Real Author's Note: This was originally for a contest that I decided I'd never win anyway, but I liked what I had written. E-mail me if you'd like to discuss.
Author's Note: Um, please review this. Seriously, please review this, or I'll...I dunno, stop writing? What do whiny talent-less teenyboppers threaten when they're trying to jerk reviews out of people? Do they say they'll stop writing? Okay then, I'll stop writing if I don't get reviews. Totally.
Once upon a time, Voldemort had a daughter. Her name was Serenity Rose Amethyst Typhani Shaniqua Riddle, and she had lustrous ebony hair (her hair was black, not made out of wood) and sparkling sapphire eyes, only her eyes weren't really sapphires, just blue, because if someone like took out her eyes and replaced them with rocks that would be like ew gross, and can anyone say Muraki from Yami no Matsuei? Anyway, she was stunningly gorgeous and had a great body, and when she was born, Snape took her from her mother and sent her to America to live with a wizarding family, because he was afraid that Voldemort would flip out and kill her or something, for a reason that will never be explained. Anyway, she was raised as a Muggle, yet again for some reason that will never be mentioned, and when she was 16 she got her first letter from Hogwarts, because it takes the owls a really long time to fly across the Atlantic, and damn if a few of them didn't drown on the way there. So they had to keep sending the owls out, and finally gave up and switched to swallows, but then they had figure out the airspeed velocity of a swallow carrying a letter and or coconut, and they couldn't figure out if the swallows were African or European, and anyway, by the time they thought "Hey, let's just send Hagrid over there with a letter!" five years had passed, and since Hagrid couldn't Apparate or anything, he had to fly, as in Southwest Airlines, and that didn't go well because they made him buy two seats and were a little pissed when he insisted on paying with foreign money that no one could figure out the origin of, and when they had to tell him time and time again that no, sir, we can't accept "Knuts", we don't care what the exchange rate is. So he got pissed and knocked down a couple sausage kiosks, and by the time he got over to her house he just tossed the letter at her and went off into the night. Anyway, she went to Hogwarts and all the guys were totally after her, and the trio were her new best friends, and she was good at all her classes, and Snape adopted her as his daughter, and she had a bunch of Muggle technical equipment that worked for some reason in Hogwarts and she made everyone else like Backstreet Boys like she did, and she was a flying unicorn Animagus, and Harry liked her like that but she didn't like him like that omg teh angsssttttt!!!one!!!!, but he got over it and she and Legolas got married in a triple ceremony with Ron and Hermione, and Harry and Draco, and Harry had a kawaii little angel baby!!!, because apparently Draco was an angel and Harry had a uterus, or a spell that allowed him to grow one. And they lived happily ever after, and when Serenity became Queen of Mirkwood, they all lived there, along with the Fellowship (which she was incidentally the tenth member of), even Boromir whom she brought back from the dead because Sean Bean is teh hott, excluding Gimli, who was heartbroken at Legolas' marriage and went away to the north or west or north by northwest (Ha! Hitchcock reference! L3373R 7H4N 7H0U!), and no one wanted him anyway, because he wasn't pretty like the others.
But this, despite what you might think, isn't her story.
No, it's the story of Voldemort's other daughter, a daughter he called...
Well, I can't tell you, can I? Just read it and find out, ya lazy bums.
And get off my goddamned lawn.
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Harry strode through the halls of Hogwarts, whistling a song that at first he thought he made up, but then realized it was actually "Love is a Battlefield". He stopped whistling abruptly. He wasn't gay. No, he wasn't gay. All those thoughts about how hot Tom Felton- I mean, Draco was, the love of show tunes, the eerie knack for interior design... They were perfectly normal, straight guy things. He had certainly never entertained fantasies about being married to his arch-nemesis in a peach satin frock and matching pumps, lace veil, no gloves, carrying a bouquet with twenty six perfect roses and a hint of baby's breath. Never.
He was straight. And very lucky that the nocturnal visions of one Ron Weasley were widely discredited. After all, a boy who dreamed about tap-dancing squirrels mugging him and then dancing away couldn't be believed when he said he was pretty sure he saw Harry applying heavy make-up to himself at one in the morning, and being pretty good at it too.
