This is your brain on crack
Jun. 9th, 2005 01:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
skoosiepantsNEW CRACKFIC! *dances* *does The Robot*
Title: A Family Affair
Rating: PG-13 crack
Summary: Seamus crashes a family reunion. Comedy ensues. Featuring paranoid!Harry, stalking!Seamus, accidentprone!Neville, drunk!Dean, pieloving!Ron and, oh yes, my favorite sparkly boys. HP/NSYNC, cats!
Notes/warnings/disclaimer: Crack, pure and true and stupid, and oh it made me laugh so hard while writing it, as usual *grins* This is SLASH! There are no redeeming qualities to this! And I've taken an enormous amount of creative license with everything from Irish geneology to Butterbeer. Also, the real people featured in this? Don't know 'em, and I'm pretty sure this isn't true. There is also an excessive use of the word "dude." I found it funny.
Special thanks go to my flisters, especially my crack-dealer,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sanityinstrife, and stereotype_vamp, for commiserating with me about Justin and sheep, and lady_draherm, whom I recently corrupted in the ways of popslash, but damned if she doesn't look happier that way.
A Family Affair
Seamus had a rather large and varied family, which included - but certainly wasn’t limited to - leprechauns, sylphs, fairies, Muggles, and one specific Muggle pop star, with the latter, of course, being the most important to Seamus. Though they weren’t honestly related. Only by marriage. On his non-magic side. And they hadn’t ever met.
And, technically, he didn’t know Seamus existed - the Muggle pop star, that is – because Muggle and non-Muggle branches of the Finnigans, St. Clairs, Whelans, Magees, Keanes and Kirkpatricks were kept strictly separate.
So, in a vague, round-about way, Seamus would be considered family to Chris Kirkpatrick. Vaguely. If he tilted his head and squinted a bit.
“So,” Ron said, wandering over with a plate piled with as much food as he could fit, “why’re you hiding out over here? Thought this was your family reunion, mate.” He tentatively tasted a yellowish looking tart, decided it wouldn’t poison him, and stuffed it into his mouth. You never knew with Muggle food.
“We’ve snuck in, Ron,” Harry pointed out, half in the shadows of the large stone castle, casting a wary eye about the party. “Seamus wasn’t exactly invited.”
“But they’re family,” Ron said, bemused.
“It’s my da’s side,” Seamus explained. “No magic.”
“And?”
“And… And, so they don’t know me.”
“You’re acting weird, Seam,” Ron said, swallowing down another tart almost whole. Seamus wasn’t ever hesitant about anything. “This’s my third plate. No one cares who I am.”
“Half the St. Clairs have red hair and—Merlin’s sparkly short-pants!” Seamus gasped.
“What? What?” Harry had his wand out and palmed before anyone could blink, and Ron batted it away.
“Harry!”
“Sorry,” he mumbled, tucking it into his trouser pocket again.
“That’s Justin Timberlake!” Seamus rushed out, waving his arms over his head. “Justin Timberlake.”
Ron gazed at him blandly for a few moments, then nodded. “Right. I’ll be over by the food.”
“Where’s Nev, anyway?” Harry asked. He’d gone to find the loo nearly an hour ago.
Ron shrugged. “Mingling probably. You know how good he is at that.” Grinning cheekily, he wandered off towards the buffet again, humming a happy tune. He munched on a shrimp, tossing the tail onto the grass and reaching for another in a single, smooth motion. “Food, food, food,” he sang under his breath. The only thing that could possibly make the spread any better was…. Oh. Pie. His eyes lit up when he spied the desert table, nearly bowed under the enormous amount of sweets and pies and puddings on it.
“Pie,” someone muttered beside him, and he obligingly gestured towards the next buffet. “Heading that way myself, mate,” he said, then glanced up at the scruffy, dark-haired man standing next to him, his plate almost as full as his own.
He was just a bit shorter than Ron, with a broader build, a haphazardly clipped beard shading his jaw, and brown eyes clear under thick brows. They sized each other up silently before breaking into matching wide grins.
“Ron,” Ron said, stretching out a hand.
“Joe.”
***
“Shit. Oh no. Oh no, no, no. Oh fucking hell.”
“Um…” Neville poked his head around the doorjamb of a small parlor, and asked hesitantly, “All right?”
“I’m a spaz. I’m such a complete fucking spaz.”
Neville shifted back and forth on his feet, thinking that he probably should just slip past, since he really had to find the loo, and the bloke was acting a little mad, but… What if he honestly needed help? And why was he kneeling on the floor anyhow, with long-stemmed flowers clutched in one hand, the other fluttering about in distress and… oh.
“It’s just,” the man rolled his wrist in the air helplessly, “they were so pretty, but I knew better than to touch and god.”
His voice was thick, on the very brink of tears, which just about tore at Nev’s soft heart, so he stepped into the room without really thinking and went, “Is it…?”
“It slipped.” He sounded stunned and just a bit breathy and Neville thought it was exactly something he’d have done – except he wouldn’t have touched it in the first place, given that he could usually resist shiny objects, unlike Seamus and, obviously, this bloke, a wild-haired brunette in tight, lime-green capris.
“Do you think. Do you think it’s very old?” he asked haltingly, finally turning to look at Neville with deep, pretty blue eyes.
Nev swallowed hard, because, really, he wasn’t the least bit queer, but. He managed a tight-shouldered shrug, glancing down at the remnants of what looked like a dark blue and green iridescent vase.
“I can replace it, you know, but an antique. Chris is gonna kill me. He told me not to touch anything. Not that he’s any better, but he usually just bumps things by accident and doesn’t actually pick them up and I’m such an idiot! It was probably, like, some ancient Kirkpatrick ritual jar where they sacrificed goats and,” he made a face, “no, not goats. Don’t think Chris would condone sacrificing, though he really couldn’t have known about the poor goats, but, like, probably,” he waved both his hands, flower petals shaking loose to settle in his hair, “something important and sacred and shiny vase-worthy!”
Nev’s overall impression, other than the bloke was prettier than most girls, was that he could ramble on forever, and he seriously doubted his presence made any sort of difference one way or the other. He seemed mostly to be nattering on to himself.
And then his gaze snapped to Neville’s again, stance tensing. “You’re not a Kirkpatrick, are you?”
Neville shook his head.
“St. Clair?”
“No.”
“Magee, Whelan, Finnigan? Keane?”
“Er… no.” Neville fingered the wand in his pocket, for the first time seriously considering using magic in front of a Muggle. The man was just so distraught and yes, all right, very, very pretty, and maybe if he just got in a tiny Memory Charm as well, the bloke wouldn’t even remember breaking the vase and.
He really had to use the loo.
“Look, let me just.” Nev pulled out his wand, and the man got to his feet, head cocked at him.
“What are you--?”
“Reparo.” Nev flicked the spell, spinning the vase pieces up into a small, whirling cone, broken bits snapping together soundlessly and then toppling back onto its pedestal stand.
“Oh. my. god,” the brunette gasped, just before Neville aimed his wand at him and rushed out, “Obliviate.”
