All concepts, characters, and magical creatures are sole property of J.K. Rowling; here, used for non-profit & purely entertainment reasons.
Author's notes: If you happen to have a story line, character name, or alias similar to something in this story...it's all happy coincidence. Actually, it's sad coincidence considering the mood of my story...
If you're one of the unfortunate few to have read this before the modifications, I apologize. Kou Shun'u was right, I did put up a rather mediocre story. I suppose I've improved it somewhat–it would be incredibly vain to assume that "It's better now!"–and can only hope you cannot see my struggle in between the lines.
Sigh. Another modification. Normally, I don't give a damn if somebody is offended by my work, but I must clarify this: I am not making fun of American stupidity. I am American, and, while not overly proud of my government, I do like my nation.
Besides, I'm not targeting stupidity, American, British, or of any other nation.
I'm targeting stupidity in general. And if you cannot suspect that underlying goal as you read this fic, I have bad news for you.
I'm targeting you.
Bloody Brilliant
by Adelaide E
xoxox
Was it so unnatural for a young man, of natural urges and unshakable hope, to wish for...a collaboration, of sorts...with a physically perfect young woman?
Well, Harry thought as he typed furiously, a lot of rather angry and jealous people thought so!
It wasn't fair! So what if the character he had written had a perfect chest? That didn't mean she wasn't a nice person!
As all rather young, passionate, and ostensibly embarrassed writers tended to do, Harry, pitifully alone–if one did not count his latest dreamed up girl, red haired this time–began to speak aloud as he typed.
"This iz my world, and that's why it's called fanFICTION, so if you don't like it, don't reed it!"
And, though Harry's small, personal space was bursting with good intentions, some dirty laundry, and legions of girls with legions of hair colors, Harry Potter noticed he lacked both a dictionary and a spellchecker.
It goes without saying, of course, that Harry–one of the most prolific Mary Sue writers to date–lacked Originality, but that had been missing for a period too long to measure.
Harry moved onto the next, perfectly hysterical, perfectly livid review.
At this point, a rational person would wonder where on earth Harry had acquired a computer, and how did he manage to persuade the Dursleys to let him keep it, and why couldn't he find a perfectly imperfect female who lacked a troubled past, was not involved in a dubious prophecy, and could be found within a ten mile radius?
But, a kindred spirit, and understanding soul–namely, another Mary Sue writer, who wished to review, not only out of a sense of friendship, but in hopes of advertising her own story–would simply accept the convenient facts as they were, and protect the rotten logic of the circumstances with a shield called Artistic License.
"You suck," Harry read aloud, wishing that his scar would tingle, to prove that both the criticism and the critic were evil, and therefore ignorable. "This is a waste of space. You're only writing this to make your stupid, selfish, fantasies come true."
He paused, and digested the accusation.
"Well, DUH!" he said loudly to his monitor.
But, that wasn't a feasible argument! Harry didn't give a damn if his romantic, and somewhat cliched work was horrible, excruciating pain to a reader's eyes! And he didn't give a damn that he constantly imported girls from the States!
Couldn't people just understand that Harry, with no rational explanation of "why", was a hopeless magnet for orphaned girls from Virginia?
Obviously not!
He began to type with renewed vigor. Fanfiction-Harry would get laid, damn it. At least, in Mary Sue stories, the girls found true love with him before they hit the sheets. Now, if he was a tall, blonde, archer Elf, the sex just came instantly, and with no promise of Burrow-like domestic bliss at all!
Hmmm....what was a good argument?
"Dear U Suck,
You're parents were crool to give you such a name. Btw, OF COURSE I've read the books! I just didn't like the way things turned out. It's my choice to change the world however I like. Harry's perfect, so he deserves somebody perfect too."
Harry nodded, and sent the e-mail. Of course, he didn't think of himself as perfect–though some, shamelessly self advertising writers would disagree–but he had to write that, to justify the perfection of the girl.
Whose name was Reina, by the way. Reina Haricorizon.
Harry wished there were less e-mails and flames about his story. He had to write the next chapter, in which he explained the beautiful meaning of beautiful Reina's beautiful name.
Queen of Harry's heart.
It was a good thing James and Lily hadn't decided to name him "Barry." Baricorizon didn't flow as well.
