A/n: Harry is one of those characters that has been poisoned for me because of the sheer volume of really bad fanfics out there involving him. I find myself unable to like Harry in JKR's books just because of what I've read in fanfics. There's been sap so thick it could suffocate Godzilla. (I am terribly sorry for my contributions to this. I was young and stupid. Sorry!) Now, I have nothing against romance novels, but there's a difference between romance and sap. Romance has a thing called a "Plot." Romance encompasses such things that aren't totally perfect. In case you missed the memo: There is a reason that Romeo and Juliet is the most popular romance of all time. It's because of the difficulty! It was a rocky road. There were obstacles! It wasn't just "Harry looked across the room and saw his true love. 'Will you marry me?' he asked. 'Oh yes, Harry.' She said. Harry became Minister of Magic, they married and had eleven kids."

Crap like that doesn't happen. Even in the world of magic, it just isn't like that. I don't know what it will take to get that through these people's heads. With me, the cure was experience. Maybe people shouldn't be allowed to write a fanfic until they've been dumped for the first time. I feel confident that this will seriously lower the amount of sap in the world, just with one fact: These morons need to get a date first to get dumped.

So, in order to cover all the problems surrounding the world's favorite scarhead, this will be a double length chapter. I won't stop until I have at least 2,000 words. Promise.

Behind the Scenes

Chapter Two: Harry

Harry was suffering from a serious case of time lag. He had spent the last two weeks (or one hundred and fourty years, depending on how you look at it) traveling through time so that he could take the virginity of his own mother. After that he made his way through younger versions of each of the Marauders, Severus Snape, Minerva McGonnagall, Lucius Malfoy, Tom Riddle and finally, Albus Dumbledore. He thought his cock was going to fall off from over usage, and he had only slept twice in his entire journey.

'You'd think I would be used to this by now.' He thought bitterly. 'The Fangirls make me do this all the freaking time. At least it wasn't Nagini this time…'

Harry opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out a bottle of industrial strength painkillers called "Oxycotin." He took them with him wherever he went these days. Tonight he was staying in a hotel room in Las Vegas. He was getting married to Draco Malfoy by an Elvis impersonator tomorrow.

Harry knew that he would suffer from terrible nightmares were he to go to sleep now. Normally he would take a dreamless sleep potion, but Madame Pomefrey put a stop to that about a month ago, seeing as he started getting addicted to the damn things. He only managed to shrug off the withdrawal symptoms last week.

Once he started thinking about his nightmares, he shuddered. He knew that if he took some pills right now, he'd drop off to sleep and not be able to wake up from his terrible dreams. He'd have to live through them all again. With that in mind, he put the bottle back in the cabinet.

Now all of you are assuming that Harry is suffering psychological damage from the many attacks and attempts on his life that he's survived right?

Dead wrong. These days, Voldemort and his Death Eaters were the least of his worries. Voldemort had other problems now anyway. Apparently Harry wasn't the only person that had to play puppet to all the sick little fanfic writers of the world.

'Draco is lucky.' Harry thought, rubbing at his asshole and wincing in pain. 'At least he can drown his sorrows away with alcohol… I had a fucked up life before the fangirls even knew my name.' He sighed loudly.

"I wonder if Remus is still up." He mumbled, and walked over to the room telephone. Remus was living in the Muggle world due to the prejudice against Werewolves that most wizards shared. Harry picked up the phone and dialed the international number to get ahold of the closest thing he had to a father at this point. Except when they were digging up the bodies of his parents and Sirius every third day. Sirius had been brought back as an Inferi and had been taught to say lines, play jokes and have sex with inappropriate people.

"Note to self: don't mention Sirius in front of Remus." He told himself. This wasn't an issue of grief or sadness of his death, but because some crackpot fangirl had Remus have sex with Sirius's animated corpse every hour. Harry wouldn't have bothered to call if he hadn't know that Sirius's corpse was currently fucking Wormtail and Bellatrix Lestrange in some twisted threesome back in England.

The phone rang a few times before Remus picked up. He sounded terrible.

"Hello?" the werewolf asked. He'd definitely just woken up.

"Merlin, you sound terrible Remus. Rough transformation?" Harry inquired.

"Do you see a moon in the sky, dipshit?" Remus snapped. "Look kid, I already told you not to fucking call me anymore. I've got enough emotional baggage right now without throwing your shit on top right now. Now FUCK OFF!" Remus slammed down the phone. Back in Vegas, Harry started to whimper and sob.

Harry let the phone receiver fall to the floor and Harry dropped to his knees. He winced. His knees were still sore. He spent all yesterday kneeling on a tile floor. The tears started falling in earnest and Harry started shaking and having throat wrenching sobs. He started flipping out and his mind started acting up. He scrambled for his inhaler and took a few puffs. His tears dried up and his mind stabilized once more.

'Too many emotional scars… Remus is right. I need some help.' Harry thought. He walked towards the desk drawers underneath the phone and rummaged through them looking for the phone book. He pulled open the bottom drawer first.

