e.lila.beth (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} celeria) wrote,@ 2007-07-20 14:53:00 |
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Fic: Harry Potter and the Stone He Put In His Pocket to Drown Himself (Harry Potter, PG-13, parody)
Title: Harry Potter and the Stone He Put In His Pocket to Drown Himself
Date: March 21, 2005
Rating: PG-13
Warning: None, except for parody and distortion of the first chapter of the first book.
Notes: I wrote this several years ago, after The Leaky Cauldron linked to a story about a Harry Potter fan and teen prodigy who killed himself, and someone commented that it was not appropriate for TLC to share that link because "Harry Potter is the boy who lived, not the boy who committed suicide." My friend Claire made a joke about writing that story, and bam, it was born.
Harry Potter and the Stone He Put In His Pocket to Drown Himself
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything depressing or therapeutic, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.
Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made bandages and antibacterial ointment because he knew most "depressed" teenagers who "mutilated" themselves and wanted to "die" weren't actually depressed and didn't want to die, so they would take care of their wounds when they cut themselves. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors when they had serious talks with their sobbing teenagers. The Dursleys had a young son called Dudley who was very fat (part of their master plan so that if he ever got "depressed" and tried to hang himself, his bulk would pull down the shower curtain rod) and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.
The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't met for several years because Mrs. Potter was locked in the psychiatric ward of a very fine hospital in America; in fact, Mrs. Dursley and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the street, or even in the country for that matter. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son, too, but they had never even seen him. This boy as another good reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn't want Dudley mixing with an ugly, skinny child like that.
When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley went to bed on the dark Tuesday our story starts, a man appeared on the corner. A cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.
Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to use as a bandage for small children who tried to slit their wrists. He was wearing long robes, a blood-red cloak that swept to the ground, and a lime-green-colored rubber bracelet on his armband that probably stood for the eradication of manic depression. His blue eyes were light, dreary, and exhausted behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice when the shower curtain rod broke. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.
Dumbledore walked down the street and turned to smile at the tabby, but it was gone. Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a bracelet, a neon-orange one that probably supported victims of reactive attachment disorder. She looked distinctly ruffled as they both turned to the sky.
A low rumbling sound broke the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky – and a huge motorcycle that looked like someone had tried to drive it off a bridge several times fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.
If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least four times as wide. He looked as big as Dudley Dursley might be someday, and so wild - long tangles of bushy black hair like scouring pads for cleaning up blood hid most of his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots looked like small buckets in which a person might try to drown himself. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a pile of soggy blankets.
"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. "At last. No problems, were there?"
"No, sir – the bathtub was still full, but I got him out all right before the Muggles started swarmin' around. His clothes started to dry out as we was flyin' over Bristol."
Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, looking quite blue in the face. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a drop of water.
"Is that where – ?" whispered Professor McGonagall.
"Yes," said Dumbledore. "He'll have that scar forever."
Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys' house. Hagrid let out a howl like a depressed twelve-year-old.
"Shhh!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "you'll wake the Muggles!"
"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a carnation pink lacy handkerchief, the proceeds from the sale of which went toward a cure for REM Behaviour Disorder. "But I c-c-an't stand it – Lily and James dead – an' poor little Harry off ter have his funeral arranged by Muggles – "
"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll have to arrange the damn funeral ourselves," Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Harry roughly on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry's blankets, and then came back to the other two.
"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the people trying to write the eulogy."
Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.
"I'm sorry, Harry," he murmured. He turned on his heel and, with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.
A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect depressed children to live. Harry Potter lay like a lump in his blankets. One limp arm pushed the letter out of his blankets and he lay there, cold and wet, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he could have changed the future of the wizarding world if he hadn't drowned himself. He couldn't know that, at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were sobbing into their six-ounce tumblers of firewhisky and wailing in hushed voices: "To Harry Potter – the boy who committed suicide!"
And ten years later, when Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger grew up and went to Hogwarts, they hated each other and Ron thought Hermione was too bossy and Hermione thought Ron was a big coward and no one was around to stop Quirrell and so Voldemort got the Sorcerer's Stone and got his body back and took over the whole world. The End.
