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Title: A Fateful Night in 1955
Genre: Gift-Candy-Crack
For:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
authenticpoppy
From:doneril
Summary: This is a fairly cracky fic I wrote for one of my LJ buddies who also noticed the Monty Python reference in HBP. I checked out MP, and if they were wizards, they'd be the generation between the Riddle-McGonagall era and the Marauder-Era (hey, maybe they left some stuff behind that the Marauders picked up on). This is just a random night in 1955, in which John Cleese is a prefect, Terry Gilliam is an ass, and Michael Palin is a lonely second year. Most of it is based directly from the Dead Parrot sketch. Actually, I literally stole most of Terry's lines from that sketch (which was amazingly easy to find online, by the way).
Criteria:
John Cleese
Monty Python as wizards
Penguins
Dead Parrot
You Never Expect the Spanish Inquisition!
Michael sat curled up on the oversized gold armchair by the Gryffindor fire, his beloved pet, Mittens, clutched in his arms. He had been sitting like that for more than an hour, periodically stroking Mittens head and whispering to Mittens.
Suddenly the chair was over-toppled when an older boy, one who Michael knew by sight as Terry Something-Vaguely-French, decided to perch on the armrest of the chair. Mittens went flying out of Michael’s hands and would have flown head-first into the fire if Terry Something-Vaguely-French had not caught Mittens by the feet.
“I say,” said Terry Something-Vaguely-French, “what are you doing with this thing?”
Michael snatched Mittens back from the older boy. “She isn’t a thing! She’s Mittens!”
Terry stared at him blankly for a moment before bursting into a huge grin. Michael was somewhat concerned that Terry had discovered some joke to which he was not privy. “Mittens! That’s wonderful, Mikey! A dead parrot named Mittens, who’d have thought, eh?”
“Mittens is not dead! She’s… merely sick. That’s all. She’ll be fine soon.”
“No, no, no. This is an ex-parrot, Mikey. Stone-dead, but with beautiful blue plumage, eh? Mittens wouldn’t happen to be a Norwegian Blue, would she? Because you know, Mikey, that magical creatures are strictly prohibited as pets.”
Michael clutched Mittens close to his chest defensively. “Mittens is a perfectly normal parrot, Terry! She's just sick right now.”
“No, my boy, she is no more, she has ceased to be, she has gone to see her maker, she has joined the choir invisible!”
“Shut up!” yelled Michael, pulling out his wand. “Spicula!”
Terry stared at his robe, now successfully pinned the side of the fireplace by a few well-placed arrows. “I’ve been wounded!” he wailed melodramatically.
Michael returned to soothing Mittens.
“What’s going on down here?” a rather sleepy Prefect asked, slowly climbing down the stairwell in his sleep robes. “What are you two yelling about?”
“He,” Terry said, pointing at Michael, “attacked me and pinned me to the wall.”
The Prefect, who bore an eerie resemblance to Nearly-Headless Nick, looked from Michael to Terry and back again. “What?”
“He attacked me.”
The Prefect blinked wearily. “Gilliam, you are a fifth year. Michal, Micah, what-ever-the-hell your name is –”
“Michael Palin,” Michael told him.
“Yeah. So, Gilliam, you’re telling me that you were successfully attacked by Palin, a second year?”
Terry, whose name was indeed vaguely French, had the decency to blush, but no one really noticed because the fire was the only source of light and he was pinned in the shadows. “Well… yeah.”
“Good job, Palin,” the Prefect congratulated. “Maybe one day you’ll be a prefect, too.”
“Really?”
“Oh, don’t listen to him,” Terry told Michael. “He’s only prefect because Aloysius fell off his broom and managed to break his arm in three places and then got a nasty case of the Dragon Pox. And then Nearly-Headless Nick pointed out that John really looked like him and therefore would make a good prefect.”
“Shut up.”
“No, I’m serious. Ask Nearly-Headless Nick, Mikey; he’ll tell you the truth.”
John perched himself on the stairs and yawned. “So why did Palin pin you to the wall, Gilliam?”
Terry frowned for a moment. “Because he’s a prat.”
“No, really, Gilliam, why?”
“I told you, he’s a prat.”
