Harry Potter and the Stone Of Radical Improbability (SORI)
Disclaimer: It is more probable to be struck by lightning and have won the lottery, than for J.K. Rowling to have written this story. (I DO NOT own any of these characters, or the story itself, I do not own Harry Potter.)
Author's Note: This is my very first piece of Fan Fiction. If you don't lose interest in the middle of this chapter and actually chuckle a few times, please be nice and review my work. Enjoy!
Chapter 1: The Perfectly Strange Tuesday
It seemed like a perfectly normal Tuesday, but it wasn't. At #4 Privet Drive, Mr. Dursley woke up to get to work. This was perfectly normal. Mrs. Dursley was already downstairs, yammering into the phone as loud as she could, while feeding yogurt to her infant son, Dudley. This was perfectly normal. That is, for Mrs. Dursley and her son, not for the yogurt, which had been sitting in the refrigerator for some time. As Mr. Dursley pulled out of his driveway and turned left, he did not notice the penguin, sitting underneath a sign in front of his house, on which was written in big, bold, letters: #4 Privet Drive. The big bold letters were written on the sign, not on the house, or on the penguin, and this, of course, was perfectly normal. Never mind the penguin for now.
Anyway, the first thing that Mr. Dursley did notice, which wasn't perfectly normal, was that the traffic jam he was now standing in was caused by people clad in oddly colored cloaks who were dashing across the street. "What the hell," Mr. Dursley thought to himself. Curiously enough, "What the hell," is exactly what Mr. Dursley would find himself saying if he knew that hundreds of flamingoes were currently swooping in different directions, high above the traffic. Anyway, Mr. Dursley forgot all about the oddly-colored cloaks once he arrived at work. He sat in the chair at his desk and called numerous people on the phone and told them what he thought of them, and vice-versa.
When it was time for his lunch break, Mr. Dursley left his office and bought himself a bagel in a fancy café. But there was something wrong with it. Not with Mr. Dursley, or the fancy café, but the bagel. It was made in China, like all things are, it was small, smooth and shiny, round, and had a hole in the middle, but it was covered with sesame seeds! Mr. Dursley was allergic to sesame seeds, and he didn't know this crucial fact. So he went ahead and ate the bloody bagel. Allergic reactions vary greatly from substance to substance, and person to person. So let's look at the equation: Mr. Dursley + sesame seeds equals X. By counting the number of letters in the first phrase (Mr. Dursley), and in the second (sesame seeds), subtracting the smaller from the greater, squaring this number, multiplying it by 2005 to the negative fifth power, writing it on a little piece of paper, and mailing it to Madagascar, we finally arrive to the deeper meaning of X in this equation. X equals Paranoia, meaning, when Mr. Dursley eats sesame seeds, he gets very paranoid.
So here was Mr. Dursley, walking down the street, eating his bagel covered with sesame seeds, when suddenly he got very paranoid. He stopped. Suddenly. Not getting paranoid, but he stopped walking and eating his bagel covered with sesame seeds. He looked out of the corners of his eyes. A red car was pulling up near the sidewalk right next to him. Mr. Dursley whimpered and turned around. Quickly. A blond woman, walking toward him, was taking something out of her purse. Slowly. Mr. Dursley began hyperventilating and whirled his head. In the café window, there was a scrumptious cake that had a hidden camera in its cherry. It was watching him. Creepily. Mr. Dursley ran for it. Dashing through the streets, running pell-mell down the road, he tripped on a rock, five yards away from weird people in cloaks. Mr. Dursley was unharmed by the accident, but the bagel that he was still holding had lost a few sesame seeds. He tossed the bagel into the rubbish bin, and then glared at the weird people in cloaks. Suspiciously.
