Deus ex Machina
By Eline (eline@rheow.net)
A totally pointless story written for no reason in particular.
Harry Potter was no ordinary boy. That being said and done, let's find out why.
Harry was a wizard--that fact alone already makes him a good deal less ordinary than four fifths of the population. As he went to wizard school, he would never know the wonders of calculus, trigonometry and statistics. Nor would he ever know the joys of Home Economics/Workshop class, or have the chance to put up his hand to ask questions with the rest of the (suddenly *very* enthusiastic) class after they covered chapter twenty-three (Reproduction in Humans) of the biology textbook. As if flying, doing magic and having adventures would make up for all that at all . . .
Harry was also learning all the important skills that every one, whether wizard or Muggle (that's the non-magical types), needs for life in the world outside. Like procrastination, ballroom dancing, asking a member from the female half of the species out, and recycling Christmas/Birthday gifts he doesn't particularly like. He's not alone in this--he's got a pair of chums who tag along for the ride and life with them just got even more interesting after puberty hit them. (Harry should be thinking of investing in a pair of earplugs by now.)
And no, I don't think he doesn't know about *that* part of growing up yet--no biology classes, you see. (I'll eat a pointy wizard-type hat if I ever saw Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia sitting down and giving Harry the birds and the bees talk. Poor fellow would be scared out of his wits--after all they did manage to produce his cousin Dudley . . . but I'm digressing.)
While this fic isn't about that sort of thing, I'd just like to warn you that the PG-rating on this fic isn't just for show before we go any further.
Anyway, we'll just cut to the chase . . . The chase where Harry, Ron and Hermione were pelting down the corridors of Hogwarts on another illegal midnight excursion (to the kitchens in an attempt to liberate house elves--it was Hermione' idea, naturally) and being chased by Flich and his cat.
"Can't we all just get under the Invisibility Cloak?" Hermione asked plaintively as they ran on.
"C-can't--Mrs. Norris can smell us!" Harry panted, exposing the one weakness of the Invisibility Cloak plot-device.
"We've got to hide--Flich knows this place better than we do!"
"I-in here!" Hermione wheezed and opened one of the many convenient doors lining the corridor at random. They hurried in and shut it, panting hard.
"Hey--look!" Harry had turned around first and was gaping at the contents of the room in surprise.
They all stared around the room incredulously.
"I don't believe it . . . it really exists," Ron breathed as they gaze up in awe at the shelves. "And I thought he was making it up . . ."
"It really is the Chamber of Magnificent Chamber Pots," Harry said as he consulted his handy little Mauraders' Map. Sirius and Co.'s coverage of Hogwarts had been nothing but thorough--they had even included rooms that existed at five-thirty a.m. in the morning next Tuesday.
"Does that mean that we accidentally ran into next Tuesday morning then?"
"Hurray--no History of Magic test!" Ron crowed, shrugging aside the sheer enormity of what this could mean in terms of the space-time continuum in favour of skiving off.
"Oh manky old Blast-Ended Skwerts!" Hermione moaned. "I was studying all week for that!"
(But you knew she was going to say that, didn't you?)
Having nothing better to do at the moment, the intrepid threesome wandered down the rows of magnificent chamber pots, exclaiming at particularly interesting items of bedroom crockery as they passed. There were ornate chamber pots that looked like they belonged to Emperors and sultans, painted porcelain chamber pots from the various Dynasties and the more modest variety of chamber pots that served their purpose just as well. Some of them were wizard-made--they could tell by the moving pictures of streams painted on the sides and some of them had Whistling Charms attached. It was a humbling experience to see a common denominator for all mankind arrayed on those shelves.
"Wonder where all of them came from?"
"Maybe one of the founders had a chamber pot fetish . . ."
"Or maybe it's a collection of chamber pots from the time when they didn't have flushing toilets . . ."
We could go all day describing chamber pots (that's what tertiary education does to you--you can rattle off 1000 words on practically any topic), but as the human attention span is shorter than the life of an average mayfly, we'll have to forego History of Chamber Pots 101 and leave it off for another day.
So after seeing more chamber pots than they had in their whole lives, they turned round a corner shelf--
And found themselves face to face with a short, pudgy balding man with a silver arm. He had his wand out and pointed threateningly at them in case they didn't know that he meant business.
"Wormtail? How did he get in *here*?"
"He's a *rat*, isn't he? He could've sneaked in here anytime!" Hermione whispered.
"Hi, kids," Wormtail said as he cornered them. "Don't scowl at me like that me--I'm just the messenger. Someone wants to talk to you for a moment . . ."
Ron swore horribly as Wormtail held up a shiny object. (But not really, of course--there are only so many words with truly *negative* connotations in the English language. The rest were just made up over time.)
It was Voldemort, aka Harry's arch-nemesis, who was not there in the Chamber himself but in proxy via a hand-held crystal ball proffered by his lackey Wormtail.
"Oh dear--is he trying to kill you *again*?" Hermione asked.
"Technically speaking, yes--but it's time for something a little different," drawled the snake-like Dark Wizard.
"But originality's not really your strong suit, is it?"
