Constipated, Did You Say?
by Ron Weasley's Cutie

Disclaimer: Don’t own it, don’t own it, yada, yada…

"Good evah-ahning-ning, howth elveth," lisped a dark, bearded figure at a podium, eyeing the house elves that stood around him. "Ath you all know, there ath been very, very much dithcriminathon againtht our kind latahly, therefore I thuggetht~"

A young house elf near the back timidly raised his hand.

The man at the podium rolled his eyes. "What ith it?"

The house elf kicked at the ground nervously and did his best avert his large, baby blue eyes from the man’s small, beady black ones. "You is not our kind, sir."

There was vague muttering throughout the throngs of house elves, that went along the lines of, "You is not our kind?"

The man snorted angrily and pointed a shaky finger at the house elf that had spoken. "You thee thith?!" he shouted, spraying spit on the scared house elves. "Thith ith exactly the kind of behavior that you need to thtop! Thith howth elf is a bad influenth! FETCH THE GUARDTH!"

An awkward silence, broken only by nervous coughs and occasional farts, followed this statement. Oh, don't 'Ew, gross!' me, it's perfectly natural for them to let out gas. I'm sure you do it all the time. Don't try and deny it. You know it's true. Unless, of course, you're one of those weird people who don't believe in those sorts of things. But, anyway.

"We affording guards, sir," mumbled a house elf with a particularly dirty toga.

"And whoth fault ith that, may I athk?"

"Not to be rude, sir, but it is being your fault, sir."

"My fault?"

"Well, sir, there is that widescreen TV you is buying...and you is buying that watch," the house elf nodded his head at a gold band that was dangling off of the man’s wrist.

The man, who shall now be known as Carl, grabbed his watch protectively. “I did not! I bought it with my own money, thank you tho very much!"

“Whatever you is saying, sir,” muttered the house elf.

Carl turned to the two house elves behind him. “What are you waiting for?” he shouted. “Go find me thome guardth!”

“We is going to go find them sir, right away, sir,” they yelled, snapping their feet together and saluting.

Carl massaged his temples as they hurried through the secret trapdoor and back up to the corridors of Hogwarts. If you want to get anything down in thith plathe, you have to yell at them till you’re blue in the fathe, he thought. And then, Hey…that rhymed, ever tho thlightly.


  Meanwhile, above the ‘Secret House Elf Liberation Front Hideout Place Where We Is Having Meetings and No You Is Not Coming In Because You Is Not A House Elf’ room, in the corridors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, three students stood arguing about something. Well, actually it was more like two students, but there were three people standing together, so…

“I say it was a seagull,” said a red haired boy.

“It was not, Ron! Why would seagulls be around Hogwarts? Seagulls live near bodies of water ~”

“The lake,” cut in Ron.

“~ In much warmer climates ~”

“Perfectly nice here.”

“ ~ With lots of people ~”

“This is a school, Hermione.”


Ron gave her a nasty look. “Read that in ‘Hogwarts, A History’, did you?” Hermione glared at him, but decided against telling him off.

After a moment of silence, the black haired boy behind them said timidly, “I thought it rather looked like a sparrow ~”



A portrait of a rather snooty looking woman beside them muttered, “I’m beginning to have doubts that there was a bird at all…”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione rounded on the portrait and yelled, “SHUT UP!”

“Dear me, you don’t have to be so rude about it… If you ask my opinion ~”


“Fine then. Be that way. You’re a rather boring group anyway, arguing about birds…I think I’ll go see what those house elves are up to, they’re much more interesting than you lot,” sniffed the portrait lady, rushing out of her frame and down towards the…Secret House Elf Liberation Front Hideout Place, etc., etc.

“House elves, eh…?” Hermione muttered to herself curiously, watching the portrait lady rush off.

“Oh, no…” groaned Ron. “Don’t do this again, Hermione…”

“Shut up, Ron.”

“You shut up.”

“No, you.”

“You’re the one talking.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

As Ron and Hermione continued to argue in their intellectually stimulating way, Harry looked down the corridor and cocked his head at an antlered girl who was skipping merrily towards them. “Who’s that?”

Ron and Hermione stopped bickering, and looked at the girl, their heads bobbing up and down as they watched her skip. “Dunno,” said Ron. “Some first year, I guess…”

The girl waved merrily at them. “Hello! I’m Mandy,” she said happily, nodding her head so that she hit the cameramen from WB with her antlers.

Ron stared at her antlers, as if trying to connect them with something, but not quite knowing what.

“Mandy?” asked Harry, still cocking his head at her.

“Yeah. METMA Mandy.”

Hermione frowned. “METMA?”

At this point something in Ron’s brain clicked, and his eyes widened.

