Happy Holidays, solarbaby614!
Author: epicflailer
Recipient: solarbaby614
Title: Harry Potter and the American Hullaballoo
Pairing(s): David Cook/David Archuleta
Word Count: 3001
Summary: Very, very AU. Wherein Cook frets, Michael teases, Carly yells, and Harry and Ron have impeccable timing.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: We are in no way officially affiliated with David Cook, David Archuleta or their representation. Everything about them is completely fiction, and any similarity with reality is a mere coincidence. No copyright infringement is ever intended.
Warning(s):this is a crossover with Harry Potter, and probably won't make a lick of sense without a basic working knowledge of HP - no spoilers for any of the books, though, as it deviates from canon quite a bit!
"Oh thank God you're here," is hardly the first thing people usually say when Harry shows up on their front doorstep. It's much kinder, for one, and it's said without a tearful nod or a bizarre request for a hug, for another, and Harry smiles, albeit awkwardly, as he and Ron are ushered into the house.
"Ah," Ron says, struggling for his manners as their host tucks a strand of dark hair behind one ear. "Good morning. We work for a branch of the London International Bureau of Ma--"
"Cor, blimey!" a voice from further inside says (and Harry's always been hopeless with accents, but he thinks this one might be Australian).
Their host rolls her eyes before glancing over her shoulder into the sitting room. "Michael, I told you they don't talk like that!"
"Cor blimey guv!" Michael repeats, unrepentantly, and Ron actually winces. "You're Harry Potter!"
(To be fair, the latter is far more familiar an opening statement than the one they'd actually gotten.)
"Err," Harry says. Ron smacks him, sharply, before he starts to slouch, and then elbows him none-too-gently before he can think to reach for his scar. "Yes. Good morning."
Their host sighs. It's more resigned than it is exasperated. "Shut up, you're making them uncomfortable."
"The man's a legend, Carly, he's used to the attention."
It seems incredibly unfair that, with all the supposed feats Harry's accomplished in his thirty years, the common blush cannot be fought off. Their host -- Carly -- simply shakes her head apologetically when she notices, and leads them towards the room. "Ignore him. Some of us actually respect our war veterans. And the concept of privacy. Anyway, we have--"
"--More pressing business to attend to?" Ron hazards, seeming to shake himself as Harry nods at Michael, and takes a swift, discreet look around the room. The fireplace is clean, though not remarkably so, and the broom closet lovingly labelled as such. There's a charm on the clock concealing the wizarding one beneath, which indicates that they're missing two members of the party (Brooke is 'at work' and Archie is simply, cryptically, 'away'), and that a third is amongst them.
That third - Cook, as announced on the clock - is presently slumped in an oversized armchair, dark rings under his eyes, and his expression darker still, mouth pulled in a taut, grim line. Harry remembers that look, remembers staring at it in a mirror for near on five years, before-during-after a war he'd wanted no part of.
"Bloody hell, aren't you a sight," Ron says, abruptly. Harry has to resist the urge to plant his face in his hands. Ron is nothing if not delicate. "What happened?"
"Actually," Carly says. "That's the business we wanted to attend to."
Twenty minutes later, all they've learnt is that Cook is, in fact, a werewolf, and that Archie is a terrific chap (a point Cook is quick to reiterate on several occasions) who is not merely 'away'.
"I think he might be in trouble," Cook says. He is very, very grave.
When they trade glances, Ron's brow is furrowed. "Trouble?" Harry echoes, hesitantly. "What sort of trouble?"
"Well," Cook hedges. "We had a disagreement a couple days ago, and--"
"That's one way of putting it," Carly says, crossly, as Michael huffs at them from his place at the far end of the room.
"Look," Cook says, tightly, as he turns to them. "Archie wouldn't just up and fucking leave, we all know that. Something must've happened--"
"You mean something like you laughing in his face last week," Carly says. It's not unkind, however, and Cook looks absolutely wretched when she puts a hand on his shoulder.
"Wingardium Leviosa," Ron murmurs, and Harry's mouth twitches into something that could be construed as a smile.
"Carly," Cook begins.
"Oh, give the man a break!" Michael interjects. "He's grieving."
