginny Weasley, and a grimly determined smirk formed on her lips.  The time had come.  Finally.

 

“Miss Weasley, hello!” she called out, stuffing several silken scraps into her pocket.  “What may I help you with today?”  (“Other than kicking the bucket,” she added under her breath.)

 

Ginny glided across the showroom, moving as though carried by a current of soft air.  She held up the parchment excitedly.

 

“New robes!  Mum sent me money for new robes!  They’ll be my first new set since Uncle Bilius’ funeral!”

 

“You don’t say?  How very kind of her.  I always thought your family lived like dormice.”

 

“Oh, I was just as surprised!” Ginny replied.  “I mean, I had to wear Charlie’s old underwear for the longest time.  And Dad was always nicking our toilet paper from the Ministry loos.  But now that I’m away from home, Mum can’t make me re-use the dental floss anymore.  And I’ll have new robes!  Now Harry will notice me!”

 

She held out the parchment, which was covered with smudges, smears, and crossed-out words.  “Deer Jinniy,” it began.  Abby buried a snarl under her smile.  Why had she asked Ron to write this?  The boy was obviously no shining star at school.  Well, it seemed to have done the trick – Ginny was here.

 

“It couldn’t be from the egg money, as we don’t keep chickens anymore,” Ginny continued.  Her eyes darted from side to side, and she leaned in to whisper, “They didn’t trust me near the roosters.”

 

Abby stared in confusion, but she didn’t expend too much energy trying to sort out the remark, as Miss Weasley would soon be pushing up daisies anyway.

 

“Let’s go to work, shall we?” she said instead.  “I have some pink gingham that would look fabulous on you.”  She seized Ginny by the arm and dragged her to a nearby pedestal, where she nudged off the current resident with a poke of her wand and plopped the redhead on top.

 

Abby was just about to throw a length of fabric over Ginny’s shoulder when, without warning, the girl let loose a torrent of profanities that would turn heads in a Knockturn Alley pool hall.

 

“Dear me!” Ginny giggled, covering her mouth with her hand, “You wouldn’t think I had that in me, would you?  It just comes out of nowhere!  It must be the hair.”

 

Undeterred, Abby began to wrap and pin the gingham with single-minded zeal.

 

“Miss Loomis…” Ginny’s muffled voice came through the swathes of bubblegum checks, “I don’t know that pink is my best colour.”

 

“Oh, you’ll like it when I’m done,” Abby purred.  “Truly, you’ll be dying to wear these robes!”

 

“But I can’t move!”

 

“That’s the style, dear.”

 

“I can’t get any air, either!”

 

“Then you’ll have to practice greater breath control.  Really, Ginny, I’ll have to ask you to be more cooperative.”  For good measure, she placed a decorative bow atop the cocoon.

 

Things were going along just fine, until three heads appeared in Gladrags’ front window.  Abby wasn’t worried at first, until Ginny spoke.

 

“Harry’s there, isn’t he?” she asked, in a voice that was either reverent or buried under twelve yards of gingham.

 

Abby waved irritably at the trio, trying to shoo them away.  Pesky kids!  They were going to ruin everything!

 

“I can sense him,” she went on, “He’s there, and I MUST get him to notice me!”

 

It was more than Abby could take without an antacid.  “Still clinging to that hope, are you?” she barked.  “Haven’t you given up on that yet?”

 

“No,” Ginny replied dreamily.  “I’m contractually obligated to pine after Harry for at least another three years, at which point I’ll either settle for Neville or date Draco Malfoy to get my brothers hacked off.  But until then, it’s all Harry.  Thanks for the robes, Miss Loomis!  Toodles!”

 

With that, Ginny hopped off the pedestal and waddled towards the door with the gusto of an over-caffeinated penguin.

 

“Come back, Ginny, we’re not finished yet!” Abby screeched after her.  “The sizing is wrong!  The hem is loose!  The seams are off!  It’s UNFLATTERING!!!”

 

She tried to lasso the moving pink blob with her measuring tape, but alas, the girl was gone.  Abby scowled and sat on the pedestal with a grumpy humph!   Blasted Weasleys.  She’d have to have a go at Ron instead – the boy seemed easily disposable, after all, and she doubted he’d be missed.  As she debated between death by Invisi-Pins or Chafing Charm, a large black dog stepped from behind a changing screen and approached her.