Mandy smiled politely at Hermione. “You know, Muggles for Equal Treatment of ~”

“You’re…she’s…” Ron fought for the right word.

“A fanfiction author?” Mandy suggested.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione turned to each other, nodded, and then ran as fast as they could in the opposite direction.

“Bye, then!” Mandy yelled at their fleeing figures, returning to her merry skipping escapade. “Tra la, la, la, la,” she sang to herself, before skipping into a rather inconveniently placed wall and being carried off by strange men in white coats.


It wasn’t long before the two house elves found worthy guards. Well, maybe ‘worthy’ isn’t the right word. More like ‘stupid’.

They were two humans…well, perhaps they were more like apes, but they had humanlike shapes and that settled the matter for the house elves. Both of the ‘humans’ were large and ugly, making the people in the portraits they passed cry and hide behind their frames at the sight of them; one had a bowl-shaped haircut while the other had short black bristles that looked as if they not only covered his head, but his back as well.

“Duh, duh, duh…who you be?” asked the one with the black bristles as the two house elves hurried up to them.

“We is fairies come to grant you a wish,” said the first house elf, wrinkling his nose at this…this…thing.

“Duh…wish?” said the human with the bowl cut, apparently confused.

The second house elf decided to take a different approach. “Is you wanting women? We is got lots of women.”

“Duh…women?” One of them started scratching his head, a lost look on his face.

“You is wanting food, then, sir? We is having lots of food.”

Both humans’ ears perked up. Food, did the little brown bugger say? Well, paint me red and slap me silly! FOOD.

“Duh, duh, duh…can we have food?”

“If you is following us, yes.”

“Duh…oh. Okay.”


  “I athk you to bring me guardth, and you…you idioth bring me gorillath?”

“We is sorry, sir, we is thinking that you is wanting gorillas,” said a house elf timidly.

“Well ‘thorry’ ithn’t going to make them forget what they’ve theen, ith it?”

Crabbe, one of the humans, sniggered stupidly. Carl whipped his head around.

“What ith tho hythterical, gorilla?”

“Duh…you talk funny.”

Carl blinked.

“Duh…where’s food?” Goyle, the other human, asked.

Carl screamed, and began pulling bits of what was left of his hair out. “OH, THOD IT ALL! MORONTH! ALL OF YOU!”


“Jutht leave me alone!”

“You is better be leaving, gorillas.”

Crabbe and Goyle turned around, and said to the wall, “Duh…you leave. Now.”

Carl, at this point, crawled into a corner and began to heave silent sobs. “Why am I tho…tho unlucky, God?”

A deep, booming voice that filled your heart and soul and everything in between (let’s not get into details) sounded from above him.      

          …“BECAUSE, CARL.”…

Carl blew his nose in a hanky. “I know, but—”


“Everybody hateth me…”


“Thee? Even you do.”


Carl suddenly realized something. “…God? Ith that you?”

The voice went into an awkward silence.


“Really? You thound an awful lot like him.”


Carl shrugged.


“Alright, Thir.”



  Harry, Ron, and Hermione propped themselves up against the stone wall, panting.

“Do you…think…we…lost her?” Ron asked, gasping for breath.

“I…don’t know,” Harry wheezed, clutching at his heart.

Hermione fainted.

Ron went into hysterics. “OH NO! SHE’S DIED, SHE’S GONE AND BLOODY DIED ON ME!”

Harry sighed, still clutching at his heart and wheezing horribly. “She’s…just fai—”

Ron got down on his knees and began to shake Hermione’s limp self by the shoulders. “TIENES CONSTIPADO?!”

Harry blinked.

The various people in portraits around them blinked.

Peeves made a rude farting noise and sped away, giggling madly. But before he did that, he blinked, too.

“Constipated, did you say?” Harry asked, his breathing miraculously back to normal.

“No, constipado.

“Oh. Um. Alright.”

“Why would I say ‘constipated’?”

Harry coughed. “Um. Never mind. Er. We should get her to the hospital wing, huh?”

Ron looked down at Hermione, tears brimming in his eyes. “Oh, for love of God, YES!”

“Er. Right. Um.”


  Crabbe and Goyle fidgeted in their new armor. It wasn’t because they were uncomfortable, though; it was because they were hungry.

Goyle went up to the nearest house elf, one who happened to be making a very nice ‘YOU IS BETTER BE GIVING US BETTER TREATMENT’ sign with magic markers, and asked, “Duh…you know where food is?”

The house elf’s pointy ears quivered and flattened themselves on his head. “You is…you is wanting food, sir?” it asked quietly, as if scared.

Crabbe nodded stupidly, and the house elf pointed with a trembling finger at the buffet table at the far end of the room.

Somewhere, a chorus of angels began singing. And so Crabbe and Goyle ran through the throngs of house elves, and finally reached the buffet table, only to find that—


—one solitary brussel sprout was left. And, before they could even fight over it, a pelican ate it. And then it burped.