The man gave him a slow blink, palm coming up to rub over his mouth. “I don’t think—” he started, and then he stumbled backwards and hit the table with a hip, upending the vase back onto the ground with a resounding crash, splintering the newly spelled object into itty bitty pieces even smaller than before. “Shit.”
***
Seamus had left Harry alone. Seamus had gone off - skulked off, to be exact – and left Harry alone in the shadow of the castle, deepening in the late afternoon, because, honestly, he didn’t trust anyone anymore.
Constant vigilance!
A summer working as an Under-Auror partnered with Moody probably wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had, of course. Rather tough on the nerves.
But he had reason to be paranoid, really, after finding a wriggling Malfoy in his closet two weeks ago, trussed up in a green bow with a birthday note attached, written in old Voldie’s spidery scrawl. And then there was that incident mid-summer, when Remus’d invited him to tea with Snape, who’d sneered evilly at him before possessively licking into Remus’ ear and blinding him for all eternity - erlack. And then, just last month, his boyfriend of three weeks had turned out to be a brain-munching undead-zombie-beast – but that story was for another time.
“Look at that,” he exclaimed in a hush, spying Ron half-way across the lawn, cozied up with a large brunette and several plates of pie. Seemed somewhat suspicious. Well, not the pie bit, since Ron couldn’t help himself there.
“What are we looking at?”
Harry yelped and spun about, whipping out his wand and brandishing it as threateningly as possible at… a spiky-haired blond he’d never seen before. He looked vaguely familiar, though, with creepy, bright green eyes.
The blond smirked at him and held up his hands. “Sorry.”
“Who the hell are you?” Harry demanded, then realized he still had his wand outstretched and hastily stuffed it away with an angry, irritated blush.
“Lance Bass,” the man drawled, voice deep and lazy and definitely American.
Bass, Bass. Name was actually ringing a bell and… oh! “Lance Bass.”
“You catch on amazingly fast,” the blond said mock-earnestly, nodding.
He looked on the verge of laughing at him and Harry narrowed his eyes. “How do I know you’re really Lance Bass?”
“I know the super secret Lance Bass code.”
Harry, who wasn’t stupid – really, he wasn’t - probably would’ve picked up on the man’s thick sarcasm if he hadn’t been too busy staring him down, searching his freakishly eerie-colored eyes for anything blatantly evil and wrong and zombie-like. “What is it?”
“If I told you,” he said, one side of his mouth quirked up, “then it wouldn’t be my secret code, would it?”
“Let’s see your arse, then,” Harry said gruffly, folding his arms over his chest, cracking a small, smug grin when the blond visibly tripped over his words. Ha! Weren’t expecting that tactic were you, Mr. Lance Bass?
“W-what?”
“Seamus says you’ve got the finest arse in the group, so.” He twirled his fingers around. “Let’s see it.”
The man scowled at him. “Did Chris put you up to this?” he growled.
“Hey, mate. You came sneaking up on me,” Harry pointed out, “with your freaky eyes and slow drawl and. Come to think of it, what will your arse prove?” He bit his bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth thoughtfully. Moody had looked like Moody in fourth year, but he hadn’t been Moody, had he? And his undead boyfriend Jeremy had seemed perfectly respectable up until the point where he’d tried to eat Harry’s brains. Hmmm.
“Jesus, you’ve got some issues,” Lance commented dryly.
Harry snorted a laugh. “Just a few.”
***
Seamus was really good at stalking. He excelled at little in life, admittedly, but stalking was waaaaay up at the top of his short list. So he stalked Mr. JT across the crowded lawn, smoothly dodging past various Kirkpatricks, Whelans, Keanes, St. Clairs, Finnigans and Magees, eyes remaining staunchly on the broad shoulders and narrow hips of his prize. Quarry. Unsuspecting pretty boy.
And then the sparkly boyband member whirled around and pinned him with baby-, sky-, powder-, cornflower-, every-possible-cliché-blue eyes – they were all that and more, but Seamus never claimed to be good with words – and ground out, “Why are you following me?”
Ah. Not so skilled with the stalking as he’d previously thought. Seamus’ short list just got shorter, leaving Charms-work and making sweet, sweet love right at the top and, really, that was nothing to complain about.
“No reason.” He smiled disarmingly up at the curly-haired bloke. He was good at honesty, too, but was smart enough to know that ‘I’m stalking you!’ wouldn’t go over all that well with the celebrity.
“Uh huh,” Justin widened his stance and glowered down at him, a pout pulling at his lovely, perfectly curved lips, “you’ve trailed after me across half the yard for no reason at all. Right.”
Seamus’ grin turned flirty and he took a step closer to the big blond. “Exactly. No reason at all,” he purred, and he wasn’t exactly aiming for comical, but hey. Justin burst out laughing, and Seamus shrugged. It was a start.
***
“Dude. Dude. What’s this stuff again?”
Dean grinned. “Butterbeer, mate. Must have some fairy blood in you.”
“Could be, could be. Possible.” He bobbed his head, smile loose. “Dude. Always wanted to lick Justin, so. Fairy. Huh.” He made a swirling circle in the air with his fingers. “Explains a. lot.”
They were sitting side by side in lounge chairs at the edge of the clearing, the party stretched out before them under bright white tents, strings of light glittering in the impending twilight.
“Dude,” the man huffed softly. “Pretty.”
Dean chuckled, having never before witnessed anyone get that buzzed over a few bottles of Butterbeer besides House-elves. He didn’t even know the bloke’s name; he’d just sat down next to Dean with a creaking sigh and looked sort of lonely, so Dean’d offered him some of his coveted beverages. The ex-Gryffindor was admittedly addicted to the stuff, and had been ever since Hogwarts. Not a great habit, but not the worst either, he figured, so he took some bottles with him everywhere, charmed small in his pockets.
They sat there in silence for a few moments, drinking in the cool, wet, rather mossy smell of the land, listening to the raw barks of laughter and loud chatter drifting over the long lawn. Finally, the man tipped the top of his bottle towards Dean and said, “I’m in love with my best friend,” and Dean almost shouted, Me too! except he wasn’t.
He used to be, but then Seamus decided he wanted to be a fourteen your old girl. A fourteen year old girl with an enormous crush on Justin Timberlake.
And then he thought briefly that the dark-haired man was simply talking about his Butterbeer, since he’d declared himself “ready for marriage to the full-bodied sweet barley girl” after his first sip.
But when the bloke gestured across the field to where Justin Fucking Timberlake was soaking up all of Seamus’ fawning attention, Dean realized they were both screwing the same boat. Or barking up the same foot? Or… Dean stared down at the cool-slick bottle in his hands, wondering when on earth he’d turned into a fairy, but then he remembered he’d switched to Muggle brew over an hour ago, letting the sad-eyed fellow next to him finish up his stash of Butterbeer.
“Justin Fucking Timberlake,” the man groused, “superSTAH.”
And Dean finally put five and five together and said, jabbing a finger at him, “You’re Chris Kirkpatrick!”
Chris snorted. “No shit, Sherlock.”
***
“Lemon jellybeans, whipped cream, graham crackers around the crust, topped with chocolate syrup,” Joey described lazily, sprawled on his chair, feet stretched out, hands clasped loosely over his belly.
