A/N: Do not read if offended by black humour.

Harry Potter was unsatisfied with life. With Hogwarts, with his dead parents, with the Professors. Even the memory of Ron's violent death no longer gave him comfort or fulfillment. His life was hollow, filled with bitter resentment and the remaining pieces of Voldemort's soul.

Deciding tofu devon and cream-cheese surprise was sacrilegious to his pagan belief, Harry retreated from the overwhelming stench of students gorging their unthinkable faces in the Great Hall. Even their eyelashes, which he had once seen so clearly as violently jutting toothpicks now only resembled what they truly were: Dumbledore's reconstituted flesh, unknowingly pinned to each students' eyelids in their sleep.

The realisation had caused Harry considerably pain, the after-effects of the resulting illness now jilting and trailing at his side, more club than foot.

Dear Diary, our tortured hero scrawled later that night. His quill fomed the shapes of words only he could understand.

You're the only one who gets me. You came to me last night in the deepest darkest hours. ... I know you did. Your hideous visage leapt out at me, your furry teeth were clenched, you yellow eyes rolled in your head. ... I know I was dreaming, but I'm a wizard. I can make dreams a reality. We will be together. We will be happy together.

When are you going to visit me again? I've come to crave your spastic touch.

Love,

Harry Potter

The diary registered a new tint of insanity to Harry's words. Then it continued on with its humdrum correspondence course in accounting.

"Nobody understands what I'm going thorugh," Harry sighed the next day, reluctantly facing the calloused face of Professor McGonagall. "Nobody cares."

Professor McGonagall despised Harry Potter, everybody did, but the cultural hierarchy of celebrity demanded respect. She punished her tortured mind and withheld her livid ripose, the anger instead brsting through her deteriorating skin.
Harry Potter watched bemusedly as Professor McGonagall bled form every orifice. Three minutes later he threw her bloody cadaver through the window in her office. It fell rapidly to the lake far below, obliterated from any recognition by the force of impact.

Feeling as though something was finally going right, Harry drew his cloak around his eager face and swept from the room.

The school body celebrated the absence of Professor McGonagall the next day. It was widely known Harry Potter was responsible for her death, (he had boasted of it at breakfast), and the sight of the giant squid fondling and feasting on her bloody remains was the stuff of legends.

The news of her death spread quickly throughout the wizarding community. Over the next week owls began to arrive in their hundreds, witches and wizards volunteering themselves for a repeat performance, eager for the Giant Squid's tender touch.The feeling of razor-sharp suckers on the flesh (even in death) was an attractive prospect for all concerned. It was one of the first things new Hogwarts students learnt, and surely had market potential.

Embracing the sounds of sensual screaming and snapping synapses issuing from the Great Lake, the Professors and students continued gleefully on with their day-to-day activities.

But on person wasn't happy: our antagonist hero, the boy who lived.

Harry still felt misunderstood. In the world, he had a total of three friends, which is one more than you might think. Moaning Myrtle was his very best, but she was currently immersed in a messy relationship with Professor Flitwick.

"But I'm a teacher," Harry heard the Professor protest to her one evening. "You're a student. It's not right!"

"I died over fifty years ago," Myrtle sobbed in reply. "Say it Filius! Say you love me as much as I love you!"

The Giant Squid was Harry's second best friend. But of course, he had all of his arms full lately, what with the constant caressing and pleasuing he now found himself practising. He felt trapped. He was nothing to his clients, not really. Only an object, something to use.

The life of a lake prostitute wasn't suiting him at all. His tentacles were bruised and tired, and Snape who was in chage of payment and admission to the lake reaped all the rewards.

A few first years once a year was all I really ever needed the Squid realised with a mournful sigh.

The Whomping WIllow was Harry Potter' third best friend. But even dear old Whompy seemed distant to Harry. They'd used to spend lonely night harbouring each other's darkest thoughts and fears, rocking together in the tree's majestic boughs, holding each other tight.

But no longer. Ever since 'Harry potter and the Mysterious Seed" had spawned an ent-wife, the Whomping Willow had been too pre-occupied beating the wretched thing away to harbour any agonised secrets. The love had dissipated rom its tree-hole into the sky. The hole remained, which photosynthesis could not fill.

Just as Harry Potter's misery seemed just too much to express on paper, Harry caught sight of Hermione sitting a little way down at the Gryffindor dinner table. She sat by herself, looking just as misunderstood as he felt. A hope gleamed in Harry's tortured soul. Perhaps his answer was staring him in the face. Maybe it had been all along.

"Say Hermione," Harry started.

"Yes?" Hermione's enormous teeth answered, her fierce gaze intensified by eyebrows that had stopped being eyebrows long ago.

"I was just wondering, can we be frien -"

DEAD

EVERYBODY