Author's Note: What little of this story I do own I wish I didn't. Enjoy the show.
. "So," Ron intoned quietly, drumming his fingers on the metal grip of the large automatic pistol he held rammed into Harry's mouth, "Here we are. Ground Zero. Would you like to say a few words to mark the occasion?"
"Hi hil han hinghohehihing." Harry mumbled through the stolen weapon in his gob. When you have a gun barrel between your teeth, you speak only in vowels.
"I'm sorry?" Ron asked pleasantly, removing the gun.
"I said I still can't think of anything." Harry clarified. Ron ignored this.
"Almost time." Ron muttered as he walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows of the skyscraper and looked down at the city below. As he leant over to look down at the ant-sized people down below, he braced his hands on the glass, clinking the gun against it. For a moment Harry forgot about the 400 gallons of nitroglycerin in the parking structure of a building less than half a kilometre from where he sat and wondered about how clean that pistol was.
Harry thought about everything that had happened up to this point: the insomnia, the support groups, the boredom, Fight Club, Project Mayhem, and suddenly realised that everything that had happened had something to do with a girl named Luna Lovegood.
. WAIT WAIT WAIT! You didn't seriously think I'd start the story that way, did you? I'm not that obsessed with Fight Club! Christ, show some respect for the author, people!
. Harry was draped over his mangy bed in the smallest bedroom of number 4, Privet Drive. Why, you ask? Damn, that question could have any number of answers. One such answer is that even after the showdown with Voldemort in the Ministry of Magic, Harry had still failed to work himself up into a paranoid venemous neurosis like a victim of crime is supposed to, and had decided to hold on to his self-hating angst for a little while longer. Another answer is that his abusive aunt and uncle had neglected to move Harry's back to the cupboard under the stairs after realising that Harry's continued use of the guestroom was unnecessary because it didn't fool the magical letter-sender of his first year and there was no reason to leave him there now. Yet another answer is that Harry was so apathetic, lazy, overheated from the summer heat wave, and bored of sitting around inside a house which was a bog-standard textbook case study of painful normality, that he felt like draping over his mangy bed instead of sprawling over it or collapsing over it, those had gotten boring ages ago. Yet another answer is that billions of years ago, an incredible event occured, where all of the matter in the universe exploded out of a single point the size of a pin, and a phenomenon called gravity attracted them - (insert 'Monty Python and the Holy Grail' clip where a hundred armour-clad people scream 'GET ON WITH IT!') - Anyway Harry was fulfilling all the clichés of the start of Harry Potter books.
"I am so bored." he droned, voice slightly muffled from the blanket. (Insert masterfully detailed and spectacularly boring description of Harry's exact thoughts on how bored and angsty he is, which was interesting in the early books but which I now skim past.) "I wish Sirius was here. And that Diggory hadn't died." he thought aloud, choking back a sob. (Cue Audience's 'Awwww.' Cue my loud, obnoxious fart.)
Harry thought about the people he knew and liked. He thought about Ron, and all his cool brothers. The coolest ones were, without a doubt, Fred and George Weasley. Last he'd seen them, they were dressed in dragon skin. He wondered how extravagant their attire would be now.
Suddenly Fred and George Apparated before him. Each one was decked out in so much gold leaf, gold chains, diamond studs and platinum rings that each made Goldie from 'The World is Not Enough' look like a Puritan monk.
"Holy shit, I can manifest thought! Dumbledore never told me about that ability!" Harry screeched.
The twins glanced at each other. "What the bloody blue blazes are you babbling about, bro?" Fred demanded. George slapped him for making such a long string of alliteration at the cost of running together three differently-styled vocabularies.
"Oh, just me being a wanker and jumping to conclusions." Harry shrugged. "What are you doing here? And what are you wearing?"
"Our joke-shop-cum-protection-racket is doing really well, so we treated ourselves." replied Fred.
"Der-brains, we've come to rescue you from your severely dysfunctional household to send you to Grimmauld Place!" George exclaimed, answering Harry's first question.
"You know, it could be argued that Grimmauld Place is an even more dysfunctional household, what with the dilapidation, decay, coming and going of warriors all the time, the permanent portraits of supremacist wizards, the most recent owner dying a not-so-violent death - "I was saved the necessity of finishing this sentence by George shooting Harry in the balls with a paintball gun. Harry slid off the bed screaming.
"You ought to know better than to try and approach things from an intelligent standpoint!" Fred scolded. "The target market of these books is a melting pot of the bored hordes of youth, there's no room for intelligence!"
"Discussing the nature of dysfunction?" George disdained incredulously. "You might as well have started arguing about the etymological roots of extracts of Noam Chomsky's major works! You got off lightly this time!"