...Stupid Ron. He was just jealous, that git.
But homoerotic thoughts and illicit midnight make-up sessions aside, he was off to see Dumbledore. Apparently the wise old man had something important to tell him. Harry hoped it wasn't another mind-blowing revelation about his parents or saving the world. He had had enough of those already, and with two more books coming, there were sure to be more. He swore bitterly to himself, wishing he weren't the pawn of J.K. Rowling and demented fanfic authors like the one he was currently in the clutches of.
But then he realized he wasn't supposed to be aware of all this, straightened up, forgot it, and began to whistle again.
This time his tune quickly turned to Cher's "Believe".
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Dumbledore was in his office, thinking of possibly switching from robes to muumuus, as muumuus provided so much more freedom of movement and sometimes came in cool patterns like Hawaiian flowers and would be much prettier to look at and whether he could change the school dress code from robes to muumuus and require the muumuus to be patterned and get away with it, when Harry entered.
"You wanted to see me, sir?" the boy asked respectfully. Dumbledore wasn't fooled. He could practically see what Harry was thinking- Please don't tell me anymore about Voldemort, please don't tell me anymore about my parents, please don't tell me anymore about my destiny, because it always ends badly, you Celtic fairy.
Well, Dumbledore may have fairyed about (A/N: OMG! I totally used a noun as a verb! OMG, I'm so naughty!) in his day, but damn it, he was as English as anyone else! "Harry, I'm leaving Hogwarts!" he yelled.
"No!" shrieked Harry. "Who will sit on his ass and watch benevolently as I struggle horribly, swooping in as a deus ex machina at the last minute/providing plot exposition?! You can't leave!"
"What's with the "?!"? Is that a new slang thing or what? I mean, you can't physically speak the "?!", can you?" asked Dumbledore.
Harry rolled his eyes. "It's used to modulate tone, to express that the speaker is both emphatic and questioning."
"Ah. Anyway, what's your question?"
Harry repeated himself. The old man propped himself up and appeared to think. After approximately an hour and a half, he responded.
"Um, I dunno. You think Filch wants the job?"
"You can't make Filch headmaster! He'll reinstate whippings and make Mrs. Norris vice-headmaster! Anyway, he's not exactly deus ex machina material, now is he?"
"No, you're right. I'll just give Professor McGonagall the job while I'm gone. You don't think she'll do anything girly, like make Tom Cruise head of one of the houses or spill sparkly nail polish over important papers, do you?"
"No, not if we're talking about the same Professor McGonagall," Harry said, bewildered.
"Excellent! Then, I'll see you around!" Dumbledore got up, brushed off his robes, and opened the window. He was about to jump out, apparently onto a broom, when Harry asked him another question.
"Um, sir? Why are you leaving anyway?"
The headmaster sighed. "I'll tell you, Mr. Potter, but I have to do so in a long-winded fashion that will touch on everything but what you're asking about, only for you to find out I can't speak of what you want to know."
"Oh, okay, fuck it then," Harry said brightly. "G'bye."
Dumbledore waved and went out the window and Harry waved and went out into the hall. He was upset, yes, but started to whistle anyway, mainly to cheer himself up. It worked, for a little while.
Until he realized that his piping had turned into the Village People's "Macho Macho Men".
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It had been a month since Dumbledore had left, and everything was great. There weren't any phoenix droppings all over the Great Hall like there were normally, McGonagall had been unable to disguise her natural bias towards Gryffindor and now they were ahead of the other houses by three hundred points, and she had finally made Filch get rid of the thumbscrews. Life was great, indeed.
Harry, Ron and Hermione were walking along to class one day, engaging in a spirited discussion.
"Harry, I don't care what you say, but you were definitely just whistling Barbara Streisand a minute ago," said Ron.
"Was not, you wanker!" Harry retorted.
"Quiet you two!" hissed Hermione. "My teacher sense is tingling!"
"Teacher sense?" asked Ron.
"Some people have a built-in ass-kissing detector. Hermione is one of those people. She just calls it her teacher sense," said Harry.
"Shut up! And we're needed in the headmistress' office. Let's go!" The girl grabbed her friends' hands and began to drag them behind her. They created a wake in the hallway not unlike that of a jet ski. (A/N: Jetskis! Yay!)