"Grieving?" Ron says, looking back at Michael with interest.
Harry flicks his wrist. Around them, the world goes still. Michael's mouth hangs open and soundless, and Cook's hand is raised, a deterring measure. Carly watches them both, unblinking. "Ron," Harry says. It's already apparent this isn't a matter within their field of expertise, and they have another, more pertinent topic to broach. "Haven't we got more important--"
"Cook was a prat, Harry," Ron says, a new, sudden edge in his voice that Harry is rarely privy to. "He had a row with his best mate, and now the bloke's gone and disappeared. I know a thing or two about that now, don't I?"
"Ron," Harry says again, but Ron quells him with a pointed, pleading look. There's very little Harry can refuse that look.
Harry sighs and waves his hand.
"Oh, you know," Michael continues, cocking his head. "Lost time. Missed opportunities. Regrets that he might never get to show Archie--"
"Shut up, Johns," Cook snaps.
"--All his soppy love sonnets," Michael finishes, cheerfully.
If her indulgent smile is any indication, Carly is in complete agreement.
"You're a fucking asshole," Cook says, testily. He doesn't seem surprised when Michael shrugs, however, entirely unapologetic, and simply turns to address Ron as he adds, "Look, fuck, whatever they're saying, Archie isn't - he's my best fucking friend, okay? It may be 2010, and yeah, we talk a big game in America when it comes to equal rights, but it's not the most werewolf-friendly world out there."
Harry startles at the warm palm on his knee, but Ron's already drawn back by the time Harry realizes he's leaning forward, hands clasped, shoulders all but hunched over. "No," Harry makes himself say. His throat is incredibly dry. "No, of course. We understand."
Cook nods. "Archie's gotten a lot of shit from a lot of people just for associating with me. He's never let that bother him, and it's not as bad as it used to be, but..." Cook pauses, wets his lips before he goes on, "Contrary to what the rest of them think, Archie would never just leave. Not like this. I just - what if he -- what if I'm the reason he's--"
"Is he all right, do you reckon?" Ron asks. "Realistically speaking, what's the worst--"
Cook glowers so fiercely that Ron breaks off to say, "Well then," and doesn't utter another word till Cook leaves the house to get some air, though he does chuckle when Harry murmurs, "Fancy there's a bit of Minerva in that one."
"Sorry about all this," Michael says, later, after he goads Carly into "putting on some tea for the guests since it's the least we can do after dragging them through that soap opera". "Carly and Brooke and I, we've been trying to talk him down all day. Hasn't worked. We're all worried, don't get me wrong, but Archie's a big boy, and there's just no reasoning with Cook when he gets like this. So when the school called and said some international wizards were coming to check up on the area, we thought he might feel better if he got some outside perspective. "
''What else did your school say?" Harry asks, just as Ron says, "You don't think Archie's in any real trouble, then?"
"Uh," Michael says, eyeing them both with a newfound wariness.
"That is to say," Harry amends, as Ron pipes up with, "I mean--"
Luckily for them, that is the precise moment the front door flies off its hinges.
Harry's yelling, "Protego!" as he leaps to his feet, wand raised. Ron is shoulder-to-shoulder with him, similarly armed.
"What the fuck is going on out here?" Carly bellows, charging out of the kitchen.
From the cloud of settling dust, something else charges in.
Harry very nearly drops his wand.
"Merlin," Ron breathes, as he lowers his, enthralled. "It's a unicorn."
It is, at that, and magnificent as well: four strong legs, a pure, white mane, a long, sharp horn. It rears up as it whinnies, then puts two of its hooves through the coffee table when it lands. A deer follows behind it, close on its tail. Michael recoils as shards of glass explode throughout the room, but they remain unscathed behind Harry's shield.
"Oh my god!" Carly shrieks. "Brooke? Archie?"
The unicorn doesn't cease its rampage, and soon the sofa is ruined as well. The deer leaps toward Carly to avoid being trampled, and Harry tears his gaze from the unicorn long enough to see it dissolve into a tall, blonde woman -- Brooke, he presumes.
