"Do you or do you not own the Beatles?!" exclaimed Barty Crouch Senior, spit flying from his mouth.

Doctor Lennon 007 shifted uncomfortably. "Can I answer that question on a later date?" Crouch growled. "Fine, fine! I don't own them! Happy?"

A/N: Happy Beatles-in-a-Beetle-update-day! First off, Beatlemaniacs United needs a George fan - whether you're a George fan or not, visit us here: www.fanfiction.net/topic/162338/123461362/1/#125057953. Also, "The Escape of the Nerk Twins" will soon be on an electronic device near you - I'll release the first chapter the same day I finish "Beatles in a Beetle." Finally, thanks so much to my reviewers: On FanFiction, the Mysterious Guest, omgringo, and Macca's Little Teddy Bear; on WattPad, heroesforghosts and Macca40.

An hour and a half later, an overall pleased Brian Epstein was headed back to the Beatles' dressing room, a spring in his step for the first time since John's terrible driving in Bournemouth.

Nothing's gone wrong in over an hour! he thought happily. Maybe they've finally stopped acting up.

As he rounded the corner, though, his naïve bubble of hope was abruptly popped. The former occupants of the dressing room – reporters, makeup artists, dancers, and just about everyone else except the Beatles – had occupied the hallway, leaning against the walls or sitting on the floor and chatting.

"Where are the Beatles?" Brian asked the nearest photographer urgently.

"In the dressing room," replied the photographer. "Where they've been locked away for the last hour and a half."

Brian heaved in a deep breath. It's not the nice photographer's fault, Brian, he told himself. Don't take out the boys' . . . issues on him. [A/N: Three pages of expletives deleted to keep the ratings down.]

Unfortunately, Mal and Neil were both attending to other duties; that left only Brian in charge of getting the boys to open up their dressing room.

Brian shoved past the nearest clump of giggling makeup artists. Standing in front of the entrance to the dressing room, he raised a fist to knock on (or quite possibly down) the door, but it swung inward before he had the chance.

"Hello, Eppy," said John Lennon. "Fancy meeting you here!" He extended a hand.

Brian shook John's hand while yelling, "What have you done this time, Lennon? Locked out the press?"

"Yes, actually," replied John. "How did you know?"

Brian yanked his hand away from John's, suddenly realizing what he was doing. "Why am I shaking your hand?"

"I don't know, do I?" said John. "That was your decision."

Brian opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

"I'm off to the loo," explained John. "The others are in there." He jerked his head toward the dressing room behind him.

Seeing that Brian wasn't going to move or say anything, John pushed past him into the hallway, saying, "Excuse me, Bri."

Brian stared after the rhythm guitarist for a few seconds before entering the dressing room, pulling the door shut behind him with a resounding snap.

Paul and Ringo looked up from the game of Hangman they were playing on John's notepad. George continued to practice his guitar in a corner in the back, paying no heed to the manager.

"Oh, hi, Brian," said Paul. "I see you got in alright, then."

Brian fumed silently for a second.

"John must've let you in," mused Ringo. To Paul, he added, "What about 'c'?"

Paul shook his head. "There's your second leg." The bassist added an additional leg to the partially formed stick figure on the notepad.

Brian decided to use his words. "George!"

George slowly raised his eyes from his beloved guitar. "How can I help you?"

"What did you do? Why are you locked away in here?" yelled Brian.

George raised an eyebrow. "Because we wanted to have some time to ourselves."

Brian broke. "I've had nothing but trouble from you four since John's driving escapade in Bournemouth! You have been irresponsible, in—"

"There are only three of us at the moment," pointed out George.

"I dunno, I thought the press conference yesterday went pretty well," said Paul. "To be completely fair, that is."

"What've I done?" asked Ringo. "I haven't started any of this!"

"You should go find John and blame him," suggested George.

"Will you listen to me for once?" yelled Brian.

"Actually, you know what? I'll go find him for you and give him a good telling-off," offered George. He stood up and handed his guitar to Brian. "Be careful with my guitar, and make sure I get it before we go onstage."

The youngest Beatle strolled out of the dressing room nonchalantly, hands in his pockets, whistling "And I Love Her". The other three occupants of the room stared at his back until the door swung shut behind him.

Brian turned to glare at Paul and Ringo, fire in his eyes and a growl forming in his throat.

"Uh-oh," said Ringo.

A/N: Please, sir, can I 'ave a review? 'S not much to arsk, I'm a very 'umble person, but I'd be much obliged if you'd give me just the one!