Harry Potter Taken With a Dose of Strong Painkillers

*** not actually advised

A/N - Chapter 3 has arrived! For two reasons: 1. I felt really guilty for ignoring my fics for so long (the rabid plot bunnies are really good at inflicting that "guilt") and 2. I was inspired by many amusing situations that happened to me in real life. These inspirations were aided by the copious consumption of Pixie Stix. *insane evil laugh*.

The reader should be warned of something very imperative: that bits and pieces of the following chapter were written in an absolutely CHIC truckstop Burger King® in someplace called Vermilion County, Illinois. I assure you that this dining experience comes only out of the fact that there is NOTHING ELSE in Vermilion County, Illinois and that I am being dragged, against my will and better judgement, through most of the Midwest on a FASCINATING road trip. Shoot me dead. Oh, there are so many eligible (overweight, balding, tattoo-ridden, reeking) bachelors in here that I can hardly contain my wild passion. I want you, I need you, oh baby, oh baby. Hehe. There are two billboards outside that I can see. The following is true, I swear to you: the first sign is for "Professional Vasectomy Reversal" and the second is for "DNA Testing: Call 1-800-R-U-MY-KID". Is satiric comment even required on that one? *beats head on imitation wood, sticky table*.

Well, I could entertain you with this gripping dissertation for another 300 miles or so to Iowa, but I'll spare your sanity. Mine, however, was left in a dingy deep-fryer at Burger King®. Await the grand literary genius that this will surely bring.

Oh, and narcotics aren't really a good thing. The [*** not actually advised] warning applies to that as well.

3 - Narcotics Can Be Fun

That whirring sound of a drill that everyone's nightmares are plagued with sounds for a sixth time. Black clouds of smoke rise from Professor Dumbledore's gaping mouth and he squeaks in pain through the massive amounts of dental apparatus shoved in his mouth.

"Almost finished," murmurs Mrs. Granger, twiddling with the bit of another drill and plunging it straight into an open oral nerve. Dumbledore screams and kicks Mr. Granger, who is standing at his feet, in the general groin area.

Mr. Granger hops away. "Damn... sixth time today! Christ, at this rate I've got to be sterile..."

Albus Dumbledore is sprawled out on the kitchen table in the Grangers' modest Muggle house in Winchester. "REMIND ME AGAIN WHY WE'RE GIVING HIM A ROOT CANAL RIGHT HERE IN HERMIONE'S HOUSE?" Clone #69 "whispers" to Mighty Tibbles.

"Mew."

"OH, RIGHT. THANKS."

Mrs. Granger extracts her tools from Professor Dumbledore's mouth and he sits up, blood dripping all down his front. "Ah! Dat's bebber! No baim at all!" He promptly passes out.

"Hmm... well, that will happen sometimes," Mrs. Granger says, scratching her bushy head. "I think I'll just give him a dash of Novacaine. And a dash of Morphine. And a dash of Heroin." She injects the previously stated drugs directly into his circulatory system. Professor Dumbledore twitches.

Meanwhile, Clone #69 is playing with the x-ray machine (which... er... happens to be installed in their kitchen...). "WHOO! LOOK AT THIS!" He wiggles his fingers in front of the ray-gun-like machine and watches the picture of his bony hand waving to him on the screen.

"Bloody brilliant!" exclaims Ron.

"OY, LET'S SEE IF I CAN X-RAY MY BUM..." Clone #69 begins to climb on the counter in order to focus the machine on his rear end. He starts to lose his balance and snatches at anything in his grasp to catch himself. He succeeds only in bringing down the kitchen cabinets, x-ray machine, and portions of the ceiling with him. Ron, Mrs. Granger, Mrs. Figg, and Mighty Tibbles stare at the pile of rubble, the defective clone lodged beneath it all.

"Mwuf oofh eef!"

Mrs. Granger whips out a calculator and frantically punches in some numbers. "You owe me 1,397 pounds and 14 pence for that."

Clone #69 crawls from the wreckage. "HA! I SPIT WITH DISDAIN IN YOUR GENERAL DIRECTION, PUNY ARCHITECTURAL INFRASTRUCTURE! YOU CANNOT HARM ME! I AM THE BOY WHO LIVED!" He shakes his fist at the ceiling.

"Er... money?" prompts Mrs. Granger, extending her hand.

"RANDOM ACTS OF STUPIDITY ARE MY SPECIALTY, MA'AM! HERE'S YOUR REIMBURSEMENT." Clone #69 hands her the money, complete with exact change.

"Let's go find Hermione," says Ron. "Think she's a fan of ballet?"

"MAYBE..."

Trudging upstairs, Ron and Clone #69 come to a door which is covered in posters which would seem to have come from Seventeen magazine, except that that the grinning features of Justin Timberlake, Josh Hartnett, Usher, and Orlando Bloom have been pasted over with the faces of Albert Einstein, Isaac Newton, Nelson Mandela, and William Shakespeare.