And, after he wrote this enlightening chapter, he fully planned on holding the next chapter–which detailed how Reina's fate was conveniently twined with his own–hostage, until he got ten reviews or more.
For it wasn't enough to push nonsensical, grammatically appalling, literarily sickening drivel upon the masses. He had to feel empowered while he was at it.
The next review was almost sweet. It left Harry rather confused as to how to react. And, in confusion, he instantly reached for Defensiveness, an instinct he had refined the most since invading the world of Harry Potter fanfiction.
Hi Harryizmyne,
I know you've been receiving quite a few flames, and I feel they are justified. I noticed, however, that you shrugged them off, and perhaps this is because the criticisms were angrily written.
Please take note. This is not intended to attack or antagonize you. I'm writing this to help you.
Please describe Reina. I know you have gone into great detail with her physical appearance..."Long, luscious, red curls that match her fiery personality"..."blue eyes with golden flecks in them"..."curvy, smooth, legs"..."
And then Harry stopped reading, and sat back with a slightly glazed look. She was pretty, wasn't she? He could almost see her now. She had full lips, that smiled only whenever he said something witty or comforting–which he tended to do a lot, despite the fact that he barely knew her. And she could sing! In a rare fit of persistence and encouragement spurred only by the likes of her, Harry–and his "gang," because, while one could not totally write his friends out of the story, one could summarily dismiss them with collective terms and background fighting–insisted that she sang. And when Reina opened those perfect, ruby lips, a melody poured forth, so beautiful that even Draco Malfoy fell in love.
Harry hated that. But, it made things so much more dramatic when Draco contrived to kidnap the girl, in hopes of converting her loyalty to the good wizards into a dark, romantic love to him, and then Harry came in to save the day.
Besides. Everybody knew that whenever a Mary Sue entered the Harry Potter Universe, unwritten law stated that any single boy with good eyesight was to fall in love with her.
And, during the course of "falling in," a small clause to that unwritten law stated that, if it was necessary to complete legality, these characters would have to Fall Out.
Of Character.
Small price to pay, really. Harry didn't mind if he suddenly forgot his problems–life, death, the fate of the world as he knew it–if it meant to suddenly obsess about what to buy for his secret crush's birthday.
A disembodied voice told him that he had mail, and Harry's heart leapt at the sight of botfanfiction...
But it was always iffy, reviews.
Either they loved it, or they hated it. And, when they hated it, they were quite bombastic about their hatred. And when they loved it, he had so much trouble deciphering their misspelled reviews that he couldn't quite feel the full effect of their love.
Oh joy! It was from somebody who loved How Harry fell in Luv!
"OH WOW! THIS STORY IS AMAZING!"
He paused, wondering why the happy reviewers always wrote in caps. Perhaps to convey their bubbly, easily pleased personalities?
"REINA'S SO COOL! HARRY'S SO HOTTTT!"
Okay, so there was no reference to the plot whatsoever–and there should have been, for in the last chapter, it was revealed that Voldemort is after her too!. No matter.
He had gotten four "T's." Surely that made up for the lack of genuine interest.
"KEEP WRITING!"
Now, that was silly encouragement. Harryizmyne had been around long enough to know that whether somebody wrote "Keep on writing" or "Die bitch die," Mary Sue writers continued in their abominable trade, no matter what.
"P.S...." Harry sighed. There was always a P.S.
"COULD YOU READ AND REVIEW MY STORY, HARRY'S HEART HEALS? IT'S REALLY GUD! THE SUMMARY SUX, BUT IT GETS BETTER INSIDE!"
He didn't want to, not really. Why read somebody else's version of their dream come true, when he had his own perfect plot right here? Besides, if the silly little fangirl couldn't write three, satisfactory sentences to sum up her story, why should he have faith in her presumably longer prose?
He deleted it, and added a tally in his head. Three more reviews to go before he let his readers see another chapter...
Now that his attention focused once more on the screen, and not on some ideal, impossible woman, he continued to peruse that gentle flamer.
"...but what is she like? What books does she read? Doesn't she have friends outside Harry's circle? Why does she faint all the time and why is Harry the only one who picks her up and carries her to Madame Pomfrey's? Don't they have spells for that?"