"OH HELL NO!" He shouted, shoving the drawer shut in disgust. The fan girls had stocked his room with all the props he would use the next day. Needless to say, he did not like what he saw. There was a black, quadruple ended dildo shaped like a tire iron sitting on that drawer. Each dildo was close to fourteen inches long. He could almost feel the pain already. He didn't even want to think about who might be sharing the four pointed dildo of doom with him.

"Screw the psychiatrist!" he snapped. "I'm calling Tom."

Harry of course was not referring to the barkeep at the Leaky Cauldron. He was referring to his "Arch-nemesis" Lord Voldemort. He knew that Voldemort didn't have a telephone, so Harry decided to apparate straight to his residence. Normally, apparating from Las Vegas to Little Hangleton would be impossible, but not for Harry. He'd been in too many "Super Harry" fanfics for something to have not rubbed off on him.

With a crack, Harry appeared at the doorstep to the Riddle mansion. He rang the doorbell politely and waited a minute. Footsteps came down the steps, and unlocked the door. Voldemort answered the door.

"Harry Potter…" Voldemort rasped. His voice was weak and hoarse from pretending to his and bossing around servants. He was practically covered in scars and bruises from the numerous ass whippings he'd taken at the hands of various wizards. "What brings you to my house, and at this early hour?" There was an eight hour time change between Las Vegas and Little Hangleton. As it was only 6 PM in Vegas, it was 10 AM in England. Voldemort had still been in bed nursing his most recent embarrassing injury. Apparently Fangirls believed that Dark Lords had no dignity and were free to be beaten in the most degrading way possible. Harry felt that he was the only man alive that had it worse than he did, which was why he came there instead of elsewhere.

"Sorry about the time, Tom. This couldn't wait." Harry said. "May I come in?"

"Of course, Harry. Just remember our truce…" He said, cautiously.

Voldemort had become paranoid, and rightfully so after receiving a full scale thrashing twice a day. He'd left their last encounter in a stretcher. They had brought in a stunt man replacement for Harry… He knew Judo. It wasn't pretty.

"Don't worry Tom. I'm not in character right now." Harry assured him.

Tom looked visibly relieved, and hobbled across the carpeted entrance hall with the aid of a Canadian walker.

"Come in and sit down Harry." Voldemort offered.

"Of course, Tom." Harry said, giving him a reassuring smile. He took a seat on a particularly evil looking recliner. Tom had damn good taste in furniture. "I actually came here to make a proposition."

Tom's eyes widened in shock. "B-but you said…"

"I'm not in character Tom. I'm here to join forces with you. Together, you always said we could be invincible. Let's ally, and together we can destroy the greatest evil to ever walk the Earth: Fangirls."

Tom got a bit of his old evil glint back in his eyes. He seemed to get five years younger in just a few seconds.

"Get me back to health, and together we can wipe them out!" He rasped. "I hear there are going to be four at that wedding of yours tomorrow. Do you still know that time stopping trick you used a few months ago?"

Harry grinned. "I do." He raised his wand and cast the spell. "I'll leave you here to train, and I'll get back to my room. I don't want to be missed."

"Of course… Good luck Harry Potter." Voldemort told him as he left the room. Harry let himself out the front door and walked a good fifty feet away from the house to apparate. Just as he had drawn his wand, he was knocked from his feet when a deafening explosion had reduced Tom and his house to cinders and towering flames.

"NOOOOOO!" he shouted, practically feeling the death of his only ally against his fate. He could feel his chances of freedom slipping away. Now, without an Arch-Nemesis, he couldn't even be involved in a story with a plot anymore. No more dramatic battles… now all that he had left was sap and smut.

He had drastically underestimated the powers of a Fangirl at her keyboard. His only chance had been obliterated by an explosion of their making. Fangirls must have gotten wind of his conspiracy, and destroyed Voldemort to keep him in line. It just wasn't fair. Tears trickled silently down his cheeks.

He apparated before he could become paralyzed by grief. He found himself sobbing on the floor of his hotel room. Half blinded by tears, he searched the room for the phone book once more. He passed drawers full of gold rings, (From marriages past, present and future.) and drawers full of leather pants. Finally he located the book and tore through it looking for the number he wanted. He found it, and dialed it up.

It rang three times. A woman picked up the phone.

"Suicide prevention hotline. Please hold!" She said. Terrible music (if you could call it that) filled his ears as a mechanical voice repeated "Your call is important to us, but all our operators are currently busy."

That was the final straw. He drew his wand and obliterated the window. He had nothing else to live for. He got a running start and leaped through. He fell blissfully… for a second and a half. He was on the second story when he jumped. His leg broke on impact, as well as his arm. He didn't die. He was almost certain that he heard the evil laughter of Fangirls in the distance, hiding behind their foul computer screens.

"Why me?" he asked nobody in particular, screaming in agony. "Why the fuck did you have to pick me?"

He could already hear the apparating of Medi-witches to take him to St. Mungo's. (But not the ward he wanted to be in.)

"Can't you just let me die?" were the last words he said before blanking out.

A/n: Not enough flames! SEND THEM DAMN IT!