Ron nodded, eyes falling closed as he said through a yawn, “Butterscotch pudding, hot apple slices, cinnamon and sugar, with those irritatingly tiny marshmallows layered over the top.” Joey was great. Joey was his sort of bloke. There was nothing so important as food, and no food as important as pie.
“Dude. Marshmallows.”
He cracked open his eyes to see Joey slowly shaking his head, grinning widely at him. “Marshmallows,” Ron repeated firmly, and Joe gave a deep-seated sigh that sounded exactly like, “Genius,” and the redhead couldn’t help but agree. Irritatingly tiny or not, marshmallows were tasty.
A companionable silence lengthened between them, the sunset slanting shadows down from the thickly wooded forest just to the left of their chairs, and Ron eyed his empty plate, contemplating the odds of eating another piece of pie and actually keeping it down.
“Meat,” Joe said suddenly. “Meat pie.”
And meat pies were a whole other animal, but just as delicious. “Yeah,” Ron said breathily. “Oh, yeah.”
***
“Um. Who’re you?”
Neville bounced on his feet, feeling a nervous, jittery energy pulse through him because. Something was definitely off. The brunette in front of him seemed more concerned about glancing curiously around the parlor than the vase he’d just broken again. And considering Neville’s poor history with performing spells…
“Where the hell am I?” the man said, head tipped back and staring at the ceiling. “Is that stone?”
Oh Merlin, oh god, oh shit, oh “Bugger,” Neville breathed, swiping a damp hand over his forehead. “What,” he swallowed thickly, “what do you remember?”
The brunette frowned, a tiny crease forming between his eyes as he stared off absently just to the right of Neville’s head. “I got caught between Chris and Joey, and Joe tossed me in the pool,” his frown got darker, “in my new pink, rhinestone shirt with the suede fringe, the fucker. And the jeans,” he made a disgusted sweeping motion with his hands, “they were hand-painted, man, and completely ruined.”
Neville nodded his head, bobbing it agreeably and frantically trying to think of what to do, because Hermione wasn’t there and Seamus was useless and Dean’d gone off by himself in a snit and Harry was a mess of jumpy nerves and Ron was most likely eating pie and he still had to go to the loo! Neville was so very, very screwed. “Do you remember your name?” Neville asked faintly, and the man gave him a strange, you-nutter look.
“JC Chasez, cat. And, again I ask, who are you?”
Someone, obviously, who had absolutely no right to a wand. Four years out of Hogwarts and he still couldn’t manage a perfectly simple spell perfectly. Though Memory Charms were arguably un-simple, really, which was why he probably shouldn’t have attempted it to begin with. Not for the first time, he wished he’d been raised a Hufflepuff, where all his impulsive, idiotic, heroic tendencies would’ve been thoroughly quashed before the end of first year.
“I’m Neville,” he answered, wringing his hands and yes, pressing his legs together in an odd sort of dance, because, sod it all, he’d been in the parlor for the better part of a half-hour and, “You wouldn’t know where the loo was, would you?”
***
Harry figured he must have lost time somehow.
It’d happened before, once, when he’d woken up in Blaise Zabini’s bed naked, wearing a cat mask and covered in raspberry jam – but that story was for another time.
He clearly remembered scoffing at Lance Bass’ claim of actually being Lance Bass, but he just couldn’t recall how he’d gotten from the mocking and scoffing to having the blond’s hand down his trousers, body pushed against the moss-covered stone wall of the castle, t-shirt rucked up past his chest. Not that he was complaining.
Lance had a fucking amazing voice, and the deep rumble pooled in Harry’s stomach as the blond groaned against his throat, and Harry buried fingers in his stiffly gelled hair, tugging him closer. “Oh,” Harry gasped. “Oh, do it again.”
“Now?” Lance growled, licking up Harry’s neck, lips skimming the shell of his ear.
“Yes, again.” Harry swallowed hard, a needy keening sound tearing from his throat as Lance chuckled softly.
“Serious issues, man.”
Harry’s hands slipped from the blond’s hair, digging into his shoulder blades as he arched his back, panting, “Old news, Bass. And for the record, you attacked me.”
“What can I say? I like ‘em short and insane, and Chris is in love with Justin, so.” He shrugged, more amused now than aroused, and Harry was seriously losing the sexy vibe.
“Lance.”
“Right, right.” The man cleared his throat, scary eyes twinkling, and started singing in a husky bass, “I’m too sexy for my shirt, too sexy for my shirt. So sexy it hurts. And I’m too sexy for Milan, too sexy for Milan, New York and Japan. And I’m too sexy for your party, too sexy for your party. No way I’m disco dancing…”
“Um. Um… Harry? Excuse me, Harry?”
Lance cut off at a hesitant, but quite loud voice behind them, and Harry looked over his shoulder to see Neville shifting nervously on his feet, a tall, really rather gorgeous brunette standing beside him.
“Hey, Lance.” The newcomer grinned, giving them a small wave, the tight white — shiny? — shirt hitching up past his navel and Harry rolled his eyes because what were the bloody odds that out of the enormous amount of people attending the Kirkpatrick, Whelan, St. Clair, Finnigan, Magee and Keane family reunion they’d each found a famous boyband member to hang around with?
“Harry.” Neville gestured desperately for him to come over.
“What?” Harry hissed, walking up to him, openly pissed that his friend had interrupted what had promised to be a great - beyond great - evening.
“Um.” Neville twisted his fingers together, eyes downcast. “ImuckedupaspellandnowJCcan’trememberanythingpastwhatIthinkwaslastTuesday.”
Harry blinked at him. “Huh?”
Nev grabbed his arm, pulling him down to whisper harshly in his ear. “I used a Memory Charm, Harry, and JC doesn’t remember.”
***
Seamus was not a good dancer. Horizontally, yeah, but standing up he mostly just… stood there. While Justin shimmied around him, lithe and pretty and.
“Dance, yo,” Justin urged, arms tangled above his head, curls burnished in the red-gold glow of the setting sun, strains of light-hearted, pulse-quick Irish melodies floating through the air.
And Seamus tried. Honestly, he tried, but he had no rhythm whatsoever and was mildly tone-deaf, and Justin gave up coaxing him with a huff before fluidly moving off towards the largely unoccupied part of the yard where – Seamus squinted in the dim light – it looked like Dean was blind stinking drunk. Hurrah.
***
“Picture this.” Chris threw his arms wide. “The year was 1999, and J was newly legal and — listen Dean — all curly haired and adorable but then he took off his shirt and BAM!” He made several abortive movements with his hands before finally settling on pressing a forefinger to his nose. “Tongues had now entered into the equation,” he went on. “Or my tongue, specifically, on his naked man-abs.”
“You should tell him,” Dean said, nodding, idly fingering his wand, watching as Seamus and Justin danced closer. Or Justin danced closer, actually, and Seamus followed like a fucking following… sheep.
“Chris!” Justin shouted over, grinning that glow-y, happy, love me smile.
Justin Fucking Timberlake.
Then something in Dean snapped and his fingers clenched painfully around his wand, face screwed up in determination, and.
“Dude!” Chris exclaimed, getting to his feet. “Dude! You turned my boyfriend into a fucking sheep!”