"What the hell's all that screaming about?" Uncle Vernon bellowed from downstairs. "If you don't want me to beat the shit out of you, shut up now, because you're putting Petunia off her blowjob!"
Harry, Fred and George all cringed at this very very wrong mental picture. Many readers clicked back on their FanFiction.net browsers at this point, and two or three with weaker constitutions then chewed linoleum and topsoil to try and block out the image.
"Who's up for an ill-advised, out-of-character massacre of the Dursleys out of revenge for this author being such a twisted motherfucker?" Harry asked conversationally, extreme determination and revulsion overriding the throbbing agony in his balls.
"Aye." The Weasley twins chorused.
The three took out their wands and kicked Harry's bedroom door through. They forced their way into Dudley's room, and Harry's "AVADA KEDAVRA!" sent a bolt of greenness sailing into Dudley. Dudley defeated the killing curse in a different way to how Harry did when he was one year old, and in much the same way that Cartman defeated a direct hit from a dodgeball in South Park.
"He's so fucking fat he just absorbed it!" Harry stated in a yell.
Dudley's mind raced with the viscosity of treacle (for Americans, the speed of molasses). "Are you calling me fat?"
"Three simultaneously after three! One, two, three! AVADA KEDAVRA!" Three curses did the trick, Dudley flopped dead to the floor. The murderous three charged downstairs and into the living-room, where Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were having a little 'stress-busting session'. The three took one quick look, vomited everything they'd eaten in the last day, and collapsed unconscious.
TIME PASSES, NOT THAT ANYONE GIVES A SHIT
. "How do you plead?" asked a Wizengamot elder.
Harry thought for a second. "Guilty."
"So the defendant pleads not guilty." she stated clearly to the scribe, who scribbled something out.
"You misheard me - " Harry informed her politely, hiding his alarm.
"I think we've heard enough about this case, agreed?" the elder asked. There were nods and murmurs of assent.
"I want to plead guilty!" Harry said loudly.
"Now it's time to vote on the matter." she said. "Now the votes are counted [no such thing was actually done] we have reached a verdict. Harry Potter, George Weasley and Frederick Weasley are innocent of the murder accusation levelled against them, based on the incontrovertible fact that their victim was such a fat fuck that not only was it deserved, but their behaviour qualifies as a mercy killing. Court dismissed."
Harry was gobsmacked by the court's decision. Then he really was gobsmacked when Ron charged up to him, tried to thump him on the back in a friendly way, missed, and punched Harry in the side of his jaw. Harry blacked out.
He woke up flat on his back in the hallway outside Courtroom Eleven. "Are you alright, Harry?" Ron asked, concerned. Harry lashed out upwards with a foot, connecting with the side of Ron's head.
"Now I am." Harry muttered, as Ron slumped against the wall and blurted out a string of oaths of which a drunken ex-naval-type turned farmer would be proud of.
"Strewth, Harry! Gotten off on a Wizengamot charge twice within a year! You're getting criminally charged a few too many times, eh?" Bill Weasley grinned.
"Strewth is Australian, not British." Harry reminded him. "The word you wanted to say was 'blimey'."
"Oh, yeah." Bill said, brow furrowed. "It's hard to stay in character all the time when you're a twenty-nine-year-old American acting university graduate with distinction who's playing a hip, twenty-year-old British curse-breaker."
"The disadvantages of hiring Steven Spielberg to make this movie." Harry agreed.
All the characters present, including Harry, Ron, Bill, Fred, George, Ginny, Hermione, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Mad-Eye Moody, a passing Wizengamot elder and half a dozen extras in the background, take a moment to stare pointedly at the reader to make sure that the author has clearly expressed his distrust of any notion that Spielberg would have made a decent Harry Potter movie. The moment is reminiscent of the Two Minute Silence. Then things go back to normal, or as normal as they have been (about as normal as an amputee albino oragutan-turtle crossbreed mutant who's playing 'Flight of the Bumblebee' in A minor on the rectal trumpet).
Towelie came in. "You wanna get high?"
Harry stared. "Not right now. Aren't you only supposed to show up if we mention water?"
"You just did, silly!" Towelie giggled.
"After you came in." Harry pointed out.
"Say what?" Towelie asked, perplexed. Then Towelie imploded into a neutron star because he was getting boring. The people present forgot him with remarkable speed.
"I'm glad you weren't convicted, Harry." Mrs. Weasley gushed.
"Yeah, whatever." Harry replied. "All right, Ron?"
"Yeah." Ron said. "Over the summer I got into the Bloodhound Gang. Dean Thomas introduced me to some of their great works."