"That's kind of weird..." says Ron, poking at the posters.

"YEAH, THE WAY SHE PASTED OVER THEM?"

"No, I mean they don't even move."

"RIGHT."

Ron (with an artistic flourish) knocks on Hermione's door and it opens.

"Oh, hello! How lovely to see the two of you again!" She looks to be her normal self. Her curly hair is braided, she's wearing jeans, and she's holding a thick book. The only suspicious element about her lies in that her T-shirt bears the legend: "I (heart graphic) JOHN NASH".

"I have to warn the two of you before we go any farther here," she says. "Just recently, I've been suddenly struck with a terrible case of schizophre--"

Suddenly, her arms spasm and she goes cross-eyed. A second later, she looks back at them. "Harry! Why are you so far away? Goodness, you're just a speck of dust!" she staggers forward, arms outstretched, and runs into Clone #69. "What? How did you get right back here a foot in front of me?" She feels Clone #69's face with her hands, looking quite insane.

"You know, I don't think she has any sense of size or depth perception, mate," says Ron.

Hermione looks toward him. "Your nose is huge!"

Ron looks self-conscious for a moment. Just then, Hermione spasms again. "You see?! It happens every few minutes! I've got no control over it! All these crazed personalities just--"

She twitches. "Have either of you seen a toucan around here? I know he's near." They boys stare at her, bewildered. "For God's sake! I just need a toucan! Is that so difficult for you to understand?!" She grabs Ron by the collar and shakes him violently.

"HERMIONE! STOP!"

"Oh, you're right, Harry... what have I been doing? I'm really sorry..." She shakes her head. "I told you I can't help it."

"That's alright. Listen, Hermione, we've got a lot to tell you before you zone out again," Ron says quickly. "This isn't really Harry. It's a clone of him. We've come here with Dumbledore and some others and we're setting out on a quest to find the real Harry Potter who's lost in space somewhere in a cryogenically frozen tube. And we've got to do it all this summer before You-Know-Who sinks England in a sea of chocolate pudding!"

"So you're saying that the real Harry is sort of like Dr. Evil? Is his shuttle in the shape of a Big Boy? And will we have to dress as sixties swingers? And will a hairy Mike Myers be wearing any British flag undergarments or wielding any Swedish-made pe--"

"What?"

"You really must be educated in the trivia of Muggle cinema, Ron."

At that point, Mrs. Figg waddles upstairs. "Mwuf oofh eef." She does an Irish jig, knocks her head against the wall, and wiggles her ears.

"WHAT? DUMBLEDORE'S UP? LET'S GO!"

The trio thunders down the stairs and back to the kitchen where Professor Dumbledore is sitting up, muttering groggily.

"Ah, Griss Manger. I trust that you've been purformed of our inpose?" His face is swollen to twice its normal size and his eyes are somewhat bloodshot.

"Oh, yes, Professor." She jumps and her eyes slide out of focus. "Did you know that a butterfly tastes through its feet? Or that hippopotami kill more people in Africa than any other wild animal? Or that Ron's nose looks really big when your retinas are dysfunctional?"

"Er... no."

Hermione pauses. "Now what were we saying? Oh, yes... this quest. Is there anyone else we have to get before we continue?"

"Yes, lactully." Dumbledore stops, looking at his hands as if they are foreign objects that just happen to be attached to his arms.

"I think I may have gone a bit overboard with the pain relievers..." says Mrs. Granger, leaving to go review the malpractice laws and worry.

"PROFESSOR DUMBLEDORE? WHO?"

"Ah... Snofessor Prape."

"NOOOOOOOO!" Clone #69 throws up his hands, screws up his eyes and generally looks dramatic.

"Is it really bat thad?"

"NO... I GUESS NOT. WHERE'S HE LIVE ANYWAY? I NEVER REALLY PICTURED HIM DOING ANYTHING OUTSIDE HOGWARTS."

"Oh, you'll see." Dumbledore staggers to his feet, crashing into the waste basket, strewing garbage all over the kitchen. "Come, 96, Wister Measley, Griss Manger, Barella, Bittles! To setch Feverus!"

He lurches forward and heads out the front door, company in tow. As they set out across the lawn, Hermione jerks. "Oh, no..." whispers Ron.

"Where's my toucan, you bastards?! I command you to find it! FROOT LOOPS!"

A/N - Anyone know why I've been putting this story in present tense? I have no idea either, but it's screwing me up. I keep switching back and forth...

And I KNOW that that's not how schizophrenia works. But it doesn't matter because this is my cracked-out parody and the facts really don't matter. Hermione's going to have four distinct personalities. You've seen three. *evil laughter*.

And, yes, EVERY chapter will be complete with an exclamation of "HA! I SPIT WITH DISDAIN IN YOUR GENERAL DIRECTION, PUNY ________". Expect more of it.

P.S. My sincere apologies if you are from Vermilion County, Illinois.