“Gilliam, I have a Charms exam in the morning. You just woke me up from a good night’s sleep and I had to convince the Beaters to not come down and pound you into the floor. Explain.”
“Mikey’s just a little oversensitive. And a prat.”
John tried to make a threatening growling noise in the back of his throat but it sounded more like he was getting ready to regurgitate his dinner. “Gilliam! Answer me! Or I will send the Beaters after you!”
“Wow,” said Michael. “Cleese, when you came down here, I wasn’t expecting the Spanish Inquisition for Terry!”
With his free arm, Terry whipped a large red hat from somewhere inside his sleep robes. He tried to look vaguely threatening, but failed rather miserably because he was still pinned to the wall with Michael’s arrows. “No one ever expects the Spanish Inquisition!”
John buried his face in his hands. “Terry, for the love of Merlin and Circe, shut up.”
“But you came up with that line!”
“It was not supposed to be used against me at four o’clock in the morning before a Charms exam.”
“He tried to take Mittens,” Michael explained.
“You have a cat?”
“No, I have a parrot.”
“So why did you have Mittens?”
“Mittens,” Terry clarified. “Was the parrot. And the parrot was Mittens.”
“You two are mad as House Elves,” John told them in such a perfectly rational voice that both younger boys realised that he was at the end of his rope. “How is Mittens now, Palin?”
“Gone,” Terry interrupted. “Mittens is an ex-parrot, pushing up the daisies (figuratively, of course), she’s a stiff and bereft of life, if you take my meaning, John.”
“Oh.”
Michael continued to pet Mittens head.
“Would you like a slug?”
The second year frowned. “That’s not much of a replacement is it? I mean, a slug could hardly bring me my mail.”
John nodded sagely. “I have just the thing. How do you feel about penguins?”
Michael smiled. “I love penguins.”
“Perfect. Come on, his name is Shula.”
Abandoning Mittens on the overturned armchair, Michael followed John up the dormitory stairs, eager to meet his new pet penguin.
“But what about me?” Terry cried, his Inquisition hat still perched on his head. “You can’t just leave me down here!”
fin
Genre: Gift-Candy-Crack
For:
authenticpoppyFrom:
donerilSummary: This is a fairly cracky fic I wrote for one of my LJ buddies who also noticed the Monty Python reference in HBP. I checked out MP, and if they were wizards, they'd be the generation between the Riddle-McGonagall era and the Marauder-Era (hey, maybe they left some stuff behind that the Marauders picked up on). This is just a random night in 1955, in which John Cleese is a prefect, Terry Gilliam is an ass, and Michael Palin is a lonely second year. Most of it is based directly from the Dead Parrot sketch. Actually, I literally stole most of Terry's lines from that sketch (which was amazingly easy to find online, by the way).
Criteria:
John Cleese
Monty Python as wizards
Penguins
Dead Parrot
You Never Expect the Spanish Inquisition!
Michael sat curled up on the oversized gold armchair by the Gryffindor fire, his beloved pet, Mittens, clutched in his arms. He had been sitting like that for more than an hour, periodically stroking Mittens head and whispering to Mittens.
Suddenly the chair was over-toppled when an older boy, one who Michael knew by sight as Terry Something-Vaguely-French, decided to perch on the armrest of the chair. Mittens went flying out of Michael’s hands and would have flown head-first into the fire if Terry Something-Vaguely-French had not caught Mittens by the feet.
“I say,” said Terry Something-Vaguely-French, “what are you doing with this thing?”
Michael snatched Mittens back from the older boy. “She isn’t a thing! She’s Mittens!”
Terry stared at him blankly for a moment before bursting into a huge grin. Michael was somewhat concerned that Terry had discovered some joke to which he was not privy. “Mittens! That’s wonderful, Mikey! A dead parrot named Mittens, who’d have thought, eh?”
“Mittens is not dead! She’s… merely sick. That’s all. She’ll be fine soon.”
“No, no, no. This is an ex-parrot, Mikey. Stone-dead, but with beautiful blue plumage, eh? Mittens wouldn’t happen to be a Norwegian Blue, would she? Because you know, Mikey, that magical creatures are strictly prohibited as pets.”
