Beware of Gifts at 3 in the Morning

Michael had had enough of those freaking puppies. He was getting rid of them. He had packed a backpack with the puppy in question--a dollhouse sized ottoman covered in rather attractive black leather, and he had added a case of black socks. Well, after all, the footstool did need to eat. The stupid thing kept whining and barking in his backpack. This was the noisiest of the puppies.

He apparated to London and went right to Grimmauld. In the distance, he could hear Big Ben chiming 3 am. He made quick work of "letting himself in" and went right into the kitchen. He opened the backpack and put the case of brand new black socks--all 144 pair--on the kitchen counter. As tiny as the puppy was, that would feed him for quite a long time. Then he got out the tiny ottoman and put it on the counter where it began to dance and run and bark.

And that woke Walburga who began to shriek at the top of her magical lungs. And, as typical Walburga style, it was all cussing. Great. Just great. He decided. He was stealing that painting and then burning her. He'd had enough of her. He'd never been caught in any break in before, and if it woke Jess up, then Walburga was going to meet a fire in Michael's fireplace.

It was a rare night that Jess would find himself crashing in the study at Number 12 Grimmauld Place, but recently those nights had become far more frequent.

The battle had shook him, the power he thought he'd controlled had slipped through his fingers once more, and with terrible consequences. The dead was what haunted his dreams most often. He'd be lying asleep, and quite often he'd hear them, see them wondering through his mind. Most were just children, most still had that innocent look in their eyes, the permanent smile on their faces.

Jess woke with a start as the screaming echoed through the house, profanities and curses seemed to merge into one.

Goddamnit Walburga.

With a yawn he clambered out of bed and grabbed his wand, deciding that while he was up he'd grab a butterbeer to ease himself back to sleep.

"Shut up you old bat," he shouted as he reached the bottom landing, pointing his wand in her direction to shut the curtains.

But this time he found a figure blocking his wand's path to the portrait.

"Lumos," he cast, wand pointed in the direction of the figure, ready to cast another spell if necessary.

"Michael?" He asked, "is that you? What the devil are you doing here? And what's with all the blasted racket?" He added

"You do notice I'm not the one screaming or cursing," Michael said calmly, trying to reel in his anger at the painting. "It's your alarm bat." He really did hate that old bat that hung in the front room. And she hated him. He had a bottle of carnation pink paint in his backpack. It would be so easy to shut her up for good. All it would take was a moment with that bottle of paint and the brush that was with it. "I'll be happy to quiet her for you, Jess," he offered, not wanting to disclose his method of doing it. He wondered how long it had taken Jess to get the duct tape off her from the last time Michael had shut her up. Removing duct tape off an old painting was not easy work. Nor had Michael intended it to be easy. He was hoping Jess had just given up on it, but evidently, Jess was stubborn enough to want her loud mouth freed. Silly boy.

"Here," Michael said, thrusting the large box into one of Jess's hands. "You're going to need these. That should keep him fed for, oh, maybe 4 or 5 months at his size. But you have to cut them up into little bites or he'll choke on them. When he's full grown he'll suck them right down like a spaghetti noodle." Then he picked up the tiny black leather footstool that was barking on the kitchen counter. He put the tiny footstool in Jess's other hand, where it dashed about in a circle and then curled up contentedly.

"Here. His name is Sirius. Sirius Black. For obvious reasons. And yes, he is housebroken. He thinks he's a cocker spaniel. Blame it on Khaat. Its entirely her fault. Robert refuses to tell me how to spay or neuter a pair of footstools. So, now I have puppies. Or rather, now you have a puppy."

"Get that filthy dog out of my house before he pees on my carpets!" Walburga shrieked. Michael scowled in the direction of the painting.

"That's it. He's not filthy," Michael said, his eyes narrowing. "Accio!" he commanded the jar of pink paint and the brush from his backpack. He didn't figure Jess was going to let him paint over her, but it was worth a try.

ooc: sorry for the slight godmod

Jess chuckled and gave Michael a quick, understanding look, before focusing on the little... well, whatever it was in his hand. A footlstool, it looked like, how very odd. Pretty cute though. "Walburga, shut it." He shouted, grabbing her curtains and drawing them across the portrait, muffling her angry yells.

"That's... nice," he then said, accepting the box out of sheer curiosity, uncertain as to what was inside, and more than surprised when he saw the box of socks.

"So wait," he said, pausing and grabbing Michael's shoulder. "You're giving me a baby... footstool... called sirius black.... who eats nothing but socks.... and is all Khaat's fault?" He asked, his face mirroring the confused feeling that was thickly coating his voice... it wasn't every day that this happened...

"This makes no sense Michael, maybe you should explain a little better. I mean, it's not at all like Khaat to meddle wit- I mean... Robert surely wouldn't have anything to d-" he said, struggling for a few seconds with the right words.

