This was written more to annoy my brother than anything, but since he's never read any Harry Potter most of the jokes went right past him. Originally posted to a darkmark forum and was greeted by complete silence since it contained no 'ships, snogging, or even holding hands. I recently discovered it on my harddrive and after finding my notes for further chapters I decided to slap a fresh new coat of paint on it and send it back out, kicking and screaming, into the cold, cruel world.

Contains loads of Harry Potter and passing references to incidents and/or characters from Star Trek, Doctor Who, Red Dwarf, and some other stuff I may have mentally absorbed but forgot the sources. It's obsessively canon except for the bit in Snape's dungeon where the story is told from his perspective rather than Harry's. I could have fixed that with a whopping great re-write but I'm lazy. So there.

Yes, the chapters are titles to old Devo songs, for no real reason other than I've been a Devo fan since like 1979.

Chapter One

Too Much Paranoias

In the Hallway Just to the Left of the Great Hall, No Further Left Than That, Harry Potter was being followed. Again. Strange shadows lurked in the corners, creeping silently, stopping when he stopped. This time it wasn't the Great Snapperoo Beast which gave his naked bottom a sharp flick with a wet towel in the changing room any time his back was turned. It also wasn't the Jolly Roger, which wasn't actually named Roger but it did jolly unspeakable things to its victim's backside, also when his back was turned. It couldn't be the mythical Night-Wanker, the infamous 'Self-Polluting Spirit' who all the teachers refused to talk about but was much discussed (in whispers) by the older boys. Harry had never seen one himself and didn't actually believe it existed, but was told there was a wizard who ran a very dodgy, dank little bookshop in Hogsmead who could conjure one up for him. He also sold cigarettes, French postcards, and rubber articles in packets of six. Harry didn't know how he felt about that one.

The floor creaked. Harry certainly hoped it wasn't that mysterious 'licking gnome' that crept about the lower corridors at night. It was the personal pet of a long since sacked DADA teacher and had slipped from the professor's quarters years ago, never to return. It hid in the shadows and would suddenly pounce, slobbering and licking, leaving any clothing below the belt sopping wet. Some unlucky students got caught by the 'licking gnome' several times a night. Harry was beginning to wonder about the sanity of the demented wizards who kept troubling beasts like this as pets. Their laundry bill must be staggering…

Harry looked around, in case there were Nasty Whirling Things, the big nasty things that whirled. Those had been a recurring problem since Book Ten--Harry Potter and the Whopping Great Nuisance. He shuddered with the memory. He swore he would never retell the story, and suggests you go and buy the damn book.

Harry stopped and listened. No sound. That was bad, frightfully bad. Much worse than if there actually were sounds. No sounds could only mean the Silent Strangling Doo-Whacky, one of the most horrific creatures ever conjured up by wizardkind, one whose reign of terror left its victims ripped open and gutted like fish, spewing fountains of meat and gore. It sucked out the eyes of its prey, and then capered about wearing their rotting skins. It picked its teeth with the bones of unborn babies then flossed with their sinews. It was also rumored to listen to 'Lite Jazz' on the radio and sell Herbalife. Just the very mention of the Silent Strangling Doo-Whacky was enough to cause even the most hardened old Combat Wizard to squeal like a girl and wet himself.

There was a bump. Harry breathed a sigh of relief. A bump meant it wasn't a Silent Strangling Doo-Whacky. Harry wouldn't encounter a Silent Strangling Doo-Whacky until Book Fourteen--Harry Potter Grasps at Straws (Pre-order now at Amazon!). Relieved it wasn't the Silent Strangling Doo-Whacky Harry listened again. There came from down the hall the sound of large, clomping feet. Big Kids. It had to be Big Kids. Only Big Kids had feet that big.

'Blimey,' thought Harry. 'Big Kids! They'll give me such a thrashing...' He didn't know which way to turn. Big Kids frightened Harry more than Voldemort did.

