Harry Potter and the Chamber of Stupidity
Author's Notes: Now, I am very aware that this idea has been done. Most likely to death. And I'd like to apologize if this title has been used before, too. However, I would really appreciate it if you would give this a chance nonetheless. I think I have managed to give it some originality, and for me, humor is an art form, so you will see none of the grammatically disastrous, profanity-dotted...stuff that humor can, at times, degenerate into.
Disclaimer: I don't own them, and they don't like me, folks. As far as I know, they're currently teaming up with J.K. Rowling, who DOES own them, to end my life. ^_^
Summary: A parody of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. The creature from the Chamber of Secrets has a very different effect on the Muggle- borns...
It was a dark and stormy summer's night. Albus Dumbledore was sitting in his rocking chair, eating celery. Because, after all, everyone eats celery, unless they want to die a most terrible death. As we all know, celery is good for you.
"Remember, children," Dumbledore began abruptly, gazing sternly into an imaginary camera, "eat your celery, unless you want to die a most terrible death."
"Er, Albus," Professor McGonagall began hesitantly, sauntering into the room with a large teapot and pouring an amount of the steaming liquid into the old man's cup, "what is your obsession with dying a terrible death?"
"Do not ask me, Minerva," he replied. "Unless you want to die a most terrible death."
"I...see. Um, one thing, Albus."
"Yes, my love?" he asked, beaming.
"Er...what?"
"Oh, so sorry about that. I forgot where I was for a moment."
"Er...right. I simply wanted to ask why we are here. Don't we always start these books with a quick vignette of young Mr. Potter's life with the evil, mundane, and pitifully stupid Muggles that he lives with in order to emphasize the contrast between our lives and theirs when Harry is whisked suddenly off to a world of magic and adventure?"
"Quite right, Minerva. This is, indeed, all irrelevant. Still, children, do not forget my words."
"Yes, children," Professor McGonagall agreed, nodding at the same invisible camera that Dumbledore had earlier addressed. "Celery is very good for you. It provides many nutrients that the young growing body simply needs to have."
"So be cool," the two said together, "and eat your celery!"
While Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall were busily endorsing a healthy, balanced diet, eleven-but-nearly-twelve year old Harry Potter, a slender fellow with an unruly shock of black hair, brilliant green eyes, a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, and a perpetually pitiful and waif- like expression, surveyed with disgust and slight fear (behind the pitiful waif-like sadness, of course) the new (to him, at any rate) hand-me-down garments draped out across his bed in the smallest bedroom at Privet Drive.
"I don't even want to know what kind of phase Dudley was going through when he wore this," he muttered to himself as his gaze lit on the most prominent of the items, also the one that Aunt Petunia Dursley had commanded he put on immediately.
"Enough dawdling, boy! Get your new clothes on and get down here!"
Harry gave a heavy sigh as he quickly dressed and made his way downstairs.
"Wonderful. It fits. That will do you to wear for housework. After all," Petunia Dursley continued, glaring ferociously at Harry, "you don't want to get your GOOD things dirty. Dudley is still rather attached to the hand-me- downs that he has been kind enough to loan you, and I don't trust you to keep them clean."
"Aunt Petunia," Harry began miserably, tugging the hem of the raggedy dress of grey drugget down to cover his knees, "I know you don't like me much, but don't you think that this is going a bit far?"
"Of course not!" the gaunt woman snarled, shoving a mop at him. "Now, I want these floors gleaming within the hour!"
"But it's late! I'm tired!"
"Shut up and mop, boy! That's what we pay you for!"
"Actually, you don't pay me," Harry reminded her mildly.
"Quiet!"
"Fine, fine," the dark-haired youth sighed as she stalked into the living room to join her husband and son for an evening of television.
Once she had gone, Harry leaned on his mop and gazed wistfully out the window, thinking longingly of the Hogwarts castle in all its grandeur.
"There is a castle on a cloud," he sang in a beautiful, clear, girlish soprano.
"I like to go there in my sleep,
"Aren't any floors for me to - OW!"
This last exclamation came about as a large, heavy boot soared through the doorway adjoining the kitchen and living room, and struck Harry squarely on the head.
"Shut up!" Vernon Dursley bellowed. "What've I told you about singing, boy?!"
