The British are coming! The British are coming! Here they are!
A Brief Summary of Every Harry Potter Fanfiction Ever Written
In Which Harry Becomes the Uber-Powerful God of Azkaban
Harry was rotting away in the horrible, freezing fortress of Azkaban, a.k.a. Hell on Earth.
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Overly excessive flashy lines to indicate a flashback sequence because these memories simply cannot be incorporated nicely into the body of the chapter. It's just not done.
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Harry Potter woke up tied, chained, restrained, gagged and otherwise bound to a cold metal chair in the bleak darkness of Courtroom Ten.
"Order, order!" shouted Minister Fudge. Harry—deprived of his glasses—squinted as he tried to make out the faces of the murmuring crowd. "Has the Wizengamot reached a verdict?"
One of the shadowy figures stood and responded. "In the matter of Wizarding Britain versus Harry Potter, we find the defendant guilty of the brutal, unprovoked and unjustifiable murders of no more than one hundred but no less than two minor canon characters, e.g. Dean Thomas, Hagrid and/or the Dursley family."
Harry gasped in shock and shook his head furiously.
"Therefore Mr. Potter is sentenced to multiple lifetimes in Azkaban! Case dismissed!" Fudge banged his gavel on the desk more times than was strictly necessary. It made him feel manly. Harry didn't notice, however, because he was busy having another flashback.
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More overly excessive flashy lines to indicate a flashback sequence within a flashback sequence because these memories simply cannot be incorporated nicely into the body of the actual flashback. It's just not done.
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"YOU'RE A WORTHLESS, DESPICABLE MURDERER!" Hermione Granger screeched, spitting into Harry's face as she tore his photo album to shreds.
"YOU'RE A FILTHY, LYING, DEATH-EATING TRAITOR!" Ron Weasley shouted, hitting him with his Firebolt before incendio-ing it.
While Ginny Weasley led the rest of the Weasley family in a "Down with Harry" parade through the Great Hall, the other students gathered around Harry, the Hufflepuffs throwing fruit, the Ravenclaws throwing dictionaries, the Gryffindors throwing Bludgers and the Slytherins throwing curses at his prone, defenseless body.
"YOU KILLED YOUR PARENTS! AND SIRIUS!" Remus Lupin raged, ripping up Harry's Invisibility Cloak and the Marauders' Map in a fit of lycanthropic rage, despite their sentimental value and the use they could have been towards the war effort.
Albus Dumbledore's eyes were all untwinklyish.
All Harry's other friends—including Hagrid and Dean, if they weren't dead—set fire to his trunk and danced around the flames before burning him in effigy.
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Overly excessive flashy lines, take the third.
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"But you didn't use Veritaserum or Priori Incantatem or even ask me what happened—" Harry would have protested, if he hadn't been gagged and just knocked out by a maliciously grinning Auror.
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The return of the return of the overly excessive flashy lines. They actually are kinda cool looking, aren't they?
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So Harry spent an indeterminate amount of time in the horror that was Azkaban Prison. There were fifty Dementors outside his cell door every day, despite all canon evidence to the contrary, and he was beaten every other day and only given cold, thin, stale gruel made of boiled rats' intestines once a week.
Because wizards, of course, although belonging to an organized nation, are not bound by such mugglish standards as the Geneva Convention.
Harry had other problems too, the main one being his connection to Voldemort, which kept him up every night screaming in horror and clawing his forehead to bloody shreds as he convulsed under the Cruciatus Curse. But one day, after etching yet another line of his latest haiku into the wall between the drawing of Umbridge as a fermented slug and the one of Ron being eaten by Aragog, he fell into a trance and started floating above the cold, sticky, bug-infested floor, surrounded by a beautiful gold-sapphire-rubyish-emerald aura.
"Hi," said the four powerful figures standing around his mind. "We're the founders of Hog—we mean Azkaban. Yeah, Azkaban. And you're our heir. And also Merlin's heir. So we want to give you super godlike mad-ninja fighting skills."
"Cool beans," said Harry.
Harry, after being scolded for his brief dissent into the American teenage vernacular, started training and learning from the four founders, who had a history and lineage even more magnificent and important than the founders of Hogwarts, despite never being mentioned before now. Anyway, Harry trained and studied and learned from them for years. Godlike Gryffingore taught him wandless, metamorph and animagus magic, plus how to be the best swordsman since Zorro. Hellgal Huff n' Puff taught him martial arts, knife throwing, seventy-two ways to kill a man with your bare hands in two seconds, and how to crochet. Rowinga Ravish-all taught him sex magic and mind magic, and helped him learn to control his elemental, divination and beast-speaker abilities. Slithering Slytheringin taught him parselmagic, battle magic, strategy and everything else he could think of (including a detailed history of the First Battle of Bull Run, the life cycle of a Venus flytrap, two hundred variations on Amortentia and how to make a compass from a magnet, a needle and thread).