All the Big Kids hated Harry Potter. They thought he was a swotty, bespectacled little git. With a scar. The only thing Big Kids liked about Harry Potter was that his head was just the right size to fit down the loo, glasses, scar and all. The last time Harry had had a run-in with Big Kids he had woken up behind the wheel of a junked Morris Minor parked in front of Windsor Castle. That in itself wouldn't have been so bad, except for the fact the car was filled with dungbombs and Harry was wearing a tatty green jumper with 'Kiss Me I'm Irish' scrawled on the front in marker. He managed to make his escape before Muggle police discovered him, despite the car having been festooned with parking tickets and an orange metal boot locked on the front wheel (See Book Twelve—The Zen of Harry Potter).

There was a low, sinister honking noise. It wasn't Big Kids. Big Kids never honked; they were much too big for such nonsense. Suddenly there was a blood-curdling scream, a ripping sound, and then the head of a previously unmentioned Hogwarts student rolled down the hall towards Harry, leaving a sticky trail as it bounced. Harry was torn between the horror that someone had been decapitated and relief that it wasn't him this time.

While Harry was evading the foul beings lurking in the depths of the Hallway Just to the Left of the Great Hall, No Further Left Than That, Professor Snape was skulking in his dungeon being a slimy, evil git to a jar of rather unfortunate beetles. He was in a foul mood. Fouler even than when Harry and his best friend Ron Weasley had caught him picking a daisy last spring. He was intending to slowly pluck each petal from the daisy and tread on them, one at a time, but the story that had gone around the school was that he was going soft and had taken up flower arranging. He crushed a large wriggling beetle in his sallow hands, imagining it to have spectacles and a lightning-bolt scar.

A loud, wet sniff came from the shadows in the back of the dungeon.

'Jones, aren't you done scraping off those toadstools?' growled Snape without looking up. 'Don't they teach you anything at those Muggle schools?' He swept the remains of the beetle from his hands and slunk to the back of the dungeon to get a better look.

'Y-y-yes, but-but-but we never had to-to-toadstools growing un-un-under our desks!' she wailed. Jones was a nondescript Hufflepuff and the newest exchange student from America, inexplicably wearing a red Star Fleet tunic under her robes. She was clumsily scraping at a large growth of toadstools sprouting under the desks in the darkest back corner. 'I don't see-see-see why I have to get-get detention. It was meant to be a com-com-compliment!' she stammered. Jones wiped her runny nose on her sleeve and continued her inexpert scraping.

Professor Snape scowled. 'Miss Jones, I do not pretend to know the work of this Muggle thespian you allude my resemblance to. I do however know this Mr Rickman to be at least twice my age and I do not consider it a compliment, hence the month's detention.' Snape looked down his overlarge nose at Miss Jones' toadstool-removing ability and sneered while she sobbed even louder.

Suddenly out in the hall came a low, sinister honking noise, so sinister that it could be heard over Hufflepuff Jones's incessant wailing and Professor Snape's constant sneering. Both Snape and Jones looked up as a shadow slid past the dungeon door.

'Jones, why don't you end detention early today? I would prefer not to have to witness this charming display of mucous production any further,' said Snape, slimily. He pointed at the door. 'Get out of my sight.'

'Ye-ye-yes! I'll go!' and with that Jones was up and out the door like a freshly caught Cornish pixie. She shot down the hall and in her haste she ran smack into something soft and squashy. It gave a sort of surprised honk. Miss Jones shrieked, there was a ripping sound, and then her body and head parted ways. Professor Snape saw her head as it rolled stickily past his dungeon doorway. This concerned him for about 9/10ths of a nanosecond before he returned to squashing beetles. He had no patience with exchange students--decapitated or otherwise, and detested the very thought of them cluttering up his dungeon.

Snape returned to his little beetle-populated psychodrama. 'Potter, why haven't you done your homework?' Snape growled to a new beetle. 'I don't have to. I'm Harry Potter!' he mimicked in a high voice, capering the beetle about on the desk like tiny doll. 'We'll see about that,' he sneered, pulling the beetle's head off and spitting down the neck-hole.

The low, sinister honking noise faded as the thing clomped its way down the hall.