"Ha ha--that's was sarcasm. At least you kids are learning fast. Why, I--"
Harry interrupted him halfway. "Could we just skip to the 'heinous plot' part of the narrative?"
Voldemort shot him an irritated look and from where they were standing, they could see his much-talked-about-nostrils flaring, unpleasantly magnified by the crystal ball. "I realised that I've been really stupid for not thinking of this in the first place," Voldemort said. "After being soundly defeated by a boy who doesn't even need to shave yet *four* times in a row, I figured that there was something wrong in my approach to the whole matter."
"What's that?" Harry asked in spite of the worrisome fact that he was in mortal danger.
"I relied too much on magic--magic was my downfall after all. I should have known better," he sighed. "But enough of this. If you want a whole page where the villain expounds on his evil plan to take over the world and bump off the hero in the process, go read another fanfic. I'm just going to get down to the nitty-gritty and kill you."
"Uh-oh . . ."
"But how *are* you going to kill Harry without magic?" Hermione, being quicker on the uptake than the other two, asked.
"Simple--Wormtail over there will tip over that shelf and squash you flat where you stand." Voldemort chuckled at their horrified looks. "A departure from my usual M. O., I know. I tried stupid wizard lackeys, giant snakes and incredibly convoluted and complex plots involving a lot of plot devices--none of which worked because of faulty magic. I'm sure your certain death this time will be suitably spectacular, if not magical in nature."
"Not to mention the headlines," Harry muttered. Seeing--or rather *not* seeing--"Potter Squashed in Freak Potty Accident!" on the front page would be really embarrassing and detrimental to his social life, or afterlife if it came to that.
"And *delays*--everyone knows that the longer the delay, the more chance the hero has of surviving," Voldemort said, shaking his head in disgust. "So you're going to die right now--good-bye, Potter . . . Wormtail--do the honours."
"It's been nice knowing you guys . . ." Harry said as he saw his approaching doom . . .
"Hold it right there!"
Wormtail froze in the act of tipping over the shelf just as a raven-haired woman popped into existence before them.
"Be gone, foul shade--"
"Oh *please*," said the woman, who was looking more and more solid by the moment, before she snapped her fingers and froze Wormtail for real this time. Describing her would take up a bunch of lines, so let's just say that she looked like some chick togged up in leather (only because the author type person made a silly resolution to mention leather at least once in her fics) and save a few joules of energy.
Voldemort's image in the crystal ball could be seen to be crying now.
"Who are you?" they inquired of the spectre that had just saved them from death by a shelf of common denominators.
"Deus ex Machina," she said. They stared as her hair started changing colour. "Oh ignore *that*--that's just an unimportant plot device."
"Well thank you for saving us, Miss Machina--" Harry began.
"No. No. No," the woman said patiently. "I *am* Deus ex Machina--not some vulgar everyday apparition!"
"Huh? What does she mean by that?" Ron looked bewildered.
"I think she means Peeves," Harry whispered. "He's definitely a vulgar apparition . . ."
The withering look she gave them was hardly encouraging. "What in the world do they teach at schools these days?" she asked the ceiling.
(If you were expecting the ceiling to say anything, be prepared to be disappointed. It was just a ceiling--with a very nice frieze of stylised chamber pots on the borders, but a ceiling nonetheless.)
"Nothing much actually," said Voldemort tearfully from the crystal ball. "Not enough to defeat a full-fledged Dark Wizard, that's for sure--"
"Oh yeah, *right*," Harry and Co. said.
Voldemort rolled his eyes--a very interesting effect for someone who had eyes like red marbles. "Oh for the love of snakes! Did you really think that you could've defeated *me* alone? It was because of *her*--always her!" he cried, gesticulating at the woman. "Why do you have to go and spoil it every time?"
"Hey, I am what I am."
"*What* are you?" someone inevitably asked.
"I am the Goddess of Plot-devices and Plot-holes. Sometimes, I am a Muse. At other times, Writer's Block. I am that fleeting-but-oh-so-cool-idea-that-struck-you-while-you-were-brushing-your-teeth-in-the-morning-and-just-had-to-write-it-in-your-fic," she declaimed while her hair turned electric blue. "I am the inexplicable, the weird and the ridiculous plot twists. I am--"
"Someone who's incredibly full of herself," Hermione muttered to Harry and Ron.
"--the Mistress of Melodrama--I *heard* that, missy--High Priestess of Happy Endings and Baroness of Bad-Continuity."
The three of them looked nonplussed while Voldemort was tearing at his hair--well, he *would* have been if he had any.
"Oh very funny, author!" he snapped to someone they couldn't see. "Make fun of me because I'm bald, is that it?"
Not really--I don't know any other slaphead jokes.
"What was *that*?" Ron asked.
"Nothing--just an irritating phenomena. Ignore it," Deus ex Machina said impatiently. "The point of all this rhetoric is, that I, Deus ex Machina, am the reason why you have managed to survive this long and why old Voldie over there is going to be eternally frustrated by a bunch of teenage magicians."
Voldemort could be heard cursing from his crystal ball now. Ron fumbled around in his pockets to find some paper to take notes.