The Dementors—which had stopped bothering Harry once he fried their leader and ate him for breakfast with a side of cold, thin rat gruel—didn't effect Harry at all anymore. He contemplated leaving, but knew in his heart that the event would be more climatic if it was perpetrated by either Voldemort or Dumbledore.
So he waited.
And wrote more haikus.
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A completely different set of flashy lines to indicate a change in place rather than time, because it wouldn't do for those things to flow naturally either, now, would it?
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"HARRY POTTER WAS FRAMED!" well!informed Order member number one shouted to the crowded room. Chaos broke out. Snape, depending on his mood, either said "told you so" and promptly stuck out his tongue out Lupin, who looked horribly contrite, or said "who cares?" and was promptly mauled by Lupin, who looked horribly angry.
Either way, the entire Order raced off to Azkaban to save Harry. They ignored Draco Malfoy, who stood in the doorway looking suitably Reformed and uncharacteristically sheepish, and calling out: "Er, you lot did hear me when I said it was a setup. Right? …Hello?"
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This set of lines indicates a change in both time and place, but because it's not a flashback, we use the same lines as once before rather than a whole new set. Are you beginning to understand this complicated protocol yet?
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By the time Malfoy got to Azkaban Voldemort was nothing but a smoldering pile of smelly pink ash.
"Why pink?" he asked.
"Oh Harry!" Hermione, Ron, Molly, Ginny, Arthur, Fred, George, Neville, Albus, Remus, Tonks, Kingsley, McGonagall and various assorted minor characters screeched. "You've got to forgive us! We're so sorry!"
"You sent me to Azkaban," Harry pointed out wearily.
"But—"
"Without a fair trial."
"But—"
"Or Veritaserum, or interviewing the seven hundred muggle witnesses present who said it was Voldemort rather than the one wizard—and Death Eater, I might add—witness who said it was me."
"But—"
"You even tried to push for the Dementor's Kiss."
"But—"
"And that was even after Voldemort took out a full-page ad in the Daily Prophet, boasting about your gullibility."
"But—"
Harry sighed. "You know what? I don't really care anymore. You can all go to hell." Then he disappeared in a flash of light and a chorus of angelic song.
The Order members began working themselves up into a tizzy. "He's gone! What will we do!? How can we get him to forgive us if he's gone!?"
"Don't worry," Dumbledore replied, his eyes all calm and twinkly again. "We'll get a law passed that says Harry has to return to—"
Another chorus of song announced Harry's rearrival. "—pick up my haikus, of course," he said cheerfully. "I almost forgot." Harry snapped his fingers and the dungeon wall containing his rambling, half-coherent musings—the true aspirations of any good poet, really—shrunk itself and flew into Harry's pocket. Unfortunately, as Harry's room was in the darkest, dampest, deepest part of the prison, this caused Azkaban to collapse on top of the Order. Well, most of the Order."
"Nice shot, Potter," Draco Malfoy complimented his ex-rival.
"Indeed," agreed Severus Snape, who had decided—in true Snape fashion—to come down firmly on Harry's side once it was clear he was going to win. "But I must agree with Mr. Malfoy—why pink?"
"Because it would've pissed him off," Harry explained gently, as if to a pair of two-year-olds.
"Ahhh," the Slytherins answered. "So what are you going to do now?"
"I'm going to apparate away, live somewhere with palm trees, warm sand and lots of smoking hot bikini clad women, and write haikus for a living. Listen, here's one:
There was once an order of birds,
Whose betrayal was worse than absurd,
Now I dream in bed of the day that they're dead
And I'll live the life I would've preferred."
"That's not a haiku, Harry," Hermione's broken and bleeding body protested with its last feeble, dying breath. "That's a limerick."
"Well, I never claimed it was a good haiku now, did I?" Harry murmured. He linked arms with Draco and Snape, whistling a happy tune as they apparated away to a land where the sun shone bright and warm over dozens of bikini-clad women. They all got laid and therefore, being men, lived happily ever after for the rest of the evening. The End.
Thanks everyone for the suggestions. They're brilliant and fun to read. Keep 'em coming!