Well! This reviewer was certainly more annoying than any flamer! Making Harry think like that, and ponder the loopholes of his plot! It's so damn annoying to have one's flaws pointed out so subtly, and with no animosity whatsoever!
Books to read? Mary Sue's don't need books! They had Harry-snogging to do! Besides, more often than not, they were natural geniuses, and had read every book Hogwarts had to offer.
Friend's outside Harry's circle? If Reina–or Marla, or Melissa, or Kelly, or Brittney, or Trista, or so on, or whatever, or forgot-her-name-but-not-her-"eyes"–had friends who had no connection to Harry, how would those anonymous, Harry-less friends contribute to the main goal? Which was, naturally, to snag Harry Potter.
As to the fainting...well, sometimes life grew too harsh to stay conscious! Mary Sues have abusive figures in their muggle life, and perhaps some taunting figures in their Hogwarts' life! And, if their sometimes troubled, hidden past came to light–which it always did, unfailingly–the best way to deal with overwhelming problems was to faint, of course.
Harry sulked in his computer chair. It wasn't totally illogical that fanfiction-Harry would be the closest one to the girl when she swooned. He emanated comfort and good will, after all. Of course she would swoon in his direction!
As to levitating spells...how was fanfiction-Harry supposed to feel the Mary Sue's heaving bosom and thundering heart beat, he'd like to know, if that Mary Sue was floating in the air and out of his strong, capable arms?
Bereft of any proper counterpoints, Harry copy and pasted his last response email, and sent it to this "helpful" reviewer's email address. The young wizard smiled to himself smugly. He had been rather intelligent, he thought, in making sure only signed in members could review. That way, he had access to his potential critics' email addresses!
Of course, there was a downside to this defense tactic. He could not review his own story, under a fake, anonymous name. Still, if he paid his dues and reviewed other fics he neither liked nor read, those authors would return the favor and review his own.
It was a vicious cycle, really, of self-insertion and self-advertising. A vicious cycle that most pleased Harry, who was constantly getting a plethora of young ladies thrown in his lap–sometimes, literally.
There were the sarcastic, "witty," unimpressed ones, who were won over by Harry's honest and heroic behavior.
There were the sweet, shy, rescued types, who found both a friend and a savior in The Boy Who Lived.
There were the perfect, cold, ice queen types, whose hearts were melted by Harry's patient and understanding ways.
And then there were the types who had no personality at all–only a great body and perfect hair to offer.
And, to Harry, that was quite a lot to offer.
Just then, his door swung open, and Harry jumped up, ready to attack.
But it wasn't Mr. Dursley, or Aunt Petunia, or his hippo of a cousin invading his privacy.
No. It was Draco Malfoy.
Draco Malfoy, his arch nemesis. The boy who constantly belittled or seduced Harry's potential true loves. The boy who constantly belittled or seduced anybody, come to think of it.
Draco Malfoy, and a great deal of parchment and quills.
"Move your bloody stuff," he ordered loftily, and found a bit of space on Harry's desk. Potter watched in amazement as Draco set down his writing materials, produced an ink well out of thin air, and began his ferrety writing.
Truth be told, Harry had no idea if it was "ferrety" writing, for he had never seen a ferret scribble anything. But, in his astonished state of mind, he could not find a proper insult.
"What the bloody hell are you doing?" he demanded.
"Writing my bloody Mary Sue," Draco shot back, annoyed. "Why the bloody hell do you want to know?"
"Because you're in my bloody room," Harry exploded. "Why can't you write in your bloody castle?"
"I can't," Draco explained, returning his gaze to his atrocious fiction. "My bloody father would bloody die if he knew that I was writing about some bloody girl who manages to reform my bloody Death Eater ways."
The hippo-cousin, also known as Dudley, happened to be strolling past Harry's open door way, and stopped out of curiosity.
"Why do you two keep saying 'bloody'?"
"To keep in British character of course!" Harry said impatiently. When Dudley's face remained blank–an all too common occurrence–he continued in exasperation.
"While many American writers may not know the proper slang and idioms of the English, they do know from movies that we say 'bloody' or 'brilliant.' Sometimes, a few manage to subtly show that they knew what 'knickers' mean."
