Harry made to speak again, but this time Guy Fieri raised his hand for silence, frowning slightly at the emerald liquid, evidently thinking hard. He said, finally, “This potion must act in a way that will prevent me taking the Horcrux. It might paralyze me, cause me to forget what I am here for, create so much pain I am distracted, or remove my ability to taste gangsta ass meals. This being the case, Harry, it will be your job to make sure I keep drinking, even if you have to tip the potion into my goatee guarded mouth. You understand, dude?”

Their eyes met over the basin, each pale face lit with that strange, green light.

“You remember,” said Guy Fieri, “the condition on which I brought you with me?”

Harry hesitated, looking into the yellow frosted tips that had turned green in the reflected light of the basin.

“But what if—?”

“You swore, did you not, to follow any command I gave you?”

“Yes, but—”

“I warned you, did I not, that there might be danger?”

“Yes,” said Harry, “but —”

“Well, then,” said Guy Fieri while picking bacon bits from last night’s Caesar salad out of the eighth wonder of the world that is his belly button, “you have my orders.”

“Why can’t I drink the potion instead?” asked Harry desperately.

“Because I am much older, much cleverer, and you lack the experienced tongue of a food and women connoisseur,” said Guy Fieri with a wink. “Once and for all, Harry, do I have your word that you will do all in your power to make me keep drinking?”

“Couldn’t —?”

“Do I have it?”

“But—”

“Harry, man, just give me your frickin’ word.”

“I —alright, but—”

Before Harry could make any further protest, Guy Fieri lowered the crystal goblet into the potion. For a split second, Harry hoped that he would not be able to touch the potion with the goblet, but the crystal sank into the surface as nothing else had; when the glass was full to the brim he turned to harry, “One last trip,” Guy Fieri lifted it to his mouth, “to flavourtown!”

And he drained the goblet. Harry watched, terrified.

“Professor?” he said anxiously, as Guy Fieri lowered the empty glass. “How do you feel?”

Guy Fieri shook his head, his eyes closed “Holy moly, Stromboli” Harry wondered whether he was in pain. Guy Fieri plunged the glass blindly back into the basin, refilled it, and drank three more goblets full of the potion. Then, halfway through the fourth goblet, he staggered and fell forward against the basin. His eyes were still closed, his breathing heavy (as usual).

“Professor Guy Fieri?” said Harry, his voice strained. “Can you hear me?”

Guy Fieri did not answer. His face was twitching as though he was deeply asleep, but dreaming a horrible dream of a meal with no dessert at the end. “Professor, can you hear me?” he repeated loudly. Guy Fieri panted and then spoke in a voice Harry did not recognize, for he had never heard Guy Fieri frightened like this.

“I don’t like this food . . . I want to stop . . . eating,”

“You . . . you can’t stop, Professor,” said Harry. “You’ve got to keep drinking, remember? You told me you had to keep drinking. Here . . .” Harry forced the goblet back toward Guy Fieri’s mouth and tipped it, so that Guy Fieri drank the remainder of the potion inside.

“Make it stop, or at least give me some barbeque sauce” moaned Guy Fieri.

“Yes... Yes, this’ll make it stop,” lied Harry. He tipped the contents of the goblet into Guy Fieri’s open mouth. Guy Fieri screamed; Harry knew this would be a porchetta he would not soon forgetta.

Guy Fieri sobbed. “Please make it stop, I know I did wrong, oh please make it stop and I’ll never wear gold hoop earrings again ...”

“This will make it stop, Professor,” Harry said, his voice cracking as he tipped the seventh glass of potion into Guy Fieri’s mouth.

Guy Fieri began to cower as though invisible barbers surrounded him ready to shave off his porcupine-shaped hair and steal his famous white Oakley sunglasses; his flailing hand almost knocked the refilled goblet from Harry’s trembling hands as he moaned, “Shut the front door, son of Tatum O’Neal this is poison in my veins,”

“Here, drink this, drink this, you’ll be all right,” said Harry desperately, and once again Guy Fieri obeyed him, opening his mouth even as he kept his eyes tight shut and shook from head to Velcro sandal.

“Please, please, please, no ... not that, not that, put an Oscar Mayer in me but not that potion ...”

“Just drink, Professor, just drink . . .”

Guy Fieri drank like a child dying of thirst, but when he had finished, he yelled again as though his insides were on fire. “I’ve been stricken by chicken!”

Harry scooped up a tenth goblet full of potion and felt the crystal scrape the bottom of the basin. “We’re nearly there, Professor. Drink this, drink it. ...”

Guy Fieri began to scream in more anguish than ever, “I want to die! I want to die! I’m not getting any tator with my gator, I want to die!”

“Just drink this ... It’ll be over ... all over!” Guy Fieri gulped at the goblet, drained every last drop, and then, with a great, rattling gasp, rolled over onto his face grunting “Flavortown food coma, baby” before passing out.

“No!” shouted Harry, who had stood to refill the goblet again; instead he dropped the cup into the basin, flung himself down beside Guy Fieri, and heaved him over onto his back; Guy Fieri’s flame covered button up t-shirt was askew, his mouth agape, his eyes closed. “No.” said Harry, shaking Guy Fieri, “no, you’re not dead, you said it wasn’t poison, wake up, wake up!” he cried, “Sir — please —, we have pulled pork sandwiches,”

Guy Fieri’s eyelids flickered; Harry’s heart leapt, “Sir, are you —?”

“Pepsi,” croaked Guy Fieri.

“Pepsi?” panted Harry. “Don’t you think water would be best ri —”

“PEPSI!” Guy Fieri yelled.

Harry leapt to his feet and seized the goblet he had dropped in the basin.

“Pepsimenti!” he shouted, jabbing the goblet with his wand. The goblet filled with sugary brown liquid. Harry dropped to his knees beside Guy Fieri, raised his head, and brought the glass to his lips. Guy Fieri drank 69 goblets of Pepsi in silence. Finally Guy Fieri gave a great sigh and leaned against the cavern wall.“I am weak...” he said.“Don’t worry, sir,” said Harry at once, anxious about Guy Fieri’s extreme pallor due to not only the potion but also a lack of physical activity over the last 30 years. “Don’t worry, I’ll get us back. . . . Lean on me, sir. . .”And pulling Guy Fieri’s uninjured arm around his shoulders, Harry guided his headmaster back around the lake.As the two walked towards the boat, Guy Fieri looked up at Harry and said with a smile spread across his face; “That sauce was not money!”

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