 

 “I tried, boy, I tried,” she said to the animal. 

 

The dog perched its front paws on her lap and proceeded to coat her face with slobbery kisses.  Still fuming at Ginny’s escape, Abby shrugged the canine off.   She ran a hand across her cheek, and watched as glutinous drips fell off her fingers.  She considered the dog and his drool, the great quantity of mud he’d deposited on her robes, and his complete lack of intellect and sensitivity.  Her eyes grew wide, as if a new and potentially wonderful idea was forming inside her, and her face could barely contain the budding excitement.  She looked as though the world was on sale, or at least as though she’d had a major change of heart.

 

“Hey,” she said breathily, “If it is you who’ll be snuffing it, will you be a pal and introduce me to Remus Lupin before you go?”

 

 

Killing Ginny: Chapter Seven

A Suggestion of Shakespeare

 

By

 

Hussy Tapestry

 

 

“Right, this is getting bloody ridiculous, she can’t be indestructible.” Ron said, “There has to be a way we can get rid of her.” He slammed his fist down on the couch arm, dislodging Crookshanks who hissed and stalked off in annoyance.

 

“I’ve looked in every book in the library and the rest of Britain too!” Hermione cried. “We’ve tried stunning spells, hexes, curses, conjuring demons, even Professor Klarion, Alex and Abby Loomis couldn’t get rid of her.” She slumped dispiritedly in her chair. “I think we’re just going to have to accept that Ginny IS indestructible.”

 

She cheered up quickly though, “Well if we give up all this plotting I’ll have time to go back to using Sleekeazy’s on my hair daily and becoming the gorgeous witch I was meant to be.” She glanced coyly at Ron, “And we can go back to snogging all over the castle. Have we tried Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom yet?”

 

“Well, not that I don’t miss our little love triangle,” Harry said stepping between the two of them. “But come on Hermione. We’re the fantastic three, we’re completely unbeatable. You’re just not thinking about this hard enough, if you’d stop lusting after everything in robes for a minute you’d find the answer I’m sure.”

 

Hermione threw him an angry look. “Well if you weren’t curled up in the common room corner every other day bawling your eyes out over your dead parents, your unrequited love for the oh-so-perfect Ginny, and the fact that there’s a homicidal maniac with a wand after you, we just might be getting somewhere.”

 

Ron was in hysterics, clutching his sides and gasping for breath between shouts of laughter. “Oh shut up Ron,” Harry snapped. “You’re not any better. Half the time you’re drooling all over yourself over Hermione and the other half we’re pulling you out of some stupid fight. You know I think Moody has given you an unhealthy fixation for ferrets. Next thing you know we’ll find you making out with old Draco.” Ron threw a punch at Harry lost his balance and ended up staring at the common room ceiling from flat on his back.

Crookshanks took the opportunity to pounce on Ron’s head, paying him back for earlier. “That cat’s a menace!” Ron shoved the cat off with an arrested look on his face. “Hang on,” he said. “I’ve got it, Hagrid!”

 

Harry looked at him incredulously, “You want to start making out with Hagrid? And I thought those Snape-Hermione ships were weird.”

 

Hermione tossed her hair and sniffed disdainfully. “I happen to like older men for your information,” she looked pointedly at the both of them. “They’re much more mature.”

 

“Oy, would you two shut up for a minute, I think I’m on to something here.” Ron said, still flat on his back, though Harry thought he might be trying to sneak a look under Hermione’s robes this time. “What if we ask Hagrid to borrow one of his pets? We could invite Ginny to tea with Aragog or something.”

 

Harry began to look excited. “Does Ginny turn into a little blubbering ball tears when she sees spiders too?” He asked Ron.

 

“No, Fred and George slipped spiders down the back of her robes one too many times for that. But you know anything Hagrid likes is guaranteed to be lethal. Maybe he’s hiding something else interesting in the Forrest. Wonder what ever happened to Fluffy?”

 

“There’s just one problem with that Ron,” Hermione said in her very best I-know-everything-in-the-world voice. “She’s already survived a Basilisk, I think the little brat’s luck is pretty good with monsters. You’ve really got to learn to be more original. You know, become a walking encyclopedia like me.”

