Little one-shot inspired by (read: stolen from) a bunch of George Carlin sketches I was just listening to. It starts in the middle of their sixth year, when people are regularly being killed, but it skips around a little bit.
"Did you hear?" Hermione said at the Gryffindor Table one morning. "Oliver Wood's family was killed by Death Eaters."
"Oliver Wood?" Ron said incredulously. "I just wrote to him yesterday, looking for Quidditch tips!"
Harry stared at Ron a moment. "Yeah. Didn't help. They died anyway. Apparently, the simple act of your writing to Oliver did not stop the Death Eaters from killing them. In fact, it may have made them more aggressive." He gave Ron a long look. "You know, you could be responsible for his family's deaths. How do you live with yourself?"
"I don't know, Harry," Ron said dejectedly. "How long should I wait before scratching them out of my address book?"
"Oh, about six weeks or so," Harry said, biting into a sausage. "Good rule of thumb."
"What'cha doing, Ron?" Hermione said, plunking down next to the redhead in the Common Room later that day.
"Writing to Oliver to tell him I'm sorry about his parent's deaths," Ron said, not looking up from his letter. "Here's what I've got so far: Oliver, I'm so sorry to hear about the death of your parents. Look, if there's anything I can do, anything at all, please don't hesitate to ask-"
"What are you going to do, a resurrection?" Hermione said. "This isn't the New Testament. What do you expect him to say? 'Well, why don't you come over this weekend, you can paint the garage! Bring your plunger, the upstairs toilet overflowed. Do you have a pickaxe and a shovel? Good, that'll come in handy; the yard needs a lot of attention."
"Whatever," Ron said, looking back at his letter. "I go on to say that I'm keeping them in my thoughts-"
"Where?" Hermione said. "Where exactly in your thoughts, do they fit? In between 'my ass hurts in this chair' and 'let's shag Lavender because she's easy'? What are your priorities?"
"Merlin, Hermione, have a heart!" Ron said. "This boy just lost his parents!"
"Aaah, they'll turn up," Hermione said, waving a hand dismissively. "You got to keep it upbeat. Give him reason to hope. You have to stay optimistic with people like that. Tell him to check in his parent's closet, they might just be having him on." She stood, stretched, and gave Ron a hard look. "I'm going upstairs to shag your best friend." She walked up the stairs with Harry in tow, leaving Ron sitting there with a confused expression on his face.
"Fuck Dumbledore," Harry said as they lay in bed afterwards. "Fuck him and his beard and his purple robes and that damn twinkle in his eyes, I'm tired of that asshole. And while we're at it, fuck Voldemort, too! There's another jack-off I can do without. I'm tired of being told who to admire and fear." He rolled over and looked at Hermione. "Aren't you tired of being told who your heroes and villains ought to be? Being told who you ought to be looking up to? I'll choose my own heroes, thank you very much." He paused a moment. "And fuck Snape, too!"
"Why?" Hermione said, snuggling against his chest.
"Part of my continuing Occlumency training. I'm working with Madame Pomfrey now. She's slightly better at teaching Occlumency, if more of an angry person inside. She said I should express my emotions, so that's what I'm doing." He exhaled slowly and looked at Hermione. "So what have you been doing since you last came to see me?"
"Well, since the last time I rolled through these parts – and I do come with frequency, don't I. I'm a bit like herpes, I keep coming back. But since the last time I came through here, I've found out that Dumbledore keeps leaving the castle for odd reasons, even though he's avoiding you. And I found out the old fuck is only ninety years old, not a hundred and sixty as he pretends to be."
"He's ninety?"
"Sixty-nine with twenty-one fingers up his ass," Hermione said assuredly.
"Well, that means he loses those advantages…" Harry muttered.
"What do you mean?"
"A really old wizard never has to carry anything heavy ever again. He can take advantage of people just by asking them, even if he's going across the damn planet. He can leave any social event early, just by saying he's tired. And, he's not responsible for anything. He could forget his brother's funeral and call Snape Agnes and get away with it."
