Disclaimer:
I own nothing. (And once this fic gets going properly, I'll probably be wishing I didn't own it, either.)
A/N: Well, hell. Here we go again. Many thanks to my O&U girls for reading and reviewing. And a very special thanks to my Scottish boyfriend, who struggled for about 2 hours today to get this damn laptop set up for me. We (well, he) had to look all over the flat for various pieces of the computer, and he was on the phone with several different ISPs for quite some time. Oh, yeah. He is guaranteed a blow job. But I didn't just say that. And by the way, if anyone can help me figure out how to arrange these chapters so that I actually have a prologue, please email me. I am hopelessly late-twenty-something, after all.
Hermione Granger Meets Fandom
The Next Chapter: "Reality Bites"
Hermione Granger adjusts her robes, grabs her cart, and prepares to follow her two best friends through the barrier to Platform 9¾. She is about to get on the train that will take her to her sixth year at Hogwarts, and she doesn't know what to expect. But surely, she thinks, it will be better than the previous year. After all, she got straight Os on her O.W.L.s, there is a new Minister of Magic (and who really cares who it is?), and Ron's body has finally caught up with his feet. Yes, it is gearing up to be a great year.
When she crosses the barrier, however, she gets her first clue that something is dreadfully wrong. Neville Longbottom is snogging Luna Lovegood, Ginny is wearing a leather mini-skirt and halter top, a curly-haired Italian boy that Hermione doesn't know is ogling her shamelessly, and Harry and Ron–who were just ahead of her–are nowhere to be found. (There is also an uncanny absence of adults.) She decides that Harry and Ron must have made a beeline for an empty compartment, so she proceeds to the nearest door of the train and begins loading her trunk.
Just as she manages to haul her trunk up the first step, she sees something that nearly causes her to faint. Instead of losing consciousness, however, she merely drops her trunk, spilling all of her personal belongings onto the platform. Draco Malfoy has a new hairstyle and looks like sex in a robe. Furthermore, he is surrounded by giggling girls from every single Hogwarts house. They appear to be asking for...autographs? She slams her eyes shut and takes a deep breath. When she opens them again, she sees that Ginny Weasley has fought her way to the front of Malfoy's adoring fans, and Malfoy has his hand up her halter top. She closes her eyes again, completely ignoring her spilt belongings until she hears a sexy purr at her ear–
"Need some help, kitten?"
Kitten?! Did someone just call her kitten?! She whips around to find a brown-haired seventh-year undressing her with his blue-green eyes. Isn't he a Slytherin? What's his name again?
"Adrian Pucey," he says, as though reading her mind, "at your service."
She tries to speak. Her efforts are futile, of course. She just stands there numbly watching as this Pucey bloke helps her repack her trunk. She looks down to find that her personal belongings now consist of things that she would never have in her possession. There are stacks of romance novels, pieces of parchment that have "Hermione Zabini" written all over them amidst hearts, polaroids of her and...MALFOY?! And then...NO!!!"
"Who would have guessed?" Pucey comments with a smile as he holds up a 10-inch black dildo.
She fights back a gag and reluctantly grabs the dildo out of Pucey's hands. It bobbles back and forth as she shakes it in his face. "This is NOT MINE!!!" she yells, absently tossing it into Malfoy's crowd of fangirls. She notices in horror that one of them picks it up and puts in in her pocket. Everything suddenly goes black.
When she awakes, she is startled to find herself in a compartment completely alone. Her trunk is carefully stashed away, and she is almost tempted to open it as the memory of the dildo comes crashing back upon her. Was this Fred and George's idea of a very sick joke? Then she remembers that she is supposed to be in the compartment at the front of the train with the rest of the prefects. She jolts from her seat, re-adjusts her robes, and is about to head out the door when she hears the blaring sound of hip-hop music. Harry comes strutting in through the compartment door.
Only this is not the same Harry with whom she was standing at King's Cross only minutes before.
This Harry has an emormous boombox on his shoulder and looks like he might topple over at any minute from the sheer weight of gold around his neck. His trousers are held up by a belt somewhere around his knees and he wears a baggy T-shirt that says "TUPAC R.I.P." There is a huge spliff hanging loosely from his lips, filling the surrounding air with heavy smoke. She can just make out the lyrics of the thumping music–
Inhale, exhale
Just got an ounce in the mail
I like a blunt or a big phat cone
But my double-barrell bong is gettin' me stoned...
