Harry Potter Taken With a Dose of Strong Painkillers
*** not actually advised
A/N - Hehe. Do they even have possums in England? I'm going to look that up. Well, it doesn't really matter. I'm not into the facts here or anything... I also misrepresented Mad Cow Disease. *insane evil laugh*
Well, I promise that this story will actually have a plot sometime soon, but as of Chapter 2 it's still just kind of hanging out in Limbo. Ah, yes, a plot... the rabid plot bunnies have been stalking me an awful lot lately. I'm getting on it, I swear! Ahhh! No, don't hurt me! Stop taunting me with those fluffy tails! *scream, gurgle*. Okay, that was admittedly pointless.
By the way, I really don't see the Weasleys in this light at all. I love the Weasleys. It's all for the sake of laughs.
2 - Mad Cow Disease and Possum Stew
Clone #69, still unable to come to terms with the fact that he is not superhuman, runs to the incapacitated Dumbledore and attempts to single-handedly heave the armoire off of him. It doesn't budge.
After nearly ten minutes, a dim candle flicks on over Clone #69's head and he magicks the armoire off the Headmaster. There is a large dent surrounded by protruding ribs in Dumbledore's chest. He sits up, looking at the damage done and promptly pinches his own nose as smoke pours from his ears. The dent inflates, and they continue on their quest... First stop: the Weasleys.
A few hours later, Albus Dumbledore, Clone #69, Arabella Figg and her trusty sidekick Tibbles the Mighty can be found on a hot, dirty Muggle bus on their way to Ottery St. Catchpole.
"Cow." Dumbledore points, his eyelids drooping with boredom.
"Mwuf oofh eef."
"Oh, you're right... two cows."
"Mew."
"Why, Tibbles, how observant! Yes, they ARE foaming at the mouth! Holy onions! They're stark raving MAD! Look, they're chasing after the bus now! Crap, that's fast..."
Clone #69 is leaning against the window pane with his eyes closed, a streak of drool running down the glass.
A scratchy smoker's voice can be heard making an announcement, "Ladies and gents, *cough*, we'll be arriving at *wheeze* Ottery St. *hack* Catchpole in approximately *rasp* 27 days, fourteen hours, nine *gasp* minutes, and 51 seconds." A charbroiled lung splatters on the windshield.
"Well! I think this is our stop, my good people! We'll just walk the rest of the way easily!" Dumbledore exclaims, putting a go-go-booted foot through the window. All four of them leap out of the moving vehicle.
"I CAN FLY! I CAN FLY!" Clone #69 crows, flapping his arms psychotically just before he makes contact with the ground among the rest of them. The satanic, diseased cows trample them into the dust and manure on the side of the road. It's a rather pathetic scene.
"HA! I SPIT WITH DISDAIN IN YOUR GENERAL DIRECTION, PUNY COWS! YOU CANNOT HARM ME! I AM THE BOY WHO LIVED!" Clone #69 screams after the stampeding cows, his right arm hanging by a single tendon.
"I thought that we had established that you weren't Harry Potter, 69," Dumbledore says, extracting himself from a stand of cacti, which, of course, are PERFECTLY at home in southwest Britain. "Flaming toadstools! Your arm!"
"TIS MERELY A FLESH WOUND!"
"Er... right."
Mrs. Figg displays both hands to the cows and bus as they diminish in the distance.
Decades later, sweaty and bedraggled, the company is approaching the road leading up to the Burrow. "IT LOOKS A LITTLE BIT DIFFERENT AROUND HERE..." Clone #69 observes. The ground just off the path is sunken, boggy and occasionally a mysterious slime bubble pops. The trees are covered in Spanish moss. They pass an old river steamboat permanently lodged in the muck.
"Excuse me, sir... could you tell us the way to the Weasley home?" Dumbledore asks of an old gentleman with wild white hair aboard the steamboat.
"It's just yonder!" he says, crossing his arms and pointing in both directions. "I'm on my way to Antarctica myself!"
"Why thank you!"
"Mwuf oofh eef?" Mrs. Figg raises her eyebrows, knocks her knees together, and snorts through her nose.
"No... I don't think that was Mark Twain..." Dumbledore ponders.
They walk on for a bit and then Dumbledore shivers. "I'll tell you one thing: the last think I want to hear wandering around out here is the "Deliverance" theme song..."
Harry grins wickedly, sneaks up behind the headmaster and shrieks, "SQUEEEEAL!"
Dumbledore promptly turns and slaps him.
They see an old rickety bridge that crosses low over the muddy road. Fred and George sit on it, bare feet swinging over the side. They're dressed in rolled up patched overalls and Fred is "playing" a banjo with no strings. "GEORGE! FRED!"
George grins at Clone #69, revealing a single tooth.
"Mew."
"Yes, I like the new look also, Mighty Tibbles," Dumbledore remarks.
Just as they finally approach the Burrow, the top floor, apparently held on by ancient chewing gum alone, topples off the back of the house. "THAT'S GOTTA SUCK," Clone #69 says.
"Quite, old chap."