Crabbe cracked his knuckles. “Duh…kill birdie!”

“KILL DA BIRDIE, duh, duh, duh…!”

And thus began the Apocalypse.


  A handful of house elves, sent by Carl to make sure that the Hogwarts staff knew something was up, were holding up signs and marching in a circle in front of the entrance to the hospital wing.

“We is wanting more pay! We is wanting better hours!”

“And we is wanting more socks!”

“You is shutting up, Dobby.”

“Right-o, I is shutting up ‘bout socks.”

“What are you doing?” Harry asked as he came round the corner, dragging Hermione behind him while Ron sobbed in the back.

Dobby beamed. “We is on strike, Harry Potter, sir!”

Ron cried harder. “Hermione…Hermione always…always wanted you to go on strike!”

“Why are you going on strike?” Harry asked, ignoring Ron’s wails.

The house elves considered this. Why were they on strike, anyway? …They’d forgotten.

“She is…She is making us do it, sir,” piped up one house elf.


She. You is knowing who I mean. Her.” All the house elves looked up at the ceiling in awe.

“…What are you talking about?”

“‘Her’ is the first syllable of Hermione’s name!” Ron cried, throwing himself down on the floor and sobbing in a way that just made you wonder about the human race.

“The author, Harry Potter, sir,” Dobby said quietly, pointing upward. “She is being on her computer, sir.”

“…Um. Right. Whatever you say.”

“WE’VE GOT TO HELP HERMIONE, WE’VE GOT TO, WE’VE GOT TO!” Ron yelled, picking up Hermione’s feet and dragging her through the Hospital Wing door. Harry sighed, waved goodbye to Dobby, and followed Ron…only to find that he was standing near a little ways from the doorway, staring openmouthed at a scene in front of them.

“…Severus, you’re drunk.”

Professor Snape, usually grouchy and nasty, smiled happily as he lay in the hospital bed, and gestured in a way that made you think that somewhere in his own little world he was skipping gaily through flowers. “No, I’ve never thought so clearly in my life!”

“…Then why did we find you unconscious in the Three Broomsticks with a bottle of gin beside you?”

Severus cocked his head a little bit and, through the partially white film over his eye, appeared to be looking at the speaker with a deep respect. “Did you see that in your crystal ball…?”

“…Yes and no.”

“Wow. Wowwie wow wow,” Snape trilled. Snape then began to rummage under the sheets for something. He finally pulled out a small, plastic ring with a big yellow smiley face on it.

“Sybil Trelawney,” he said, knocking his head on the bed pole, “will you…marry me? I’ll be nice to you forever and ever and ever and ever…”

Sybil gave him a look of utter disgust. “The fates have informed me to not give into a drunk man’s wishes,” she sniffed.

“But I’m not drunk!” Snape yelled, before trying to brush the flying purple camels off of his shoulder. “Damn things, you’d think after I told them to leave me alone they would go back to their homes, but noooooooo…”

Professor Trelawney got up, gave Severus a rather rude finger, and stomped off. Professor Snape sighed. “Will anyone marry me?”

Carl jumped out of the shadows and flew into Snape’s arms. “I’ll marry you, Thevvie-poo!”

Snape smiled at him in a dazed way. “Yay.”

“Let’th go to Vegath!”


“‘Here cometh the bride…all drethed in white’…” Carl sang happily.

And off Snape and Carl went, to do something that could only end in lots of pain, plenty of embarrassment, and, of course, lawyers.

As Snape and Carl walked off into the sunset (well, actually only Snape was walking; he was carrying Carl…and they were in the hospital wing, so that does contradict the sunset bit…oh well, metaphorically they were walking into the sunset), Hermione opened her eyes groggily.

Ron jumped up and down and clapped. “You’re alive, you’re alive, oh happy day!”

“…What’d I miss?” she asked, rubbing her head.

“Snape’s getting married,” Harry said.

Hermione rubbed her eyes. “No, I mean, did anything new happen while I was…unconscious?”

“Not really.”

“You’re alive! YAY!”


  Crabbe and Goyle shut the janitor closet door and locked it, whimpering in fright.

“Duh…I’m scared, Crabbe.”

“Duh…birdie from HELL.”

Behind both of them, amidst the brooms and mops and buckets, two red eyes blinked.



“Dat you?”

“Who you?”

“You you?”


There was a disgusting munching sound. Crabbe sniggered.

“Duh…dat funny, Goyle…duh…Goyle…?”

In a janitor closet, no one can hear you scream.

A/N: That was kind of long, wasn’t it…? Oh well, I don’t care. blows raspberry and runs off yelling, “I’m really stupid, I’m really stupid!”

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