 

Harry snorted and went back to pondering how to kill the love of his life. He was bloody tired of spending his life daydreaming about Ginny’s adorable freckles and stunning figure. It was nauseating really, the sickly sweetness she inspired in him. Ginny had to go before even one more scene was written in which he humiliated himself to get her attention. He was NOT showing up in the great hall in a cupid’s outfit again.

 

“Well,” said Hermione consideringly. Both boys looked at her with expectant expressions, Hermione was the one who always came up with brilliant plans after all. “Ginny does have one weakness.”

 

“What?” said Ron, honestly curious. Surely by now they’d proven that Ginny didn’t have any weaknesses, she was a goddess of perfection, truth, beauty and all that is wonderful with the world. Damn annoying.

 

“Harry,” said Hermione. She looked at Harry speculatively. “She’s always behaving like an idiot around him, pining away in her hopelessly devoted way. What if we make her think there’s no chance at all for them. It might push her right over the edge. She’ll end her life in a fit of teenage drama, pull an Ophelia and die rather than be spurned by him.”

 

“How do we manage that?” Harry asked.

 

“You have to marry Parvati.” Hermione said matter-of-factly.

 

Harry looked revolted. “I’m sixteen, what would I want to do that for? And anyway Pavarti’s a giggling fluff-brain. I can’t marry her. I’m only attracted to other guy’s girlfriends and she’s currently single.”

 

“Suck it up man,” Ron said smacking Harry on the shoulder. “It’s for the good of the school. You’ll probably die next week anyway, so it’s not like this is a lasting commitment. Course if you do live your stuck with her for life.”

 

Hermione sighed happily. “Hmmm yes, it’s just something in the food I guess. We’re all fated to meet our future spouses here. Everyone knows there’s no life after secondary school anyway.”

 

“Right well, I am the hero, so I guess I’ll just have to sacrifice myself for the good of the team. Err, are you at least a little interested in Parvati, Ron? It’d make it so much easier for me to marry her if you were.” Harry said.

 

“Not a chance,” Ron said, “I’m superficial and all, but well, unless she’s part Veela or starts bossing me around all day I just can’t see the allure.”

 

Harry sighed glowering at Hermione. “This had better work,” he said threateningly “if Ginny doesn’t snuff it I may just have to save Voldemort the trouble of killing me and end it myself.”

 

“Where do you think Snape got Alex’s ring?” Harry added gloomily. Course there’s always hope that we might think of some other way to kill her tomorrow, he thought, not entirely resigned to his fate. Had they asked Professor Chance yet?

 

Killing Ginny: Chapter Eight

A Raptor-ous Interlude

 

By

 

Hussy Juliane

 

Ginny tickled the pear.  She was in search of chocolate, since love seemed an impossibility, and her brothers had showed her how to get into the kitchens.  The door slid open and Ginny tiptoed in, attracting the attention of house-elves, who mobbed the beautiful redhead in an orgy of subservience.

 

Her arms were instantly loaded with éclairs, chocolate cake, sauerkraut, devilled eggs, bananas foster (Ginny bit her lip, trying to ignore the third degree burn the still-flaming dessert inflicted upon her), bubble and squeak, cherry cheesecake and a ham hock.

 

She dropped all of them when an outraged, squeaky and very drunk House-Elf voice screamed “Take that, Weastly-headed hussy.  Winky hates Weastlys.  Winky hates redheaded tramps.  Winky loves vodka.  Winky....”

 

Ginny’s face began to scrunch up in tender sympathy with the distraught creature, when a large jar of honey flew from the pantry and upended itself upon Ginny, coating her from head to foot.  She placed a tender and sticky hand on the by-now-passed-out Winky’s head.  “I understand, you poor dear.  I’ll ask Bill who his therapist is, and recommend you.”  She was nearly knocked out by a side of frozen beef, flung by a scowling Dobby.

 

“Get out of kitchen elitist mistress, and stop condescending attitude.  We is free, missy.  Get out.”  He nearly tied himself into a pretzel as one half of his body tried to shove Ginny out the door, while the other attempted to impale himself on a convenient spit.