"Not to do it under any circumstances," Harry recited boredly, dipping the mop into the water pail and scrubbing a patch of the kitchen tile.
Later that night, Harry lay on his bed, staring unseeingly up at the ceiling, his mind filled with anger and hurt. Why on earth had neither of his friends written to him? He briefly considered the possibility that both Ron and Hermione had decided the second he was out of their sight that they didn't like him anymore, and quickly dismissed it.
Perhaps they were both busy? But what, he wondered in puzzlement, could Ron and Hermione be doing that was so much fun that they had both completely forgotten to write to him?
"Hrm...where's that music coming from?" he mused. Almost on cue, the cheesy 70's porno music died down. Likely, Uncle Vernon was watching one of his videos, and Aunt Petunia had just shouted at him to turn down the volume. "Weird. Oh, well. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Wallowing in self-pity."
Poor, poor him. Whatever would he do for the remainder of the summer?
"There is a castle on a cloud," he sang once again in the same beautiful, ringing, girlish soprano.
"I like to go there in my sleep,
Aren't any floors for me to sweep,
Not in my castle on a - OW!" he yelped in conclusion as once again, he was struck with a heavy boot, this time on the side of the head.
"NO SINGING!" Vernon Dursley bellowed from the doorway of the small room.
"Fine, fine," Harry muttered, turning over to gaze moodily at the wall.
With a nod of satisfaction, Vernon slammed the door shut. Now, perhaps, he could enjoy his video in peace.
"This is going to be a long summer," Harry decided mournfully.
The next evening, this decision was more firmly reinforced than ever. Harry stood in the Dursleys' kitchen, avoiding the gazes of Vernon and Petunia Durlsey, and their porky twelve-year old son, Dudley, for fear that he might burst most unceremoniously into laughter if he caught any of their eyes, filled with such over-emphasized deviousness that it was ridiculous.
"Alright, everyone, let's get our game-plan straight," Vernon barked. "Petunia, when the Masons get here, you will be?"
"In the lounge, in a sexy negligee, waiting to wow Mr. Mason into submission," she replied immediately.
"Exactly, my love - wait a minute! That wasn't in the game plan!"
"Oh, right, right. Waiting in the lounge to welcome them to our home," she corrected herself sheepishly. "Goodness, what was I thinking of?"
"Er, right, dear. Dudley? You will be?"
"Waiting by the door to take their coats and hang them up, but not before snagging both their bulging wallets," the boy answered promptly, his cheeks jiggling with mirth.
"Exactly! That's Dad's little highway robber!" Vernon beamed with pride, ruffling his son's hair. Then he turned to Harry and fixed him with a loathing expression. "And you?"
"I'll be up in my room, making no sound, and pretending I'm not there," Harry quoted tiredly.
"And don't forget it!" Vernon growled menacingly.
"And no singing!" Aunt Petunia added sharply.
"And no singing," Harry agreed, barely repressing the urge to roll his eyes. "Er, Aunt Petunia, as long as I'm up there, might I change out of this dress?"
"Absolutely not!" she barked.
"Fine," Harry sighed, starting for his room.
Now, if this had been the story of any other young boy, he would have spent the evening lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, hating the world, or talking to his pet owl, Hedwig (although it is doubtful that most young boys would have an owl for a pet), or possibly trying to pick the lock on his closet in order to retrieve some clothes that were not women's.
However, this is not the story of any other boy. This is the story of Harry Potter, who wandered into his bedroom to behold a smallish creature, gaunt of limb, clad in a pillowcase, with a long nose and enormous eyes, seated on his bed.
"Er..." Harry began quite brilliantly. "Who are you?"
"I am Dobby, sir. Dobby the house-elf."
"Er..." Harry repeated, just as brilliantly. "What?"
"Dobby the house-elf, sir! Surely Harry Potter is not hard of hearing?! Oh, how terrible! Dobby is too late, and Harry Potter's hearing has been taken away by some hideous fiend!"
With this, Dobby rocketed across the room and proceeded to slam his head repeatedly into the wall, warbling out as he did so, simply for the sake of explaining the concept of a house-elf to the readers, the tale of his tragic past and his enslavement.