"Fine, but I better get some pepper jack cheese as a reward," whined the red-headed boy. "Or is that Hermione that likes pepper jack cheese?"
"Hermione, but only if she's punked out. God, don't you read your pottersues?"
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Professor McGonagall was in her new office, looking severe and McGonagallish when the three burst in.
"You needed us Professor, oh paragon of all wisdom?" asked Hermione in an out-of-breath tone, batting her eyelashes like an electric fan stuck on "on", on ecstasy.
"Wha- How did you kn- Oh, never mind. Sit down. Headmaster Dumbledore needs your help."
"We don't have to go and defeat Voldemort to help him, do we?" Harry asked. "'Cause I've done it five times all ready, six, really, and I'm a little tired of it. I was thinking maybe I could take this year off from battling evil, spend a year traveling, not really doing much but getting to know myself-,"
"Sorry Potter," the teacher said briskly. "You'll defeat Voldemort again this year, but now is not the time for it. No, I need you three to go get the Headmaster back. He's been sulking too long, and he's got something to tell you that is very important."
"Where is he?" asked Hermione.
"Grimmauld Place."
Ron snorted. "That's it? No scary dungeons? No Ministry of Magic battles? We just have to go to Sirius' house? That's crap. Take it back and give us something a little more challenging!"
"Shut up Ron shut up!" Harry hissed. He turned to his teacher and smiled. "Of course, Professor. We'll go right now."
"All right. Just don't spend the night there. All the howling and carrying-on those two do when they lock themselves in the bedroom for the night... It's not for young ears."
"But it's not a full moon, Professor. Won't we be okay?" chirped Hermione.
"Oh, you'll be perfectly safe, you just shouldn't listen to all that...racket. It goes on every night, and the poor Headmaster shouldn't be exposed to it, much less three impressionable teenagers."
"Oh!" gasped Hermione. "You mean Professor Lupin and Sirius..."
"Exactly," confirmed the teacher.
"I don't get it," said Ron.
McGonagall fixed him with an imperious gaze. "Mr. Weasley, have you ever read the story "Heather Has Two Mommies"?"
A moment (hour) passed, and then realization and laughter dawned on Ron's face, like the light on the waffle maker. "Ha! Harry's got two godfathers! That's priceless!"
"Shut up, Weasley! I'll beat you like a red-headed stepchild, you...red-headed...non-stepchild!"
Harry spat.
"And I'll beat you both!" hissed Hermione. Turning to the professor, she smiled. "We'll get right on it, and be back with the Headmaster in no time, ma'am!" Quickly karate-chopping the brawling boys on the back of the neck and knocking them senseless, she smiled again and dragged their limp bodies outside of the room.
"Hey, isn't Sirius dead?" asked Ron, as soon as he regained consciousness. He had forgotten large chunks of the conversation thanks to Hermione's L337 ninja skills, but that had stuck with him. "Or vanished or something?"
"Author's a Sirius/Remus fan. Not only is he not dead in this fic, he's having mad hot sex with Professor Lupin. Which he may very well be doing in the books, but no one can prove it definitively."
"But omg! OTP! Theirloveissocanon!" said Harry.
The other two stared at him. "What?" asked Ron.
"Sorry," he said sheepishly. "Author's fangirling got the better of me for the moment."
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"Well, there it is," Hermione said. "Grimmauld Place."
The house hunched in front of them, dark and ominous. The windows were shuttered and the whole place had a look of foreboding, of Poe-esque, unspeakable evil.
"Yay! Grimmauld Place! Maybe Lupin'll have chocolate!" screeched Ron happily. He ran straight towards the looming, unspeakably evil house. The author seethed at this defamation of her description and made a note to smite Ron the first chance she got.
Ron stopped, mid-stride, smile fading from his face. Screaming, he dove to the side, narrowly missing the smiting the omnipotent author had carefully prepared for him. Swearing, the omnipotent author resolved to aim more carefully and prepared to try again.
"Stop, omnipotent author!" squealed Ron. "We can't be afraid of the house! Not with Sirius and Remus living there! No, what we have to be afraid of what "marital aides" we might find in the house, not the house itself!"