 

Ginny, her large brown eyes swimming with diamond-bright tears, stumbled gracefully back to her room.  As she flung open the door, all she could see was feathers.  The air was full of them, and she could hear thudding noises, accompanied by screeches.  “Griselda?  Ermentrude?  Britney?  Are you all right?” Consumed by concern for her beloved roommates, she plunged into the mess, finally grabbing hold of an arm.  Gosh, I never knew Ermentrude was that hairy, she thought, and then screamed.  The arm was attached to a very naked Virilius Smith, the Ravenclaw Quidditch captain and sixth-year heartthrob.

 

Everyone stopped flinging pillows at each other and stared at Ginny, now coated with feathers.  Ginny stared back at the naked and flushed sextet, Virilius having brought his pals Longitudinous and Bob.

 

“I’ll never get to see Harry naked,” wailed Ginny, and fled back out into the hallway, and kept running until she found herself on the terrace at the back of Hogwarts.  She sat on the railing and sniffled, pulling feathers out of her beauteous nostrils.

 

A blinding pain in her forehead caused her to fall off the railing and onto the grass.  The pain struck again, this time on her shoulder, and multiplied until all Ginny could do was cover her eyes and wail.

 

~*~*~

 

It had been a bad day of hunting for Malhereuse.  The falcon’s owner, Viviane Chance, was not around to help flush out prey from the tall grasses, and the bright sunlight cast shadows that alerted the voles and mice to his presence long before he could attack them.  But then, his luck changed.  A pigeon, surely the biggest and tastiest pigeon ever hatched, was perched on the railing of the terrace.  Malhereuse soared upward and around, hoping in his raptor heart that nothing would scare the massive meal into flight before he could launch his attack.  His luck held.  The wretched pigeon sat still, picking at its beak, and never saw Malhereuse coming.

 

~*~*~

 

Ginny lay on the grass, exhausted and bleeding from everywhere, especially her liver.  It had taken every ounce of her strength to fend off Professor Chance’s wretched bird, but not before it had left Ginny resembling a piece of bloody Jarlesberg.  “Harry,” she moaned, and then thought better of it.  Fetching as she might look, bleeding and befeathered, she’d rather be wearing a stunning gown and a tiara when she and Harry finally faced Their Destiny Together.  As her organs began to fail, one by one, she sighed and thought it was all worth it, every peck, if it helped save Harry’s life, which it didn’t, but never mind.  It was all worth it, anyway.

 

~*~*~

 

Harry, Hermione and Ron were walking across the lawn, back from investigating the possibilities of feeding Ginny to the squid.  It didn’t look promising, because the squid, despite her love for Harry, was a dedicated pacifist.  Suddenly, Hermione stopped and let forth an uncharacteristic squeal.  “Look!  It’s...it’s...Ginny?”

 

The Trio stared down at the bloody mess amongst the heather.  “Er, Ginny?” said Ron, poking her with his foot.

 

“My beloved brother,” sighed Ginny.  “You’ve saved me.”

 

“Er, not really-“ began Ron.

 

“What’s going on here,” barked a nasty, French-accented voice.

 

“Oh, Professor Chance, we think Ginny’s about to die,” chorused Harry, Ron and Hermione.

 

Professor Chance stared down at Ginny, then pulled out her wand and gave her a good blast.  Ginny flinched.

 

“Nope, not dead yet.  Although she deserves to be.  My poor falcon is still traumatized by his inability to kill her properly.” Levitating Ginny, Professor Chance frowned at the Trio.  “A million points from Gryffindor.  For...for the hell of it.  Off to Madam Pomfrey we go.”  The Professor walked off, Ginny in tow, while Harry, Ron and Hermione stared at each other in bafflement.

 

“She just. Won’t. Die,” Ron said.  “I hate being a Weasley.”

 

 

Killing Ginny: Chapter Nine

The Headmaster’s Secret

 

By

 

Hussy Mincot

 

 

            On the last day of term the trio sat on the shore of the lake.  Hermione was reading Hogwarts, A History for the zillionth time, Ron was throwing bits of roll to the giant squid (which juggled the pieces artistically for a while before eating them), and Harry was just sitting. 

