Ron trailed behind Hermione, whining as usual.
“Look who I found lurking about the little witches room.” Hermione said hooking her thumb in Ron Weasel’s direction.
“Shoot, don’t blame me, I don’t understand wha’ these funny runic symbols next to the doors mean.”
“You are such a weasel, Weasel,” shrieked Hermione.
“Please, my throat is parched from extemporaneousising upon Horcruxii,” Bumblebore blustered futilely, since the two kept up their incessant bickering.
“Would you two get on with it and snog or shag or something?” Harry yelled exasperatedly, in the way that JK uses adverbs for every bit of dialogue.
“Well, if you’re going to be that way about it,” Hermione sniffed. “Come, Weasel.”
“Now you’re talking!” exclaimed Weasel excitedly waving his wand. He scooped up Hermione and carried her off to a dark corner in the parking garage.
“Now, where were we?” asked Bumblebore. Obviously not able to scan the previous paragraphs to find his place.
“Drink, the Horcruxii,” moaned Harry.
“I know the way.” Bumblebore charged off across the street. Cars magically missed him by inches. Harry, however, was another matter. Harry had to dodge, weave, parry, and thrust to make it to the other side.
Bumblebore shoved the double doors open like a new gun coming into the saloon. (Like that? Bumblebore & double door. Get the poetry of it all? Never mind.)
They walked into a food court filled with wondrous things—Wizard King, California Pizza Wizard, a bar that served miners (no minors allowed), McWizards, Long John Wizards, Dunkin’ Dowitch, and Starbucks.
Bumblebore wiped off a table with his robe sleeve making the table dirtier than it had been though less crowded. Cups and paper plates went flying magically to the floor.
To be continued….