The once Justin, now white wooly sheep let out a questioning, “Mehhhhhhh?” and Dean stage whispered sloppily, “Think he heard you, mate,” while Seamus looked on in increasing horror before finally gathering enough wits about him to say loudly, yet conversationally, “Who brought the sheep, eh?” along with several pained, dry chuckles.
Sheep-Justin gave him an angry sheep-glare and ground out a deep, “Mehhhhhhh.”
“Don’t worry, Jup,” Chris said, scrubbing his curly head. “I’ve always wanted a sheep.” Sheep-Justin narrowed his sheep-eyes at him and Chris shoved him away. “Not like that, you pervert. Ewwwww.”
“Mehhhhhhh,” went sheep-Justin.
“Human-Justin is my ‘boyfriend.’” He used air quotes, which seemed to amuse the now curly-fluffy, four-hoofed boyband member. “Or he will be, after he gets his head out of his ass.”
“MEHHHHHH!” The sheep stamped a hoof and chewed on the cuff of Chris’ sleeve.
“All right, all right. It’s all my fault you were grinding up against leprechaun boy here.”
“Hey!”
“Hey!” Dean slurred, an echo behind Seamus.
“Mehhhhhhh,” the sheep said fondly, and Chris sighed, dropping his forehead onto sheep-Justin’s soft head.
“I would’ve said something, eventually…”
“Do you find it odd he’s talking to a sheep?” Seamus asked Dean before he remembered the dark boy was blind stinking drunk, and also, more importantly, had Transfigured Justin Timberlake into a farm animal!
Okay. First things first. They’d have to figure out how to change him back, because Transfiguration had not been on his very short list of things he excelled at and Dean, as previously mentioned, was blind stinking drunk.
“Hey,” Ron said, striding up to them, shoulder to shoulder with a large, grinning dark-haired bloke and a full plate of pie, “who brought the sheep?”
“Where’s Harry?” Seamus asked. Harry was passable at Transfiguration. Harry was passable at everything he didn’t excel at, unlike Seamus, who couldn’t dance and apparently sucked at stalking, but was top-rate at Charms and, yes, was still a veritable tiger in the sack.
“Hey,” Harry said, walking up to them, Neville, a blond, and a wild-haired hot bloke trailing not far behind him, “we’ve got a huge problem.”
“Make that two, then,” Seamus said. “Or three if you count Dean’s semi-comatose state.” Dean had slumped back into his seat at that point and was busy grinning dreamily at Seamus, which would have weirded the Irishman out if it hadn’t been Dean. His best mate.
“Oh, look at J,” the sleek, lean, hot fellow in bright green trousers cooed, bending over to hug the sheep. “Poor sheep-y Justin.”
“How’d he know?” Seamus asked, puzzled.
“Freaky ‘teer mind-meld,” Chris muttered, glowering half-heartedly at JC.
“It’s his eyes,” JC offered, rubbing behind Justin’s ears, earning a low, contented “Mehhhhhhh,” then went on, “His eyes are all baby boy.”
“We’re going to need Hermione,” Ron said firmly. There was no way they’d be able to sort out this mess all by themselves. He was very proud to note, however, that he was in no way implicated in any mess at all. Besides the one he and Joe had made of the buffet tables, which, in his opinion, didn’t signify. “Nev, got that emergency contact spell?”
***
The house was eerily quiet without the boys, but Hermione was basking in the silence, letting it fill her up, pool languidly in her mind as she snuggled into an overstuffed chair in the study with a manuscript of the current revision she was doing for Hogwarts: A History. And then her wand rang, and Neville’s wispy form floated up from the tip, and this was why she never went five feet without her wand, no matter what, because there was always an emergency where the boys were concerned.
“Where are you?” Hermione asked, resigned.
“Ireland,” the wispy-Neville said, and Hermione got to her feet with a sigh.
“I’ll be right over.”
***
Hermione wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t what she’d found.
“I’m very disappointed in you all,” she said sternly, and even the sheep, who Seamus had declared was Justin Timberlake, looked chagrined, wooly head bowed to the ground.
Dean gave her a floppy wave. “Hermiiiiioooneeee,” he drew out, grinning.
“Dude, you’re drunk,” Chris pointed out unhelpfully, giggling.
“Is Chris high?” Joe asked around a monstrous bite of pumpkin pie, so it sounded more like ‘ish chrishk ghigh,’ before letting out a low, belly-deep belch.
“Are we in Ireland?” JC suddenly asked, eyes wide as he whirled about.
“Would everyone just please shut up and stand still?” Hermione exclaimed, hands on her hips. At least, she thought with a measure of relief, no one else at the party seemed to be paying them any mind, despite the large, white sheep.
The boys all fell into line – well, except for Dean, who was still sprawled in his chair, and Chris, who’d tackled the sheep to the ground with a mighty roar, and the sheep, who was busy scrambling away from Chris – and Hermione walked up to JC, arms crossed over her chest.
“Neville,” she said, eyes still narrowed on the tall brunette, “explain.”
“Uh, Memory Charm,” he said quickly, a blush spreading up from his neck. “Tried to. But. And then. So.”
“How much has he forgotten?” she asked, and JC smiled at her, eyes crinkled up adorably.
“A week?” Neville offered tentatively.
She sighed and rubbed a hand over her forehead. There was nothing to be done about that, then. “It’ll crack eventually. And if it doesn’t, you’ve lost a week,” she told JC.
“Don’t worry, C, we’ll tell you all about it,” Chris said, grinning evilly from the ground, pieces of grass in his hair, sticking up at odd angles, with dirt smudged across his face.
Hermione glanced down at Chris. “Whatever you’re on will dissipate at some point, too. And you,” she cocked her head at sheep-Justin, “you’re rather cute as a sheep.”
“Mehhhhhhh.” Sheep-Justin fluttered his sheep-lashes at her.
But Justin was an easy fix, actually, and she was quite good at Transfigurations, along with most everything, and Justin was human-Justin in no time at all, looming over Dean with an angry glare.
“That was mean, yo,” he growled, but Dean just giggled and pitched his voice comically high, saying, “I’m a sheep, yo,” sending Chris into spasms of laughter in between gasps of, “So true; so very, very true.”
“You both suck,” Justin pouted, dropping down onto a lounge chair.
“Hey, where’s Harry?” Ron asked, just as Joey went, “Where’s Lance gone?” and Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose, eyes squeezed shut, and muttered, “I don’t even want to know.”
Ron nudged her arm. “Pie?”
Trust Ron to think that pie fixed everything. Still - she opened her eyes with a sigh – it did look rather appetizing. Taking a forkful, she glanced up at JC, who was staring at her speculatively. She gave him a friendly nod. “You’re very pretty,” she said, because his expression seemed to expect it.
“Yes,” he commented earnestly, nodding back at her, “and I’m completely straight, too.”
Chris guffawed loudly, spitting out a swallow of his drink. “Right, C. Sure.”
“We’re going to need more pie,” Ron declared grandly, fork high in the air, and his sentiment was seconded by a loud, “Here, here,” from Joey, and Hermione let out a whooshing sigh.
At least it wasn’t as bad as when Harry’d gotten himself trapped inside a time-loop for six days with Malfoy, a set of gobstones, two lengths of hemp rope, and three litres of chocolate milk.