"Actually, you know what... this makes perfect sense coming from you." He said, nodding his head slowly.

"Ah, well, this goes back to when Khaat was married to Rob, when he was still able to be a man about it anyway. They were living in the cottage in Hogsmeade. Khaat got accidently addicted to a mind numbing potion, not knowing that Rob was the illegal dealer of those or that it was his potion that she was taking. Nor did she know she was addicted. Seems to me you know about this little chapter, from what she told me. Anyway, when Rob found the potion in her purse, he took her home and forced her to detox. It seems that detox makes one's magic go a bit wonky for a couple of days. And in that 2 days she accidently bewitched the furniture. And she has never let anyone change it back. So, when I rented the cottage and Robert told me it was a wee bit quirky, he really didn't quite tell me the full story. I have a kleptomaniac hat rack named Snidely that steals everything it can get its little clutches on and dashes off with it up to the attic, and these two cocker spaniel ottomans--Otto and Faline. And, yes, all the rest of the furniture has a personality of its own.

"The good side is that spring cleaning and rearranging is a hell of a lot easier this way. The bad part is that you have to let some of the furniture outside to pee or it pees on the rug. I think its Robert's way of playing an extended practical joke, really. I know he could change it back, and I probably could too if I put a mind to it, but, well, the dogs really are good company. And truthfully, I don't know who else would put up with Snidely and not make him into a matchstick. So, that's how I got the puppies and its how you're getting one now. Sirius looks like he'll be about the size of his father. He's just the right size to put your feet up on to read the paper with in the evenings. And if Sirius has the personality of his parents, he'll generally be very obedient and eager to please you. However, these little buggars are hard to keep an eye on when they're this little. They're easy to step on. You and that house elf will have to watch your feet for a bit until he gets bigger--or watch where you put him. I am at an advantage. If Otto and Faline are outside, the magazine rack looks after the puppies."

Michael looked at the pink paint and the brush. "You aren't going to let me paint over her, are you?" he sighed.

Jess nodded, trying not to feel impatient as Michael informed him of things he already knew about, things that he'd been directly involved in at points. He knew that it wasn't Michael's fault, and that really, he had already asked... however Jess really didn't like hearing about bad things that had already happened... it drove him a little crazy sometimes, he just hated to dwell on the past.

"That does sound like something the two of them would do, probably working together once she was better, actually," he finally commented with a chuckle as Michael explained the origins of the enchanted footstool... his enchanted footstool. "It would definitely be something to see though, your house. You must invite me around for tea some time... as it is you frequent my house enough that it might as well be shared accommodation," he said with another chuckle, before shooting a questioning look at Michael.

"I dunno... can I turn your hat stand. Spyndle, kindle... whatever his name was into a matchstick?" He asked, a cheeky grin stuck on his face

"You're welcome there anytime. But you do need to come for prime rib. I make a mean prime rib with all the fixings." Michael was an excellent cook. His friends called him when they wanted an evening with five star cuisine, usually ending with a vintage brandy or a vintage port. And some decadent little french pastry. Or maybe a good pipe.

"Snidely," Michael grinned. "I dare you to wear a hat when you come. Feel free to watch him snatch it off your head and dash up to the attic with it. I'll send Hiss after it later. Some of Khaat's friends have threatened to make him into a matchstick, and I always rescue him. I think I rescue him because he's not doing it to be mean. He's doing it to get attention. I think he's lonely. And no, I'm not getting him a girlfriend. The last thing I need is about a dozen kleptomaniac hat racks."

Jess nodded, a look of mock disinterest stretching across his face as he shrugged away the offer, "I dunno Michael... I've heard of food poisoning... and of course there's rumours that your oven spits in the food. No no, I think I'll be more than happy to remain here at Grimmauld Place, dining on Berty's fine little meals," he said, an overly casual tone in his voice.

"Your hatstand on the other hand, should will become a chopstick if you deface my painting of the..." he said, coughing awkwardly to pause for a moment, "darling Walburga here... on the note of our dear friend, why don't we adjourn to the kitchen, and indulge in something nice... we both know what standing right outside the curtain before she blasts can be like.

"I knew you were gutless," MIchael said, baiting him with a bit of phoney sarcasm. "Why you want to keep that old crone in your hallway is beyond me, but trust me, as one who knows fine works of art, she is not it." He walked back towards the kitchen. "I could get a couple of quid for her in some Knockturn Shop, though, for you, if you'd like?" He flicked his wand at the cabinet and summoned the firewhiskey and a couple of glasses. He inspected the brand. Much better.

"Oh, so you're coming up in the world, are you?"" Michael asked. "This brand is good stuff. Its got a bit of a sharp edge to it, but sometimes that's a good thing. Reminds you of who you are and exactly why you're drinking." He poured a couple of glasses and slid one to Jess.