Harry Potter's Sixth Year in Bad Fanfiction

Rampantly rampant adverbs, outlandish adjectives, trite phrases, overused plot devices, and other general insanity unfolds in the most hilariously hilarious year ever!

BY LARGEMARGE

Disclaimer: I do not own the phrase "great greasy git," which I find nicely alliterative. That's why I ripped it off. Borrowed, I mean. Oh, and I don't own Harry Potter either; that distinction belongs to someone decidedly more British. And if I had written the Harry Potter novels, don't you think I'd be selling my brilliant stories and living on my own private island?


HAPPY BIRTHDAY, FREAK

Harry sat straight up in the darkness, panting and covered with sweat. He'd had another nightmare. He was always having another nightmare. He'd seen those eyes…those devilishly devilish evil glowing red eyes…

"Boy! I won't have you making noises and reminding us of your existence!" Uncle Vernon's massive form filled the doorway, blocking the light from the hallway. "So help me, I'm going to beat you to within an inch of your life so you won't do it again!"

Vernon proceeded to carry out his threat with Petunia and Dudley watching avidly from the doorway.

"What's gotten into you, Vernon?" Petunia inquired breathlessly from the doorway, not necessarily turned off by her husband's actions. "You've never been so violent with the boy before."

Vernon heaved Harry's broken body onto the bed and shrugged. "It was the last straw, Petunia. I couldn't take it anymore. All these years we've fed him and clothed him…the least he could do is try to breathe a little quieter." He slammed the door.

Through a haze Harry heard the three retreating back to their rooms. He tried to shift around on the bed to a more comfortable position, but the action only left him whimpering in pain. He felt like every bone in his body was broken. His entire body was on fire with pain. He was going to pass out. No, first he was going to be sick. Or maybe both together. Harry knew he'd never felt such terrible pain before. Not even as bad as all those times in the last five years he'd ended up in the hospital wing at Hogwarts. Combined. The pain he was in now was so terrible that –

Luckily Harry passed out at that moment, sparing the reader further trite descriptions of just how awful his pain was.


"Boy! Wake up, boy! We want our breakfast!"

Harry whimpered. His head felt like it was going to split wide open. His body felt like it was on fire. He was having trouble breathing. And he just knew, that if he were to sit up, he would be sick –

"Boy!"

Harry sat up. He was not sick. Uncle Vernon was standing in the doorway, waving a plump finger in his direction. "Get downstairs and make our breakfast now!"

Harry lurched to his feet, certain that his legs would not hold him. Surprisingly enough, they did.

After making a hearty breakfast, Harry was, of course, denied any. He proceeded to wash the dishes while Vernon left for work, Dudley watched television, and Petunia sat in a chair eating a box of chocolates. Harry tried not to envy her the food she was eating. Of course he hadn't eaten in days. Or maybe it was weeks.

His last real meal…well, of course it had been at Hogwarts. Ever since then it had been a scrap of meat here, a crust of bread there. Now he was just skin and bones. Harry looked down and was not surprised to see the outline of every single rib poking through his shirt, despite the fact that it was a hand-me-down of Dudley's and far too big. His stomach had even ceased to growl with hunger anymore.

With a sigh Harry moved on with his chores. Next he had to do all the dusting and vacuuming. Then, of course, was the gardening. The Dursleys were ridiculously proud of their tiny patch of a garden, and it was Harry's responsibility to make sure that it continued to bear fruit. And vegetables too.

While he was poking around in the garden he spared a wave to Mrs. Figg, who was loitering about outside, watching him with concerned eyes. Harry, or course, did not notice the concern.


Later, as Harry prepared the evening meal, he was surprised by a loud Pop and the appearance of his potions professor.

"Professor Snape!" he said with shock and dismay, dropping the carrot he'd been chopping onto the floor.

"Potter," Snape said with a growling sneer. "Why do you look like somebody's beat the stuffing out of you?"

"Oh, well, I – you see, it's this way, professor –" stuttered Harry, too humiliated to admit the truth. "See, I tripped on the stairs and –"

"Don't even bother with the lies, Potter," Snape snarled. "You can't hide the truth from me."