But that story was for another time.
Fin.
Title: A Family Affair
Rating: PG-13 crack
Summary: Seamus crashes a family reunion. Comedy ensues. Featuring paranoid!Harry, stalking!Seamus, accidentprone!Neville, drunk!Dean, pieloving!Ron and, oh yes, my favorite sparkly boys. HP/NSYNC, cats!
Notes/warnings/disclaimer: Crack, pure and true and stupid, and oh it made me laugh so hard while writing it, as usual *grins* This is SLASH! There are no redeeming qualities to this! And I've taken an enormous amount of creative license with everything from Irish geneology to Butterbeer. Also, the real people featured in this? Don't know 'em, and I'm pretty sure this isn't true. There is also an excessive use of the word "dude." I found it funny.
Special thanks go to my flisters, especially my crack-dealer,
sanityinstrife, and stereotype_vamp, for commiserating with me about Justin and sheep, and lady_draherm, whom I recently corrupted in the ways of popslash, but damned if she doesn't look happier that way.A Family Affair
Seamus had a rather large and varied family, which included - but certainly wasn’t limited to - leprechauns, sylphs, fairies, Muggles, and one specific Muggle pop star, with the latter, of course, being the most important to Seamus. Though they weren’t honestly related. Only by marriage. On his non-magic side. And they hadn’t ever met.
And, technically, he didn’t know Seamus existed - the Muggle pop star, that is – because Muggle and non-Muggle branches of the Finnigans, St. Clairs, Whelans, Magees, Keanes and Kirkpatricks were kept strictly separate.
So, in a vague, round-about way, Seamus would be considered family to Chris Kirkpatrick. Vaguely. If he tilted his head and squinted a bit.
“So,” Ron said, wandering over with a plate piled with as much food as he could fit, “why’re you hiding out over here? Thought this was your family reunion, mate.” He tentatively tasted a yellowish looking tart, decided it wouldn’t poison him, and stuffed it into his mouth. You never knew with Muggle food.
“We’ve snuck in, Ron,” Harry pointed out, half in the shadows of the large stone castle, casting a wary eye about the party. “Seamus wasn’t exactly invited.”
“But they’re family,” Ron said, bemused.
“It’s my da’s side,” Seamus explained. “No magic.”
“And?”
“And… And, so they don’t know me.”
“You’re acting weird, Seam,” Ron said, swallowing down another tart almost whole. Seamus wasn’t ever hesitant about anything. “This’s my third plate. No one cares who I am.”
“Half the St. Clairs have red hair and—Merlin’s sparkly short-pants!” Seamus gasped.
“What? What?” Harry had his wand out and palmed before anyone could blink, and Ron batted it away.
“Harry!”
“Sorry,” he mumbled, tucking it into his trouser pocket again.
“That’s Justin Timberlake!” Seamus rushed out, waving his arms over his head. “Justin Timberlake.”
Ron gazed at him blandly for a few moments, then nodded. “Right. I’ll be over by the food.”
“Where’s Nev, anyway?” Harry asked. He’d gone to find the loo nearly an hour ago.
Ron shrugged. “Mingling probably. You know how good he is at that.” Grinning cheekily, he wandered off towards the buffet again, humming a happy tune. He munched on a shrimp, tossing the tail onto the grass and reaching for another in a single, smooth motion. “Food, food, food,” he sang under his breath. The only thing that could possibly make the spread any better was…. Oh. Pie. His eyes lit up when he spied the desert table, nearly bowed under the enormous amount of sweets and pies and puddings on it.
“Pie,” someone muttered beside him, and he obligingly gestured towards the next buffet. “Heading that way myself, mate,” he said, then glanced up at the scruffy, dark-haired man standing next to him, his plate almost as full as his own.
He was just a bit shorter than Ron, with a broader build, a haphazardly clipped beard shading his jaw, and brown eyes clear under thick brows. They sized each other up silently before breaking into matching wide grins.
“Ron,” Ron said, stretching out a hand.
“Joe.”
***
“Shit. Oh no. Oh no, no, no. Oh fucking hell.”
“Um…” Neville poked his head around the doorjamb of a small parlor, and asked hesitantly, “All right?”
“I’m a spaz. I’m such a complete fucking spaz.”
Neville shifted back and forth on his feet, thinking that he probably should just slip past, since he really had to find the loo, and the bloke was acting a little mad, but… What if he honestly needed help? And why was he kneeling on the floor anyhow, with long-stemmed flowers clutched in one hand, the other fluttering about in distress and… oh.
“It’s just,” the man rolled his wrist in the air helplessly, “they were so pretty, but I knew better than to touch and god.”
His voice was thick, on the very brink of tears, which just about tore at Nev’s soft heart, so he stepped into the room without really thinking and went, “Is it…?”
“It slipped.” He sounded stunned and just a bit breathy and Neville thought it was exactly something he’d have done – except he wouldn’t have touched it in the first place, given that he could usually resist shiny objects, unlike Seamus and, obviously, this bloke, a wild-haired brunette in tight, lime-green capris.
“Do you think. Do you think it’s very old?” he asked haltingly, finally turning to look at Neville with deep, pretty blue eyes.
Nev swallowed hard, because, really, he wasn’t the least bit queer, but. He managed a tight-shouldered shrug, glancing down at the remnants of what looked like a dark blue and green iridescent vase.
“I can replace it, you know, but an antique. Chris is gonna kill me. He told me not to touch anything. Not that he’s any better, but he usually just bumps things by accident and doesn’t actually pick them up and I’m such an idiot! It was probably, like, some ancient Kirkpatrick ritual jar where they sacrificed goats and,” he made a face, “no, not goats. Don’t think Chris would condone sacrificing, though he really couldn’t have known about the poor goats, but, like, probably,” he waved both his hands, flower petals shaking loose to settle in his hair, “something important and sacred and shiny vase-worthy!”
Nev’s overall impression, other than the bloke was prettier than most girls, was that he could ramble on forever, and he seriously doubted his presence made any sort of difference one way or the other. He seemed mostly to be nattering on to himself.
And then his gaze snapped to Neville’s again, stance tensing. “You’re not a Kirkpatrick, are you?”
Neville shook his head.
“St. Clair?”
“No.”
“Magee, Whelan, Finnigan? Keane?”
“Er… no.” Neville fingered the wand in his pocket, for the first time seriously considering using magic in front of a Muggle. The man was just so distraught and yes, all right, very, very pretty, and maybe if he just got in a tiny Memory Charm as well, the bloke wouldn’t even remember breaking the vase and.
He really had to use the loo.
“Look, let me just.” Nev pulled out his wand, and the man got to his feet, head cocked at him.
“What are you--?”
“Reparo.” Nev flicked the spell, spinning the vase pieces up into a small, whirling cone, broken bits snapping together soundlessly and then toppling back onto its pedestal stand.
“Oh. my. god,” the brunette gasped, just before Neville aimed his wand at him and rushed out, “Obliviate.”
The man gave him a slow blink, palm coming up to rub over his mouth. “I don’t think—” he started, and then he stumbled backwards and hit the table with a hip, upending the vase back onto the ground with a resounding crash, splintering the newly spelled object into itty bitty pieces even smaller than before. “Shit.”