"Hey, hey, hey, keep it down, will you!" Harry pleaded. "My hearing's fine! Unfortunately, so's my uncle's and he'll kill me if you don't hold down the noise!"
"Dobby did not mean to get Harry Potter in trouble," Dobby assured him woozily. "By the way, does Harry Potter have any Advil(tm)?"
"Er, no. I'm not allowed to have painkillers. Uncle Vernon thinks that pain is enriching for someone like me."
"Harry Potter's Uncle Vernon sounds like a knob," Dobby said decidedly. "But all the same, Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!"
"Er..." Harry began in a repeat of his brilliant performance earlier. "Any reason why?"
"Terrible things will happen there, sir! Terrible things!"
"More terrible than an aunt who makes me wear dresses?" Harry inquired, raising an eyebrow behind his round glasses.
"Much more terrible!"
"I don't believe you. I don't think such a thing exists. But all that aside, Dobby, I've GOT to go back! Hogwarts is my home! All my friends are there!"
At once, Dobby's expression became fierce, and he leapt up and seized Harry by the collar.
"Friends?" he echoed, his voice becoming low and gravelly, something like that of the stereotypical football coach. "Friends?! Whaddaya need them for?! Yer better off without them, boy! They'll only slow you down on your way to the top! What kind of friends let a whole summer go by, including a birthday, without a single letter?!"
"Hold on," Harry said with a frown once he regained his bearings and repressed the elf-breath-induced urge to vomit. "How did you know that my friends haven't been writing to me?"
"Ooh, shouldn't 'a said that," Dobby observed sheepishly.
Harry's eyes grew wide.
"Hagrid? Is it you in house-elf form?!"
"Dobby suspects that Harry Potter's long solitary confinement must have turned his brain..." Dobby noted sadly. Then he shook himself. "All the same, Harry Potter must promise that he will not return to Hogwarts."
"Uh...no."
"Then Dobby has no choice," that same Dobby sighed sadly before bolting from the room and down the stairs.
Now, Harry was a bright lad. After all, no one likes a stupid hero, and it is imperative to Harry's status as a barely disguised Mary Sue (or Gary Stu, as it were) that he be at least a little bit intelligent. As such, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would not hold his releasing a crazed house-elf on their dinner party in very high esteem, and that they were almost certain not to regard it as 'staying in his room, making no sound, and pretending that he wasn't there,' despite how much he may have wished that his not being there were the case.
This wish filled him with an even greater intensity at the sight before him in the living room.
Upon catching sight of Dudley, Dobby muttered a quick spell and nodded in satisfaction as the chubby boy began to lift into the air.
"Oh, lord, no," Harry groaned in dismay as Dudley, completely unaware that he was floating, so engrossed was he in shoveling cookies into his capacious maw, drifted from his chair and over to the couch, where he hung for a moment above the head of the ever-fashionable and bird-like (in appetite, according to her; in wit, according to everyone else) Mrs. Mason.
"Oh, this could definitely be very bad," Harry murmured to himself as Dudley began to rapidly lose altitude. "Very bad."
Ten minutes, later, the Dursleys watched in horror as Mrs. Mason was wheeled out on a stretcher and, judging by the devastated and terrified expression on Mr. Mason's face, all hope of Vernon's longed-for business deal evaporated before their greedy, beady eyes.
Once they had gone, and the blaring of the ambulance siren faded into the distance, Vernon Dursley fixed Harry with such an expression of loathing that Harry wondered that he had failed to turn to stone on the spot.
"What did you do?" the great beach ball of a man hissed.
"I didn't do a thing," Harry replied, wiping a drop of spittle off of his face and taking comfort in the fact that this was completely true, whether or not he had conveniently left out the account of a house-elf's involvement.
"I don't believe a word of it!"
"Daddy, he threw me at that bony broad!" Dudley whined.
"I didn't!" Harry insisted.
"Well, then who did?" Dudley demanded, crossing his arms. "A little creature with huge eyes, wearing a potato sack?"
"Actually..." Harry began, but this was as far as he got, as Aunt Petunia came charging into the room, a letter clutched in her immaculately manicured hand.
"Look at this, Vernon! Little brat's been keeping something from us!"