 

            Harry cleared his throat, after an hour of uncomfortable silence.  “Ummm, Ron?” he asked.  “We’ve done everything else we wanted to do this year—find another three secret tunnels, save the world from Voldemort again – “

 

            “Stop saying the name!” Ron hissed, as if he expected the Squid to turn each of its tentacles into a miniature Voldemort on the spot.

 

            “Honestly, Ron, we’ve beaten him four times now, and you still have a problem with the name?” Hermione said, added a firm “Tuh!” for good measure, and returned to her book.

 

            Harry continued doggedly, “—and we even got Snape to wash his hair….”

           

            “Once,” Hermione said, without looking up from her book.

           

            “But we’ve failed in the most important job this year.”

 

            “Yeah.  My precious sister,” Ron said gloomily. 

 

            “Any ideas?” Harry said.  “I’m desperate here!  You know if Ginny survives this year she will be indestructible, and the fanfic writers will have us paired sooner than I can catch the Snitch.  And next year I’ll be sixteen—you know there are writers out there who can’t imagine anyone over that age not being paired up … we have to do something!”

 

            Ron shook his head.  “Everyone’s tried.  Miss Loomis in town, Madam Rosmerta …”

           

            “She did?” Hermione asked.

 

            “Slipped an anti-aging potion into Gin’s Butterbeer,” Harry explained.  “Used a formulation that took at least twenty years off; that would have left Gin at minus six, but at the last moment Ginny dropped the glass.  Landed all over this disgusting three-hundred-year old egg that some shady type was trying to sell; took off at least three thousand Galleons from the price.”

 

            “Madam Pomfrey, Professor Chance, even Professor Klarion all tried.  Not to mention Snape, Sprout, Sinistra, and even Trelawney.  Bill tried to lock her in with a soul-sucking mummy, and Charlie mistook her for a sack of dragon feed.  Hell, last Christmas even Mum and Dad got into the act.  Dad almost flattened her with that new car he’s enchanting, and Mum laced Gin’s night face-cream with ghoul-attractant.”  Ron’s voice became even more morose.  “I was so desperate, I even went to Dumbledore.”

 

            Harry looked at Ron in awe.  “You didn’t.  Did he … ?”

 

            “Oh, his was extra-special,” Ron said, brightening a little.

 

-*-*-*-

 

            Ginny’s hand shook as she knocked on Professor Dumbledore’s office door.  She had already checked her robes seven times to make sure that they were in perfect order—after all, the last time she had been in his office she had been covered with sewer mud and basilisk slime; although she knew she had managed to appear radiant despite her ordeal, she wanted to make a better impression this time.  After all, this was Dumbledore.

 

            “Come in, Miss Weasley.”

 

            She walked primly into the room, and, at Dumbledore’s casual wave, sat on a ladder-back chair across his desk.

 

            He watched her carefully for a moment, without speaking, and Ginny smiled her most sweet smile.  Several of the portraits of former headmasters expired instantly from diabetes.  Finally, Dumbledore handed her a Pensieve.

 

            “Miss Weasley,” he said, “There are still some unresolved issues from your unfortunate possession by Tom Riddle four years ago.  I was wondering if you would be so kind as to help me by placing your memories in the Pensieve, so that I may examine them more minutely.  I will, of course, make them available to you whenever you should wish them.”

 

            “Gladly, sir, and if I may say so, they are truly the only things weighing down my life.  I would be most grateful to leave them forever,” Ginny replied, and reached for the Pensieve.

 

            She took the orb between her shell-pink hands with the perfectly manicured nails (this despite her having come from Herbology), and gazed into it, enormous eyes long-lashed and wide.  However, most curiously, this Pensieve did not draw her thoughts and memories from her head, but instead sucked her down ….

 

                        Down ……

 

                                                Down  …..

 

                                                                        Down ……

 

                                                                                                Down into a flat world of bright green grass that looked suspiciously like Astroturf.   She was backed into a corner formed by two waist-high walls, beyond which was plain grey space.  Above her head, a red sign briefly appeared proclaiming that she had entered the Moo-Moo Farm.  Listening intently, she could just hear the first, bored, “Moo.” 

