A/N: Having been AWOL for quite some time (I think it's possibly been 2 years since I've written a story! D:), I've decided to come back to FanFiction. My stories are normally parodies, mostly of movies. I lose interest in writing chapter-by-chapter stories XD
Having said this, here I am beginning a new chapter in my FanFiction life. I'm going to start movie series', one by one, parodying each one in the most humorous way I can. I am starting with Harry Potter, being a HUGE Potterhead! Any of you with me? J Each movie will be posted in a series of 5-7 chapters. The amount of reviews I get will determine how fast I update J
After this is completed, I have decided to treat all of you, potential reviewers/followers/favouriters, to the amazing literary novel 'My Immortal', followed, possibly, by 'imma wiserd'. Aren't you looking forward to that? Tell me you don't take all your advice for writing a Mary-Sue from Tara Gillespie/Gilesbie/Enoby?!
Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN ANY RECOGNISABLE THING IN THIS PARODY…BLAH, BLAH, BLAH. DO YOU THINK IF I OWNED HARRY POTTER I WOULD BE HERE?
Without further ado, I present to you, Harry Potter and the Philosopher's/Sorcerer's Stone (here's to appealing to US audiences! :D)
BEGIN!
*Blaring theme music, followed by unmistakeable 'WB' logo.*
With little or no explanation to the poor sod who's never read the books, we find a sign labelled Privet Drive. An owl is a-perched on this sign. Because owls are cool like that. They don't need to trees/barns to live in. They gots their housing estate signs.
More owls. The music is ominous. We sense foreboding. This foreboding comes in the form of a sweet old bearded man in a funny hat. How terrifying. The music producer has satisfied his audience.
This old man appears to be slightly mad, as he has an inverted lighter. Instead of lighting your cigarette, it appears this lighter will take the light from someone else's cigarette and store it, for some unknown reason.
This man and his unexplained lighter are sucking the light out of life.
This scares me slightly.
Not only has this old man got a backwards lighter, he also talks to strange cats.
OLD MAN: Ah, my friend. Mr/Mrs Tabby cat (I am unclear as to which gender this cat belongs). I should have known I would see you on this random street in a random location which may or may not be England to complete some unexplained task. I should have known. My backwards lighter should have told me. It's good for nothing else.
CAT: Meow.
We have established the cat's name is Professor McGonagall. What kind of crazy old cat lady has enough time on her hands to come up with that name?
Ah, I see. The Cat/Mrs Tabbycat/Professor McGonagall is actually a person named 'Professor McGonagall'. Why she is disguised as a cat is unclear.
Apparently, it's too mainstream for the writers to explain this random cat-person to the viewer. Something tells me they're running with the idea that each person has read the book. Good luck to the illiterate.
The Old Man also has a name. Professor Dumbledore treats this cat-changing-into-a-person as completely as a completely everyday experience.
McGONAGALL: Are the rumours true, Albus? Is the world going to end in 2012?
DUMBLEDORE: Yes, Minerva, I'm afraid the rumours are true. The good AND the bad. The good, Keepin' Up With The Kardashians will no longer grace/vomit on our screens*. The bad, they're going to have to cancel Dr. Who. *cries*
In some part of the world, the scriptwriters are laughing manically at their deranged script. Old Lady mentions 'The Boy'. Who or what the boy is appears irrelevant.
MOTORBIKE IN THE SKY
…
MOTORBIKES WERE MEANT TO FLY
THE GIANTS ON THEM
CAN TOUCH THE SKY
HANDS UP
DON'T DROP THE BOY
WE'LL DO THIS ONE MORE TIME!
…
Hairy man climbs off the bike, and gives a small, apparently sleeping, package, to the old man. The old man, unconcerned that a random child has been given to him, places this baby on a doorstep? What, is he a stork?
Or is the house an orphanage?
Or is it a family home?Again, the scriptwriters appear to not care for the sanity of the viewer.
What is a Muggle? Nobody seems to care that a random word has been placed into the script. I think the writers just thought about an imaginative way to smush the alphabet together.
Hagrid is crying. Lots of people make fun of this. But there is a relevant reason. A baby's parents just died.
Wouldn't you laugh if the baby was on the wrong doorstep?
If this baby's scar lit up in real life, and this wasn't a movie, I would be seriously worried. I mean, this child needs a hospital. There's a giant, cursed scar on his forehead. But that obviously doesn't concern wizards.
FAST FORWARD 10 YEARS.
All the irrelevant growing-up-stuff is apparently worthless.
We have a book of 'Harry's Firsts' for that.
This book, compiled by Vernon and Petunia Dursley, contains many of Harry's firsts: 'Harry's first time cleaning the toilet, aged 3'. 'Harry's first time cooking a Sunday roast, aged 5'.