"Bloody hell," Ron says, wide-eyed and staring. "Harry--"
"Something spooked him!" Brooke yells, as she slips under the dining table to get away from the flying debris. "I can't get him to listen!"
"Well, someone better get him to stop rearranging the furniture!" Michael calls out, as the unicorn drives its horn into one of the pictures hanging from the wall. "Carly!"
"Well, what do you want me to do?" Carly growls. "Turn into a lion and snack on him?"
"Have any better ideas?" Michael demands. "A fox isn't going to do any better!"
"Maybe the Castros--" Brooke suggests, wincing as the unicorn tosses a flower vase across the room.
"Too right, Brooke," Michael says. "Let's just call them in to, what, fly circles around his head?"
Harry can barely believe what he's hearing.
Ron looks faint. "Harry," he says. "They're all--"
"What the hell is going on here?"
Harry turns immediately towards the sound of Cook's voice, but instead of finding Cook in the newly-acquired doorway, he sees a great, black wolf. It sails above his head as it leaps into the room and straight onto the unicorn's back. The unicorn startles, snorting as it begins to spin, but the wolf won't be dislodged.
There's a brief tussle before both animals come crashing to the ground, tangled in each other. They roll together, snapping and biting, upending armchairs and cupboards in the struggle. Then the wolf swipes its paw across the unicorn's crest, twice, and sinks its teeth into the unicorn's fur.
There's a sharp, panicked whining, then a snarl that bleeds into Cook's voice, low and urgent, "Archie, Arch, David, David, listen to me, it's me, it's Cook, it's okay, Archie please--"
Then the unicorn is gone, and only two men remain amongst the rubble, Archie curled silently into Cook's side. Harry can see him trembling, even from across the room.
It takes Ron's fingers folding over his own in wordless reassurance for him to finally lower his wand, regardless.
"Christ, Arch," Michael says, into the stifling, awkward silence that follows. "Your idea of redecoration needs some work."
"Jesus, Mike," Carly says.
"Shut up," Cook says.
Ron and Harry offer to help mend the front door, but it takes the group some time to spell the rest of the broken furniture back into their original states. Carly does most of the spelling, really; Brooke's making them all hot chocolate (Carly's was ruined sometime during the brawl), and Cook's sitting with Archie, checking him over with worried hands and eyes, apologizing quietly for the fight.
Michael takes them aside when he catches them looking. "Maybe we should talk in the kitchen."
"So there's seven of you," Ron says, from where he's perched (rather unprofessionally) on the kitchen top, his quill scribbling furiously on his notepad beside him.
"Including Cook, yeah."
"And this has been going on--"
"For the past year. Ish. Ever since we figured out how to transform ourselves."
"We don't actually have to, because the potion really helps, and Cook's fine on his own. But we figured he'd wan company during the full moons."
"Archie's been practicing by himself this whole time, you know, to join us, but he only really picked it up last week."
"Which is when they had their quote disagreement end-quote."
"If by disagreement you mean all the boys laughing at him. I don't think he was upset, but Cook felt so guilty afterwards."
"Right," Ron says, snapping his fingers at his quill, which begins to erase the irrelevant statements. "So as of now, you lot are all unregistered animagi."
"Well, yeah, I guess."
"Hmm."
"We don't have to do that here. We can with the school if we want, but we have the Freedom to practice."
"That's ridiculous," Ron huffs. He snaps again.
"That's America."
"Is that why you're checking up on us?"
"Not exactly," Harry says, surreptitiously patting Ron's knee. "There was a report of an unusual spike in magical activity here that we were sent to look into."
"Just so we're clear, we're not in any actual trouble, are we?"
"No, you're all right," Harry says. "After everything, the Ministry prefers to err on the side of caution, you see. We suspected it might be animagi, but we weren't sure. We certainly didn't expect so many of you."
"Well, in that case," Michael says, grinning. "Surprise."
Cook's still fussing over Archie when they emerge from the kitchen, three sets of freshly-recorded statements in tow.
"I'm fine," Archie's insisting, as they join them on the sofa. "Really, Cook, I'm okay."
