Deep in nothingspace...
No, wait. Nothingspace wouldn't have a depth would it? And even if it did...oh, nevermind....
Wherever it may be, the Narrator hung, upside down, on his sofa. He was waiting, with dwindling patience, for Fin to fix up a hangover remedy. After all, anyone who had been to the party yesterday would have undoubtedly gotten wasted.
"Who's party was it, anyway?" Fin asked soon after he had stumbled back home with a slurrish popping noise.
"Unngh, that, that Snape fellow...urm...from that...J.K. Rooling woman..." He murmered, clutching his head in his hands.
Then he collapsed. Poor Narrator. Fin scowled as she remembered how much work was left for him to do, then dragged him to the foot of the sofa and into a more comfortable position.
Back in the present, the pile of 'new literature' was becoming ominously large. Perhaps it would soon grow a mind of it's own and write itself, if he was lucky.
Soon enough, Fin arrived with an egg-yolk coloured glassful of goodness-knows-what. Pity Goodness was in Florida at the moment, because she was probably the only one who knew exactly what it was. Even Fin, who had made it, didn't have a clue what her creation was. She just hoped it wouldn't kill him, that's all.
"Drink." She said solemnly. The Narrator tried to sit up, but his migraine pulsed painfully, and he thought better of it. Every throb brought back new memories of the night before.
A fresh, uncovered image popped into his head - one of Snape (Prof. S. to his friends) doing the conga, robes and all, sandwiched between half-naked hawaiian lapdancers, all thoroughly enjoying themselves. The memory made a bit of vomit rise in his throat. Writers never knew the true horror of the popular characters they created. It was sickening.
"How am I supposed to drink this upside down?" He asked, choking a little with annoyance. Fin shrugged.
"Just try, at least." She offered. He pouted (a common thing these days) and considered his options. At last, he moved onto his stomach and kept his head upside down, so his face was towards ths sofa.
Then he drank. It was putrid, tasting like a mixture of toothpaste and orange, or baking soda and butter. It took all his control not to spew it back up.
"What the hell had that got in it?!" He spluttered, dropping the cup to the floor. It took a moment before Fin answered.
"A raw egg, some salt and a few of the things from your medical cupboard. Oh, and some mouthwash." she added thoughtfully.
He screwed up his face, disgusted. "I don't have a medical cupboard."
"You do now."
The Narrator sighed. Great. Somewhere else that needed cleaning up. There was already the coffee machine (which had packed up after he had tried to make coffee from some raisins he'd mistaken for coffee beans, and now needed fixing) and the pile of worthless ideas that Fin had yet to finish dealing with - over by his pile that he had yet to start. The poor humans that those stories belong to would most likely be experiencing what they called a 'writer's block'.
Fin picked up the cup and carried it over with the tray to the sink that had just magically appeared from nowhere, and left him to think. The Narrator knew that thinking was what he did best. After all, he was a the Narrator.
* * * * * *
"Where are the others?" He had to raise his voice so she could hear in the other room.
"Asleep I think." She took in his sloppy, 'I-don't-care' appearance. "You should get some rest too."
"Don't think I can.." He trailed off, remembering the dancing Professor.
"Where was the party?"
Oh no, he was going to have to remember things now.
"Uhhm....I think....it was...." His brain almost burst a blood vessel trying to think back. "...probably at a hotel." He finished. In truth, he didn't really remember.
In his mind's eye, he could picture strobe-effect lighting, the loud beat of the music and the guests all jumping up and down as you do when the party's just started and no-one wants to actually dance, for fear of embarrasing themselves.
Prof. S. was the life and soul of the party, wearing a child's party hat, a woman on each arm, tequila in one hand, glass of absinthe in the other. And he was very, very drunk.
As characters of literature, they know their fellows very well, and despite their age differences, Harry Potter was indeed good friends with the Professor, but had been unable to attend the party because his wife was having some pregnancy troubles.
Ron Weasley, on the other hand, had been there for over an hour, and was chatting up a few of the other partygoers in the lounge. Voldeomort had not been invited, but was overheard saying that 'He didn't go to second-rate parties anyway', before going back to his home and crying like a teenage girl. Poor Voldemort.
The Narrator was still unsure of what happened at the time, and was getting a strange, foreboding feeling that something bad had happened, but he couldn't remember what it was. Probably got into a fight or something, he thought to himself. He wasn't going to go there in the first place, but It was his duty to keep under control any major party or gathering that went on in the fictional world - though he wasn't very good at it. In the end, he usually just got drunk himself and tried to 'have a good time'.
Fin interrupted him.
"Oh dear." She whispered, her voice breaking.
He looked up at the cup she had been cleaning in her hands. The bottom half had been burnt off by the previous substance inside it. She looked at him, quite scared. He looked back. His stomach gave a slightly uncomfortable rumble.
Half an hour of coughing and spluttering later
"I'm never eating any of you're cooking again."
Fin sat down, completely worn out, and picked up a book.