 

            “Damn and blast,” Ginny said, her tone never deviating from the genteel.  “He would be a Diablo II fan, wouldn’t he?  I’ve been sucked into the Secret Cow Level!” In retrospect, she realized that she should not have been surprised; after all, Dumbledore’s own brother Aberforth had been prosecuted for practicing inappropriate charms on a goat, and it stood to reason that if Aberforth liked goats, Dumbledore might like homicidal cows.

 

“Moo.”

 

Brought back to reality, Ginny scrambled about, looking for a weapon, for she knew that she had mere moments before a herd of pole-axe-wielding Hell Bovines attacked her.  There was nothing around her that could even be remotely dangerous.  The Hell Bovines would drop weapons when she killed them, but first she had to kill some.  Hand-to-hand wouldn’t do; even her advanced skills could not cope with being mobbed by evil moo-cows. 

 

            They were coming. 

 

            “Moo, moo, moo,” one said, sounding quite bored, but others were wore menacing.  “Moo!  Moo, moo, moo!”  At least twenty-one of them, all on their hind legs, mincing along carrying tin-foil-looking pole-axes.  Extremely sharp tin-foil-looking pole-axes that could slice right through her if she made the mistake of staying in the way.  They all had exactly the same pattern of spots, she realized, and as she listened to their mooing she thought of the game developers who must have had a lot of fun providing the voices for the Hell Bovines.

 

            “Moo.  Moo.  Moo moo.”

 

            She was going to die in his corner, she realized—she could run, but she would only run into another patch of Hell Bovines, and then another—and, if by chance, she evaded them all, there was the lightning-enchanted Cow King to consider. Fawkes could not bring weapons into a Pensieve.  Not that he would, given that Professor Dumbledore himself had sent her here.  –To show my skill … a final test before I leave school, I suppose.  The worst thing about this was that Harry would never know that the last words on her lips had been his full name.  Well, he might, she decided, as this was a Pensieve.

 

            The thought of Harry gave her strength, and suddenly she remembered listening, hidden on the staircase landing, as he, Ron, and Hermione recounted their adventures the first summer Harry had come to visit.  “Am I a witch or not?’ she whispered grimly, and let loose a large fire meteor—generally learnt only in the senior courses for the Wizarding Doctorate of Elemental Mastery taught once every fifteen years in Uppsala in Finnish (Basque was the other required language)—into the front ranks of the Hell Bovines.  Several toppled, each in the exact same position, each with exactly the same pattern of blood flowing into identical bright red pools.  Ginny hardly noticed, as she cast two more Meteors into the diminishing crowd.  Her energy level hardly even dipped, and she realized that she was having fun. 

 

A moment later, up to her shins in cow goo, she began picking through the bodies for loot.  If she were going to come here, she might as well make a profit.  –Although what cows need with 682 gold coins, a couple of damaged sabres, a socketed Morningstar, a couple coats of Serpentine armor, and a perfect sapphire is beyond me.  Hmmm.  Wonder if I will gain experience points?

 

            Ginny realized suddenly that only twenty-one Hell Bovines had provided this much loot, and that there were—if she recalled right—over 150 of the mad cows per Cow Level.  If she could find a way of translating this booty into real-world equivalents, she could add to her not inconsiderable fortune that she had amassed this year—mostly from financing the bets on how long she would last this year; to date she had not had to pay out on a single winning bet, and had collected over four million Galleons world-wide.  She thought for a minute about the Cow King—if she didn’t kill him, she could come back on her own and collect even more loot, whereas killing him would close the level forever.  –What if Dumbledore throws me back here, she realized, --and the love I bear Harry draws him in, too?  He is not as powerful a wizard as I am a witch, and the Hell Bovines might …”  Tempting though the wealth was, love and the survival of her beloved was more important, and she decided to kill the Cow King.

 

            Her pockets as mysteriously light as before, she went in search of more cows.  Not that, on the Secret Cow Level, she had to go far.  She discovered that they made a lovely strangled sort of “Moo” when they died.

 

-*-*-*-

 

            “We’ll never kill her,” Hermione said, “Not if Dumbledore tried, and failed.”

 

            Harry was shaking his head in shocked awe.  “She survived the Secret Cow Level!  Ron, do you have any idea how hard that is to do?  The slightest moment of inattention … a wandering thought … and ‘Moo!’ is the last you’d hear.  It’s bad enough when it isn’t really you, just a mess of pixels and bits.”