"So..." Dudley began slowly, processing his words at a sluggish speed, "So, generally, anything they picked up from Spice World?"
Harry nodded. "Yes. That's about it. Wait–did you watch that movie?"
Dudley stiffened. "Of course not." He narrowed his piggish eyes. "Did you?"
"Bloody no," Harry denied instantly, and, in fear of an awkward, silent moment, closed the door in his face.
"This isn't making any sense!" Harry exclaimed as he paced. Draco barely looked up. "Why are you in my room? Why am I on speaking terms with Dudley? And how the bloody hell did I get that computer!?"
He pointed an accusatory finger at the muggle contraption, which neither offered a reasonable explanation nor explode.
Draco did, however. Not explode, but offer a reasonable explanation.
"It's a parody, you stupid sod. People show up at random. It's a rule."
"I thought parodies broke rules," Harry wondered in puzzlement.
"Parodies mock standards," Draco corrected. "For instance, a parody could give me twenty younger sisters, all of whom manage to capture your heart and incur the wrath of my father, spinning a Romeo and Juliette-esque tale."
"Do you have twenty younger sisters?" Harry asked with perked interest.
"No," Draco snapped, suddenly becoming uncharacteristically protective of sisters he did not have. "And, even if I did, you wouldn't have them."
"Who'd want them?" Harry parried, crossing his arms. "I'd gladly date girls whose parents were not the products of Uncle Daddies and Grandma Sisters, thank you very much."
"You'll pay for that, Potter!" Draco roared, springing to his feet. He stopped short of lunging, however, when Harry asked:
"Why do you always say that?" His tone was one of ennui. "Surely, there's another vengeful phrase."
"What?" Draco relaxed considerably, and appeared thoughtful. "'You'll pay for that' is a classic."
"Yeah, but your father says the same thing."
"He does not!"
"Well, he silently conveys the same thing."
"He does not!"
"No? I vow, I saw him the other day brush against a Salem Institute for Witchcraft and Wizardry exchange student, and he gave the extraordinarily pretty American a look that said 'You shall pay for that.'"
"Slander! Lies! Something that must be yelled!" Draco yelled as he attempted to pounce on his rival. He was stopped short, however, by a devilishly handsome young man with dark hair and a lap top.
"Oof," he groaned from the floor, rubbing his nose, which had connected with the electronic notebook. "Who are you?"
"Young Sirius, duh," Harry's godfather-to-be answered confidently. Seeing that the computer desk was occupied, the young man of seventeen settled himself comfortably on Harry's unmade bed.
"You didn't say 'duh' in the seventies," Harry pointed out in annoyance.
"I didn't do a lot of things in the seventies," Sirius said sensibly. "But most of the young writers of today would not know that. They also seem to think that I would have gladly welcomed a young, American girl with open arms, despite the fact that quite a few of us viewed the States as a land full of greedy capitalists."
Draco and Harry exchanged looks of utmost confusion, and Sirius rolled his eyes to the heavens. "Never mind. Forget I said that. All that matters is, in the seventies, I was dreamy."
This sentiment Draco and Harry could understand perfectly, for that description had been applied to themselves many times before, as if it were the only thing important about their characters.
Now, there were many things wrong with the situation. Harry had a computer. Draco was in Harry's room. Sirius Devilishly-Handsome Black–how fortunate that his parents had given him such a convenient middle name–was writing flawless females for himself, as if he had Harry's habit of scaring off potential girlfriends with default teenage bumbling.
Where did that computer come from? Why couldn't Draco find another place to write? How did Sirius travel through time, acquire a laptop, and sit on a lonely teenage boy's bed without cringing? Who was expected to answer all these questions? And, if no one was expected to answer these questions, why does the author keep asking them, or putting them in the summaries?
It didn't matter.
They were all dreamy. Or, hot with multiple "T's."
And that's what mattered.
Sirius, who had been typing the woeful story a heartbroken but hopeful girl, under the pseudonym Padfootluver, suddenly noticed Draco with interest. "You're that Malfoy kid, aren't you?"
Draco, too busy making his part Veela, part Mermaid girl reform his black heart, only nodded in agreement.
It was difficult, writing a part Veela, part Mermaid girl. For, when one thought of the two creatures, one instantly summoned the female specimens to mind. No one wanted a story of a Veela stud, or a Merman.