The weird people in oddly colored cloaks were huddled together, whispering, possibly about him. Mr. Dursley took a small step toward them. The weird people in oddly colored cloaks didn't notice. Mr. Dursley took another small step toward them. The weird people in oddly colored cloaks didn't notice, again. Mr. Dursley dropped on all fours and crawled closer to them. He then strained his ears to hear what they were talking about. "…..the Potters…." "…..their son Harry…." "….you-know-who…" Mr. Dursley froze still in shock. His wife Petunia insisted that they pretend that she didn't have a sister, who was a-… Mr. Dursley shuddered. His wife's sister married with someone called Potter and had a son who, Mr. Dursley strained his memory, seemed to have been called Harry. Mr. Dursley got up quickly and ran back to his office. He yelled at his secretary to shut up even though she didn't say anything and slammed the door.
He picked up his telephone and started dialing his home phone number, and then suddenly, he changed his mind. He thought to himself, there must be a lot of people named Potter. It's probably a common name. I'm not even sure that their son's name was Harry. It might have been Harvey or Harold. Or maybe Haricoverts, who knows? He reassured himself. He was just being paranoid. Mr. Dursley passed the remainder of his afternoon ordinarily, whatever ordinary might be, without noticing any of the flamingoes that were flying past his office window every few minutes. Indeed, he didn't notice anything strange until he was pulling into his driveway. There was a penguin, sitting underneath a sign in front of his house, on which was written in big, bold, letters: #4 Privet Drive. Mr. Dursley stopped the car and stared at it, with his mouth wide open. The penguin stared back in a cool manner. Mr. Dursley's eyes began to water, and then he blinked. The penguin also blinked back, in a cool manner. Mr. Dursley glared at the penguin as if he was daring it to continue existing. The penguin dared to continue to exist and blinked again.
Mr. Dursley was so perplexed by the sudden apparition of a penguin for no earthly reason that his brain decided to ignore it, deeming it someone else's problem. Mr. Dursley drove the car into his driveway, got out, went up to his front door, and rang the door bell, completely ignoring the penguin that was sitting next to him, still blinking at him. Mrs. Dursley opened the door and let him in. "How was your day at work, dear?" she cooed. Mr. Dursley decided not to tell her about the whispers that he had heard. "It was fine," he said. He dropped himself into the couch in his living room and groaned. It had been a long day. He turned on the TV. "Bird-watchers have reported hundreds of flamingo sightings all over Britain. Zoologists are clueless as to how they migrated from Florida. Sometimes we do have the odd flamingo or two that migrates for some unknown reason." The reporter grinned sheepishly. "Very strange. And now for the weather forecast, Paul, are we having any flamingo showers in the near future?" "Well, I don't know about that, Tom, but people have been calling from Kent and Yorkshire about some very strange weather. I promised them a light shower yesterday, but instead they had a shower of shooting stars! Probably people setting off fireworks, Bonfire Night isn't until next week folks! But I can promise you a wet night tonight-"
Mr. Dursley stared at the TV in horror. Showers of shooting stars? Flocks of flamingoes? Weird people in oddly colored cloaks dashing across the streets? Whispering about the Potters and their son Harry? Strange things were happening today. He got up off the sofa and went to his wife, who was in the kitchen. "Er, Petunia, dear?" he asked tentatively. "Yes?" she said curiously. "Is something wrong?" "No, no, nothing," he said, "Its just that, um, have you heard from your, er, sister lately?" Mrs. Dursley was shocked. "No. Why?" she demanded angrily. "Well, er, I dunno, strange things happened today, um, flamingoes everywhere, uh, shooting stars, and odd people in cloaks; I thought it had something to do with, um, her crowd, "he said nervously. Mrs. Dursley stared at him for a few seconds. "Nah, you're just being paranoid," she said scornfully. Mr. Dursley sighed resignedly. At least he had tried. He went to bed and tried to sleep, but the day's events kept turning over in his mind. What if all the strange things that happened today have something to do with us? Mr. Dursley shuddered, but then reassured himself. Petunia's right; I'm just being paranoid. How very wrong he was.
So… Did you like it? Should I keep on writing? Was it funny at all? Please, please, please review! Even if you didn't like it, help me get better!
Alphapolitan