"Mew."
Suddenly, Molly Weasley appears on the laundry draped porch. She bangs on a frying pan furiously and shrieks out an impressive hog call. Eight figures apparently appear out of nowhere. "Grub's up!"
"GREAT! I LOVE MRS. WEASLEY'S COOKING!" Clone #69 exclaims, running forward, trailing the others.
"Who in the name of sacred frogs are you?" Mrs. Weasley asks.
"DON'T YOU RECOGNISE ME? I'M HARRY POTTER!"
"No, he's not, he's --"
"Don't you YELL at me, boy! Where are your MANNERS!" Molly shouts, whacking Clone #69 upside the head with a big rusty soup ladle. He collapses and is set upon and nearly licked to death by 72 mangy bloodhounds.
"Alby! Come in, I think that we'll have plenty for a few more!" Mr. Weasley says heartily, shaking Professor Dumbledore's hand furiously.
"What did I TELL you about thinking, Arthur?!" Molly deals her husband a smart whack with the ladle.
Someone thinks to drag Clone #69 into through the doorway (door itself having fallen off a few years earlier, never to be replaced) and they kick their way through chickens and general squalor to the kitchen. Clone #69 awakens just in time to see Ron, wearing a frilly tutu over his hand-me-down overalls, prance energetically through the back door.
"RON! HI!" Clone #69 cries, jumping up, trailing hound slobber.
"Harry!" Ron jumps onto the table and performs a pirouette of celebration. "It's so great to see you!"
"He's not Harry, he's --"
"Shh, shh, shh! ZIP IT! It's time for a nice dinner!" Mrs. Weasley. "And ya'll shut up and ENJOY IT! Slaving over a hot stove all damn day... no respect 'round here..." Molly Weasley slams a monstrous cauldron down, slopping a weird grey broth on the table.
"POSSUM STEW! DIG IN!"
The entire family descends upon the slop like hyenas in a feeding frenzy, without the aide of spoons or bowls.
"Er... this is not exactly --" Professor Dumbledore pauses to delicately wipe a splattered wad of mysterious meat from his spectacles. "I think I need to explain --"
Even Tibbles the Mighty gags and runs, hissing, from the room when she licks a bit from the table.
Later, after Professor Dumbledore had repeatedly tried to explain their reason for coming, Tibbles had vomited on various household items, and Mrs. Weasley had dealt Mrs. Figg numerous blows for her apparently obscenity, everyone settles in the parlour.
Ron runs into the grandfather clock for a fourth time in mid-leap. "Do you like the tutu, Harry? Do you? Huh? Do you?" he asks.
"ER... SURE, CHUM." Clone #69 answers, making a face when Ron turns.
"Don't be fooled by the rocks that I got! I'm still-- I'm still Ginny from the block! Used to have a little, now I have a LOT, but I still know where I came from!"
Charlie knocks Ginny from the stairs which she has been performing the length of in mid-note. "You're not J. Lo, butt-face."
"Charlie called me butt-face again!"
Everyone: "Shut up, Ginny." She whines, runs to her room, rips down posters of flowers and boy bands, paints the whole room black, lights some ritual candles, and immediately starts planning her evil plot to take of the world in retribution for a tragic childhood.
Meanwhile, Dumbledore again tries to explain their quest. "Please! Listen! Harry-- I mean Clone #69-- Arabella, and I are starting a "Fellowship" to save the world from the Dark Lord!" he cries, waving his hands.
"What?" Everyone produces their scripts from strange places such as under the couch cushions and in pants legs, flips through them, and sighs. "Oh, I thought we might have accidentally wandered onto The Lord of the Rings set..." muttered George. "Never mind."
"No! We've got to get the REAL Harry Potter from a cryogenically frozen tube orbiting Uranus before You-Know-Who sinks all of Britain in a sea of chocolate pudding! This "Harry" is just a clone! We need people to help us! Will anyone come?"
Silence. Crickets.
Ron stands. "Alright. I understand that you won't be able to do this without me. How could the fellowship function without the greatness of the dance to entertain them?! Got to keep morale up!" He does a back flip, knocking over a tower of playing cards which explodes and sets Mr. Weasley's shoes afire. No one notices.
"Hm. Okay. Have fun, son," Mrs. Weasley says, returning to knitting a neon orange thirteen-yard-long scarf. Everyone returns to whatever they were doing.
"I GUESS WE'LL BE GOING THEN..." Clone #69 says to the Weasleys.
Professor Dumbledore, Mrs. Figg, Clone #69, Mighty Tibbles, and Ron leave, unnoticed.
"WHERE ARE WE GOING NOW?"
"I've got a throbbing toothache. Where might I find a dentist? Ah! I know! Granger D.D.S.! We might as well fetch Hermione while we're at it..." Professor Dumbledore rubs his cheek and winces.
A/N - Well, somehow I don't like that one as much as the first one. R&R anyway. I command you. *insane evil laugh*. I have many wonderful things in store.
By the way, if you didn't get the "Deliverance" allusion, that's probably a good thing.