Dudley's firsts, meanwhile, are things like 'Didders and his first chocolate fountain, aged 1', and 'Diddy and his first Xbox, aged 3.'.
There is a stamping fat boy on the stairs. He stamps on the stairs because walking down them is too mainstream. The fat boy is a hipster. KILL THE HIPSTER!
The 'boy who will be famous' is sleeping in a cupboard under the stairs.
This is not what the actor who plays him does, you can be sure.
Daniel Radcliffe's cupboard under the stairs is probably bigger than my bedroom.
Scratch that, his cupboard's probably bigger than my house.
PETUNIA: SLAVE! Even though I'm clearly anorexic, I want you to cook the breakfast. My desire in life is to make everything perfect for your handsome cousin's perfect birthday. So, to make it perfect, I will have you, my 11-year-old nephew, cook the breakfast while I lead my beloved child blindly through the kitchen.
HARRY: Good idea, Aunt Petunia.
VERNON: Quiet, you!
HARRY: Good idea, Uncle Vernon.
VERNON: Hurry up. Bring my coffee, boy!
HARRY: Sir, yes sir!
The Fat Boy seems unimpressed by the virtual mountain of presents in front of him. This amount of presents is what I have gotten, collectively, for the last six Christmases.
FATTY: HOW MANY ARE THERE? One…two…three…three…three…Mummy count them! Big school hasn't taught me to go past three yet.
VERNON: There's 37. I counted them myself. Over the space of 38 days.
DUDLEY: *flies off the handle* 37? BUT I HAD 37 LAST YEAR, AND FOR CHRISTMAS I GOT 42 AND TWO BIRTHDAYS AGO I GOT 39! ARE YOU TRYING TO TORTURE YOUR OWN SON TO DEATH? I WILL NOT STAND FOR THIS LACK OF MATERIAL LOVE. I PROTEST. PROTEST I TELL YOU!
HARRY (thinking): That was an intelligent sentence for Dudley.
So everybody's headed off to the zoo for a lovely day out looking at nice animals, having ice creams and lovely family memories.
And then there's the Dursleys.
If it's summer, why are there kids in school uniforms?
Ah well, here comes Harry to save the d-
No, just to set a snake free.
HARRY: *is clearly trying to chat up the snake*
Were you arrested earlier? It has to be illegal to look that good!
SNAKE: You're sssssad.
HARRY: Do you have a map? Cause I keep getting lost in your eyes.
SNAKE: Let me out before I get sssssssick.
HARRY: *is rejected*.
Harry gets angsty and vanishes glass. Totally what all teens do when they're having angst.
So then he gets thrown in his cupboard for mentioning the word 'magic'. What this has to do with his sexual attraction to snakes is unclear.
So every owl in the known universe is now outside the Dursley's suburban home. Not suspicious at all. It's like every postman in the world outside Number 12, Grimmauld Place. It's not right.
VERNON: No mail on Sundays.
Vernon is quite clearly wrong. Letters erupt from every crack and crevice of the house. Letters are literally raining from the ceiling.
The Boy is not allowed to read one of the 9 million letters addressed to him, and so to 'get away from it all' (literally), Family of Fat + 1 take a holiday.
So now we're on a creepy rock in the middle of the raging sea. It's like a mini-Azkaban. Prime destination for my next holiday: "Great Returns!"…the only problem is, you'll never return!
Harry is the most unloved child in the world. I mean, I've had bad birthdays, but his takes the biscuit. The dust biscuit.
BANG BANG SMASH UP THE HOUSE.
HAGRID: Wazz up? I'm seein here that I've knocked yer door down. Bett'r fix tha'. Despite the fact that all I do is place it back. A mere gust of wind could knock it back down. But, again, this appears irrelevant to the script writers.
PETUNIA: AAAAH!
DUDLEY: AAAAH!
VERNON: AAAAH!
HARRY: *hides in plain sight. Must be different. Must not follow the crowd. Right, Harry?*
HAGRID: SO, I'm lookin for a "Harry Potter"? I duno if he's here or not, and I'm not even sure how I actually go' here, but I'll take a wild guess and say Harry's the fat kid with the piggy eyes. How're ya doin, Harry? I'm yer surrogate father figure, Hagrid. Keeper of Keys (even though the only key I appear to keep is yer Gringotts one) and Grounds at Hogwarts. Tha's a school. Yeh'll be goin there soon, Harry, you will. Yeh should watch ou' for tha' li'l twat Draco Malfoy, and the greasy teacher Professor Snape. OH, AND YER A WIZARD, HARRY.
DUDLEY: *is confused* I'm not Harry. Thank God.
HARRY: *is even more confused* I'm a what? And what's a Draco?
HAGRID: All in good time. Happy Birthday, boy.
HARRY: WOW, after 10 years of practically being starved, you'd think I'd be a bit more grateful for some cake.
