Disclaimer: Read the fic and you shall see.
A/N: This is the first in what looks like it is going to become a series of lit-fics. I have created this concept at the suggestion of the Glorious Gnome as a means of revising for my English literature exam in a couple of weeks – memorising quotes and concepts and what not. She suggested that since I hate writing lit notes, I should make it interesting for myself by mixing it with my hobby of writing fanfiction. This is a very silly, relatively plotless ficlet. You have been warned.
Collision Artists
Harry had a problem. It had been like a growing awareness nagging at the back of his mind and growing and shifting and mutating until it became so huge and ugly and bloated that he had to find out what it was. He felt that he was being controlled. This, of course, was not a new or unusual feeling for him. Indeed, he'd often felt that Dumbledore was manipulating him into acting in certain ways. Voldemort, too, had tried to control his thoughts, his dreams and his actions before with varying degrees of success. Then there was his uncle Vernon. He'd never outright disobeyed the great oaf of a man that was Vernon Dursley. Harry had been set up perfectly as a tragic hero, though he refused, at first, to see it this way.
No, this was something different altogether, he thought. This had nothing to do with subtle manipulation, threat of starvation or beatings, or even legilimency and mind control. At first he'd thought that the feeling was simply the result of peer pressure, social expectations and a healthy level of paranoia. After all, he was the Boy Who Lived and a teenager. People expected a lot of him, and, being young, he often felt somewhat obliged to comply with these expectations. For example, he knew that he had a huge fan-base in the wizarding community, all of whom expected him to delight in snogging various anonymous members of the opposite sex. For Harry, it was not that he had a problem with sex. Quite the contrary, in fact. The problem with such fast-paced relationships was the word 'opposite'. Harry simply did not feel the attraction that he believed he was supposed to feel towards those of the female persuasion. He was not, however, completely opposed to the idea of women, and this served only to confuse him further.
In light of such revelations, Harry decided that the only possible solution was that someone had managed, somehow, to weave complex thoughts and feelings into his subconscious mind that he would not be capable of under normal circumstances. Hermione, the definitive authority on all topics, was of the belief that boys possessed the emotional range of a teaspoon, and being a fan of such a definitive authority, Harry knew that she must be right. And, he thought, that could only be possible if he was not a real person. Given that he had rather low self-esteem and a tendency to jump to conclusions based on poor research and few actual proven facts, he believed this at once to be the only possible solution. Fortunately (or possibly, unfortunately – I haven't quite planned that far ahead), Harry's hunches usually turned out to be right, and this was no exception. He went to Hermione with hi idea. The conversation went something like this:
Harry: Hermione, I don't think any of us is real.
Hermione (raised eyebrow): Why's that?
Harry: I think our entire lives are being sketched out by some omniscient, all-knowing –
Hermione: You mean JK Rowling?
Harry: What?
Hermione: JK Rowling. She's what's known as a Collision Artist.
Harry: What's that?
Hermione: Honestly Harry! Don't you read?
Harry: (blank look)
Hermione (sigh): The universe, or rather, the multiverse –
Harry: Multiverse?
Hermione: There are many versions of the universe out there Harry. Even you couldn't be so narrow-minded and egotistical as to think that this is the only one.
Harry: (blush)
Hermione (rolls eyes): Anyway, the multiverse is controlled by a group of Collision Artists. Ours is controlled by JK Rowling. It's her job to control our every action and even our feelings by typing words into Her Great Computer.
Harry: But why Collision Artist?
Hermione: Because, ultimately, they cause painful, gruesome, drawn out deaths of major players in their universe. Kind of like a really artful, slow-motion collision between the bull-bar of a speeding four-wheel-drive and a moth.
Harry: I see. (victorious) So I was right!
Hermione: Yes, but Harry, don't you realise what this means?
Harry: No. What?
Hermione (tearful): It means, Harry, that you are going to die a horrible, horrible death.
And since I've always wanted to end a story with those words, I shall leave this here. Have a nice day.