Acknoweledging the wisdom in this, the author put away her smiting equipment. She could work a foreboding, Poe-esque, unspeakably evil vibrator or something in there. She cackled and continued with the story.
"So," asked the black-haired protagonist of his female friend, "How did we get here in the first place?"
"Quiet! You want to be smote too? The author doesn't know, she's just hoping readers will notice the tilde things and accept the scene change as it is!"
Harry grimaced and began to walk a little faster. He was pretty sure he could be smote anywhere, anytime, but he would feel much better with a roof over his head.
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When they entered the house, they were immediately greeted by Mrs. Black's portrait. "Mudbloods! Kill the mudbloods!" she shrieked.
"I guess that's her way of saying 'hello, how do you do, please sit down and make yourselves comfortable, I'll have my nasty little house elf bring tea and cakes in a minute," Ron whispered to Harry.
"But that's where I think you're wrong, Mrs. Black," Dumbledore said, emerging from the parlor in a hibiscus-pattern muumuu. "Not only would it be wrong to kill the mudbloods, it would deprive us of a source of cheap labor and if necessary, delicious meat- oh, hello, children. How's everything at school?"
"Great!" said Ron enthusiastically. "Gryffindor's winning the house cup and without your bird crapping all over the place- I mean, terrible, really truly horrid."
"Honestly? That's wonderful! I mean, that's really bad, horrible indeed," said Dumbledore. "I better come back right away. You HAVE come to beg me to come back, right?"
"Uh, yeah!" said Harry. "After all, if you don't come back, who's going reinstate Filch's thumbscrews?"
"The thumbscrews!" shrilled Ron. "Won't someone please think of the thumbscrews?"
"Harry, is that you?" someone called out. It was then that Sirius and Remus descended the stairs, looking exactly like they do in Japanese fanart, all long-haired and bishie and gorgeous. Everyone's breath was taken away by the pretty.
"My God..." breathed Hermione. "You're...biseinen..."
"Isn't it great?" said Lupin, smiling. "Why don't you go into the parlor and sit down. Sirius and I will go put on some pants." (A/N: Woohoo!)
The three children and the Headmaster and the children perched upon cushions in the parlor, sharing the space with whips and backless chaps and something long, clear, and softly cylindrical. Harry tried not to speculate on what it was. (A/N: There was a foreboding, Poe-esque, unspeakably evil vibrator in there somewhere.) Eventually they were rejoined by the two men, who were wearing what appeared to be brightly colored tents.
"Are you wearing my muumuus?" asked Dumbledore.
"Uh, yeah," said Sirius. "We were going to do the laundry, and then one thing led to another, and..." He and Remus exchanged glances, and blushed.
"Is that why my laundry basket is broken?" the old man questioned. "Are you telling me that you two had sex in my laundry basket?"
"So, kids, how are your studies coming? Still top of the class, Hermione?" said Remus quickly.
Hermione's response was cut off.
"I can't believe you had sex in my laundry basket! First of all, I didn't think it was physically possible, but you had the temerity to tell me it broke from natural causes, ie, doing laundry, when really you were FORNICATING-"
"Who wants tea?" asked Sirius. "I'll call Kreacher to make some."
"-SEX in MY BASKET-"
"I'll find him!" volunteered Hermione. "I'll try to set him free or something, excuse me-"
"-Made THE BEAST WITH TWO BACKS in MY-"
Hermione dashed out of the room.
"She really is the smartest of us three, isn't she?" whispered Ron. Harry nodded.
"-THAT I HAD the GOODNESS OF HEART to bring here. How would you like it if I had SEX in YOUR basket?"
There was a wild dash for sporks, so the four could dash our their eyes, Jocasta-style. It was just as well that none were found, as no amount of sporkage could ever destroy the mental picture they would have with them forever after. It was much like a tattoo that no laser could ever remove, a tattoo of Dumbledore having sex in Remus and Sirius' laundry basket right on their foreheads, so they would see it every time they looked in the mirror. It was permanent.
There was stunned silence for a minute (two hours) until Hermione returned, nursing a swollen hand. "The little fucker bit me!" she announced. "He bit me and ran under the counter where I couldn't hex him properly!"