"I can just see him looking around the Head Table one night and saying 'who are you people and where is my horse?' and messing everyone up," Hermione said. "But he can't get away with that anymore."
"Nope. Voldemort is almost seventy years old, and he's still trying to conquer the planet. What's Dumbledore's excuse?"
"I don't know. But people around here could take Voldemort without you or Dumbledore," Hermione said. "But they don't want to be realistic. People would rather stroke themselves. You know that statue in the Ministry of Magic?"
"Yeah?"
"Well, I think it should be changed. A wizard standing naked at attention, and seated next to him, a witch, jerking him off. An elf, a goblin, and a centaur pointing and laughing at the two." She took a slow breath. "You have to admire the Ministry, though. They came up with a great bullshit story back in fifth year. You're a nut, Dumbledore's a nut, Voldemort's not back, the press is free, business is honest, all purebloods are equal, justice is blind, your vote counts, the good guys win, the Aurors are on your side, the Ministry is watching you, and everything is going to be just fine. The official national bullshit story."
"I call it the 'Ministry Okie-Doke' myself," Harry said, brushing her hair back. "I can't understand pure-blood supremacist attitudes, myself. Frankly, I don't know why they're proud. Pride is reserved for something you achieve on your own, not something you get by accident of birth!"
"You guys have the most interesting pillow talk I've ever heard," Seamus said from the next bed.
"Alright, everyone," Harry said, leaning on his Firebolt. "You should be here for Gryffindor Quidditch tryouts. If that's not the reason you're here, get your ass moving on out now." Several second-years scrambled as they left. "The majority of you probably know who I am for some dumb reason or another, but for those of you who don't, my name is Harry Potter. I did defeat Voldemort, and yes, he is back. Now that we've gotten the public service announcement out of the way, we can get to business. Those of you who have flown or worked with me before know that I don't usually talk about myself, that's not my style, but I think you guys should know something about me. I fly kinda recklessly, I take a lot of chances, I never repair my broom, and I don't believe in Quidditch rules. So I tend to have a high number of accidents. So, we are most definitely interested in having a backup Seeker."
Harry began pacing. "I realize that this may seem a bit harsh, but we are playing to win here, and I know that some of you may not know if you can be brutal enough during the game. So, I've selected a few stories that may inspire you. My second year, during a Slytherin-Gryffindor game, I either ran over one of their chasers, or I ran over a small troll wearing green robes riding a broom. And I don't know because I didn't stop. I never stop when I have an accident. You can't! Hey, who has time? Not me! I hit someone, I run someone over," Harry stretched out an arm in front of himself, signifying himself moving on, "I keep moving. Especially if I've injured someone. I do NOT get involved in that. I'm not a Healer; I've got no medical training. I'm just a Seeker out looking for the Snitch and I can't be stopping for everything."
"Why not?" A third year asked.
"Well, let's look at it logically, let's be logical about it. If you do stop, all you do is add to the confusion. This person you just ran over has enough problems of their own, without you stopping and making things worse! Leave these people alone! They've just been in a major broom accident! The last thing they need is for you to stop and get off your broom and go over to the fire, because by now, it is a fire, and start bothering them with a lot of stupid questions." Harry conjured a broken body on the ground, with its limbs realistically twisted and blood leaking from compound fractures. He adopted a heavy voice. "Are you hurt?" Dropping the voice, he gestured wildly at the body. "Well of course they're hurt! Look at all the blood! You just hit them at a hundred miles an hour! Of course they're hurt! Leave these people alone! Haven't you done enough?"
The people looking to try out took a few steps back.
Harry went on without noticing. "For once in your lives, do the decent thing, don't get involved. In the first place, it's none of your business. The whole thing took place off your broom. Legally speaking, these people were not on your property on the time you ran them over. They were on the Quidditch pitch, which is Hogwarts property, so you are not responsible. They don't like it? Let 'em sue Hogwarts! And besides," Harry said, dispelling the body, "it happened back there! It's over now, stop living in the past! Do yourself a favor, count your blessings, and be glad it wasn't you."
