Author's Note: I still wish I didn't own any of this mental defaecation, and I certainly don't own any of Harry Potter. As for the ONE reviewer I got, rejoice, for the second chapter of 'the best thing on FF.net' has landed, with the grace of a one-winged pheasant riddled with buckshot.
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TIME PASSES, NOT THAT ANYONE GIVES A SHIT
. When the Thestral-drawn carriage slowed down and came to a halt, Harry stopped playing the spread-hand table-stabbing knife game enjoyed by many gangsters and cutthroats worldwide, stopped kicking a Ravenclaw second-year in the face, threw a Hufflepuff second-year facedown into the mud outside the carriage, and used him as a stepping stone over the mud, followed by Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Dean and Lavender. They traipsed up to the castle, but because the weather was being so unruly they only paused to push Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle into the lake, and to curse a couple of Slytherins in the back, and to throw rocks at Professor McGonagall, and to wedgie a couple of fourth-year Gryffindors at Ginny's request, and to throw a few more rocks at Professor McGonagall.
As they waited in the hall for the first-years to show up for the Sorting ceremony, Harry carried on with the gangster knife game while Ron made a drug deal with several Slytherins and Hermione had a bitch-fight with Pansy Parkinson. At long last the sopping wet first-years came into the Hall, led by Professor McGonagall and Hagrid.
The Sorting Hat burst into song:
"Immanuel Kant was a real piss-ant
Who was very rarely stable.
I. Deggar, I. Deggar was a boozy beggar
He could drink you under the table.
David Hume could out-consume
Good ol' Friederick Hagel.
And Wittgenstein was a beery swine
Who was just as shloshed as - "
"That's the Philosopher's Drinking Song, not the newest Sorting song, you senile old hat!" Professor McGonagall screamed.
"Oh, sorry, Professor." the Hat smirked.
"One more thing like that and I'll cut you up into squares and use you to patch people's robes!" McGonagall bellowed. "Now get on with the real song!"
"Well, um, Professor, there's a problem, you see." the Sorting Hat muttered apologetically, staring at the floor, stalling for time.
"Which is?!" she rasped severely.
"I haven't thought of one this year." it admitted quickly.
"What?!" she shrieked.
"I tried, Miss, honestly I tried!" the Hat sobbed. "But you try thinking up a new song about exactly the same thing every year; even if you're more musically talented than the Muse you run out of material after a few hundred years!"
"Well, instead of admitting it, you should have used one of your previously created songs which was so old not even that candy-crazy old fart Dumbledore would have remembered it, and pretended it was new." she reasoned, calming down slightly.
"Are you joking?" The Sorting Hat yelled. "The colloquialisms of the English language, and the meaning of most of the words, were completely different seventy years ago! Even if I could remember one of those songs, they would sound like Celtic folk music today!"
"Oh, fine!" she snapped. "Carry on with the Philosopher's Drinking Song and start the Sorting!"
"Where was I? Oh, yes - "
"And Wittgenstein was a beery swine
Who was just as shloshed as Schlagel.
There's nothing Nietzsche couldn't teach ya 'bout the raising of the wrist.
Socrates himself was permanently pissed.
John Stuart Little of his own free will
Drank half a pint of shanty and was particularly ill.
Plato, they say, could stick it away
Half a crate of whiskey every day.
Aristotle, Aristotle was a bugger for the bottle
And Hobbes was fond of his dram.
Rene Descartes was a drunken fart
'I drink therefore I am'.
And Socrates himself is particularly missed;
A lovely little thinker but a bugger when he's pissed."
TIME PASSES, NOT THAT ANYONE GIVES A SHIT
. Harry sat at the back of the History of Magic classroom, making out with four topless groupies. He had put his glasses into the pocket of his robes, now cast over a chair. He was wearing nothing but boxers and socks, and would doubtless lose those too within the next five minutes.
"If I'd known Binns was this bloody clueless, I'd've been doing this kind of crap for ages." he thought aloud as Binns continued with his lecture on post-1914 goblin control legislature.
"Since when do you get groupies, Harry?" Ron asked in an annoyed voice, openly masturbating under the table.
"Ever since I got back to Hogwarts and all the insecure girls around the place found out I've now faced Voldemort five times without dying." Harry answered, voice slightly muffled because of the girl trying to slurp his tongue out. "Haven't you noticed I've been doing this stuff for the entire of the three weeks we've been back, except not in lessons before?"
"No, I hadn't." Ron replied honestly, getting back to listening to 'Magna cum Nada' by the Bloodhound Gang, fantasizing that he was in Harry's place right now and jerking off under the table.
TIME PASSES, NOT THAT ANYONE GIVES A SHIT
. Harry stepped down the fairly steep stairs into the lowest level of the dungeons. All the other members of the secret association were already waiting. Harry looked around from fanatical face to fanatical face as he noisily clumped down the stairs. He came to the bottom and continued walking. The crowd moved around either side of him as he walked forwards, making him feel like Moses parting the Red Sea. He came to the centre of the room, moved a little towards one of the walls, and faced his audience.
He opened his mouth and began to speak loudly and clearly. "As is the usual, I recite the rules before we start. Rule number one is, you do not talk about Fight Club. Rule number two is, you do not talk about Fight Club. Rule number three, only two people to a fight." Wait, shit, scratch that crap right there. I don't want to get back into Fight Club, let me start over.
