Double Dog Dare! -- Episode 33
Jan Dark, 15 March 2003

In his pied-a-terre above The Cleft Skull, Lord Voldemort stepped over the pile of shopping bags and surveyed himself critically in the full length mirror. He struck a pose. Yes, he thought to himself, this new look has definite possibilities. Given his continuing lack of success in discovering a magical means of attaining eternal life and youth, he'd reluctantly realised that he was going to have to abandon his original plan of regaining his hot young twink body in the short term. Thanks to his splendid new rubber corset from J. Weiss & Associates (in finest past-the-event-horizon black with moonless-midnight sable trim), though, he was rather looking forward to developing his new persona as a bitchy old queen. Apart from the innate pleasures of the role, he was prepared to bet his bottom sickle that it was just the thing to bring that snivelling prick Lucius wholeheartedly back into the fold - the merest whiff of the power of the dower house, and the lord of Malfoy Manor would be fawning in a way that even house elves would regard with disgust, grateful for even the most obviously synthetic rendition of human kindness.

Striking as he found himself in his new outfit, the Dark Lord knew that he was going to attract the attention of the Aurors by going around in public looking like this. Reluctantly, he peeled off the corset and picked his street robes off the floor. He stopped short as he noticed what hadn't been apparent when he was wearing them. Thanks to the efforts of that ridiculous American youth who'd been with the Weasleys, there was a substantial hole in the seat of his best black robes, surrounded by a ring of charred fabric. Lord Voldemort swore loudly in Parseltongue and pitched the robes into a corner. For the first time since returning to London, he regretted leaving Pettigrew back in the Bothy of Dread in Albania. Even though the absence of Wormtail meant that the number of events that roused his ire was drastically reduced, the Dark Lord had to admit that there was nobody else in the world who was so satisfying a victim when it came to relieving the pressures of thwarted megalomania. Briefly, Lord Voldemort considered going to back to fetch the American youth and that uselessly mundane baseball bat for a spot of unmagical but nevertheless gratifyingly brutal relief, but balked at the idea of being spotted in public in the scorched robes. Instead he scribbbled a terse message to Madam Weiss, instructing her to send him the finest, most intimidating robes she had in his size without delay, then plucked one of his personal courier vampire bats from the roost by the door, before flinging open the sash window to despatch the bat and its missive. That done, he settled down to wait.

*****

"You know," said Mafalda, as she picked up the last of the magazines, and flipped past the adverts for Burma Shave and other archaic Muggle grooming products to the main illustrations, "If the average heterosexual female, Witch or Muggle, was aware that this stuff is available on the open market, Playwitch and its ilk would go bust in a heartbeat. Any woman with even a smidgen of experience is going to recognise that what these guys here are touting is the unapologetic Real Deal. That soft porn stuff that the Condor's Nest conglomerate put out always seems to be catering to those shrinking violets who can't look at a picture of a man, however outlandish the scenario he's in, without thinking But would he be suitable to take home to mother?"

"I see what you mean," said Molly looking over her shoulder. "These aren't the sort of guys you'd want to risk your relatives getting the chance to horn in on, as it were," she snickered. "Hurry up and turn the page. I want to see what else they can come up with."

Mafalda turned the page. Both women stared, looked at each other in amazement, then checked the page again to make sure they weren't hallucinating. They weren't.

"Well," said Mafalda in a carefully neutral voice after a moment or two. "And all the time I thought that the Channing sisters were just after getting their jollies. What they were really doing was cataloguing the opportunities for blackmail. Such a pity they're evil, and all. The Department of Mysteries could really have made use of minds as devious as the ones those two have got."

"It's a bit coy, by the standards of this imprint, but even so ..." said Molly musingly. "I can see why You-Know-Who wouldn't want knowledge of this to get about."

There on the page in front of them, fetchingly posed naked beneath a banner reading Mr October, 1947 was the young Tom Riddle, his private parts artfully concealed by the flared hood of a live cobra.

*****

Severus Snape, polyjuiced up to look like Sirius Black, had his fist raised and was about to start hammering on the cellar door in the hope of luring Janet Tewksberry back into their prison when the real Sirius grabbed him by the wrist. "I've just thought of a problem, cookery boy. If La Viuda Loca comes back in here and sees two Sirius Blacks, she'll know we're up to something."

Snape cursed himself under his breath. The flaw in their hastily improvised plan was obvious, now he came to think of it, and if galled him almost beyond endurance that Black had spotted it before he had. "Well you'll just have to polyjuice yourself to look like me," he snapped. "At least that way, the widow Tewksberry will think I'm the bloke whose wand she personally confiscated. She'll probably ignore me and concentrate on me, by which I mean you, and I might be able to get the jump on her."

"Can't!" said Sirius mournfully as he upended the thermos flask. "You used up the last of it when you turned into me."

Snape turned hot then cold with shame at his carelessness, and steeled himself for a tirade of imprecations. After all the scorn he'd dished out to Sirius for his abortive rescue attempt, he expected nothing less. He found himself missing Viviane acutely.

Astonishingly though, Sirius didn't say a word. Instead, he strode over to the tiny hole that Fidelis had dug to force his way in, transformed into Padfoot, and set about enlarging it. In a matter of minutes, he'd dug down a good three feet, and Snape was just beginning to hope that they were simply going to stroll out of Janet's hell hole, when there was a shower of sparks from somewhere beneath Padfoot's busily shovelling paws which blasted him clear across the room. He transformed back as he slid down the wall, and sat panting on the slimy floor.

"Wards obviously extend well below ground level," gasped Sirius. "Fidelis must have been small enough to avoid triggering them, but as you can see, I can't manage that."

For a moment, Snape struggled to think up a suitably withering comment, but found that he couldn't summon up the biting savagery he needed for inspiration. Sirius looked bruised and defeated, and Snape had to admit to himself that this mad, Gryffindoresque escape attempt was the best idea either of them had come up with.

"It's not hopeless," Snape found himself saying. "That hole you've dug's big enough that it looks as though we could have got out through it. If we can fool that bitch into thinking we've escaped, maybe she'll rush off in pusuit. She might not bother to reactivate the wards after leaving if she thinks there's nobody left to detain."

"Nice idea," said Sirius "But we're not going to be able to conceal ourselves in this pitiful pit. There's only one thing for it. Use your wand to transfigure me into something innocuous-looking." His boot nudged one of the clumps of burnt macaroni, and he shuddered, but pointed to it. "Try to remember your seventh year Transfiguration and make it wear off automatically, if you can. Then you can bang on the door and when Janet shows up you can tell her that Severus Snape has escaped. She's probably vain enough to think that the long term command spell that she put on you, by which I mean me, has reactivated, despite Dumbledore's best efforts."

Snape could see the sense in this, and realised he didn't have any time to argue anyway; he'd no idea how much longer he had before the polyjuice wore off. Without bothering to reply, he raised his wand arm, and Transfigured the real Sirius into a glutinous blob of charred macaroni. Then he turned to the door and started hammering on it as though half a dozen dementors were advancing on him.

Unnoticed in the corner, Fidelis continued his doggy chant. Much as he adored his master, he despaired of Snape's ability to recognise the finer nuances of canine charms. He'd been hoping for some petting and praise for his remote Ennervate that, beyond the call of duty and personal feelings, he was directing at Viviane. Nevertheless he continued even as Snape pounded on the cellar door.