"I'd still stop," The third year said resolutely.
"I'll give you a practical reason not to stop, if you need one. If you do stop, sooner or later the teachers or Madame Hooch are going to show up. Is that what you want? Waste a lot of your time standing around filling out forms, answering a lot of foolish questions, lying to the authorities? And by the way, who are you to be taking up the time of the teachers? These people are professionals, with the exception of Professor Snape, who are supposed to be out teaching students. Stop interfering with them." Harry looked around. "And besides? Didn't anyone else see this accident? Huh? Are you the only one who can provide information? Surely the person you ran over caught a glimpse of it at the last moment! So let them tell the teachers what happened! They were a lot closer to it than you were! There's no sense in having two conflicting stories floating around about the same dumbass flying accident. Things are bad enough. People are dead, family lines have been ended, so it's time to get moving!"
"I'm the opposite way," A fourth year Muggleborn student said. "If I see an accident, one that I'm not involved in, I stop immediately. I want to get a good look at what's going on. Someone else is injured, so I want to take a look!" He looked thoughtful for a moment. "I am Curious George."
"The teacher's don't like that, they say you're rubbernecking and blocking traffic," A nasally second year said.
"Yeah, never mind that shit, I want to take a look!" The fourth year continued. "I am never too busy that I can't stop to enjoy someone else's suffering. I enjoy accidents. My favorite accidents is two Slytherins and a Ravenclaw get taken out by an out-of-control Hufflepuff and fly into the teacher's stands. Well, I want to see something interesting. I'm looking for a broom handle jammed into someone's nose. I take the time to stop, I expect a couple of bleeding laughs! And, if my broom happens to be in such a position where I can't get a good look at what's going on, can't see the bodies clearly enough, I'm not the least bit shy about asking the teachers to drag the bodies over a little closer!"
"Yeah, you'll do fine here," Harry said.
"This reminds me something my Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher said to me once," Moody said. "She said 'you show me a tropical fruit, and I'll show you a cocksucker from the jungle!'" Moody hesitated a moment. "Wait, no, that wasn't her, that was a guy I met in the army. I always mix those two up."
"What are you doing now, Ron," Hermione said exasperatedly. Ron looked up from his copy of 'Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul'.
"Reading a self-help book," the redhead said.
"Why do you need help? Life is not that complicated. You get up, you go to school, you eat three meals, you do your homework and you go back to bed! What's the fucking mystery?"
"But…" Ron began.
"And if you're looking for self-help, why would you read a book written by somebody else?" Hermione went on. "That's not self-help, that's help! There's no such thing as self-help! If you did it yourself, you didn't need help!"
"Hello, Ron," Luna said dreamily, sitting down next to Ron in the cheap plastic chair. "Are you here for the motivation seminar too?"
"Yup," Ron said weakly. "And I'm hiding from Harry and Hermione. They both seem to be so angry all the time, until they disappear for a few hours. Then they're fine." The youngest Weasley boy rubbed his neck. "I just wish I knew what they were doing."
"Why don't you ask them?" Luna said.
"I tried. Hermione said they were shagging, and I know that can't be right."
Luna shrugged, and then giggled as the buzz in the room seemed to subside. "Oh, yay! The seminar is beginning!"
The lights dimmed, and Harry stepped onstage. Ron groaned, although the rest of the room cheered.
"Why are you people here? You think you need motivation? If you lack motivation to the degree that you need to go to a seminar to be motivated by somebody else, a seminar isn't going to help you. What I think you really need is to be smashed in the head a few hundred times with a cricket bat." Harry conjured a bat and brandished it. "And I'm just the one to do that."
"How the seminar go, Harry?" Hermione asked at dinner.