But then, how was it possible for a young, enchanting girl to be born from two, female, magical beings?
Well, he supposed it was always possible that somebody buried a Veela, and then a Mermaid, in a hole in the ground, sprinkled the grave with lots of water, sun light, and love, and out sprung this concoction of pure beauty.
"Last I heard of you, you were wooing Harry's little sister."
That made the Malfoy look up. In fact, he was so offended by the idea that he broke his quill.
Harry was less apprehensive about the news.
"I have a sister?" he repeated with wide eyes. Then, much to the two males' chagrin, he began to dance and jump around with unmitigated joy. "I have a sister! I do have family! We'll be the closest siblings! I'll protect her from gits like Malfoy, and she'll give me girl advice! It'll be perf–"
"Your fanfiction sister, idiot," Sirius interrupted in disgust. "They like to make Draco Mary Sues somehow related to original characters, as if justifying their sad existence in our world."
Harry, who had been radiating with newfound family exuberance, now wilted considerably. With a pout, he marched to his computer desk and gave his fanfiction-Harry a little sister.
"I would never," Draco seethed. "Ever link myself with a girl of mixed blood! The very idea sickens me!"
"But you have no problem sleeping with a partial Veela," Sirius pointed out challengingly, perhaps in defense of a god daughter he did not have.
"Of course not! That's different!"
"It's a moot point," Harry drawled, eyes glues to the screen. "I'd never let him any where near Susie."
"Who?" Draco and Sirius demanded simultaneously.
"Susie," Harry repeated emphatically. "Susie Potter! My long lost little sister!"
"Oh god, James would have never named her Susie!" Sirius sighed.
"You're right. Yvette sounds more like it," Harry muttered to himself, and began to replace all the "Susie's" in his document.
"I don't care!" Draco ranted on passionately. "Susie, Yvette, Pandora–I would never touch her!"
"Oooh, Pandora!" Harry said enthusiastically.
"Pandora Potter?" Sirius began to observe Harry with pity, and wondered if he truly wanted to be the godfather of such an idiot. "Are you mad?"
Before Harry could defend the name choice and before Draco could further elaborate his abstinence from Potter-relatives, Sirius added:
"Do you realise that the both of you, on average, churn out three or four Mary Sues per week? And yet have not finished one?"
"Point being?" Draco asked, bored.
"Perhaps, you two are not satisfied with imported, ideal women of your stories. Perhaps, the ideal mate is closer than you two care to admit."
The air grew very thick, and as if unable to fight the forces of nature, Draco slowly turned his gaze to Harry. And Harry, degree by degree, raised his emerald eyes to meet his rival's. They had denied it for so long, masking it under hatred and adversity. What was to happen, if they shed their automatic hatred, and simply spoke as two equals–
"Er...I was thinking along the lines of Ginny and Pansy," Sirius clarified with mounting alarm.
The heavy atmosphere fizzled out instantly, and Draco and Harry turned away from each other in shocked and disturbed silences.
"You're one to talk," Harry taunted, facing the blast from the past–god forbid somebody ever named their story that!–with an irked expression. "Telling us to find our girls here, when you've got a Mary Sue right there in your hands? What's her name? Cassandra? Gwendolyn?"
Sirius had the grace to appear sheepish. "Diamond."
"Diamond?!" Draco hooted.
"Were her parents miners!?" Harry laughed with glee.
"It's a perfectly good name," Sirius cried, almost offended on his character's behalf. "It was Ruby, but I learned that was taken..."
"They're all taken," Draco said knowingly.
"Yes," Harry agreed. "Soon, there'll be stories about you and 'Granite.'"
Then, because it had been far too long since they had been graced by a random and illogical visitor, the window flew open on its own accord. Then, of course, nobody even felt the smallest of surprise when in stepped...
Tonks?
"Wotcher!"
The men stilled, turning to each other in confusion. Nobody had done anything to merit a "Wotcher!"
"What are you doing here?" Harry asked with an appalling lack of manners. A sensible person would wonder why Harry, who had been lamenting his single status only moments before, would be treating a young, living, and heterosexual–as far as we know–lady so terribly.