***
Seamus had left Harry alone. Seamus had gone off - skulked off, to be exact – and left Harry alone in the shadow of the castle, deepening in the late afternoon, because, honestly, he didn’t trust anyone anymore.
Constant vigilance!
A summer working as an Under-Auror partnered with Moody probably wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had, of course. Rather tough on the nerves.
But he had reason to be paranoid, really, after finding a wriggling Malfoy in his closet two weeks ago, trussed up in a green bow with a birthday note attached, written in old Voldie’s spidery scrawl. And then there was that incident mid-summer, when Remus’d invited him to tea with Snape, who’d sneered evilly at him before possessively licking into Remus’ ear and blinding him for all eternity - erlack. And then, just last month, his boyfriend of three weeks had turned out to be a brain-munching undead-zombie-beast – but that story was for another time.
“Look at that,” he exclaimed in a hush, spying Ron half-way across the lawn, cozied up with a large brunette and several plates of pie. Seemed somewhat suspicious. Well, not the pie bit, since Ron couldn’t help himself there.
“What are we looking at?”
Harry yelped and spun about, whipping out his wand and brandishing it as threateningly as possible at… a spiky-haired blond he’d never seen before. He looked vaguely familiar, though, with creepy, bright green eyes.
The blond smirked at him and held up his hands. “Sorry.”
“Who the hell are you?” Harry demanded, then realized he still had his wand outstretched and hastily stuffed it away with an angry, irritated blush.
“Lance Bass,” the man drawled, voice deep and lazy and definitely American.
Bass, Bass. Name was actually ringing a bell and… oh! “Lance Bass.”
“You catch on amazingly fast,” the blond said mock-earnestly, nodding.
He looked on the verge of laughing at him and Harry narrowed his eyes. “How do I know you’re really Lance Bass?”
“I know the super secret Lance Bass code.”
Harry, who wasn’t stupid – really, he wasn’t - probably would’ve picked up on the man’s thick sarcasm if he hadn’t been too busy staring him down, searching his freakishly eerie-colored eyes for anything blatantly evil and wrong and zombie-like. “What is it?”
“If I told you,” he said, one side of his mouth quirked up, “then it wouldn’t be my secret code, would it?”
“Let’s see your arse, then,” Harry said gruffly, folding his arms over his chest, cracking a small, smug grin when the blond visibly tripped over his words. Ha! Weren’t expecting that tactic were you, Mr. Lance Bass?
“W-what?”
“Seamus says you’ve got the finest arse in the group, so.” He twirled his fingers around. “Let’s see it.”
The man scowled at him. “Did Chris put you up to this?” he growled.
“Hey, mate. You came sneaking up on me,” Harry pointed out, “with your freaky eyes and slow drawl and. Come to think of it, what will your arse prove?” He bit his bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth thoughtfully. Moody had looked like Moody in fourth year, but he hadn’t been Moody, had he? And his undead boyfriend Jeremy had seemed perfectly respectable up until the point where he’d tried to eat Harry’s brains. Hmmm.
“Jesus, you’ve got some issues,” Lance commented dryly.
Harry snorted a laugh. “Just a few.”
***
Seamus was really good at stalking. He excelled at little in life, admittedly, but stalking was waaaaay up at the top of his short list. So he stalked Mr. JT across the crowded lawn, smoothly dodging past various Kirkpatricks, Whelans, Keanes, St. Clairs, Finnigans and Magees, eyes remaining staunchly on the broad shoulders and narrow hips of his prize. Quarry. Unsuspecting pretty boy.
And then the sparkly boyband member whirled around and pinned him with baby-, sky-, powder-, cornflower-, every-possible-cliché-blue eyes – they were all that and more, but Seamus never claimed to be good with words – and ground out, “Why are you following me?”
Ah. Not so skilled with the stalking as he’d previously thought. Seamus’ short list just got shorter, leaving Charms-work and making sweet, sweet love right at the top and, really, that was nothing to complain about.
“No reason.” He smiled disarmingly up at the curly-haired bloke. He was good at honesty, too, but was smart enough to know that ‘I’m stalking you!’ wouldn’t go over all that well with the celebrity.
“Uh huh,” Justin widened his stance and glowered down at him, a pout pulling at his lovely, perfectly curved lips, “you’ve trailed after me across half the yard for no reason at all. Right.”
Seamus’ grin turned flirty and he took a step closer to the big blond. “Exactly. No reason at all,” he purred, and he wasn’t exactly aiming for comical, but hey. Justin burst out laughing, and Seamus shrugged. It was a start.
***
“Dude. Dude. What’s this stuff again?”
Dean grinned. “Butterbeer, mate. Must have some fairy blood in you.”
“Could be, could be. Possible.” He bobbed his head, smile loose. “Dude. Always wanted to lick Justin, so. Fairy. Huh.” He made a swirling circle in the air with his fingers. “Explains a. lot.”
They were sitting side by side in lounge chairs at the edge of the clearing, the party stretched out before them under bright white tents, strings of light glittering in the impending twilight.
“Dude,” the man huffed softly. “Pretty.”
Dean chuckled, having never before witnessed anyone get that buzzed over a few bottles of Butterbeer besides House-elves. He didn’t even know the bloke’s name; he’d just sat down next to Dean with a creaking sigh and looked sort of lonely, so Dean’d offered him some of his coveted beverages. The ex-Gryffindor was admittedly addicted to the stuff, and had been ever since Hogwarts. Not a great habit, but not the worst either, he figured, so he took some bottles with him everywhere, charmed small in his pockets.
They sat there in silence for a few moments, drinking in the cool, wet, rather mossy smell of the land, listening to the raw barks of laughter and loud chatter drifting over the long lawn. Finally, the man tipped the top of his bottle towards Dean and said, “I’m in love with my best friend,” and Dean almost shouted, Me too! except he wasn’t.
He used to be, but then Seamus decided he wanted to be a fourteen your old girl. A fourteen year old girl with an enormous crush on Justin Timberlake.
And then he thought briefly that the dark-haired man was simply talking about his Butterbeer, since he’d declared himself “ready for marriage to the full-bodied sweet barley girl” after his first sip.
But when the bloke gestured across the field to where Justin Fucking Timberlake was soaking up all of Seamus’ fawning attention, Dean realized they were both screwing the same boat. Or barking up the same foot? Or… Dean stared down at the cool-slick bottle in his hands, wondering when on earth he’d turned into a fairy, but then he remembered he’d switched to Muggle brew over an hour ago, letting the sad-eyed fellow next to him finish up his stash of Butterbeer.
“Justin Fucking Timberlake,” the man groused, “superSTAH.”
And Dean finally put five and five together and said, jabbing a finger at him, “You’re Chris Kirkpatrick!”
Chris snorted. “No shit, Sherlock.”
***
“Lemon jellybeans, whipped cream, graham crackers around the crust, topped with chocolate syrup,” Joey described lazily, sprawled on his chair, feet stretched out, hands clasped loosely over his belly.
Ron nodded, eyes falling closed as he said through a yawn, “Butterscotch pudding, hot apple slices, cinnamon and sugar, with those irritatingly tiny marshmallows layered over the top.” Joey was great. Joey was his sort of bloke. There was nothing so important as food, and no food as important as pie.
