Harry Potter & The Idiot from Athens (GEORGIA, That Is)

A story about Animals, Animal Lovers, and Quaffle Maintenance

NOTE:

As you can see by the above title, this story is likely to sprinkled liberally with Harry-Potter stereotyping and flambéed to a crisp over a burning mass of flames and verbal abuse.

It seems that Eschy is not an optimist.

Generally, I plan this to be a bit of a spoof on OC stories in the HP fandom. Why? Because I can, and because all of the author's I can parody have provided me with imaginative fodder. It might not really seem like too much of a parody, given that my main character isn't going to be a perfect oh-so-obviously-wonderful spoof on a Mary Sue you can spot in an instant and immediately despise. This is a subtle parody. I'll try to make her likeable, but put her in situations those Mary-Sue authors stick their MS's in, then turn the situation on its head.

Enjoy.

Chapter 1

Hi. My name is Gwendolyn Louise. Call me that to my face, however, and you die. I go by Gwen. Or Dolly. Or Lyn. Or whatever floats your boat that is NOT Gwendolyn, or Louise, for that matter. I think my parents were on something when they named me, and—

Gah, that's not what I meant. Starting over. Deep breath. Here we go:

Hi. My name is Gwendolyn Louise. I am a witch. I have been unaware of this fact since… oh, well, pretty much forever, which translates to 15 straight years of uncanny luck, strange coincidences, and more incidents characterized by unexplainable, freak-tastic phenomenon than I would care to count. All that 'unknowing,' however, came to an end quite recently. Three weeks ago, to be exact. I remember what happened perfectly. Wanna hear about it? You do? Cool! First I'll set the scene:

The time: after sunup, but before five P.M. I tend to sleep 'til noon if allowed the privilege of uninterrupted quiet.

The day: Sunday. I'm not particularly religious (even though me and my mom live in the very heart of the Bible Belt) so I was, as I have said, sleeping.

The temperature: boiling. Just thought I'd give you a little background info on my area of the world. You see, I live in Athens.

No, not THAT, Athens; we don't have any coliseums, unless you count the football stadium or—

Gah, I'm rambling again. My bad.

Anyway, I live in Athens, Georgia, in a two-bed, one-bath apartment on the border of the business district and the slums. I live with my mom and, every once in awhile, one of her boyfriends, though as of right now she is single.

But that's not the point. The point IS that I was asleep in my room when I heard screaming, bloodcurdling screaming that sounded like a parrot with its beak on fire, coming from the kitchen. Needless to say I woke up with a jolt, leapt out of bed, and gallantly rushed to rescue my mom from whatever peril that had be felled—er, befallen her.

Actually, that's not quite the truth. It was more like I jumped out of bed and then hid under it.

Lying there, stomach pressed tightly to wadded up jeans, loose change, and other dirty laundry, I tentatively called out: "Mom? You okay?"

"GWEDOLYN LOUISE CHANT! GET IN HERE RIGHT NOW! THERE'S A…A…A… A THING SITTING ON THE WINDOWSILL!"

"What kind of thing?" I asked her dubiously.

"A NASTY BIRD WITH BEADY LITTLE EYES! CHASE IT AWAY, LYN! CHASE IT AWAAAAYY!!!"

And with that, her voice faded into hysterical sobbing.

Mom and her theatrics, I thought as I pulled myself out from under my bed and stood. She always freaks out over a bit of nature, like that time we went camping and the bunny got into our tent. She nearly wet herself.

I brushed myself off, grabbed my steel baseball bat off the peg above my dresser (hey, we live in a scary neighborhood. Be prepared or be robbed blind; that's my motto) and cautiously ventured out into the connected living room and kitchen area.

"Mom?" I called, then spotted her. She was standing wide eyed atop the kitchen table, eyes fixated on the widow above the kitchen sink.

Now, my mom is usually a pretty person. She's got long, loose hair, sad eyes, and childish features. Frankly, she's a middle aged man's wet dream. She wasn't looking so pretty now, however, due to the fact that her mouth was stretched into a twisted scar of terror and her cheeks were ashen.

"Th-th-th-th-there!" she choked out, pointing at the window. "Make it go away, Gwen!"

I poked my head into the kitchen, then immediately pulled it back out.

"That's a barn owl!" I said in awe.

My mom answered with a screech of: "I WOULDN'T CARE IF IT WAS THE QUEEN OF SHEBA! JUST GET RID OF IT!"

I frowned at her. "Mom, you don't usually see those in the city! Can't I look at it a little more?"

"NO!"

I sighed. My love of animals was nothing compared to her abject fear of them. "Okay, okay, I'll get rid of it. But if I can't scare it, I'll have to open the window and force it off. Are you okay with that?"