"That means he's in the crawlspace now," said Sirius brightly. "I'll get the broom. You want to hit the wall next to the crawlspace with the broom handle too? The vibration and the noise make him uncomfortable, and scatter the collection of fish heads he's got up there."
Hermione was about to wholeheartedly agree to it when Harry stopped them. "Wait, Professor McGonagall said that Headmaster Dumbledore has something to tell us. We should really find out what it is before we go torture and torment the cornered, abused, vicious, opposably-thumbed animal that is capable of killing us all in our sleep."
The old man sighed and hunched over. "If you must know... Recent events have caused some aspects of my past to surface. Aspects that I'd rather not recognize, and I needed a break from my work at Hogwarts to organize and collect my thoughts, in the presence of friends."
"You are such a giant puss," scoffed Ron. "You can't deal with your problems n your own, so you come out here to cry about it? What's next, you sitting on the couch eating a gallon of ice cream in your robe and watching the Lifetime network? Besides, real men don't have thoughts, they just do what'll get 'em babes."
It was at this revealing statement there was a burst of green light from the chimney. From out of the grate stepped Snape, looking smug and sooty at the same time. "Here they are, my dark lord, I told you I'd bring you to them."
There was another green flash, and suddenly Voldemort himself stood there, red eyes slitted in a disdainful glare. He looked about the room, and settled his gaze on Dumbledore.
"You," he said, and his tone held all that was black and dead in the world. (A/N: I'm so poetic! Yay!)
"You," replied Dumbledore.
"So, this is what has become of you...my daughter," said Voldemort.
"Yes, father," said Dumbledore.
"WHAT?!" said Hermione, Harry, and Ron.
Remus shook his pretty, pretty head. "This isn't really the proper venue for this. Shall we adjourn until we can do this right?"
Assent was given on both sides. Ignoring the gaping jaws of the trio, everything was packed up (including the backless chaps but not the evil vibrator) and moved to the proper venue.
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Some of you might be guessing "the proper venue" right now, and feeling oh-so-clever. I can hear you. "If it's Jerry Springer, it'll be so totally cliché, and I'll laugh at her because she's not teh samrt like me. Ha ha ha." Well, if you think it's Jerry Springer, you're wrong, you elitist lesbian bitches.
It's Oprah.
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"I've never seen so many menopausal soccer moms dressed in festive sweaters in my life," whispered Harry to his friends. He, Ron, and Hermione were sitting in the front row at Oprah's studio, waiting for the taping to start. He felt out-of-place and vulnerable, waiting for an attack, rather like a Little League umpire that had just declared the child of every woman in the room out.
"Yeah, did you see all the SUVs in the parking lot?" Ron whispered back. "I wonder what it'll be like when everyone's trying to leave. You know, all that road rage and hormones and vague sense of dissatisfaction coming from having sublimated one's desires and ambitions, merely to conform to society's standards by raising a family and supporting a less-talented, unfaithful husband... It'll be like a monster truck rally, actually. We should go watch!"
"Shut up, Ron!" hissed Hermione. "The show's starting!"
As Oprah appeared, the audience burst into screams. They were not joyful cries, but war-like ones, the cheers of an army greeting their beloved general. This was the woman who could popularize a recipe for lemon bars to the extent that all others would vanish into oblivion. This was the woman who could take a long-dead "classic" or trashy romance novel and put it at the top of the book charts. This was the woman who would lead the revolution, bring about the new epoch, the Time of the Middle-Aged Housewives. She was Queen. Impossibly outnumbered, Harry and Ron shrank down and their seats and tried to wish their testicles away.
Oprah took the stage and sat down. The cheers continued, unabated, until with one swift flick of her wrist, she motioned for silence. The room immediately went quiet, everyone's eyes wide. Oprah smiled ferally, and began her monologue.
"No one's family is perfect," she began, "but some families make ours look downright normal by comparison. Our first guest today will be sitting down next to his daughter for the first time in fifty years. Please welcome Voldemort."
The dark lord himself flounced onto stage, dragging Snape behind him by the ear. The hapless Potions teacher looked terrified and whipped. There was snickering in the crowd.
"Now, Voldemort, tell us your story," invited Oprah.
