Harry Potter, as written by William Shakespeare
by Technomad
(from the play The Tragedie of Harrie Potter, Parte the Seventh)
Scene Seven:
Before the castle of Hogwarts. Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom stand in front of Dumbledore's Army. They address their troops.
Harry:
Let all who have no stomach for this fight
Depart at once; their passage shall be free
And Galleons to live on put into their pouch.
We would not wish to owe our lives to such
As dare the hazard not of their free will.
Neville:
Now is the summer of our childhood o'er
Cut short in bloom by this unsightly cloud,
And I, that am not made for Quidditch games,
I, that am rudely stamp'd, and lack great sorcery,
Am forc'd to fight to set our people free.
Harry:
Our foes claim that they fight but for Death's end,
And yet they lie, in word and in their deeds,
For what spread they, but Death to all they hate?
They claim that they boast pure wizarding blood,
And yet they lie, for Riddle, their foul "Lord,"
Doth spring from magic folk but on one side!
His dam, poor soul, was of the line of Gaunt,
A line long sunk in incest and insane.
His sire, poor wretch, was not a mage at all!
For Thomas Riddle was a Muggle true
And knew no spell, nor could he fly a broom.
And from such stock, with blight upon his dam
What else could come but madness and sure doom?
Neville:
The Dark Lord spread his fear both far and wide
And yet was foiled by a mere infant child!
For lo, this Riddle is but a paltry wretch,
A weakling fool, who ne'er in all his life
Did face a foe in true and equal fight!
His followers are the scum of all the earth,
Whom their o'ercloyed countries have vomited forth
To desperate adventures and assured destruction!
If we must be slaves, let it be to men,
And not this band of foul banditto scum
Who could not take down six, and them not trained,
When they and we last faced off o'er wands
In the interior of the Ministry.
Harry:
Let not their foolish masks befright our souls,
For death is but a doorway in the air,
Thro' which all pass, to find a better world!
Our duties? Those are heavy as the world,
While death is lighter than a feather borne
On the sweet breath of any smiling babe.
A drum sounds. Cries of "Morsmordre!" from offstage.
Hark! They come!
This day is called the second day of May,
And May the Second shall be well renown'd
As long as wizards cast their mighty spells!
And wizards in the Alleys or Hogsmeade
Shall curse the fates, that they did not stand here
And hold their magic cheap, while any speak
That fought with us, this second day of May!
March on, march on, let us to it, pell-mell!
If not to heaven-then hand-in-hand to hell!