Uncle Vernon took the letter, unfolded it, and read it.
Harry's heart sank as he recognized the Hogwart's crest thingy on the back.
Vernon laughed an evil laugh, yet it must not be forgotten that he is far too stupid to be any real threat.
"Yes, the boy has been keeping something from us. It seems that he is not to be using his little party tricks during the summers, and if they hear of another offense, he'll be expelled!" He glared down at Harry. "You know what this means, don't you?"
"That I get to change out of this dress before it does lasting emotional damage?" Harry suggested hopefully.
Vernon bellowed out another evil laugh.
"Absolutely not! It means that you are never going back to that school!"
"Oh, yeah?" Ron Weasley said, glaring through his binoculars at the grossly overweight man currently dragging his best friend up the staircase. "That's what you think, eh? Well, I think different!"
"So do we," George Weasley added from the driver's side of the Weasley family Ford Anglia currently hovering just outside the front window of 4 Privet Drive. "Dun worry, Ron. We'll get him out of there in a shot."
"We'll just have to wait until tonight," George's twin brother, Fred Weasley added, nodding sagely. "After all, we wouldn't want anyone to hear the ruckus and notice us, would we?"
George and Ron shook their heads emphatically. Fred nodded in satisfaction.
"That's what I thought. Now, act natural, you two, while I find us a good place to wait until tonight."
And so, the three flaming-haired young men began to whistle innocently as the car floated away from the front window of the Dursley residence, and down the street, followed as it went by the eyes of at least forty astonished Muggles.
End Notes: I think this has been the most difficult part to parody. It's just that...the Durlseys are already a parody of themselves. There wasn't much I could do with them. The only thing I could do was to make Harry a bit of a twit, too. And some argue that this is no change from the book itself, either.
Also, I hope it won't deter too many people if I include some decidedly Ron/Hermione-ish moments in this. I love the pairing to bits, and I really want to try my hand at writing it. Thus, if you are a very decided Harry/Hermione 'shipper, and loathe the Ron/Hermione idea, and tend to be very vocal about this, I would suggest that you not bother to read the later installments of this, in the interest of sparing both of us a good deal of pain. ^_^
Author's Notes: Now, I am very aware that this idea has been done. Most likely to death. And I'd like to apologize if this title has been used before, too. However, I would really appreciate it if you would give this a chance nonetheless. I think I have managed to give it some originality, and for me, humor is an art form, so you will see none of the grammatically disastrous, profanity-dotted...stuff that humor can, at times, degenerate into.
Disclaimer: I don't own them, and they don't like me, folks. As far as I know, they're currently teaming up with J.K. Rowling, who DOES own them, to end my life. ^_^
Summary: A parody of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. The creature from the Chamber of Secrets has a very different effect on the Muggle- borns...
It was a dark and stormy summer's night. Albus Dumbledore was sitting in his rocking chair, eating celery. Because, after all, everyone eats celery, unless they want to die a most terrible death. As we all know, celery is good for you.
"Remember, children," Dumbledore began abruptly, gazing sternly into an imaginary camera, "eat your celery, unless you want to die a most terrible death."
"Er, Albus," Professor McGonagall began hesitantly, sauntering into the room with a large teapot and pouring an amount of the steaming liquid into the old man's cup, "what is your obsession with dying a terrible death?"
"Do not ask me, Minerva," he replied. "Unless you want to die a most terrible death."
"I...see. Um, one thing, Albus."
"Yes, my love?" he asked, beaming.
"Er...what?"
"Oh, so sorry about that. I forgot where I was for a moment."
"Er...right. I simply wanted to ask why we are here. Don't we always start these books with a quick vignette of young Mr. Potter's life with the evil, mundane, and pitifully stupid Muggles that he lives with in order to emphasize the contrast between our lives and theirs when Harry is whisked suddenly off to a world of magic and adventure?"
"Quite right, Minerva. This is, indeed, all irrelevant. Still, children, do not forget my words."
"Yes, children," Professor McGonagall agreed, nodding at the same invisible camera that Dumbledore had earlier addressed. "Celery is very good for you. It provides many nutrients that the young growing body simply needs to have."
"So be cool," the two said together, "and eat your celery!"
While Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall were busily endorsing a healthy, balanced diet, eleven-but-nearly-twelve year old Harry Potter, a slender fellow with an unruly shock of black hair, brilliant green eyes, a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, and a perpetually pitiful and waif- like expression, surveyed with disgust and slight fear (behind the pitiful waif-like sadness, of course) the new (to him, at any rate) hand-me-down garments draped out across his bed in the smallest bedroom at Privet Drive.
"I don't even want to know what kind of phase Dudley was going through when he wore this," he muttered to himself as his gaze lit on the most prominent of the items, also the one that Aunt Petunia Dursley had commanded he put on immediately.
"Enough dawdling, boy! Get your new clothes on and get down here!"
Harry gave a heavy sigh as he quickly dressed and made his way downstairs.
"Wonderful. It fits. That will do you to wear for housework. After all," Petunia Dursley continued, glaring ferociously at Harry, "you don't want to get your GOOD things dirty. Dudley is still rather attached to the hand-me- downs that he has been kind enough to loan you, and I don't trust you to keep them clean."
"Aunt Petunia," Harry began miserably, tugging the hem of the raggedy dress of grey drugget down to cover his knees, "I know you don't like me much, but don't you think that this is going a bit far?"
"Of course not!" the gaunt woman snarled, shoving a mop at him. "Now, I want these floors gleaming within the hour!"
"But it's late! I'm tired!"
"Shut up and mop, boy! That's what we pay you for!"
"Actually, you don't pay me," Harry reminded her mildly.
"Quiet!"
"Fine, fine," the dark-haired youth sighed as she stalked into the living room to join her husband and son for an evening of television.
Once she had gone, Harry leaned on his mop and gazed wistfully out the window, thinking longingly of the Hogwarts castle in all its grandeur.
"There is a castle on a cloud," he sang in a beautiful, clear, girlish soprano.
"I like to go there in my sleep,
"Aren't any floors for me to - OW!"
This last exclamation came about as a large, heavy boot soared through the doorway adjoining the kitchen and living room, and struck Harry squarely on the head.
"Shut up!" Vernon Dursley bellowed. "What've I told you about singing, boy?!"
"Not to do it under any circumstances," Harry recited boredly, dipping the mop into the water pail and scrubbing a patch of the kitchen tile.
Later that night, Harry lay on his bed, staring unseeingly up at the ceiling, his mind filled with anger and hurt. Why on earth had neither of his friends written to him? He briefly considered the possibility that both Ron and Hermione had decided the second he was out of their sight that they didn't like him anymore, and quickly dismissed it.
Perhaps they were both busy? But what, he wondered in puzzlement, could Ron and Hermione be doing that was so much fun that they had both completely forgotten to write to him?
"Hrm...where's that music coming from?" he mused. Almost on cue, the cheesy 70's porno music died down. Likely, Uncle Vernon was watching one of his videos, and Aunt Petunia had just shouted at him to turn down the volume. "Weird. Oh, well. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Wallowing in self-pity."
Poor, poor him. Whatever would he do for the remainder of the summer?
"There is a castle on a cloud," he sang once again in the same beautiful, ringing, girlish soprano.
"I like to go there in my sleep,
Aren't any floors for me to sweep,
Not in my castle on a - OW!" he yelped in conclusion as once again, he was struck with a heavy boot, this time on the side of the head.
"NO SINGING!" Vernon Dursley bellowed from the doorway of the small room.
"Fine, fine," Harry muttered, turning over to gaze moodily at the wall.
With a nod of satisfaction, Vernon slammed the door shut. Now, perhaps, he could enjoy his video in peace.
"This is going to be a long summer," Harry decided mournfully.
The next evening, this decision was more firmly reinforced than ever. Harry stood in the Dursleys' kitchen, avoiding the gazes of Vernon and Petunia Durlsey, and their porky twelve-year old son, Dudley, for fear that he might burst most unceremoniously into laughter if he caught any of their eyes, filled with such over-emphasized deviousness that it was ridiculous.
"Alright, everyone, let's get our game-plan straight," Vernon barked. "Petunia, when the Masons get here, you will be?"
"In the lounge, in a sexy negligee, waiting to wow Mr. Mason into submission," she replied immediately.