 

            “Pixies?  What have they got to do with it?”

 

            Hermione glared at Ron.  “Honestly, Ron!  Pixels.  Although if there had been real pixies, Ginny might have had a few more problems.”  She closed the book, carefully placing a MagicalBookDart to mark her place. 

 

            “She still would’ve survived,” Ron said.  “Somehow.”

 

            “Which leaves us with my original question: what do we do now?” asked Harry.  “I hate going a whole year without finally beating the Big Bad.  Or whatever Big Bad substitute has been designated.”

 

            A dulcet voice floated toward them, wafting delicately on the fair spring breeze.  “Oh, Har-ry!”

 

            Harry screwed his eyes tight shut.  “Oh, Lord, there she comes.”

 

            Ginny undulated toward them, her titian hair floating in the breeze.  She carried a batch of Spanish grapes in one hand and daintily peeled and ate each luscious globule, all without losing a drop of succulent juice.  In honor of the spring day, she wore a set of robes with trailing, uneven, pointed hems, rather like Muggle pictures of the clothing worn by Titania in Shakespearian illustrations.  Ginny had enchanted her robes so that they were the perfect colors of spring.  It was a trick Abby Loomis had been trying – and failing at – for years.  Ginny had recently forced the fashionista to sign a perpetual contract with her; in addition to the staggering 89,000 pounds of gold from the Secret Cow Level, the contract for robe-coloring alone—and the patent fees on the process—would complete her dream of being the wealthiest woman in the world at the youngest age.

 

            “How are you all doing, my dear friends,” she cooed.  “Aren’t you happy to be going home?  See dear Mum … darling Dad … all our friends … even the ghoul; he’s really rather sweet, in a puppy dog way.” 

 

            “Sure, Ginny,” Ron muttered through gritted teeth.

 

            “I’ve even finished all my extra exams!” Ginny trilled.  “Twelve O.W.L.S. and fourteen N.E.W.T.S. … I’m leaving school early; even Dumbledore said there was nothing he could possibly teach me.”

 

            That’s …. wonderful, Ginny,” Hermione said, her flat tone betraying her true expression. 

 

            Ginny belatedly remembered her manners (--What was I thinking!  But I can be excused, I suppose, as I was thinking of …. Harry …..) and proffered the grapes, but nobody took any. “There’s only one thing that could make my life … complete … fulfill me …. “ Ginny said, eyeing Harry.

 

            Harry reddened, and muttered that he thought Ginny’s life was pretty complete as it was.

 

            “Well, think about it …. Of course, I am infinitely patient, so I can wait until the rest of my life, and beyond, if need be.  My love transcends death,” Ginny said, favoring Harry with the sort of look old-fashioned people termed “bedroom glances.”  Of course, they were also supremely demure and innocent.

 

            Harry gulped.

 

            Disappointed, Ginny stepped backward.  “Well, I will see you all on the Hogwarts Express,” she said, eating another grape.

 

            “Yeah,” Harry said, his lack of enthusiasm clear.

 

            Ginny gasped … and choked.  She batted at her throat with one hand, and, as she turned blue, dropped the other grapes and tried to give herself the Heimlich maneuver.  It was almost too late, but it worked.  The chunk of grape on which she had been choking flew nearly twenty feet, splattering on the head of the statue of Urk the Slimy.

 

Breathing heavily, Ginny reached for the rest of her grapes.  “I think I need a little refreshment after that experience!” she said.  But she tripped on the flowing hem of her dress, and pitched forward.  She tried a graceful martial-arts kick spring to stop her fall, but her other ankle got tangled in another dangling part of her robe’s hem, and she landed heavily on the ground, hitting her head on the iron armrest of the bench as she went down.

 

            The Trio looked at each other.

 

            After six minutes Hermione said, tentatively, “She could still get up.  This is Ginny, you know.”

 

            “She could be fooling us,” Ron added.

 

            Harry said nothing, but dug at Ginny’s side with his foot.  Getting no reaction, he flipped her over, carefully, as you would flip over a large piece of driftwood on the beach, being careful for stinging sea-life.

 

            Ginny was dead.