He glowered, and gave a sharp tug to Snape's ear. "It's all this idiot's fault", he sneered. There was a smattering of boos in the audience.
"In the early 1980s, I was poised to take over all of England and possibly the world, due in part to my large cult of followers. This sniveling moron suggested to me one day that I needed an heir. I didn't realize until much later that he wanted to be my heir, so I chose a devotee, impregnated her, and hoped for a boy. When the baby was born a girl, the idiot here feared my wrath and cast a spell on her that turned her into a boy. He unfortunately made a mistake, and not only turned the baby into a boy, but sent him over a hundred years back in time, destroying the delicate fabric of time and space, and ruining my chances of world domination. The child, in its' new time period, grew up, became the Headmaster of Hogwarts, and at sixty years old, taught my young self. This is Freudian enough, but the child shares none of my imperialistic ambitions, and even went so far as to foil me on a number of occasions."
"That's...really interesting," said Oprah. "Shall we hear the other side of the story? Please welcome Albus Dumbledore."
The old man tottered out onto stage, taking a seat as far away as he could from his father. "All I wanted was some love!" he declared. "All I wanted was for my father to recognize and appreciate me, but no, he was eleven years old, he didn't know how to be a father! Instead of affection, I get fear and loathing!" His eyes shimmered, full of tears, and he turned to Voldemort. "All I want is for you to love me," he said softly.
"But... I do," said Voldemort. "All these years, I've been so afraid, because I don't how to talk to you. But... If you're willing to give me a second chance..."
"Papa!" cried Dumbledore.
"My little girl!" cried Voldemort.
And the two men, visibly crying, embraced. Snape tried to use the opportunity to sneak off, but Voldemort, without turning his head, hit him with an Unforgivable curse. Snape shrieked, spasmed, and finally lay twitching and slightly smoking at the edge of the stage.
"This is so fucked up," said Harry.
"Yeah," agreed Ron. "You wanna get out of here?"
"Shush!" said Hermione. "This is really compelling stuff. You go, I'm staying here for a while."
Harry made a move to protest, but Ron shook his head. "She's becoming a woman, a middle-aged woman," he said. "She's already in Oprah's clutches, it's only a matter of time until she starts watching HGTV."
Casting pitying looks at Hermione, he and Harry left.
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Oprah turned to the crowd again, slightly bewildered as to what to do. Voldemort and Dumbledore had been hugging for the last twenty minutes, unwilling to leave the stage. Why hadn't she taken a leaf out of Jerry Springer's book and gotten security? Determined to keep her cool, she decided to introduce the next guests.
"Our next guests are somewhat...odd as well. Lovers since high school, one's an unemployed werewolf, the other's an escaped felon, but they couldn't be more happy. Unfortunately, their relationship is disapproved of by one of their mothers, a self-proclaimed "Muggle-hater" who currently lives on in a portrait. Please give a big welcome to Remus Lupin, Sirius Black, and Mrs. Black!"
Mrs. Black's portrait made its' way on stage, carried by Kreacher. "Muggles!" she shrieked. "I smell Muggles! Kill 'em! Kill 'em!" The crowd went wild.
But where were Sirius and Remus? Turning to her producer, she learned that they were still in the green room, and were quite...busy. Sighing, Oprah gave instructions to have the green room hosed down after they left, and the footage the security camera captured put on the Internet and sold for a price. With the way her studio was being abused, she deserved the millions she was going to make with that tape.
The End
A/N: Omg, I'm done! Wasn't that like such an epic for the ages? Like the Iliad, and Sirius and Remus can be Achilles and Patroclus and have smoochies time! Homoyay, yay! Ok, y'all gotta R & R (A/N: What does that stand for anyway? hahahahaHA) and maybe e-mail me! Mmmkay? Love you! Bye!
P.S. A/N: I don't really love you. The most I will ever feel for any of you is passing gratitude for a good review, and sheer scathing hatred for a bad one. Overall, I'm indifferent to you, just like the cold, callous world is. You don't matter to me, I don't care about you, and I don't love you. Unless you're one of my friends, and then, huggles and glomps for you! Yay! Huggles and glomps!! XOXOXOXOX!!!!