“Dude. Marshmallows.”
He cracked open his eyes to see Joey slowly shaking his head, grinning widely at him. “Marshmallows,” Ron repeated firmly, and Joe gave a deep-seated sigh that sounded exactly like, “Genius,” and the redhead couldn’t help but agree. Irritatingly tiny or not, marshmallows were tasty.
A companionable silence lengthened between them, the sunset slanting shadows down from the thickly wooded forest just to the left of their chairs, and Ron eyed his empty plate, contemplating the odds of eating another piece of pie and actually keeping it down.
“Meat,” Joe said suddenly. “Meat pie.”
And meat pies were a whole other animal, but just as delicious. “Yeah,” Ron said breathily. “Oh, yeah.”
***
“Um. Who’re you?”
Neville bounced on his feet, feeling a nervous, jittery energy pulse through him because. Something was definitely off. The brunette in front of him seemed more concerned about glancing curiously around the parlor than the vase he’d just broken again. And considering Neville’s poor history with performing spells…
“Where the hell am I?” the man said, head tipped back and staring at the ceiling. “Is that stone?”
Oh Merlin, oh god, oh shit, oh “Bugger,” Neville breathed, swiping a damp hand over his forehead. “What,” he swallowed thickly, “what do you remember?”
The brunette frowned, a tiny crease forming between his eyes as he stared off absently just to the right of Neville’s head. “I got caught between Chris and Joey, and Joe tossed me in the pool,” his frown got darker, “in my new pink, rhinestone shirt with the suede fringe, the fucker. And the jeans,” he made a disgusted sweeping motion with his hands, “they were hand-painted, man, and completely ruined.”
Neville nodded his head, bobbing it agreeably and frantically trying to think of what to do, because Hermione wasn’t there and Seamus was useless and Dean’d gone off by himself in a snit and Harry was a mess of jumpy nerves and Ron was most likely eating pie and he still had to go to the loo! Neville was so very, very screwed. “Do you remember your name?” Neville asked faintly, and the man gave him a strange, you-nutter look.
“JC Chasez, cat. And, again I ask, who are you?”
Someone, obviously, who had absolutely no right to a wand. Four years out of Hogwarts and he still couldn’t manage a perfectly simple spell perfectly. Though Memory Charms were arguably un-simple, really, which was why he probably shouldn’t have attempted it to begin with. Not for the first time, he wished he’d been raised a Hufflepuff, where all his impulsive, idiotic, heroic tendencies would’ve been thoroughly quashed before the end of first year.
“I’m Neville,” he answered, wringing his hands and yes, pressing his legs together in an odd sort of dance, because, sod it all, he’d been in the parlor for the better part of a half-hour and, “You wouldn’t know where the loo was, would you?”
***
Harry figured he must have lost time somehow.
It’d happened before, once, when he’d woken up in Blaise Zabini’s bed naked, wearing a cat mask and covered in raspberry jam – but that story was for another time.
He clearly remembered scoffing at Lance Bass’ claim of actually being Lance Bass, but he just couldn’t recall how he’d gotten from the mocking and scoffing to having the blond’s hand down his trousers, body pushed against the moss-covered stone wall of the castle, t-shirt rucked up past his chest. Not that he was complaining.
Lance had a fucking amazing voice, and the deep rumble pooled in Harry’s stomach as the blond groaned against his throat, and Harry buried fingers in his stiffly gelled hair, tugging him closer. “Oh,” Harry gasped. “Oh, do it again.”
“Now?” Lance growled, licking up Harry’s neck, lips skimming the shell of his ear.
“Yes, again.” Harry swallowed hard, a needy keening sound tearing from his throat as Lance chuckled softly.
“Serious issues, man.”
Harry’s hands slipped from the blond’s hair, digging into his shoulder blades as he arched his back, panting, “Old news, Bass. And for the record, you attacked me.”
“What can I say? I like ‘em short and insane, and Chris is in love with Justin, so.” He shrugged, more amused now than aroused, and Harry was seriously losing the sexy vibe.
“Lance.”
“Right, right.” The man cleared his throat, scary eyes twinkling, and started singing in a husky bass, “I’m too sexy for my shirt, too sexy for my shirt. So sexy it hurts. And I’m too sexy for Milan, too sexy for Milan, New York and Japan. And I’m too sexy for your party, too sexy for your party. No way I’m disco dancing…”
“Um. Um… Harry? Excuse me, Harry?”
Lance cut off at a hesitant, but quite loud voice behind them, and Harry looked over his shoulder to see Neville shifting nervously on his feet, a tall, really rather gorgeous brunette standing beside him.
“Hey, Lance.” The newcomer grinned, giving them a small wave, the tight white — shiny? — shirt hitching up past his navel and Harry rolled his eyes because what were the bloody odds that out of the enormous amount of people attending the Kirkpatrick, Whelan, St. Clair, Finnigan, Magee and Keane family reunion they’d each found a famous boyband member to hang around with?
“Harry.” Neville gestured desperately for him to come over.
“What?” Harry hissed, walking up to him, openly pissed that his friend had interrupted what had promised to be a great - beyond great - evening.
“Um.” Neville twisted his fingers together, eyes downcast. “ImuckedupaspellandnowJCcan’trememberanythingpastwhatIthinkwaslastTuesday.”
Harry blinked at him. “Huh?”
Nev grabbed his arm, pulling him down to whisper harshly in his ear. “I used a Memory Charm, Harry, and JC doesn’t remember.”
***
Seamus was not a good dancer. Horizontally, yeah, but standing up he mostly just… stood there. While Justin shimmied around him, lithe and pretty and.
“Dance, yo,” Justin urged, arms tangled above his head, curls burnished in the red-gold glow of the setting sun, strains of light-hearted, pulse-quick Irish melodies floating through the air.
And Seamus tried. Honestly, he tried, but he had no rhythm whatsoever and was mildly tone-deaf, and Justin gave up coaxing him with a huff before fluidly moving off towards the largely unoccupied part of the yard where – Seamus squinted in the dim light – it looked like Dean was blind stinking drunk. Hurrah.
***
“Picture this.” Chris threw his arms wide. “The year was 1999, and J was newly legal and — listen Dean — all curly haired and adorable but then he took off his shirt and BAM!” He made several abortive movements with his hands before finally settling on pressing a forefinger to his nose. “Tongues had now entered into the equation,” he went on. “Or my tongue, specifically, on his naked man-abs.”
“You should tell him,” Dean said, nodding, idly fingering his wand, watching as Seamus and Justin danced closer. Or Justin danced closer, actually, and Seamus followed like a fucking following… sheep.
“Chris!” Justin shouted over, grinning that glow-y, happy, love me smile.
Justin Fucking Timberlake.
Then something in Dean snapped and his fingers clenched painfully around his wand, face screwed up in determination, and.
“Dude!” Chris exclaimed, getting to his feet. “Dude! You turned my boyfriend into a fucking sheep!”