 

            Even in death, her face was perfectly composed.  Even the dark bruise on her temple did not disfigure the alabaster perfection of her profile. Her flame-coloured hair fanned out in a perfect aureole around her head.

 

            The three stood a moment in respectful silence, and then Ron smacked his head with his hands.  “If only we’d known it was that easy!”

 

“After all our hard work …. Everyone’s plots … “ Hermione said, tutting in annoyance.  “We worked so hard this year, and she goes and does it herself.”

 

“Perfect to the end,” Ron added.  “I suppose this means that I don’t win my bet, either—George and I both thought she’d last to the end of term, and this is still the last day.  Plus, we didn’t off her.”

 

“I don’t know,” Harry replied.  “I think you have a case for collecting.”

 

The Trio looked at Ginny again, and then, grinning, burst out into loud cheers.  Ron and Hermione led a rousing chorus of “Ding Dong, the Witch is Dead!,” which left a manic little voice repeating ‘She’s really most completely dead!’ in the back of Harry’s head, that he could not get rid of until after dinner. Their exuberant shouts drew the attention of Severus Snape, who was himself so overjoyed that he forgot to take points off Hermione for bringing a library book outside.  As he raced off to share the news, Hermione grinned.  “Well, if that doesn’t beat all.  We’ve all lost our bets.”

 

            The castle’s bells pealed merrily as the entire student body poured out to celebrate.  Dumbledore declared a feast on the spot, added fifty points each to Gryffindor’s start-of-year points for next term, and suspended Ginny’s body from the ceiling of the Great Hall for all to marvel at.

 

            After dinner, stuffed and replete, the Trio were resting in the Gryffindor Common Room.  They had achieved every one of their goals, every single thing they had wanted.

 

            “Although, technically, we didn’t kill Ginny,” Harry said, rather gloomily.  “It just happened, by accident.”

           

            “Yeah, but isn’t that how we always seem to win?” Ron asked.  “Anyone up for wizard chess?”

 

            “There’s one thing that is bothering me,” Harry said, thoughtfully.  He declined the game, but Hermione volunteered to be metaphorically slaughtered in his place.  “It’s that transcending death business.  What if … “ he swallowed hard, and then continued, “What if she’s waiting for me, in the … you know, in the afterlife?  If there is such a thing?  How will we get rid of her then?”

 

            “Well, you have the rest of your life to find out,” Ginny said perkily, sitting on the edge of Harry’s squashy chair.  The fact that you could see right through her seemed to make no difference to her, and Harry’s abortive startled jump, which meant that he was now sitting half-in, half-out of her body, had no effect, either. “Oh, Harry, you’ve finally figured it out,” Ginny cooed, wiping a ghostly tear of happiness from her pearly cheek.  “I died thinking of you, my love, and so I am linked to you.  Whither thou goest and all that.  And,” she added, her translucent eyes narrowing prettily, “Don’t even think about marrying another woman!  Just because I’m dead is no reason for you to be unfaithful—now that I’m dead, I can see your secret, inmost heart.”

 

            The Trio stared at her in horror.  Harry felt his secret inmost heart curling up into a shriveled raisin.

 

            “And if you tried,” Ginny added sweetly, “I could be far more menacing than old Fruma Sarah!” 

 

She twirled about in the air, laughing a high, giddy, sickeningly merry laugh.  You know, this is so much fun, being dead, and I’ve already improved on the post-mortem reanimation conditions,” Ginny said.  “I can taste things I like, and won’t taste those I hate.  And see?  I’m not grey, but sort of washed out color.  It’s not perfect, of course, but it’s a start—I have eternity to work on the formulae for improving my color still further.  Speaking of which,” she said, summoning a ghost-owl to her side and scribbling a hasty note, “I need to remind Miss Loomis that there was a death-does-not-cancel clause in her contract.”  She stood up briskly, and looked at the other three, who had fainted dead away.  “Some people just have no tolerance for love, do they?’

 

She sent the owl on its way.     

 

 

Authors’ Note II:  There is no way we could make up anything as insane as the Secret Cow Level on Diablo II.  It is an in-joke, apparently.  If you play Diablo II and need instructions on how to access the Secret Cow Level, just to see for yourself that we are NOT kidding, click here.