All I Need is You...part two

(Read the comments, kay?)

Grissom and the others were led into the castle by a rather recalcitrant old ogre wearing a yellow tunic that was too short for his own good (“Long story,” he had growled when Grissom dared to comment.)

After a while of tramping across the grounds of this mysterious castle, Nick had had enough of walking behind this fellow and being forced to look upon his hairy, much-too-exposed legs. So he ventured a faint, “Do you get a lot of babes with that get-up?”

“No,” came the gruff reply.

“Do you-do you get mistaken for a prostitute?”

“No.”

“Do you realize how much you’re disrespecting yourself and your fellow women by dressing in that manner?” Sara interjected.

“I’m not a woman.”

“…Just thought that I’d bring it to your attention.”

The ogre rolled his eyes. “Bloody feminists.”

Another hour or so of trudging through the feces-ridden lawn (no one cared to ask what sort of feces it was) brought them to the castle door. They were greeted by a crazy-looking old man with a funny hat.

“Greetings, and welcome to Hogwarts! I am Albus Dumbledore…or, A.D. to you.” He winked at Grissom. “I have summoned you here because…wait, weren’t there supposed to be six of you?”

They looked around, and realized that Sara was missing.

“Hagrid,” said Dumbledore, addressing the ogre, “did you see where our sixth guest went?”

Hagrid shook his head and mumbled, trying to hide his full mouth.

“Hagrid…” Dumbledore warned.

Hagrid sighed, and spit Sara out onto the ground. She immediately began shrieking about violation and rapists, for the sixtieth time that day.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe you rapists and perverts! I’ve never felt so violated in my entire life! You men and your misogynistic tendencies! I am so sick of—“


“Miss Sidle,” Dumbledore interrupted smoothly. “I assure you, this is by no means a habit restricted to women. Just look at Mr. Stokes.”

Nick held up his arm. Where his left hand had once been, there was now a bloody stump. Hagrid grinned happily, revealing a mouthful of bones. Sara stared at him, horrified.

Suddenly, Dumbledore laughed delightedly. “JK!” he shouted, and waved his wand. Nick’s hand appeared, brand new, on his wrist. He shook it gratefully.

Sara, still slightly shocked, turned to Dumbledore. Slowly, his prank began to sink in. She nodded slowly. “I see how it is around here.”

Dumbledore smiled, thinking she would appreciate his joke.

“You thought you could scare me because I’m a WOMAN, didn’t you? Didn’t you! You chauvinistic, sick, perverted bastard! You thought that just because I’m a weak little GIRL, you could put one over on me! Well, not Sara Sidle!” she screamed, and punched Dumbledore in the jaw.

Catherine, immediately seeing her chance for a good beating, jumped in and began to pummel Dumbledore’s stomach.

Greg, Nick, Grissom, and Warrick sat back and watched the show.

“Nothing I love more than a good old-man whupping,” Nick said.

“Except DNA,” mentioned Greg.

“Or gambling,” sighed Warrick, shedding a lone tear at the thought of the beautiful slot machine from earlier that day.

Much to the chagrin of the entertained men, Hagrid promptly stopped the display by shoveling Sara once again into his mouth. Catherine was briefly tempted to go to town on the giant, but then remembered Sara’s betrayal of the sisterhood and decided to let it rest.

“HAGRID!” Dumbledore (having healed himself very quickly) shouted, “SPIT HER OUT!”

“Oh no, don’t do that on our account…” Grissom began.

“It isn’t on your account. Poor Hagrid is on a diet and can’t eat anything so high in cholesterol.”


The door to the castle swung open again, and a coquettish voice called from within. “Darling, come back to bed. It’s cold outside.”

Dumbledore blushed furiously. “Just a minute, pookie-muffinpants.”

“Didn’t you call me that once, Grissom?” Sara asked. Grissom looked slightly ill. “Damn writers,” he muttered.

Apparently, pookie-muffinpants did not want to wait just a minute. A boy with messy clown hair and green eyes emerged from the castle, wearing only a bedsheet and a rainbow clown wig.

“Kinky!” said Greg, and winked at the boy. The boy stared at them, horrified, and threw an accusing glance at Darling. “Why didn’t you tell me they were here?”

“I tried, Love butter-butt,” said Dumbledore repentantly.

Pookie-muffinpants, also known as Harry, looked to his left and came in contact with the most beautiful pair of eyes he had ever seen. They seemed to him never-ending pools of deep dark darkness that never ended. “Hi,” said Nick charmingly.

Harry gulped and turned, only to be greeted by the second most beautiful pair of eyes he had ever seen in his life. They were as sparkling and  clear as the blue, blue lake behind them…only without the squid. “I’m Catherine,” said Catherine.

Harry turned yet again and was confronted by a third pair of eyes, almost (but not quite) as sparkling emerald green as his own, set into the face of a veritable buffet of manliness. “‘Sup, want to gamble?” said Warrick.

Oh, God. Another pair of eyes hit him right between the…eyes, and he nearly staggered at their beauty. “I like bugs!” exclaimed Grissom, and popped something small and shiny into his mouth. Harry’s knees buckled. There was nothing hotter than old guys eating bugs. In Harry’s opinion, anyway.