With shaking legs, she began to hesitantly climb off the table. "A-at least wait until I'm out of the room."

I nodded, steeled myself, and walked into the kitchen.

The majestic bird sitting on the other side of the glass was beautiful, absolutely beautiful. It had a snow-white face shaped like a soft heart, a delicate beak and wide, deep set black eyes. Its body was mottled brown and ochre, with cream wings edged in black.

My heart instantly melted. "Hello, baby," I cooed, advancing on it. "What's a bird like you doing in a place like this?"

The bird cocked its head, as if assessing me. That was when I noticed the plain white envelope clutched in its beak.

Dismissing it as weirdness, coincidence, or a case of an owl with a paper fetish, I walked up to the window, set my baseball bat down by the sink, and fluttered my hands at the owl. "Shoo shoo," I said. "Get outta here." It did not, however, budge, merely choosing to look at me inquisitively. I frowned and waved my hands more wildly. "Scram, birdie." It just stared, unfathomable black eyes glittering, perfectly calm. I scowled at it. "You don't have rabies, do you?"

Its breast feathers puffed out and it hunkered down on the window sill, looking quite—dare I say it?—offended. I wrote it off to weirdness, reached up, unlatched the window, and began to lift it open. I hadn't gotten it six inches up when the owl dove for the small crack between the sill and the frame and wriggled into the apartment. I fell back with a yelp as it spread its wings wide and leapt into the air, circling my head once before soaring into the living room.

"NO! BAD BIRDIE!" I screeched, scrambling to my feet. I didn't even get to leave the room before my mom started screaming.

"GWEN GWEN GWEN! SAVE ME SAVE ME SAVE ME SAVE ME--!"

I ran top speed into mother's bedroom. She was crouched in the corner, waving a loafer at the owl who was fluttering in midair above her head. Thinking quickly, I dove and ripped the sheets off mom's bed, then threw them over the owl. It fell to the ground with an indignant hoot, wings pumping futilely beneath the cotton.

Mom stared at me with wide eyes, but said nothing and ignored the twitching, hooting bundle of sheets. I held out a hand, meaning to help her to her feet, and she took it like I intended, but made no move to either let me go or get up herself.

"Mom, you okay?" I asked. She was silent for a moment.

"Gwen… was it holding a letter, or is my imagination running away with me again?"

I blinked. "It had an envelope. Why?"

Rather than answer, mom gripped my hand more tightly. "Did you see any one in the apartment?"

"Uh… no. Was I supposed to?"

Mom looked relieved, then worried. She stood rapidly. "Lock that thing in here and get your things. We're going out of town for a few days."

"What?!"

"Now!" Her tone left little room for argument, so I immediately went to my room and started throwing stuff into a suitcase.

I wasn't too worried. After all, it was only for a few days, apparently, and this wasn't the first time she'd made us pack up and leave for no reason at all. The first time we'd done this (the first I could remember, anyway, I was only eleven) had been because our fireplace (the one we'd had when we lived in a real house) had started spitting green sparks for no reason. I thought it was a leak in a gas main and we should call a technician, but no, mom insisted we leave. We never came back. She was paranoid like that, but I was used to it. No big deal. It wasn't like I liked Athens, Georgia, too much anyway.

"Gwendolyn! Are you ready?" mom called from the living room. I rushed to cram things into my bag.

"Just a sec!" Stuffing a few pairs of clean socks into my duffel, I ran from the room to find mom standing right outside my door. She had two suitcases, a duffle, and her purse, and I was sure that if I was to look inside her room it would be completely empty. I have no idea how she packs so fast, or so completely. It's almost like magic.

"Ready?" she asked. I hefted my bag and nodded. She fished her keys out of her purse and handed me her duffel. She walked to the door. "We'll board the bus for Memphis; it leaves in twenty minutes. I have a few friends there who will take us in for a week at least—they owe me money—and we'll come back when I think we should. Don't ask any questions."

I grumbled, but didn't disagree. I'd long since given up trying to understand my mother's motives, and, to that end, asking questions. "Let's just get out, already."

Mom smiled as she unlocked the front door. "Good girl." Then she opened it, straight into the face of the most strangely dressed individual I'd ever seen. He wore a black and white pin-striped suit over a lemon yellow blazer, red high-tops, and a silk top hat. His eyes were deep set and green, and his features were sharp and his messy hair dull brown.

"Hello, Miss and Ms. Chant," said he in a voice like crushed velvet. "My name is Philip Bacon, and I am the senior counselor of the American branch of the Confederation Of Latent Talent, or C.O.L.T, who caters to underage witches and wizards just starting on their magical journey." He smiled, and his teeth were like chips of porcelain. "May I come in?"