But a person of little sense and even less orthographic skills would cause Tonks to assume long, soft black curls, icy blue eyes, and the title of The Girl Who Lived.
"This," she began in a rather businesslike tone, "is rubbish. This," she pointed at the computer. "That," she added when she pointed at Draco's pile of parchment. "And especially that," Tonks emphasized when she addressed Sirius' lap top. "All of it must go!"
They were men, however. Men had fought and died for their ideals before them, and that sort of sacrifice would not stop now.
So Harry leapt in front of his PC, Draco stuffed the parchment down his shirt, and Sirius slid the laptop under his bum.
"Why especially me?" Sirius wanted to know, offended. "It's because I'm from the past, isn't it? It's Time-traveler discrimination, and I won't have any of it! You can tell The Man to–"
"You die!" Tonks roared, hands curled as if she wished to wring his neck. "You die in Harry's fifth year! So there's no point of having you find love in the past!"
That was a bit too depressing for words. In fact, Sirius was silent as Tonks managed to slip the notebook out from under him and toss it out the window. He would have even shed a few manly tears had not Tonks let out another random "Wotcher!"
"She's rather...angry, isn't she?" Draco murmured to a bewildered Harry.
"You're so observant," Harry replied acidly.
"What's the point of all her 'Wotcher's'?"
"To confuse the American masses," he answered simply.
Draco made an interested noise as they watched Sirius fall under the hypnotic spell of Tonks' ever changing hair colors.
"Is that normal practice? To confuse American masses?" he asked curiously.
"It's not practice. It just solidifies your mark as an English writer."
"Oh...in that case...micky, pudding, and camp," Draco declared happily.
Why were the pair speaking amiably? How did Tonks manage to climb through the window? Who else was waiting outside Harry's window? Will Harry get a bouncer and screening process for his window entrance? Why the hell are all these questions being asked?
"What's this all about?" Sirius demanded as Tonks, brooking no argument, proceeded to delete or burn anything that resembled selfish, egotistical writing. "Are you jealous because people don't pair us up with you?"
Tonks rolled her eyes. "This is about the absurdity of your–Wotcher!–endeavors. Do you honestly believe that J.K. Rowling sold billions of books worldwide with unsatisfactory plots?"
There ensued a great deal of shifting eyes, shuffling feet, and grumbled excuses.
She continued vehemently. "Do you honestly believe that her books would be better if she had written it so that each and every one of you fell in love with an annoyingly perfect angel? Wotcher!"
At that point, the men had nothing to say in defense of their "rubbish," only began to look around guiltily.
"Do you honestly believe that your crap gives the already struggling genre of Fanfiction a good name?"
The men were properly ashamed of themselves by now. Oh, they had known, of course, that their "works" were less than stellar, and that they ate away at the good name of Fanfiction like a festering, venereal disease...but it had been so much fun, giving themselves happy endings, and rewriting the depressing bits of the books!
"Besides," Tonks continued, staring Harry down pointedly. "Do you know what happens when you end up with an equally troubled, equally heroic, equally prophesied beautiful girl?"
Harry shook his head mutely.
"You have one fucked up kid on your hands!" she snapped. Her eyes switched to Draco. "And there's no saving the integrity of your house, no matter how much outside blood you bring in."
It was true. It was all true. Harry knew that, in the odd chance he were to find true love during his teen years, all the while avoiding the mistake of confusing it with lust, the product of such a marriage would result in a traumatized, orphaned infant with a Rescuing complex.
So they said very little, except the odd whimper now and then, as Tonks methodically destroyed all the damning evidence. Her hair varied and heightened in shade and hue as she skimmed the sad excuses of literature.
First it was red. Then it changed to blue. Then, green flowed from the roots to the hair ends. Golden, orange, lavender...and then the odd pattern of colors that said "Buy tires from Good Year"...
And they barely said good bye when, in the lowest pit of depression, the three men trudged down stairs in search of comfort foods.
And, so, they were very much ignorant of Tonks who, upon finding herself with a perfectly peaceful refuge, pulled a thick, college ruled notebook from her robes and sat on the window sill. Her inkstained fingers began her story with glee.
"Remus, as intelligent as he was, was very slow when it came to recognising a good thing when he saw one..."
xoxox
The End