"Exactly, my love - wait a minute! That wasn't in the game plan!"
"Oh, right, right. Waiting in the lounge to welcome them to our home," she corrected herself sheepishly. "Goodness, what was I thinking of?"
"Er, right, dear. Dudley? You will be?"
"Waiting by the door to take their coats and hang them up, but not before snagging both their bulging wallets," the boy answered promptly, his cheeks jiggling with mirth.
"Exactly! That's Dad's little highway robber!" Vernon beamed with pride, ruffling his son's hair. Then he turned to Harry and fixed him with a loathing expression. "And you?"
"I'll be up in my room, making no sound, and pretending I'm not there," Harry quoted tiredly.
"And don't forget it!" Vernon growled menacingly.
"And no singing!" Aunt Petunia added sharply.
"And no singing," Harry agreed, barely repressing the urge to roll his eyes. "Er, Aunt Petunia, as long as I'm up there, might I change out of this dress?"
"Absolutely not!" she barked.
"Fine," Harry sighed, starting for his room.
Now, if this had been the story of any other young boy, he would have spent the evening lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, hating the world, or talking to his pet owl, Hedwig (although it is doubtful that most young boys would have an owl for a pet), or possibly trying to pick the lock on his closet in order to retrieve some clothes that were not women's.
However, this is not the story of any other boy. This is the story of Harry Potter, who wandered into his bedroom to behold a smallish creature, gaunt of limb, clad in a pillowcase, with a long nose and enormous eyes, seated on his bed.
"Er..." Harry began quite brilliantly. "Who are you?"
"I am Dobby, sir. Dobby the house-elf."
"Er..." Harry repeated, just as brilliantly. "What?"
"Dobby the house-elf, sir! Surely Harry Potter is not hard of hearing?! Oh, how terrible! Dobby is too late, and Harry Potter's hearing has been taken away by some hideous fiend!"
With this, Dobby rocketed across the room and proceeded to slam his head repeatedly into the wall, warbling out as he did so, simply for the sake of explaining the concept of a house-elf to the readers, the tale of his tragic past and his enslavement.
"Hey, hey, hey, keep it down, will you!" Harry pleaded. "My hearing's fine! Unfortunately, so's my uncle's and he'll kill me if you don't hold down the noise!"
"Dobby did not mean to get Harry Potter in trouble," Dobby assured him woozily. "By the way, does Harry Potter have any Advil(tm)?"
"Er, no. I'm not allowed to have painkillers. Uncle Vernon thinks that pain is enriching for someone like me."
"Harry Potter's Uncle Vernon sounds like a knob," Dobby said decidedly. "But all the same, Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!"
"Er..." Harry began in a repeat of his brilliant performance earlier. "Any reason why?"
"Terrible things will happen there, sir! Terrible things!"
"More terrible than an aunt who makes me wear dresses?" Harry inquired, raising an eyebrow behind his round glasses.
"Much more terrible!"
"I don't believe you. I don't think such a thing exists. But all that aside, Dobby, I've GOT to go back! Hogwarts is my home! All my friends are there!"
At once, Dobby's expression became fierce, and he leapt up and seized Harry by the collar.
"Friends?" he echoed, his voice becoming low and gravelly, something like that of the stereotypical football coach. "Friends?! Whaddaya need them for?! Yer better off without them, boy! They'll only slow you down on your way to the top! What kind of friends let a whole summer go by, including a birthday, without a single letter?!"
"Hold on," Harry said with a frown once he regained his bearings and repressed the elf-breath-induced urge to vomit. "How did you know that my friends haven't been writing to me?"
"Ooh, shouldn't 'a said that," Dobby observed sheepishly.
Harry's eyes grew wide.
"Hagrid? Is it you in house-elf form?!"
"Dobby suspects that Harry Potter's long solitary confinement must have turned his brain..." Dobby noted sadly. Then he shook himself. "All the same, Harry Potter must promise that he will not return to Hogwarts."
"Uh...no."
"Then Dobby has no choice," that same Dobby sighed sadly before bolting from the room and down the stairs.