"Sure," Cook says. "Maybe I'd believe that if you weren't still shaking like a leaf." He expels a long, heavy breath as he hangs his head. "Jesus, Arch, what were you thinking, taking off like that? And where the hell have you been? We've been looking all over for you!"
"Sorry," Archie says. "I didn't mean to - you were running low on the Moonsblood potion and I was just going to get more asphodel to make a new batch. But while I was picking the asphodel, I thought maybe I could tweak it with some boomslang skin, and that could, like, make the effects last longer, maybe even permanently--"
"What," Harry hears himself say. It's impolite, and for once it doesn't bother him. "What effect are you talking about?"
"Oh," Archie says abruptly, like he'd forgotten there were other people around. "Just - um, wait, oh my - aren't you--"
"Yes," Harry says, shrugging off Ron's concerned glance. "What effect?"
"He concocted a potion that helps me suppress the werewolf instinct," Cook says. "It gives me control. That's why I can change at will."
"But it doesn't stop the transformations during the full moon," Harry says.
"No," Cook says.
"But it might," Archie adds.
"What?"
"It might!" Archie says. He's practically beaming as he turns to Cook. "That's what I figured out. That's why I was trying to get more boomslang skin. Once I figure out the proportions, I could totally make it stop, Cook. I can do that. I mean, maybe not, like, forever, and it's not going to make you not a werewolf, but--you'll be able to go out during the full moon as, um, you. You know? With some more practice."
Cook is staring at Archie like he can't quite believe his ears. Harry thinks he might be able to relate. "Is that why," Cook starts, but his voice is hoarse and he has to clear his throat and try again. "Is that why you were so out of control? Because you were so excited about--"
"Oh," Archie says, sheepishly. "Not exactly? I kind of maybe fell into a pit of boomslangs on my way back and, like, totally freaked out. I didn't even realize I'd turned or whatever, until--" he gestures feebly at the room. "Um."
Harry isn't sure how it happens, but from one breath to the next, Cook has Archie by the collar of his shirt, and he's shoving Archie back against the sofa and crushing their mouths together. Archie makes a quiet noise, almost surprised, but doesn't make any effort to extricate himself otherwise, simply threads his fingers into Cook's hair and holds on.
"You fucking moron," Cook murmurs, into the kiss.
"But I--" Archie protests feebly.
"Shut up," Cook says, still kissing Archie as he presses even closer. "You're never doing that again."
"Oh," Archie breathes, and lets him.
"Aww," Brooke says.
"Well it's about time," Michael crows, triumphantly.
"Thank god," Carly agrees. "My next plan of attack was locking both of you in the basement."
Harry coughs.
"Well, I reckon it's about time we got going," Ron says, to Michael, as he stands and begins ushering Harry towards the door, Carly and Brooke on their heels. Neither Cook nor Archie seem to notice their exit. "Harry, could you get our coats?"
Harry goes, of course, but it doesn't stop him from hearing Ron add, more quietly, "And if you could, at a more appropriate time, ask if it would be convenient for Archie to send us a vial of this Moonsblood potion once it's ready, along with the recipe, we'd be terribly grateful."
"Blimey," Ron says, once they're alone, back on the street. "That was a right surprise. Six animagi and a werewolf in the same neighbourhood, and they're not even twenty! Can you imagine? Hermione's going to have a fit when she hears about this."
"Hmm."
"And all that rot about voluntary registration? How do they keep track of any potential magic abuse, then? They're all mental, if you ask me."
"Yes."
"That Archie," Ron adds, thoughtfully. "Bit like Neville, though, isn't he? "
"Sure."
Ron huffs, fondly, and reaches for Harry's elbow. "You're not listening to me at all, are you?"
"What?" Harry says. Ron's expression is a mixture of exasperated affection, and Harry does laugh, then, sheepishly, but it's not as convincing as it should be.
It's oddly unsettling, seeing their history unfold on a different continent like this.
"You all right, Harry?" Ron asks, gently. His smile is warm and patient, and it's all the incentive Harry needs to shake off his unease. They've both seen too much not to have learnt to be thankful for the moment, and there's plenty to be thankful for in this one.
"'Course," he says, angling his head to grin up at Ron. "I was just thinking it might be time we took a second honeymoon."
