Neville Has A Hairy Tongue
by Topaz

Mandy Note: This tied for second in the challenge. *Everyone gasps* Can you tell there was no author note?

"Scary," said Ron, who was trying to pretend that the big stain on his pants wasnít there. He had lost control of his bladder at the first sight of the high school. He was also trembling. "Do we have to go inside?"

"Yes," Hermione said firmly. "We must help the oppressed high school students escape from Hell." She had, after much reflection, decided to give up on the house elves, who were starting to annoy her, and focus on students instead.

"I thought this was a high school," Ron said, looking confused, and forgetting, temporarily, to wish that he had brought a change of clothes. "Whyíd you call it Hell?"

"Theyíre the same thing," Hermione informed him.

"Ah, that makes sense," Ron said, happy now that he understood everything. "Er, Harry, did you bring any clean underwear?" he added in an undertone to his friend, who gave him a weird look and inched away.

Hermione set Crookshanks, who she had been carrying, on the ground, and he trotted up to the door, unimpressed with the gloomy, oppressive atmosphere of Hell. The cat waited patiently for the trembling humans to creep up and open the creaking doors.

The lobby was empty. It had a cold stone floor, brick walls, and was just cold enough to be chilly, but no freezing. It was dark and silent.

"Dark in here," Harry remarked. "Lumos!" Instead of light appearing, Crookshanks was Transfigured into a dog.

"Because you ate fish and chips a while ago, your magic wonít function properly," Hermione told him. "Fish and chips are so annoyingly British that they affect magic. Weíll have to do without." She patted Crookshanks, who looked grumpy. "Donít worry, Crookshanks, itíll wear off."

"I know!" Ron said. "Iíll be a traffic light! Then weíll be able to see!"

"Ron," Harry said patiently, "youíre not a traffic light."

"Thatís what YOU think," Ron sniffed. "I am so a traffic light." He turned around and sulked, careful not to shine his light near Harry, because he was mad.

"Letís go to..." Harry shuddered. "The principalís office."

Horrified, Hermione stared at him. "What? You mean..." her voice trailed off and she gulped. "All right. But letís leave Ron here."

"Why?" Ron said sadly. "You donít love me anymore?"

"Er, no, I still love you," Hermione said quickly, rolling her eyes at Harry. "But youíre a traffic light, so the high school staff would see your light and find us."

"Oh, yes, I hadnít thought off that," Ron said happily. "Iíll wait here for you, shall I?" He stood in the middle of the room, shining brightly.

Harry, Hermione, and Crookshanks set off through the dark, cavernous hallways that led straight to the deep, dark, heart of Hell. The principalís office. (Actually, the heart of hell is the guidance counselorís office, but letís not go there.)

Crookshanks barked loudly and raced inside, while Harry and Hermione clutched each other in fear. "Letís go in," Hermione said finally, her voice trembling. "We might as well get it over with."

Slowly the two terrified teens stepped into the room, and raised their eyes.

Neville Longbottom stood before them.

"YOU!" Hermione gasped, dropping her wand in astonishment. Crookshanks, being a dog now, chased it happily, pretending it was a stick. "YOUíRE the Dark Lord. Not Voldemort."

"Yes, I am the Dark Lord," Neville said in a cold, cruel voice. "It was I, not Voldemort, who attempted to take over the world. I ruled the Death Eaters. I was defeated by Harry Potter." He leaned closer to Harry, leering evilly. "HARRY! I KILLED YOUR FATHER!"

"Itís supposed to be ĎI am your fatherí," Hermione said impatiently. "But, Neville, youíre our age. How can you be the Dark Lord?"

Neville sighed. "Obviously I am not your age. Iím really seventy-nine--" (Neville pronounces it Ďseventyí instead of Ďsevendyí like I do) "--but I drink often from the Fountain of Youth. Unfortunate side effects include headaches, drowsiness, and a hairy tongue, but--"

"Hairy tongue!" Harry yelped. "Thatís gross!"