He opened his mouth and began to speak loudly and clearly. "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for showing up to participate in this devious plot. I see that, because none of you require hospitalisation from near-fatal burn injuries, that none of you have any intention of betraying this cause, or else you would not have passed through my Intention-Finding Invisible Force- Field on the doorway. As you must all be aware, I am intending to assassinate the majority of the high-flyers in the Ministry of Magic because they're bellends and I feel like it and I want the infamy." Everyone remained silent. Suddenly a Slytherin stepped forwards.
"I just want to say that I don't give a monkey's about your politics, I'll follow orders and not tell anybody what you're doing as long as I get paid." he said bravely.
"Yeah!" agreed a Slytherin witch.
"Hear, hear." Ron called from the back.
Soon Harry was on the receiving end of a cacophonic barrage of assurances that nobody wanted to hear Harry railing against the government, they just wanted him to hand out orders and pay.
"Fucking fine, then." Harry snarled. "Right, who here has parents or contacts in the Ministry?"
A selection of hands went up.
"All of you are to keep your ears to the railtracks, learn as much as you can about the comings and goings of everybody, especially those of that incompetent Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge. The rest of you, practice all of your offensive spellwork, and show up for Dark Arts lessons here once a week at this day of the week and time of day. Such skills will be essential for the impending attacks we will start and my reign of terror, although you will not be paid during this time.
"And now, everybody get into a good bit of space so we can start the Dark Arts lesson."
There was scuffling as the crowd of people separated from being one amoebic blob in the middle of the room until they were evenly spread out around the dungeon, all looking to Harry for direction, who was busy reading a book from the Restricted Section as to how to do certain Dark charms and hexes.
TIME PASSES, NOT THAT ANYONE GIVES A SHIT
. Harry was bodily hurled into Dumbledore's office. His robes and boxer shorts were tossed in after him.
"Fucking hell, Harry, you degenerate!" Dumbledore hollered, shattering the Sugar Quill he was sucking. "I've already told you once today, you can't just start having sex with groupies in corridors between classes! There are first-years and such going about who aren't legally old enough to know about such things!"
"Yeah, yeah." Harry replied surlily, still relishing that fantastic move that Hufflepuff seventh-year just did which Harry had never experienced before.
"Not only do you act like an oversexed rabbit in the corridors, I've also heard complaints from your teachers how a selection of young harlots will suddenly barge into their classes and start an orgy with you, and the house-elves have barged in on you naked with girls in the common-rooms of every house and at all hours of the day!" Dumbledore screamed. "How the hell are you getting this much action, you runty little shit?"
"Well - " Harry began.
"I don't want to know!" Dumbledore bellowed. "Just get your shit together and stop screwing around in public! Christ, use the Room of Requirement or something when you feel like getting laid! If I hear one more story about you and some ho naked together in public again, I'll expel you!"
"First of all, the girls seek me out, not the other way around, so I don't choose where it happens." Harry reasoned. "And second of all, if you expel me, then I might just have a little meeting with Rita Skeeter about your... extracurricular activities with Filch... or should I say... SLAVE- BOY!"
Dumbledore sucked in breath sharply. "How the hell did you find out about that?"
Harry grinned. "I have my sources. And I also know that your punishment of slave-boy isn't even the worst of your sexual preferences and practices; I know about your sordid escapades with Mrs. Norris too, you sick fucking zoophiliac."
Dumbledore fell to his knees, tears streaming from his eyes. "Please don't - please don't tell anyone." he gasped piteously, the picture of pathos.
"I won't tell anyone on several conditions." Harry informed him. "Number one, you don't let anyone interfere with my ridiculously rampant sex life. Number two, you quash any rumours circulating about me or any accusations levelled against me no matter how illegal the content of them are. Number three, you will let me take out any books from the Restricted Section that I please. Number four, you will accept any other conditions I might come up with some other time. You got all that, you senile cat-burgling masochistic candy-crazy shit-kicking motherfucker you?"
"Fine, fine." Dumbledore sobbed.
TIME PASSES, NOT THAT ANYONE GIVES A SHIT
. Harry smirked as he spread that morning's edition of the Daily Prophet on the Gryffindor breakfast table. The headline read 'MAGICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT LEADERS BRUTALLY MURDERED'. Below it were four pictures, one of each victim, taken prior to death. They were the head of Magical Law Enforcement, his assistant, his understudy and his son, each moving picture blissfully unaware that they were now mangled cadavers in real life.
Blaise Zabini sidled over to Harry. He spoke out the corner of his mouth, pretending to be examining the Prophet over Harry's shoulder. "The son was a cinch. Told him there was a nutter torturing people in an alley, then cursed him in the back as he ran in. Then I used the sword to kill him, just like you ordered."
"Good work." Harry muttered. "I'll pay everyone involved at tomorrow's meeting." Harry looked further down the page to read the subtitle: 'Four High-Flyers Stabbed to Death Last Night. New Head of Magical Law Enforcement Alastor Moody, Pulled Out of Retirement to Lead the Investigation, Suspects a Conspiracy, As He Usually Does." Harry giggled in delight. He'd show Voldemort how to run a secretive murderous rebellion, oh, he'd show everybody. And when the dust cleared, Harry and his army would be left standing on top of a pile of corpses, the new rulers of England.
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Author's Note: If I don't get two reviews or more for this chapter I won't bother continuing. So if you enjoy reading this felony against literature, review, asshole!!!