As soon as Lupin and Tonks appeared in the hall of 12 Grimmauld Place, Mrs Weasley descended upon them with a barrage of questions: "Did you see Harry? How is he? How are those Muggles treating him? How does he feel about coming to visit? Does he need any fudge? Or sweaters? Or a hug? Seven children aren't nearly enough!"

Lupin nodded vaguely, shook his head noncommittally, went to get a cup of tea. He was still preoccupied with thoughts of his own barren womb, and was in no fit state for conversation.

After a moment of awkward silence, Tonks gave a small shrug and replied, "Harry seems to have decided to become the youngest recluse in Wizarding history because, er, everyone he loves gets offed."

"But-but I'm fully capable of replacing every parental figure he's ever had… aren't I?" Mrs Weasley stammered.

"I don't know," Tonks sighed. "Seems like that would take a whole lot of fudge."

Huddled together in a room two stories up, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny reeled in their Extendable Ears.

"What do they mean 'recluse'?" Ron demanded. "What kind of rubbish is that?"

Hermione sniffed sadly. "I think it means Harry's not coming back to us… He doesn't want to be responsible for any more death."

Ron turned very pale. "So… we'll never see him again?"

"I-I don't know," Hermione whispered. She and Ron began to cry, very softly at first and then with steadily increasing volume.

"Well, this is quite possibly the single most ri-fucking-diculous thing I've ever heard," Ginny said.

Ron and Hermione stared.

"Well, really, guys. Come on. As if the idea of Harry shutting himself off from the world wasn't absurd enough in itself, we had to deal with his hormones all throughout fifth year… And now we've got to suffer through a fanfiction entirely dedicated to it? What the hell kind of foundation for a plot is that? The whole story's so weak, the very ground beneath our feet is crumbling," she said, pointing at the floor, which was indeed rapidly deteriorating.

The three exchanged one last fatalistic look before tumbling headlong three stories down, into the cellar.

As the three children reclined in the living room, nursing their wounds with packets of ice and Spell-O-Tape, a top-secret meeting of the Order of the Phoenix commenced in the kitchen.

"Ahem," Dumbledore cleared his throat, instantly ending the high-pitched, anxious hum that filled the small room. "This evening, we are to put all Order business aside – Voldemort, his Death Eaters, their plans for death and destruction – so that we may discuss the newest development in Harry Potter's displays of adolescent angst."

There was a shocked silence. Mrs Weasley blew her nose into her handkerchief. Lupin sighed into his tea. Snape tried to spoon his brains out through his ear without drawing any attention to himself.

"Um… actually, Dumbledore, sir," Kingsley Shacklebolt began. "Voldemort's minions are getting dangerously close to-"

"Teen angst, Shacklebolt," Dumbledore cut in decisively.

"But, sir," Shacklebolt persisted, laughing nervously. "Don't you think certain matters require our more urgent atten-"

"Throw this fool from the room!" Dumbledore cried.

"What?"

As Mundungus Fletcher and Mad-Eye Moody took Shacklebolt by either arm and expelled him from the kitchen, Dumbledore called after him: "You're on Harry Watch for a week starting now! How's that for urgent, you cheeky cabbage? Now," Dumbledore sniffed, regaining his usual calm with the help of a suspiciously powdered lemon drop. "It has come to my attention that young Harry has deemed it prudent to lock himself in his room, sit in a pool of his own faeces, and cry like a little girl…" Dumbledore paused to suck on his lemon drop thoughtfully. His eye twitched, then twinkled. "While this may seem a bit extreme to some, I'm unwaveringly convinced that it is all part of the natural grieving process, and I say we go with it."

Mrs Weasley went into a fit of hysterics. "What, what? We can't allow him to do this! He'll become depressed and-"

"Molly, chill. Have a lemon drop," Dumbledore offered.

Mrs Weasley declined. "I just think Harry's actions don't make the slightest bit of sense! Voldemort certainly already knows whom he loves and is close to."

Dumbledore turned slightly (twenty-six degrees, to be exact) so that Mrs Weasley was no longer in his line of vision. He ignored her and continued. "Through Magical Processes Too Complicated to Explain, Shacklebolt will keep a constant watch on Harry for the next seven days. Over the summer, Harry Watch duties will pass from Order member to Order member, and we'll deliberate the finer points of his histrionic ramblings weekly… It's a great plan, don't you think? Just the sort of quirky, irrational thing (suspiciously reeking of a plot-device) that you would expect of me?"

The Order members glanced at each other uncertainly.

Snape seemed to be the only one who was in any way pleased with the plan. "Headmaster?"

"Yes, Severus?"

"Am I to understand that while keeping watch, we're not to interfere in any way?" he asked innocently.

"Well, yes," Dumbledore smiled. "That is pretty much that gist of it…" He became suddenly very wary. "Why?"

"Oh, no reason, really… Only, if the boy kills himself…"

"Oh!" Molly cried. She took off yelling and sobbing uncontrollably and would by no means be consoled. Dumbledore was forced to call the meeting to an end.


Author's Note: I want to clarify something. The plot (cough) for this story is not a mesh of various fanfictions. All of this horribleness spewed forth from one person, it's all from one fanfiction. All I have done is paraphrase, exaggerate, capitalize, and punctuate. Here is my point: In non-virtual life, I have serious inhibitions about hating people. I don't like war, yelling, guns, capital punishment, abortion, violence… I just want everybody to get along and care about one another and at least try to understand each other. But, the thing is, I also feel that people are really, really inexcusable and, in some cases, purposefully ignorant and aggravating, so I really have these vast and untapped reservoirs of hate deep within me. And the whole time I was reading the fanfiction that this parody spawned from, I was thinking, 'Dear Lord! What are you doing, Internet Person? Why have you written these things? What did grammar ever do to you? Why do you exist?' So, I've made a compromise with myself: It is completely okay to hate Internet people. And so, without further ado, a cathartic rant: I hate you, abysmally bad fanfiction writers. Some babies are so ugly that even their mothers are forced to see it, and so it is with your fanfiction. You must be intentionally sucking. You sick, sick sadists. I hate you.