Title: Harry Potter and the Stone He Put In His Pocket to Drown Himself
Date: March 21, 2005
Rating: PG-13
Warning: None, except for parody and distortion of the first chapter of the first book.
Notes: I wrote this several years ago, after The Leaky Cauldron linked to a story about a Harry Potter fan and teen prodigy who killed himself, and someone commented that it was not appropriate for TLC to share that link because "Harry Potter is the boy who lived, not the boy who committed suicide." My friend Claire made a joke about writing that story, and bam, it was born.
Harry Potter and the Stone He Put In His Pocket to Drown Himself
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything depressing or therapeutic, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.
Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made bandages and antibacterial ointment because he knew most "depressed" teenagers who "mutilated" themselves and wanted to "die" weren't actually depressed and didn't want to die, so they would take care of their wounds when they cut themselves. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors when they had serious talks with their sobbing teenagers. The Dursleys had a young son called Dudley who was very fat (part of their master plan so that if he ever got "depressed" and tried to hang himself, his bulk would pull down the shower curtain rod) and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.
The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't met for several years because Mrs. Potter was locked in the psychiatric ward of a very fine hospital in America; in fact, Mrs. Dursley and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the street, or even in the country for that matter. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son, too, but they had never even seen him. This boy as another good reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn't want Dudley mixing with an ugly, skinny child like that.
When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley went to bed on the dark Tuesday our story starts, a man appeared on the corner. A cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.
Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to use as a bandage for small children who tried to slit their wrists. He was wearing long robes, a blood-red cloak that swept to the ground, and a lime-green-colored rubber bracelet on his armband that probably stood for the eradication of manic depression. His blue eyes were light, dreary, and exhausted behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice when the shower curtain rod broke. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.
Dumbledore walked down the street and turned to smile at the tabby, but it was gone. Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a bracelet, a neon-orange one that probably supported victims of reactive attachment disorder. She looked distinctly ruffled as they both turned to the sky.
A low rumbling sound broke the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky – and a huge motorcycle that looked like someone had tried to drive it off a bridge several times fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.
If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least four times as wide. He looked as big as Dudley Dursley might be someday, and so wild - long tangles of bushy black hair like scouring pads for cleaning up blood hid most of his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots looked like small buckets in which a person might try to drown himself. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a pile of soggy blankets.
"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. "At last. No problems, were there?"
"No, sir – the bathtub was still full, but I got him out all right before the Muggles started swarmin' around. His clothes started to dry out as we was flyin' over Bristol."
Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, looking quite blue in the face. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a drop of water.
"Is that where – ?" whispered Professor McGonagall.
"Yes," said Dumbledore. "He'll have that scar forever."
Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys' house. Hagrid let out a howl like a depressed twelve-year-old.
"Shhh!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "you'll wake the Muggles!"
"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a carnation pink lacy handkerchief, the proceeds from the sale of which went toward a cure for REM Behaviour Disorder. "But I c-c-an't stand it – Lily and James dead – an' poor little Harry off ter have his funeral arranged by Muggles – "
"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll have to arrange the damn funeral ourselves," Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Harry roughly on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry's blankets, and then came back to the other two.
"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the people trying to write the eulogy."
Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.
"I'm sorry, Harry," he murmured. He turned on his heel and, with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.
A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect depressed children to live. Harry Potter lay like a lump in his blankets. One limp arm pushed the letter out of his blankets and he lay there, cold and wet, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he could have changed the future of the wizarding world if he hadn't drowned himself. He couldn't know that, at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were sobbing into their six-ounce tumblers of firewhisky and wailing in hushed voices: "To Harry Potter – the boy who committed suicide!"
And ten years later, when Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger grew up and went to Hogwarts, they hated each other and Ron thought Hermione was too bossy and Hermione thought Ron was a big coward and no one was around to stop Quirrell and so Voldemort got the Sorcerer's Stone and got his body back and took over the whole world. The End.