Uncle Vernon had been watching television with the rest of the family, but by now had come to investigate the noise in the kitchen. "What's going on here?" he roared at the sight of Snape. "How dare you bring another of these…these…freaks into my house, Potter! You'll regret this!" he howled.

"Silence, weakling!" Snape drew his wand from his sleeve and waved it about under Uncle Vernon's nose. "Despite the fact that you and I share a common loathing for this despicable excuse for a wizard, I feel an unaccountable urge to threaten you! Shut your cake hole now or prepare to live the rest of your life as a hideously unattractive individual!" Snape paused uncertainly. "Well…uglier than you are now, I mean."

Vernon stepped back in sudden fear, but his eyes still glared daggers at Harry. "Fine, freak," he said venomously, drops of spittle shooting out of his mouth.

Snape turned back to Harry. "Now, Potter, I suggest you explain swiftly and succinctly what is going on here."

Harry watched Snape with growing fear. You've faced Voldemort; there's no need to fear Snape, Harry reminded himself. But what would happen if Snape were to know the truth? He couldn't shut the fear out of his head. What was wrong with him? "I – I –" he stuttered, before collapsing in a heap on the floor.


The light pushing its way into Harry's head was too bright, and he whimpered.

"Stop your sniveling, Potter," a strangely familiar voice spoke above him. Harry's eyes whipped open, despite the bright light.

"Professor Snape?"

He was back in his room, lying on his bed, his potions professor standing over him, eyes narrowed. "Your divination skills seem to be improving," Snape said dryly.

"What…what happened?" Harry managed, past the queasy feeling in his stomach that came from days on end without a proper meal.

"First, Potter, you will tell me when the last time was that you've eaten a proper meal."

Harry's eyes widened at his professor's perceptiveness. "Oh, you know," he hedged, "it was just the other day…maybe even yesterday…"

"Potter! If you lie to me, so help me, I'll curse you into next week," Snape warned.

Harry had suddenly had enough. "Well, what do you care?" he shouted back. "What's it to you if I happen to die of malnutrition? It's not like I'm your precious Malfoy!" Harry pulled his knees into his chest and tried not to dwell on the pain…the horrible pain that was pulsing through his body…the pain that was so terrible…even though he felt like he was going to die…probably at any moment…

When Snape spoke it was in a small voice that Harry hardly recognized. "I know. I can't even really explain it myself. It's just this sudden unexplainable fatherly urge towards…well, you, of all people."

Harry was at a loss for words. "Me? You don't even like me," he squeaked uncertainly. "Malfoy's your favorite."

"I know. It's just that…seeing you so helpless and hurt, looking like somebody beat the crap out of you…"

A voice spoke indignantly from the doorway. "I did not beat the crap out of him," Uncle Vernon insisted. "I didn't give him anything he didn't deserve in the first place, you…you freak!"

Snape hardly even looked in that direction, just flicked his wand, and the door slammed shut in Uncle Vernon's face.

"Potter, you will not…I repeat, will not ever tell anyone I just said that. I mean, you're right. I don't even like you. It must be…I don't know, temporary insanity or something." Snape ran his hand over his face before leaning toward Harry. "Here, drink this." He offered a potion which Harry drank without question, nevermind that it had been handed to him by his most hated and not-to-be-trusted professor.

Sudden exhaustion overcame him, and Harry closed his eyes. "Whatever you say, professor," he said with exhaustion. He was exhausted. So exhausted exhausted exhausted… "What're you doing here anyway?" he thought to ask, just as he was drifting off into a dark abyss.

"Dumbledore sent me," Snape replied darkly. "Told me to tell you happy birthday."

Silly, Harry thought to himself. Silly of Dumbledore to send that great greasy git, even though it does make for nicely alliterative dream-thoughts.Then darkness closed in.


A/N: I'm a lazy researcher. If you find stuff that's incorrect or under-researched, please tell me. If I'm in the mood I might fix it.

Reviews, please! And please tell me if you hate it, so I don't waste anymore of my time writing it. Conversely, please tell me if it's the most brilliant thing you've ever read in your life so that I can quit my job and become a best-selling author as soon as possible.