"Without me, Potter, you wouldn't have been able to make it to Hogwarts every term. You probably would still be stuck on Privet Drive--"
"Oh really? I haven't seen you before," Harry said dubiously.
"Oh really now?" she asked dryly.
"Neither have we," Ron and Hermione chipped in.
"I happen to know all of you *very* well . . ."
She drew herself up to her full height, her mane of blue hair rippling like . . . well, like anything that ripples. "After all, I am the Goddess of Plot-devices and Plot-holes. Don't you even *know* who my followers (unwitting or self-confessed) are?"
"Oh no!" Hermione gasped as the bright, glaring light of realisation dawned on her. "Not--"
"TV show scriptwriters," Harry exclaimed, blanching like an almond.
"Authors!" Ron groaned. "And even worse--"
"F-fa . . ." Hermione seemed to have trouble saying it.
"*Fanfic* authors!" everyone howled in dismay.
"Got it in one," she said with a smile as her hair turned a lurid shade of neon pink. "Pretty much anyone who writes fiction knows me in some way or another."
"Any f-fanfic authors around now?" Ron asked nervously. He had found his wand and was pointing it shakily this way and that. (As if that would help much in a situation involving fanfic authors . . .)
"Are you clueless, or simply daft?" Voldemort asked sardonically. "I think I'll be doing the world a favour if I got rid of all three of you . . ."
"Fat chance, Moldywarts," Harry said as he and Hermione got out their wands too.
Deus ex Machina sighed and shook her (now teal green) head. "There you go, waving around your little handheld phallic symbols again," she said with a yawn.
They just stared at her.
She snorted softly in exasperation. "It's a Freudian concept-thingy . . . Don't make me start on those flying phallic symbols, kid."
"What?" Harry asked, clearly bewildered.
"Broomsticks," Voldemort said in a bored tone. "Look, this is a waste of time. Evil Dark Lords *do* have better things to occupy their time . . . I've got an appointment for tea with my great-granduncle Sauron at four today. Let's get it over and done with, Rainbow Brite."
"All right. You can switch off your crystal ball now and go curse a few things to perdition because Harry and Co. just defeated Wormtail."
"We did?"
"Yep--you . . . er, you turned the tables and dropped a shelf of common denominators (i.e. the lame-duck running gag in this fic) on him," Deus ex Machina said. "Hey author type person--your plot ideas are running really low now . . ." she muttered.
I know--just keep going.
"It's dead embarrassing--my lackeys get thrashed by under-aged wizards every time," Voldemort complained. "And it's hardly *believable*--"
"Yeah, but everyone else believes it because of me. And Potter's got to last for another three books, you know," Deus ex Machina said. "I've got to keep him alive until then."
"I suppose he really cleans my clock in Book Seven?"
"That's for J. K. to know and us to fork over our hard-earned dosh to find out."
Voldemort shook his head. "Too true. Well, I'll get going now . . . If you could unfreeze Wormtail, we could get on with this. It's not *that* surprising that those three would get the better of him though. Good help is so hard to come by--and he was the best I could find. It's *sad*, I know . . ."
"Hey!" said the unfrozen Wormtail (who had to have at least some form of emotion in this fic to make his cameo appearance worthwhile). "You *need* evil but stupid lackeys to carry out your dirty work!"
"He's got a point--you can't have lackeys who are smarter than you," Deus ex Machina said.
"That's the universal Plot-Device, all right . . . So can I hope to get Wormtail back in one piece after you drop a shelf of running gags on him?"
Deus ex Machina nodded as Wormtail whimpered, "Bloomin' heck--I should've become a post office clerk like my Mum wanted me to . . ." to himself. "Of course--there's still a lot of unanswered questions about his bond with Harry," she said. ("I didn't want that!" Harry protested in the background.) "You'll get him back after he disapparates out of here in the nick of time before the teachers come in--"
"You can't apparate or disapparate in Hogwarts," Hermione pointed out for the six hundred and thirty-seventh time. "I think . . . I think that might be a Plot-Device too."
"Darn--my memory's acting up," Deus ex Machina said. "Oh well . . . he'll go by Portkey then."
"That's a Portable Plot-Device, isn't it?" Ron asked, catching on at last.
"Very good--you've got it! Now, how are we going to make this look real?" she pondered as she surveyed the rows of shelves . . .
* * * * * * * *
End Deus ex Machina
(Originally titled "Harry Potter and the Chamber of Magnificent Chamber Pots"--but that sounds just plain daft in writing, doesn't it?)
Well, that was fairly pointless, wasn't it? Hmmm, I don't even think it's all that funny . . . And I don't know where my brain went--it's probably in next Tuesday with that presentation I'm supposed to finish on axon specificity.
Thanks goes to: my sister for that "Potty" bit, Earthwalk for her comments, and the both of them for proof-reading it.
Disclaimer: All HP characters and the Beautifully Proportioned Room with the Magnificent Collection of Chamber Pots belong to J. K. Rowling. Deus ex Machina is very likely the property of all people who invent fiction. I don't make anything dosh off this and I certainly didn't mean to be offensive in any way to anyone.