Michael clutched Mittens close to his chest defensively. “Mittens is a perfectly normal parrot, Terry! She's just sick right now.”
“No, my boy, she is no more, she has ceased to be, she has gone to see her maker, she has joined the choir invisible!”
“Shut up!” yelled Michael, pulling out his wand. “Spicula!”
Terry stared at his robe, now successfully pinned the side of the fireplace by a few well-placed arrows. “I’ve been wounded!” he wailed melodramatically.
Michael returned to soothing Mittens.
“What’s going on down here?” a rather sleepy Prefect asked, slowly climbing down the stairwell in his sleep robes. “What are you two yelling about?”
“He,” Terry said, pointing at Michael, “attacked me and pinned me to the wall.”
The Prefect, who bore an eerie resemblance to Nearly-Headless Nick, looked from Michael to Terry and back again. “What?”
“He attacked me.”
The Prefect blinked wearily. “Gilliam, you are a fifth year. Michal, Micah, what-ever-the-hell your name is –”
“Michael Palin,” Michael told him.
“Yeah. So, Gilliam, you’re telling me that you were successfully attacked by Palin, a second year?”
Terry, whose name was indeed vaguely French, had the decency to blush, but no one really noticed because the fire was the only source of light and he was pinned in the shadows. “Well… yeah.”
“Good job, Palin,” the Prefect congratulated. “Maybe one day you’ll be a prefect, too.”
“Really?”
“Oh, don’t listen to him,” Terry told Michael. “He’s only prefect because Aloysius fell off his broom and managed to break his arm in three places and then got a nasty case of the Dragon Pox. And then Nearly-Headless Nick pointed out that John really looked like him and therefore would make a good prefect.”
“Shut up.”
“No, I’m serious. Ask Nearly-Headless Nick, Mikey; he’ll tell you the truth.”
John perched himself on the stairs and yawned. “So why did Palin pin you to the wall, Gilliam?”
Terry frowned for a moment. “Because he’s a prat.”
“No, really, Gilliam, why?”
“I told you, he’s a prat.”
“Gilliam, I have a Charms exam in the morning. You just woke me up from a good night’s sleep and I had to convince the Beaters to not come down and pound you into the floor. Explain.”
“Mikey’s just a little oversensitive. And a prat.”
John tried to make a threatening growling noise in the back of his throat but it sounded more like he was getting ready to regurgitate his dinner. “Gilliam! Answer me! Or I will send the Beaters after you!”
“Wow,” said Michael. “Cleese, when you came down here, I wasn’t expecting the Spanish Inquisition for Terry!”
With his free arm, Terry whipped a large red hat from somewhere inside his sleep robes. He tried to look vaguely threatening, but failed rather miserably because he was still pinned to the wall with Michael’s arrows. “No one ever expects the Spanish Inquisition!”
John buried his face in his hands. “Terry, for the love of Merlin and Circe, shut up.”
“But you came up with that line!”
“It was not supposed to be used against me at four o’clock in the morning before a Charms exam.”
“He tried to take Mittens,” Michael explained.
“You have a cat?”
“No, I have a parrot.”
“So why did you have Mittens?”
“Mittens,” Terry clarified. “Was the parrot. And the parrot was Mittens.”
“You two are mad as House Elves,” John told them in such a perfectly rational voice that both younger boys realised that he was at the end of his rope. “How is Mittens now, Palin?”
“Gone,” Terry interrupted. “Mittens is an ex-parrot, pushing up the daisies (figuratively, of course), she’s a stiff and bereft of life, if you take my meaning, John.”
“Oh.”
Michael continued to pet Mittens head.
“Would you like a slug?”
The second year frowned. “That’s not much of a replacement is it? I mean, a slug could hardly bring me my mail.”
John nodded sagely. “I have just the thing. How do you feel about penguins?”
Michael smiled. “I love penguins.”
“Perfect. Come on, his name is Shula.”
Abandoning Mittens on the overturned armchair, Michael followed John up the dormitory stairs, eager to meet his new pet penguin.
“But what about me?” Terry cried, his Inquisition hat still perched on his head. “You can’t just leave me down here!”
fin
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