HAGRID: Here's one of the 987,765 letters that landed at your house.
HARRY: *feels the need to read the letter aloud, even though clearly book-readers know what it says. Appeal to all audiences, said the writers.*
VERNON: All right, so I have the chance to rid myself of the plague of my life, the bane of my days, the reason I'm never at home, and yet I SAY NO!
PETUNIA: Harry, you're a freak. My sister was a freak. Her husband was a freak. Her cat was a freak. Everything associated with the Potters are freaks. Oh, and BTW your parents weren't eaten by crocodiles on a safari in Kenya. They were blown up by an evil dude.
HARRY: My life will never be the same again. I'm blowing this lollipop stand.
In London. Somehow a half-wizard and an 11-year-old untrained student made it through the night in a raging storm in a wooden boat. Alive.
HARRY: *must read school letter aloud in the middle of a throng of Muggles. Who are clearly deaf to the mad little boy yelling about pewter cauldrons and owls*
HAGRID: Jus' wan' go the pub Harry. Won't be long.
Haha, on'y pullin' yer leg. Fancy a Gillywater? Or a Butterbeer?
HARRY: …
HAGRID: Keep fergettin' yeh can't legally drink and yer not one of us. Sorry.
HARRY: S'cool.
So the pub is packed at like 10am in the morning. Wizards are alcoholics.
YOU'RE HARRY FREAKIN' POTTER! Sang the entire pub.
RANDOM LADY: WOW, YOU'RE HARRY FREAKIN' POTTER!
HARRY: Dude, what the hell?
HAGRID: Soz, forgot to mention the slight little detail that you're incredibly famous and everybody knows your name.
MAKIN' YOUR WAY IN THE WORLD TODAY
TAKES EVERYTHING YOU GOT!WOULD'NT YOU LIKE TO GET AWAY?
Too bad. You can't.
SOMETIMES YOU WANNA GO
WHERE EVERYBODY KNOWS YOUR NAME!
HARRY: Bro, that's anywhere in the world for me.
HAGRID: Sorry, Tom, can't drink today.
BTW, Harry, the fact that Tom's name is Tom has some future relevance to the fate of the entire world, but you know, chill. You can forget it if you like.
And here's a totally innocent, definitely-not-transporting-Voldemort-in-the-back-of-his-head-Professor. His name is Quirrell. And he is innocent of any crime.
QUIRRELL: *better disguise my voice*. S-s-s-o nice t-t-t-o m-m-meet you, H-H-Harry. *vomits*
HARRY: If I had just met the baby responsible for saving the world, I guess I'd stutter too. On with the mission.
Harry and Hagrid move through the chillingly silent, wax-model pub.
HAGRID: *points wand at wall* Blowupero!
WALL: *Blows up*
HAGRID: Well, ah least now we don' have to go through all tha' tappin' and wha' no'. On wi' the show.
Okay, so Diagon Alley is thronged at 10am in the morning. Wizards are alcoholics and shopaholics. That must be hell on their bank vaults.
So Harry is suitably amazed at Diagon Alley, but of course, even though he's wandering around with his head in the clouds, he manages not to bump into anyone. Has everyone had impedimenta cast on them or what?
Speaking of bank vaults, we appear to be headed towards the world's most crooked bank. There should be a Guinness World Record just for Gringotts.
HARRY: Even though I am within clear earshot of the things, I feel the need to ask you, Hagrid. What are these things?
HAGRID: Goblins. They get tha' a lot. Muggle-borns an' tha'. Always shoutin' an' yellin' about goblins. Wond'r what'd happen if a Thestral wandered in here.
HARRY: Riiiight. Okay, Hagrid, back to bed.
GOBLIN: Hello. I am Warwick Davis. I play several characters in all movies. My Griphook changes significantly between now and book seven. But that's irrelevant. Key, mofo?
HAGRID: Even though I am supposed to disgust you by throwing items including mouldy dog biscuits on your desk, I shall instead root in one pocket, at random, and produce a key. Oh, and we need the thingy that's in that place.
GOBLIN: Dat's cool. Bitches be trippin' and whatnot. Let's go.
So we swoop down to the centre of the earth. You'd think it would be hot instead of cold down here. Since when is Gringotts a rollercoaster anyway?
GRIPHOOK: Vault 7,897,786. Your fortune awaits, Mr Potter.
HARRY: What's that Griphook?
GRIPHOOK: A cough.
HARRY: Riiiight Griphook. Back to bed.
So there are 9,786,785 coins in Harry Potter's vault and he has the good grace to look mildly surprised. I'm sure if I had a small fortune buried under the surface of the earth, I would drop dead. Or at least have a minor stroke. But no. Harry is only mildly shocked. Dropping dead is too mainstream.