"Oh, it went great. The cricket bat worked great. If it didn't motivate them, it at least got them up and moving around the room. Y'know, run for your life, hide, shit like that. Get the day rolling."
"Motivation is bullshit," Ron said through the bandages surrounding his head and the cotton balls stuffed in his mouth. "If you ask me, this place could use a little less motivation. The motivated ones are the ones causing all the trouble! Death Eaters, Dark Lords, Wizengamot members…these people are highly motivated! And anyway, it's overrated. You show me some lazy berk who laying around all day sleeping and playing chess and I'll show you someone who's not causing any damn trouble."
Bill Weasley shook his head scornfully at the Muggles in the supermarket. Fleur had sent him for a tin of oysters, and the ones she liked could only be found in a Muggle store. At the moment, the Muggle in front of him was cooing to her child that was resting in the strange device she had strapped to her chest. Bill wasn't sure if it was a side pack or a front pack or a sling of some sort that carried the baby and left the mother's hands free to sort through the food on display as well as the woman's massive purse. Bill knew what it was for, as he had gotten an O on his Muggle Studies OWL and NEWT, and had worked with Muggleborns on a regular basis to become acclimated with Muggle practices.
"Hey, Mrs. Natural Fibers," The young man called. "It's not a piece of camping equipment, it's a baby. Touch the little prick now and then; he'll thank you for it someday."
The woman scowled at him, but Bill simply shook his head and turned around, to be greeted by another infuriating sight. A man in a suit, with a wireless headset plugged into his ear and connected to his mobile phone.
"Hey, spaceman," Bill snarked, "Long as your hands are free, why don't you reach over here and fondle my balls? I'm sure that Margaret Thatcher and the Dalai Lama will understand if you put them on hold for a moment."
"Look, Tom, there's something I've been meaning to ask you," Harry said.
"What is it, boy?" Voldemort said. "Make it quick, your last words shouldn't take too long."
"Why did you change your name to Lord Voldemort?"
"Did you really think I would keep that filthy Muggle name?"
"Well, you changed it from a rather solid, manly name. Tom Riddle. To Lord Voldemort. I don't know about you," Harry said to the Death Eaters surrounding them, "But that seems a bit fruity to me. Why not a more manly name? Biff Webster, Spud Crowley, Chuck Steak? If you needed a 'Lord' in there, how about Lord Scarborough? Lord Fearsome? Give the people a suggestion, they're sheep anyway. The Dark Lord was pretty cool, but only your followers call you that. Most of the people that oppose you openly call you the Dork Lord now."
"We must not let this bill pass," Lucius Malfoy said to the other wizards gathered around him. To a man, they were Death Eaters who had avoided prison on the Imperius plea. "Otherwise, Mudbloods may gain the rights we have!"
"Ah, hell, here we go again," Harry said, kicking the door in and striding into the room, disarming the group with a wave of his wand. "You boys need to learn, there's no such thing as rights. They're a cute idea, but that's just it. Cute, and fictional. We made them up. Like the boogeyman. Babbity Rabbity. Shit like that. For instance, you believe you have the right to say anything you please. That may be, but if you say something that pisses me off, I say I have the right to kill you. What's more, we take rights away all the time. Rights aren't rights if someone can take them away. They're privileges."
"What do you mean?" Macnair said suspiciously.
"What are the three things the American Muggle government said that every man was born with a right to?"
"Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness," Nott piped up. Lucius glared at him. "What?" the man said. "Know your enemy."
"He's right, on both counts," Harry said. "Watch me take away those rights." He waved his wand at Macnair, beheading him. "Life." He flicked his wand at Lucius, conjuring a pair of heavy manacles around his wrists. "Liberty." He pointed his wand at Lucius again and muttered a spell under his breath. Lucius screamed, and blood flowed down his trouser leg. "And happiness. I think I've made my point. Good day, gentlemen."
A/N: I'm sorry, but the bunny wouldn't leave me alone. Kept stealing my carrots, too.