"Harry?" she exclaims over the music. She coughs and waves her hand in front of her face to try to clear some of the smoke. "Is that you?"
"Whassup, ho?" he drawls with a grin. He seems to be very interested in her breasts all of a sudden. "DAMN, baby gurl, you lookin' HOTT this year!"
She tries to remain conscious. She jerks the boombox off his shoulder, groaning under its weight, and manages to press the "Stop" button. "What is going on here?" she demands.
"Chill, baby," Harry replies smoothly. His hands reach for her hips, and she jumps back in horror. "It ain't nothin' but a THANG."
"Harry?" she repeats weakly. "Is that really you? What happened to you?" She can't help but notice that this Harry is about forty times prettier than the Harry she knows. And pretty is the only way to describe it–with or without the bling-bling.
Harry throws himself down onto one of the seats and smirks up at her, Malfoy-style.
"I mean," she continues despite herself, "other than the fact that you've obviously resorted to wearing Hagrid's trousers, you're bloody...hot."
"That's cuz the actor who plays me has got it goin' on," he answers. Then he reaches out and actually grabs her arse. "When you gonna give me a lil sumpin, sumpin?"
"A little WHAT?" she yells, smacking his hand away. She closes her eyes again. "Please," she mumbles, "please tell me this is just a really strange dream."
"It ain't no dream, baby," he says. She begins to get light-headed from the thick smoke. Thankfully, Harry momentarily lapses back into his usual accent. "You see, Hermione," he explains, "I am the hero, so no one can figure out exactly how to write me. For all intents and purposes, therefore, I am just going to be ghetto!Harry for the duration of this fic because that's what amuses the author. She's a hip-hop girl." He then goes back to his ghetto-talk, waving the joint in front of her face. "Wanna toke?"
"I don't smoke marijuana!" she announces assertively. "And neither do you!" She grabs the blunt and tosses it out the window.
"HEY!" Harry exclaims. "Why you hatin'?"
Ron suddenly comes bursting in through the compartment door, thankfully looking like...well, Ron. "Hermione!" he pleads frantically, "There you are! You've got to come with me right now!"
Before she has time to answer, Ron begins guiding her down the corridor, nearly yanking her arm out of the socket. He pulls her into yet another empty compartment. (Isn't the train usually more crowded than this? Where is everyone?) He quickly locks the door and begins muttering spells to darken and silence the compartment.
"Thank goodness!" Hermione exclaims. "At least you seem to be normal! What on earth is going on with Harry?"
She does not get the answer she is looking for. Instead, she gets jerked into Ron's arms, and he begins snogging her uncontrollably. She tries to scream, but, alas, his tongue is wrapped around her tonsils. She struggles and finally manages to free herself long enough to shout, "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING, RON?!"
His voice is frantic and strained. "It must be done!" he demands. "The author of this fic has a terrible urge to pair you with Malfoy, and I won't stand for it! She's already written one fic where you're a romance columnist!"
"The author?" Hermione inquires. "What author?"
"What does it matter?" Ron pleads. "Just kiss me, baby!"
"What are you...MMMMMPHHHHHHHHHH!"
It is at this point that a brown-haired Texan in glasses comes crashing through the door, brandishing a pen. (She would have been here sooner if Lady Draherm hadn't updated.) "Back away from the know-it-all, Weasley!" she says. "I'm warning you. You touch one more button on her shirt, and I'll make sure the author has you shagging Neville Longbottom!"
"NO!" Ron spits back emphatically. "You can't do this! We're the GOOD SHIP!"
"Over my dead body," replies the Texan through gritted teeth. "Hermione will NEVER be a Weasley! Besides, your ship is so boring."
"What is a 'ship'?" Hermione asks. "And who are you?"
The Texan straightens herself up a bit and clears her throat. "I am Inell," she responds calmly, as though that should explain the whole situation. When Hermione gives her a blank look, she continues, "Inell? I am the most prolific fanfic writer of all time! I have been known to write 117 quality cookies in one day. Although–" she goes on in a mumble "–that damn Procella has been pretty active lately."
"What are cookies?" Hermione questions her.
Inell sighs heavily and grabs Hermione by her robes. "She's coming with me, Weasley," Inell answers. "We have a lot of ground to cover. Don't worry, Hermione. It's all going to be OK. In fact, you're about to have a lot of fun."