"Does this mean you finally understand electrical appliances, if you're listening to Muggle music?" Harry asked.
"Oh, I always did, I was just joking when I pretended not to." Ron explained wearily. "Don't tell me you think so lowly of me that you believed me, it's so fricking simple to understand electricity!"
"Oh, sorry." Harry apologised.
"Hang on for a bit, this is a great song." Ron informed Harry. Harry only just realised Ron had been listening to an earphone all this time. "It's 'I Hope You Die', and it's so funny!" Ron turned his head to the ground as they all continued to walk out of the dungeons, and started singing along with the music.
"I hope you flip some guy the bird
He cuts you off and you're forced to swerve
In front of a tourist bus, a Booksmobile, and a Mack truck
Hauling hazardous biological waste.
The light turns red
You have no brakes
And Hard Copy gets it all on tape
So you can see the look on your face!
Die! Die! Die! Die! Die! Die! ... Die!
Die! Die! Die! Die! Die! Die! ... Die!
I hope your Pinto begins to spin,
Takes out a disabled Vietnam veteran,
Mows down a Nobel Peace Prize winner
And maybe some orphans having Christmas dinner.
Perhaps even the British Royal Family
and the Rabbi who's watching a bottlefed puppy!
And we can't forget the newlyweds
And the Series kids are as good as dead!
I hope this helps to emphasize:
I hope this helps to clarify:
I HOPE YOU DIE!
...
I hope your cellmate thinks he's God
But CNN referred to him as Bowling Ball Bag Bob.
Serving time again for a piece of a corpse
Only this time the victim's a hightail horse.
While he masturbates to photos of livestock
He does the Silence of the Lambs dance to Christian rock!
Eats faeces and quotes from Deliverance,
And he fights with his imaginary playmate Vince!
Die! Die! Die! Die! Die! Die! ... Die!
Die! Die! Die! Die! Die! Die! ... Die!
I hope he grins like Jack Nicholson,
And forces you to play a game called 'Balls on Chin'!
And whatever happens next is all a blur,
But you remember 'fist' can be a verb!
And when you finally regain consciousness,
You're bound and gagged, in a wedding dress!
And the prison guard looks the other way,
'cause he's the guy you flipped the bird the other day!
I hope this helps to emphasize:
I hope this helps to clarify:
I HOPE YOU DIE!
...
I HOPE YOU DIE!"
Of course, while Ron was reciting this delightfully uncouth song, everyone else was talking. "Did you hear about what Fred, George and I did, Herm-" Harry stopped dead here when he looked at Hermione, because he suddenly realised she was decked out in full dominatrix regalia, including purple leather clothes, seven-inch heels and studded horsewhip. It's a testament to how gormless he is that he didn't notice before, or possibly it had to do with the aftereffects of being knocked out.
"Yes, Harry, I'm a dominatrix in my spare time." she sighed. "It's a testament to how gormless you are that you didn't notice before, or maybe it has something to do with the aftereffects of being knocked out."
"Apparently she just found out about your trial this morning, and had rush here from a job of hers without changing." Fred smirked.
"But we all know it's just shameless free advertising." George grinned broadly.
"So far we've counted three Ministry members and one cleaner who did a bigger double-take than usual when they saw her, and who we consequently suspect of being her customers." Kingsley told Harry. "Of course, she denies it."
"I deny it!" Hermione objected shrilly.
Mrs. Weasley, being an old-schooled fuddy-duddy, was looking dangerously angry with Hermione for so overtly expressing her sexuality. Dangerous to herself, I mean. Her lips were pursed unhealthily tightly as though they were in a hydraulic press, her face was so flushed and contorted she looked like she had a bleeding head wound somewhere on her hairline, and her eyes were so narrowed that she couldn't see anything and kept knocking into people and objects, muttering, "Sorry," to them whether or not they were alive. But a few minutes later, when the conversation progressed to Hermione's views on bestiality, her blood pressure tripled, resulting in instant death from a kind of aneurism.
"Oh, dear," Mr. Weasley said in some consternation, staring at her crumpled form. "Dearie me."
"That's the end of all the nagging!" Fred yelled, pumping his fist in the air. There was a loud POP! and some clinking. George had just uncorked champagne and produced champagne glasses for everybody. Even Mr. Weasley took one, and they toasted to: "Mrs. Weasley having duct tape over her mouth for the entire span of whatever afterlife there is, so she can't nag people!"
Make sure you lengthily review about the hideously painful death I deserve for contriving this. On the off-chance that you're on crack and you actually enjoyed this, give me some advice on where you think it should go, because although I've written half the next chapter I don't know where this "story" is gonna go.