"Wanna see it?" Neville smirked at him. "Watch!" He opened his mouth, grabbed Crookshanks the dog, and stuffed him in. "Yum, yum!" Harry and Hermione watched, horrified, as Neville rubbed his stomach happily. "Tastes like chicken."

"Achalta ha kelev sheli!" Hermione shrieked, bursting into tears. (You ate my dog!) "How could you? Crookshanks is my friend, my soul mate, my..." she wept harder, "he was my love!"

"Crookshanks?" Harry blinked. "I thought it was Ron."

"Would I fall in love with a street light?" Hermione said indignantly.

"You fell in love with a cat-- I mean, a dog," Harry pointed out. Hermione burst into tears again.

"We were meant for each other," she wailed. "He is my heart, my soul, the only man-- er, cat-- who Iíll ever love... AND YOU ATE HIM!" The last sentence was directed toward Neville, who looked startled.

"How dare you yell at me!" he said angrily, raising his wand, but before he could do anything, the phone rang.

RING! RING RING RING RING! RING RING RING! RING! It rang right in Nevilleís ear, making him shriek in pain and surprise.

Harry picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"I canít hear," Neville moaned. "My ears..."

"I got the butterbees," said the rough voice in the phone. "Sending them over."

"Butterbees?" Harry blinked.

"OW!" Neville wailed. "My ears hurt and I canít hear!"

"Iíll call a doctor," Hermione said, grabbing the phone from Harry. Neville didnít hear her.

"Hear me, Longbottom?" the voice growled.

"Iím not Longbottom," Harry said.

"He could have brain damage," Hermione said worriedly.


"Look, Longbottom, I donít care about your aliases, I wonít rat on you, see? I got the butterbees, so--"

"What are butterbees?" Harry asked.

"Bleeding," Hermione remarked, eyeing Nevilleís ears nervously. "Thatís not good."

"Anesthesia! Euthanasia! Anything!" Neville begged.

"You owe me fifty Galleons for this transaction," the voice announced.

"Iím not Neville!" Harry said angrily.

"Give me the phone, Harry, Neville could be permanently deafened--"


"This nutcase wonít shut up, Hermione, if youíre so--"

"Look, these things are gonna eat me alive, so Iíll send íem--"

"Iím bleeding--"

"Harry, give me the phone--"

"Here they come--"

"AHHHHHHHHHHHH!" Neville shrieked, the immense volume of his scream silencing the others. A large box, assumably the butterbees, popped into view.

"What happened?" Hermione asked. No one could hear her, they were all deaf after Nevilleís shriek.

"What happened?" Harry inquired, but no one answered.

"Whereís the Tylenol?" Neville sniffed.

"I want my money!" the voice said angrily. "Longbottom, this has got to stop. Last time you paid me in chocolate chips, another time nothing at all, and last summer that deal with--" Harry hung up the phone.

The box was moving. Things were inside. Living things.

Angry living things.

Butterbees are a cross between butterflies and bees. They have long, sharp, colorful stingers that will kill an elephant. However, they donít kill humans. What they do is twitch a nerve in their brain that triggers a chain reaction ending in the person stung seeing Barney episodes over and over in their brains forever.

The butterbees were angry after being cooped up for so long. They were angry at being Apparated into Hell.

They flew swiftly toward the three horror-struck people, their iridescence stingers held out to attack. Then suddenly...

Ron burst in! "Hi, everyone!" he sang. "I got tired of being a traffic light, so now Iím a lamp post!"

The butterbees were so shocked that they all fainted and landed in a little colorful shiny heap on the floor. Ron nudged them with his toe, but they didnít move.

"I know what to do with these," Hermione said, and they went off to trap the butterbees inside spaghetti strainers and pour water on them, which is, of course, the only way to handle butterbees. Everyone knows that.

And they all lived insanely ever after.

Disclaimer: J. K. owns all Harry Potter stuff, METMA Mandy owns her challenge, Ri and I own Hell, since we are the Co-Empresses of Hell (long, long story), and Ron is a lamp post. Goodbye.

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