Recipient: solarbaby614
Title: Harry Potter and the American Hullaballoo
Pairing(s): David Cook/David Archuleta
Word Count: 3001
Summary: Very, very AU. Wherein Cook frets, Michael teases, Carly yells, and Harry and Ron have impeccable timing.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: We are in no way officially affiliated with David Cook, David Archuleta or their representation. Everything about them is completely fiction, and any similarity with reality is a mere coincidence. No copyright infringement is ever intended.
Warning(s):this is a crossover with Harry Potter, and probably won't make a lick of sense without a basic working knowledge of HP - no spoilers for any of the books, though, as it deviates from canon quite a bit!
"Oh thank God you're here," is hardly the first thing people usually say when Harry shows up on their front doorstep. It's much kinder, for one, and it's said without a tearful nod or a bizarre request for a hug, for another, and Harry smiles, albeit awkwardly, as he and Ron are ushered into the house.
"Ah," Ron says, struggling for his manners as their host tucks a strand of dark hair behind one ear. "Good morning. We work for a branch of the London International Bureau of Ma--"
"Cor, blimey!" a voice from further inside says (and Harry's always been hopeless with accents, but he thinks this one might be Australian).
Their host rolls her eyes before glancing over her shoulder into the sitting room. "Michael, I told you they don't talk like that!"
"Cor blimey guv!" Michael repeats, unrepentantly, and Ron actually winces. "You're Harry Potter!"
(To be fair, the latter is far more familiar an opening statement than the one they'd actually gotten.)
"Err," Harry says. Ron smacks him, sharply, before he starts to slouch, and then elbows him none-too-gently before he can think to reach for his scar. "Yes. Good morning."
Their host sighs. It's more resigned than it is exasperated. "Shut up, you're making them uncomfortable."
"The man's a legend, Carly, he's used to the attention."
It seems incredibly unfair that, with all the supposed feats Harry's accomplished in his thirty years, the common blush cannot be fought off. Their host -- Carly -- simply shakes her head apologetically when she notices, and leads them towards the room. "Ignore him. Some of us actually respect our war veterans. And the concept of privacy. Anyway, we have--"
"--More pressing business to attend to?" Ron hazards, seeming to shake himself as Harry nods at Michael, and takes a swift, discreet look around the room. The fireplace is clean, though not remarkably so, and the broom closet lovingly labelled as such. There's a charm on the clock concealing the wizarding one beneath, which indicates that they're missing two members of the party (Brooke is 'at work' and Archie is simply, cryptically, 'away'), and that a third is amongst them.
That third - Cook, as announced on the clock - is presently slumped in an oversized armchair, dark rings under his eyes, and his expression darker still, mouth pulled in a taut, grim line. Harry remembers that look, remembers staring at it in a mirror for near on five years, before-during-after a war he'd wanted no part of.
"Bloody hell, aren't you a sight," Ron says, abruptly. Harry has to resist the urge to plant his face in his hands. Ron is nothing if not delicate. "What happened?"
"Actually," Carly says. "That's the business we wanted to attend to."
Twenty minutes later, all they've learnt is that Cook is, in fact, a werewolf, and that Archie is a terrific chap (a point Cook is quick to reiterate on several occasions) who is not merely 'away'.
"I think he might be in trouble," Cook says. He is very, very grave.
When they trade glances, Ron's brow is furrowed. "Trouble?" Harry echoes, hesitantly. "What sort of trouble?"
"Well," Cook hedges. "We had a disagreement a couple days ago, and--"
"That's one way of putting it," Carly says, crossly, as Michael huffs at them from his place at the far end of the room.
"Look," Cook says, tightly, as he turns to them. "Archie wouldn't just up and fucking leave, we all know that. Something must've happened--"
"You mean something like you laughing in his face last week," Carly says. It's not unkind, however, and Cook looks absolutely wretched when she puts a hand on his shoulder.
"Wingardium Leviosa," Ron murmurs, and Harry's mouth twitches into something that could be construed as a smile.
"Carly," Cook begins.
"Oh, give the man a break!" Michael interjects. "He's grieving."