Greg winked slightly more insistently, apparently waiting for a manly giggle as Harry’s response. Instead, Harry nearly burst into tears. When Greg winked, only one of his insanely lovely eyes was visible. Those eyes…they were brown as mud, as sticks, as tree bark, really, really shiny tree bark.

Harry was forced to turn away from this deafening onslaught of beauty, lest he be lost in it forever. He turned and came face to face with Sara. She was just okay. She began to bat her eyelashes at him, but he couldn’t really bring himself to care.

“Pookie-muffinpants, why don’t you go back inside? I have to show our guests to their rooms so they’ll be all buckety-bug-eyed to solve that crime tomorrow!”

Harry nodded, and, coyly wiggling his fingers at the gorgeous group before him, he skipped back through the doors.

Dumbledore turned back to the ravishing CSIs. Mortified, he shouted, “What are you talking about? He’s not a student! This is not statutory rape! What’s with the Spanish Inquisition?! Jeeze, dudes!”

The unnaturally attractive CSIs stared at him, confused. Was he crazy? Schizophrenic? The symptoms were quite unambiguous; Dumbledore had begun to rant about how ‘Freddie’ should get off his back and stop jabbering all the time. Plus, he had said ‘buckety-bug-eyed!’ For anyone to take that phrase and actually use it in a sentence, they had to be crazy! None of the CSIs were trained to handle an actual crazy person (besides themselves)!

Finally, Dumbledore’s cheek stopped twitching and he gave a winning smile. “Sorry about that, I have episodes…”

“Only crazy people have episodes,” Greg snickered, and then began to cry. He fell on the ground in fetal position and wept in earnest. “Why, Why, Why?”

“He rests his case,” said Grissom. “Now. Why have you summoned us here today?” he asked Dumbledore.

“Because I love you,” Dumbledore blurted before he could stop himself. “I mean—“

“Why don’t you love me?” asked Sara.

“Where are we?” asked Greg.

“Who are you?” asked Nick.

“Where’s the nearest Casino?” asked Warrick.

“Enough!” shouted Dumbledore. “In good time, friends, you will learn the answers to your questions. But now…” he trailed off, “I’ve got a date!” and ran inside, back to his pookie-muffinpants.

The rest of them turned to Grissom. “What do we do now?”

Grissom smiled mysteriously. “What do CSIs ever do?”

They all looked at each other, and said together in a voice that seemed one,
“Pillow fight!”


Hours later, the CSIs were shown to their quarters. There was much jockeying of the rooming arrangements. Nick wanted to be in a room with Greg, but Greg wanted to stay with Catherine in her room, while she couldn’t decide whether she wanted to room with Sara or Warrick, or both. Plus, the director kept trying to convince Grissom to room with Sara, but he was only interested in holing up by himself. It ended up being Nick, Greg, Catherine, and Warrick in one room, Grissom in another, and Sara alone and weeping in a third. After the room arrangements were made, the CSIs had a huddle to see whether their new comrades were friends or foes. They had seen some strange things at dinner; Nick’s head was still shaped like a duck as the student had refused to give a counter-spell.

Naturally, the CSIs were used to odd things, having been involved in several…off cases at times in their lives (Fetish Week!), but they had never handled MAGIC before. Except that one time in Bermuda.

“Maybe we should call someone to help me with this,” Nick suggested. “I don’t think it’s good for my brain.”

No sooner had he said that, than a knock came at the door. They opened it to see a teenage girl with brown hair wearing a pink lacy negligee.

“You raaaang?” She crooned, sliding seductively against the doorframe. The CSIs blinked. Never before had such a beautiful, bushy-haired waif found her way into their presence.

“How you doin’?” said Greg, grinning. She giggled and winked back at him.

“Shut up Greg, she’s like 12 years old,” Catherine scolded, smacking him upside the head.

“That’s never stopped any other fanfic before.”

“Are you here to help me with my head?” Nick piped up.

“I’ll help you with more than that, big boy.” She made a little kissy-face. Nick gaped and his mouth, without his duck-shaped brain’s direction, made a kissy face back. That was actually rather disturbing and not sexy at all, but the rest of them decided to overlook it.

“I’m Hermione,” said the girl.

“Even her name, which would be ugly and weird on anyone else, is sexy,” Greg swooned.

Hermione looked around the room and fell into a rapture, staring into the CSIs brown, blue, and green (but not as green as Harry’s) eyes. “Who are y’all, eh?”

“Ehmagawd! She’s a southerner and Canadian, all at once!” cried Sara enviously. She had secretly practiced saying ‘y’all’ in the mirror at night, but always sounded like she was on crack. It figured.

“I’m Grissom,” said Grissom, dazedly. The director pounded his knee. Now this whole Grissom-Sara thing would never work.

“Well, howdy, Grissom,” Hermione cooed.

“Holy shit! She’s a cowboy too!”

Hermione, still staring into Grissom’s pale blue, blue like the sky, blue like the sea, blue like my soul on a cloudy day, eyes, pointed her wand at Nick’s head and said, “Un-duckify-ilions-podify!”

Nick’s head was, thank God, beautiful again. Hermione gave a little squeal of delight at Nick’s flooring pulchritude. “You’re hot!” she squealed.

“Yes I am,” said Nick in his characteristic Texas drawl.

She gasped. “You’re a cowboy too!” She practically melted into a dreamy puddle of love.

Ew.