Now, Harry was a bright lad. After all, no one likes a stupid hero, and it is imperative to Harry's status as a barely disguised Mary Sue (or Gary Stu, as it were) that he be at least a little bit intelligent. As such, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would not hold his releasing a crazed house-elf on their dinner party in very high esteem, and that they were almost certain not to regard it as 'staying in his room, making no sound, and pretending that he wasn't there,' despite how much he may have wished that his not being there were the case.
This wish filled him with an even greater intensity at the sight before him in the living room.
Upon catching sight of Dudley, Dobby muttered a quick spell and nodded in satisfaction as the chubby boy began to lift into the air.
"Oh, lord, no," Harry groaned in dismay as Dudley, completely unaware that he was floating, so engrossed was he in shoveling cookies into his capacious maw, drifted from his chair and over to the couch, where he hung for a moment above the head of the ever-fashionable and bird-like (in appetite, according to her; in wit, according to everyone else) Mrs. Mason.
"Oh, this could definitely be very bad," Harry murmured to himself as Dudley began to rapidly lose altitude. "Very bad."
Ten minutes, later, the Dursleys watched in horror as Mrs. Mason was wheeled out on a stretcher and, judging by the devastated and terrified expression on Mr. Mason's face, all hope of Vernon's longed-for business deal evaporated before their greedy, beady eyes.
Once they had gone, and the blaring of the ambulance siren faded into the distance, Vernon Dursley fixed Harry with such an expression of loathing that Harry wondered that he had failed to turn to stone on the spot.
"What did you do?" the great beach ball of a man hissed.
"I didn't do a thing," Harry replied, wiping a drop of spittle off of his face and taking comfort in the fact that this was completely true, whether or not he had conveniently left out the account of a house-elf's involvement.
"I don't believe a word of it!"
"Daddy, he threw me at that bony broad!" Dudley whined.
"I didn't!" Harry insisted.
"Well, then who did?" Dudley demanded, crossing his arms. "A little creature with huge eyes, wearing a potato sack?"
"Actually..." Harry began, but this was as far as he got, as Aunt Petunia came charging into the room, a letter clutched in her immaculately manicured hand.
"Look at this, Vernon! Little brat's been keeping something from us!"
Uncle Vernon took the letter, unfolded it, and read it.
Harry's heart sank as he recognized the Hogwart's crest thingy on the back.
Vernon laughed an evil laugh, yet it must not be forgotten that he is far too stupid to be any real threat.
"Yes, the boy has been keeping something from us. It seems that he is not to be using his little party tricks during the summers, and if they hear of another offense, he'll be expelled!" He glared down at Harry. "You know what this means, don't you?"
"That I get to change out of this dress before it does lasting emotional damage?" Harry suggested hopefully.
Vernon bellowed out another evil laugh.
"Absolutely not! It means that you are never going back to that school!"
"Oh, yeah?" Ron Weasley said, glaring through his binoculars at the grossly overweight man currently dragging his best friend up the staircase. "That's what you think, eh? Well, I think different!"
"So do we," George Weasley added from the driver's side of the Weasley family Ford Anglia currently hovering just outside the front window of 4 Privet Drive. "Dun worry, Ron. We'll get him out of there in a shot."
"We'll just have to wait until tonight," George's twin brother, Fred Weasley added, nodding sagely. "After all, we wouldn't want anyone to hear the ruckus and notice us, would we?"
George and Ron shook their heads emphatically. Fred nodded in satisfaction.
"That's what I thought. Now, act natural, you two, while I find us a good place to wait until tonight."
And so, the three flaming-haired young men began to whistle innocently as the car floated away from the front window of the Dursley residence, and down the street, followed as it went by the eyes of at least forty astonished Muggles.
End Notes: I think this has been the most difficult part to parody. It's just that...the Durlseys are already a parody of themselves. There wasn't much I could do with them. The only thing I could do was to make Harry a bit of a twit, too. And some argue that this is no change from the book itself, either.
Also, I hope it won't deter too many people if I include some decidedly Ron/Hermione-ish moments in this. I love the pairing to bits, and I really want to try my hand at writing it. Thus, if you are a very decided Harry/Hermione 'shipper, and loathe the Ron/Hermione idea, and tend to be very vocal about this, I would suggest that you not bother to read the later installments of this, in the interest of sparing both of us a good deal of pain. ^_^