"Grieving?" Ron says, looking back at Michael with interest.
Harry flicks his wrist. Around them, the world goes still. Michael's mouth hangs open and soundless, and Cook's hand is raised, a deterring measure. Carly watches them both, unblinking. "Ron," Harry says. It's already apparent this isn't a matter within their field of expertise, and they have another, more pertinent topic to broach. "Haven't we got more important--"
"Cook was a prat, Harry," Ron says, a new, sudden edge in his voice that Harry is rarely privy to. "He had a row with his best mate, and now the bloke's gone and disappeared. I know a thing or two about that now, don't I?"
"Ron," Harry says again, but Ron quells him with a pointed, pleading look. There's very little Harry can refuse that look.
Harry sighs and waves his hand.
"Oh, you know," Michael continues, cocking his head. "Lost time. Missed opportunities. Regrets that he might never get to show Archie--"
"Shut up, Johns," Cook snaps.
"--All his soppy love sonnets," Michael finishes, cheerfully.
If her indulgent smile is any indication, Carly is in complete agreement.
"You're a fucking asshole," Cook says, testily. He doesn't seem surprised when Michael shrugs, however, entirely unapologetic, and simply turns to address Ron as he adds, "Look, fuck, whatever they're saying, Archie isn't - he's my best fucking friend, okay? It may be 2010, and yeah, we talk a big game in America when it comes to equal rights, but it's not the most werewolf-friendly world out there."
Harry startles at the warm palm on his knee, but Ron's already drawn back by the time Harry realizes he's leaning forward, hands clasped, shoulders all but hunched over. "No," Harry makes himself say. His throat is incredibly dry. "No, of course. We understand."
Cook nods. "Archie's gotten a lot of shit from a lot of people just for associating with me. He's never let that bother him, and it's not as bad as it used to be, but..." Cook pauses, wets his lips before he goes on, "Contrary to what the rest of them think, Archie would never just leave. Not like this. I just - what if he -- what if I'm the reason he's--"
"Is he all right, do you reckon?" Ron asks. "Realistically speaking, what's the worst--"
Cook glowers so fiercely that Ron breaks off to say, "Well then," and doesn't utter another word till Cook leaves the house to get some air, though he does chuckle when Harry murmurs, "Fancy there's a bit of Minerva in that one."
"Sorry about all this," Michael says, later, after he goads Carly into "putting on some tea for the guests since it's the least we can do after dragging them through that soap opera". "Carly and Brooke and I, we've been trying to talk him down all day. Hasn't worked. We're all worried, don't get me wrong, but Archie's a big boy, and there's just no reasoning with Cook when he gets like this. So when the school called and said some international wizards were coming to check up on the area, we thought he might feel better if he got some outside perspective. "
''What else did your school say?" Harry asks, just as Ron says, "You don't think Archie's in any real trouble, then?"
"Uh," Michael says, eyeing them both with a newfound wariness.
"That is to say," Harry amends, as Ron pipes up with, "I mean--"
Luckily for them, that is the precise moment the front door flies off its hinges.
Harry's yelling, "Protego!" as he leaps to his feet, wand raised. Ron is shoulder-to-shoulder with him, similarly armed.
"What the fuck is going on out here?" Carly bellows, charging out of the kitchen.
From the cloud of settling dust, something else charges in.
Harry very nearly drops his wand.
"Merlin," Ron breathes, as he lowers his, enthralled. "It's a unicorn."
It is, at that, and magnificent as well: four strong legs, a pure, white mane, a long, sharp horn. It rears up as it whinnies, then puts two of its hooves through the coffee table when it lands. A deer follows behind it, close on its tail. Michael recoils as shards of glass explode throughout the room, but they remain unscathed behind Harry's shield.
"Oh my god!" Carly shrieks. "Brooke? Archie?"
The unicorn doesn't cease its rampage, and soon the sofa is ruined as well. The deer leaps toward Carly to avoid being trampled, and Harry tears his gaze from the unicorn long enough to see it dissolve into a tall, blonde woman -- Brooke, he presumes.