The once Justin, now white wooly sheep let out a questioning, “Mehhhhhhh?” and Dean stage whispered sloppily, “Think he heard you, mate,” while Seamus looked on in increasing horror before finally gathering enough wits about him to say loudly, yet conversationally, “Who brought the sheep, eh?” along with several pained, dry chuckles.
Sheep-Justin gave him an angry sheep-glare and ground out a deep, “Mehhhhhhh.”
“Don’t worry, Jup,” Chris said, scrubbing his curly head. “I’ve always wanted a sheep.” Sheep-Justin narrowed his sheep-eyes at him and Chris shoved him away. “Not like that, you pervert. Ewwwww.”
“Mehhhhhhh,” went sheep-Justin.
“Human-Justin is my ‘boyfriend.’” He used air quotes, which seemed to amuse the now curly-fluffy, four-hoofed boyband member. “Or he will be, after he gets his head out of his ass.”
“MEHHHHHH!” The sheep stamped a hoof and chewed on the cuff of Chris’ sleeve.
“All right, all right. It’s all my fault you were grinding up against leprechaun boy here.”
“Hey!”
“Hey!” Dean slurred, an echo behind Seamus.
“Mehhhhhhh,” the sheep said fondly, and Chris sighed, dropping his forehead onto sheep-Justin’s soft head.
“I would’ve said something, eventually…”
“Do you find it odd he’s talking to a sheep?” Seamus asked Dean before he remembered the dark boy was blind stinking drunk, and also, more importantly, had Transfigured Justin Timberlake into a farm animal!
Okay. First things first. They’d have to figure out how to change him back, because Transfiguration had not been on his very short list of things he excelled at and Dean, as previously mentioned, was blind stinking drunk.
“Hey,” Ron said, striding up to them, shoulder to shoulder with a large, grinning dark-haired bloke and a full plate of pie, “who brought the sheep?”
“Where’s Harry?” Seamus asked. Harry was passable at Transfiguration. Harry was passable at everything he didn’t excel at, unlike Seamus, who couldn’t dance and apparently sucked at stalking, but was top-rate at Charms and, yes, was still a veritable tiger in the sack.
“Hey,” Harry said, walking up to them, Neville, a blond, and a wild-haired hot bloke trailing not far behind him, “we’ve got a huge problem.”
“Make that two, then,” Seamus said. “Or three if you count Dean’s semi-comatose state.” Dean had slumped back into his seat at that point and was busy grinning dreamily at Seamus, which would have weirded the Irishman out if it hadn’t been Dean. His best mate.
“Oh, look at J,” the sleek, lean, hot fellow in bright green trousers cooed, bending over to hug the sheep. “Poor sheep-y Justin.”
“How’d he know?” Seamus asked, puzzled.
“Freaky ‘teer mind-meld,” Chris muttered, glowering half-heartedly at JC.
“It’s his eyes,” JC offered, rubbing behind Justin’s ears, earning a low, contented “Mehhhhhhh,” then went on, “His eyes are all baby boy.”
“We’re going to need Hermione,” Ron said firmly. There was no way they’d be able to sort out this mess all by themselves. He was very proud to note, however, that he was in no way implicated in any mess at all. Besides the one he and Joe had made of the buffet tables, which, in his opinion, didn’t signify. “Nev, got that emergency contact spell?”
***
The house was eerily quiet without the boys, but Hermione was basking in the silence, letting it fill her up, pool languidly in her mind as she snuggled into an overstuffed chair in the study with a manuscript of the current revision she was doing for Hogwarts: A History. And then her wand rang, and Neville’s wispy form floated up from the tip, and this was why she never went five feet without her wand, no matter what, because there was always an emergency where the boys were concerned.
“Where are you?” Hermione asked, resigned.
“Ireland,” the wispy-Neville said, and Hermione got to her feet with a sigh.
“I’ll be right over.”
***
Hermione wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t what she’d found.
“I’m very disappointed in you all,” she said sternly, and even the sheep, who Seamus had declared was Justin Timberlake, looked chagrined, wooly head bowed to the ground.
Dean gave her a floppy wave. “Hermiiiiioooneeee,” he drew out, grinning.
“Dude, you’re drunk,” Chris pointed out unhelpfully, giggling.
“Is Chris high?” Joe asked around a monstrous bite of pumpkin pie, so it sounded more like ‘ish chrishk ghigh,’ before letting out a low, belly-deep belch.
“Are we in Ireland?” JC suddenly asked, eyes wide as he whirled about.
“Would everyone just please shut up and stand still?” Hermione exclaimed, hands on her hips. At least, she thought with a measure of relief, no one else at the party seemed to be paying them any mind, despite the large, white sheep.
The boys all fell into line – well, except for Dean, who was still sprawled in his chair, and Chris, who’d tackled the sheep to the ground with a mighty roar, and the sheep, who was busy scrambling away from Chris – and Hermione walked up to JC, arms crossed over her chest.
“Neville,” she said, eyes still narrowed on the tall brunette, “explain.”
“Uh, Memory Charm,” he said quickly, a blush spreading up from his neck. “Tried to. But. And then. So.”
“How much has he forgotten?” she asked, and JC smiled at her, eyes crinkled up adorably.
“A week?” Neville offered tentatively.
She sighed and rubbed a hand over her forehead. There was nothing to be done about that, then. “It’ll crack eventually. And if it doesn’t, you’ve lost a week,” she told JC.
“Don’t worry, C, we’ll tell you all about it,” Chris said, grinning evilly from the ground, pieces of grass in his hair, sticking up at odd angles, with dirt smudged across his face.
Hermione glanced down at Chris. “Whatever you’re on will dissipate at some point, too. And you,” she cocked her head at sheep-Justin, “you’re rather cute as a sheep.”
“Mehhhhhhh.” Sheep-Justin fluttered his sheep-lashes at her.
But Justin was an easy fix, actually, and she was quite good at Transfigurations, along with most everything, and Justin was human-Justin in no time at all, looming over Dean with an angry glare.
“That was mean, yo,” he growled, but Dean just giggled and pitched his voice comically high, saying, “I’m a sheep, yo,” sending Chris into spasms of laughter in between gasps of, “So true; so very, very true.”
“You both suck,” Justin pouted, dropping down onto a lounge chair.
“Hey, where’s Harry?” Ron asked, just as Joey went, “Where’s Lance gone?” and Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose, eyes squeezed shut, and muttered, “I don’t even want to know.”
Ron nudged her arm. “Pie?”
Trust Ron to think that pie fixed everything. Still - she opened her eyes with a sigh – it did look rather appetizing. Taking a forkful, she glanced up at JC, who was staring at her speculatively. She gave him a friendly nod. “You’re very pretty,” she said, because his expression seemed to expect it.
“Yes,” he commented earnestly, nodding back at her, “and I’m completely straight, too.”
Chris guffawed loudly, spitting out a swallow of his drink. “Right, C. Sure.”
“We’re going to need more pie,” Ron declared grandly, fork high in the air, and his sentiment was seconded by a loud, “Here, here,” from Joey, and Hermione let out a whooshing sigh.
At least it wasn’t as bad as when Harry’d gotten himself trapped inside a time-loop for six days with Malfoy, a set of gobstones, two lengths of hemp rope, and three litres of chocolate milk.
But that story was for another time.
Fin.