"Bloody hell," Ron says, wide-eyed and staring. "Harry--"
"Something spooked him!" Brooke yells, as she slips under the dining table to get away from the flying debris. "I can't get him to listen!"
"Well, someone better get him to stop rearranging the furniture!" Michael calls out, as the unicorn drives its horn into one of the pictures hanging from the wall. "Carly!"
"Well, what do you want me to do?" Carly growls. "Turn into a lion and snack on him?"
"Have any better ideas?" Michael demands. "A fox isn't going to do any better!"
"Maybe the Castros--" Brooke suggests, wincing as the unicorn tosses a flower vase across the room.
"Too right, Brooke," Michael says. "Let's just call them in to, what, fly circles around his head?"
Harry can barely believe what he's hearing.
Ron looks faint. "Harry," he says. "They're all--"
"What the hell is going on here?"
Harry turns immediately towards the sound of Cook's voice, but instead of finding Cook in the newly-acquired doorway, he sees a great, black wolf. It sails above his head as it leaps into the room and straight onto the unicorn's back. The unicorn startles, snorting as it begins to spin, but the wolf won't be dislodged.
There's a brief tussle before both animals come crashing to the ground, tangled in each other. They roll together, snapping and biting, upending armchairs and cupboards in the struggle. Then the wolf swipes its paw across the unicorn's crest, twice, and sinks its teeth into the unicorn's fur.
There's a sharp, panicked whining, then a snarl that bleeds into Cook's voice, low and urgent, "Archie, Arch, David, David, listen to me, it's me, it's Cook, it's okay, Archie please--"
Then the unicorn is gone, and only two men remain amongst the rubble, Archie curled silently into Cook's side. Harry can see him trembling, even from across the room.
It takes Ron's fingers folding over his own in wordless reassurance for him to finally lower his wand, regardless.
"Christ, Arch," Michael says, into the stifling, awkward silence that follows. "Your idea of redecoration needs some work."
"Jesus, Mike," Carly says.
"Shut up," Cook says.
Ron and Harry offer to help mend the front door, but it takes the group some time to spell the rest of the broken furniture back into their original states. Carly does most of the spelling, really; Brooke's making them all hot chocolate (Carly's was ruined sometime during the brawl), and Cook's sitting with Archie, checking him over with worried hands and eyes, apologizing quietly for the fight.
Michael takes them aside when he catches them looking. "Maybe we should talk in the kitchen."
"So there's seven of you," Ron says, from where he's perched (rather unprofessionally) on the kitchen top, his quill scribbling furiously on his notepad beside him.
"Including Cook, yeah."
"And this has been going on--"
"For the past year. Ish. Ever since we figured out how to transform ourselves."
"We don't actually have to, because the potion really helps, and Cook's fine on his own. But we figured he'd wan company during the full moons."
"Archie's been practicing by himself this whole time, you know, to join us, but he only really picked it up last week."
"Which is when they had their quote disagreement end-quote."
"If by disagreement you mean all the boys laughing at him. I don't think he was upset, but Cook felt so guilty afterwards."
"Right," Ron says, snapping his fingers at his quill, which begins to erase the irrelevant statements. "So as of now, you lot are all unregistered animagi."
"Well, yeah, I guess."
"Hmm."
"We don't have to do that here. We can with the school if we want, but we have the Freedom to practice."
"That's ridiculous," Ron huffs. He snaps again.
"That's America."
"Is that why you're checking up on us?"
"Not exactly," Harry says, surreptitiously patting Ron's knee. "There was a report of an unusual spike in magical activity here that we were sent to look into."
"Just so we're clear, we're not in any actual trouble, are we?"
"No, you're all right," Harry says. "After everything, the Ministry prefers to err on the side of caution, you see. We suspected it might be animagi, but we weren't sure. We certainly didn't expect so many of you."
"Well, in that case," Michael says, grinning. "Surprise."
Cook's still fussing over Archie when they emerge from the kitchen, three sets of freshly-recorded statements in tow.
"I'm fine," Archie's insisting, as they join them on the sofa. "Really, Cook, I'm okay."
"Sure," Cook says. "Maybe I'd believe that if you weren't still shaking like a leaf." He expels a long, heavy breath as he hangs his head. "Jesus, Arch, what were you thinking, taking off like that? And where the hell have you been? We've been looking all over for you!"
"Sorry," Archie says. "I didn't mean to - you were running low on the Moonsblood potion and I was just going to get more asphodel to make a new batch. But while I was picking the asphodel, I thought maybe I could tweak it with some boomslang skin, and that could, like, make the effects last longer, maybe even permanently--"
"What," Harry hears himself say. It's impolite, and for once it doesn't bother him. "What effect are you talking about?"
"Oh," Archie says abruptly, like he'd forgotten there were other people around. "Just - um, wait, oh my - aren't you--"
"Yes," Harry says, shrugging off Ron's concerned glance. "What effect?"
"He concocted a potion that helps me suppress the werewolf instinct," Cook says. "It gives me control. That's why I can change at will."
"But it doesn't stop the transformations during the full moon," Harry says.
"No," Cook says.
"But it might," Archie adds.
"What?"
"It might!" Archie says. He's practically beaming as he turns to Cook. "That's what I figured out. That's why I was trying to get more boomslang skin. Once I figure out the proportions, I could totally make it stop, Cook. I can do that. I mean, maybe not, like, forever, and it's not going to make you not a werewolf, but--you'll be able to go out during the full moon as, um, you. You know? With some more practice."
Cook is staring at Archie like he can't quite believe his ears. Harry thinks he might be able to relate. "Is that why," Cook starts, but his voice is hoarse and he has to clear his throat and try again. "Is that why you were so out of control? Because you were so excited about--"
"Oh," Archie says, sheepishly. "Not exactly? I kind of maybe fell into a pit of boomslangs on my way back and, like, totally freaked out. I didn't even realize I'd turned or whatever, until--" he gestures feebly at the room. "Um."
Harry isn't sure how it happens, but from one breath to the next, Cook has Archie by the collar of his shirt, and he's shoving Archie back against the sofa and crushing their mouths together. Archie makes a quiet noise, almost surprised, but doesn't make any effort to extricate himself otherwise, simply threads his fingers into Cook's hair and holds on.
"You fucking moron," Cook murmurs, into the kiss.
"But I--" Archie protests feebly.
"Shut up," Cook says, still kissing Archie as he presses even closer. "You're never doing that again."
"Oh," Archie breathes, and lets him.
"Aww," Brooke says.
"Well it's about time," Michael crows, triumphantly.
"Thank god," Carly agrees. "My next plan of attack was locking both of you in the basement."
Harry coughs.
"Well, I reckon it's about time we got going," Ron says, to Michael, as he stands and begins ushering Harry towards the door, Carly and Brooke on their heels. Neither Cook nor Archie seem to notice their exit. "Harry, could you get our coats?"
Harry goes, of course, but it doesn't stop him from hearing Ron add, more quietly, "And if you could, at a more appropriate time, ask if it would be convenient for Archie to send us a vial of this Moonsblood potion once it's ready, along with the recipe, we'd be terribly grateful."
"Blimey," Ron says, once they're alone, back on the street. "That was a right surprise. Six animagi and a werewolf in the same neighbourhood, and they're not even twenty! Can you imagine? Hermione's going to have a fit when she hears about this."
"Hmm."
"And all that rot about voluntary registration? How do they keep track of any potential magic abuse, then? They're all mental, if you ask me."
"Yes."
"That Archie," Ron adds, thoughtfully. "Bit like Neville, though, isn't he? "
"Sure."
Ron huffs, fondly, and reaches for Harry's elbow. "You're not listening to me at all, are you?"
"What?" Harry says. Ron's expression is a mixture of exasperated affection, and Harry does laugh, then, sheepishly, but it's not as convincing as it should be.
It's oddly unsettling, seeing their history unfold on a different continent like this.
"You all right, Harry?" Ron asks, gently. His smile is warm and patient, and it's all the incentive Harry needs to shake off his unease. They've both seen too much not to have learnt to be thankful for the moment, and there's plenty to be thankful for in this one.
"'Course," he says, angling his head to grin up at Ron. "I was just thinking it might be time we took a second honeymoon."