This is nothing more than a crack/mockfic. Rape/fap as you please. Credit goes to nuhuh for making me start and finish, Vash . . . for moral support (yeah, I don't know how that happened either), and Tinn for her awesome editing skills.
This may or may not have also been inspired by this video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZA1NoOOoaNw .
Enjoy.
Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived, insert random title, insert second random title, woke up in the middle of nowhere, with a headache that hurt worse than Molly Weasley's screeching and a chill down his spine. He was used to waking up in unfamiliar places, but this was just ridiculous.
Harry stared into the distance. In front of him stood a sight that he had not seen since he had finished school. It was almost odd to see a medieval castle, with a lake and surrounding forest. It was a truly beautiful scene, from the picturesque grass, to the tiny hut on the base of the grounds, to the giant fire breathing dragon trying to roast a little girl on a broomstick.
Wait, what?
Harry Potter: The Girl Who Lived, LE Style
Harry stared at the dragon. Since when had there been a dragon on Hogwarts' grounds? Granted, he had drunk quite a lot the previous night, but this was a little ridiculous. He had a vague memory of some sort of red-headed beast slipping something into his drink, but had been too drunk to care. Now, Harry regretted that. A lot.
He sighed. He was getting too old for this. At twenty-one, Harry James Potter was something of an international celebrity. He had finally realized his ultimate dream: he had a private beach, with his name written on the most attractive women's delectable butts. Oh, and he had also killed Voldemort by sending him some of Ginny Weasley's finest pornography . . . but that's a story that would never, ever be told. No matter how drunk Harry was.
Harry shook his head and continued on his way up to Hogwarts. He supposed that, as there was a dragon there, he might as well do the hero thing and shake a stick at it or something. It wasn't like he had anything better to do. What's more, the last time he had fought a dragon, he had ended up in bed with two Veelas, a can of whipped cream, some fruit, and a small dog toy. Quite enjoyable.
Harry walked up the hill to the castle, taking his merry time, until he arrived at the area that normally housed the Quidditch stadium. With a start, he realized that, no, this wasn't a dragon on the loose; this was a repeat of the Triwizard tournament. Harry was now pretty sure that he should have refused whatever it was that that ginger put in his drink. It was seriously fucking with his mind.
Clearly, this could not have happened. First of all, Harry was almost certain that it was supposed to be around June second or third, which meant that the orange trees were clearly a figment of his imagination. Second, he was pretty sure that this had happened seven years ago . . . and that he hadn't been a girl during it. Third, he just plain didn't think that God hated him this much.
Any takers on that bet?
Harry shrugged and decided to watch the event. It wasn't like he could come out worse for it. He watched as the tiny, but surprisingly developed fourth year version of himself performed various acrobatic feats to dodge the dragon's breath. Harry was more than a little impressed at how flexible she was, and couldn't help but wonder how she'd perform in other, more enjoyable activities.
Of course, as soon as he did, he was disgusted with himself. Completely and utterly. Harry couldn't believe how despicable his thoughts were, and vowed never to think that way again. Until he looked up at her straddling her broom, juking back and forth, licking her lips every so often in concentration, guiding the broom skillfully . . . right into the spiked tail of the dragon. The female Harry nearly fell off of her broom, but managed to keep herself in place. She dove down, and snatched the egg away from the dragon, leveling out and soaring away from the scene almost effortlessly.
Harry pulled out a cigarette, lit it with his wand, and puffed away, completely satisfied with the fact that he had done it better.
He turned and walked away from the scene, into the castle main. The event was nearly over, anyway, and he had already seen his female self make her attempt. He meandered slowly in the general direction of the castle as students ran by, shouting excitedly about the competition. Harry looked back to survey the crowd of students, and was nearly knocked over as one student bowled into him.
Harry looked down at his female self, receiving an almost perfect view down her shirt. She looked up at him. He felt a stirring in his loins. And she gave him a terrified, 'oh my god, it's a stalker' look, kicked him in the shins, and ran for the castle doors. Harry felt a little insulted, especially because he thought that he should have made more of an effect than that. After all, he wasn't that unattractive. Then he looked down.
He was naked.
Harry looked down at himself in disbelief. His littler brain looked up at him in greater disbelief. Harry stood like this for at least five minutes, as students ran by, seemingly unaware of the random naked man in their midst.
Finally, his brain jump started, and he ran into the Forbiddon Forest for cover, grabbing the first leaves that he found -- leaves that were came conveniently in sets of three, shiny heart-shapes. Harry covered himself as best as he could with the leaves and his wand, and kept running. As soon as he had cleared the Hogwarts wards, he apparated away to the first place he thought of: his house in Hogsmeade.
Harry sighed, relieved. He was finally safe. There weren't any crazy people out to get him anymore, nobody was going to attack him, it was perfect. He tossed the leaves into the nearest trashcan -- oddly, a trashcan that he had never seen before -- and headed into the bathroom to take a shower. He was so tired that he didn't hear the water running.
Harry walked into the bathroom and nearly tore open the shower curtains, desperate for cleanliness. And stopped. And stared.
There, in all his nude glory, was Severus Snape. His huge nose over shadowed the rest of his face, his hair was carefully protected in a shower net to preserve the greasiness, and his body was pathetically skinny and skeletal. He had odd splotches from potion stains everywhere. The moment the curtain opened, Snape looked down his giant hooked nose at Harry, his gaze traveling up and down Harry's body, and looked to the sky.
"Thank you, God!" he yelled, and gestured invitingly to Harry.
Harry stood there, traumatized. His beautiful shower . . . had been infested by grease. Even the walls were greasy. He couldn't move. He couldn't adapt. He just, stood there while Snape gestured more and more emphatically. Then, when Snape started to reach an oily hand toward Harry, Harry finally reacted. He grabbed the first object in reach, which was oddly a bottle of shampoo, and sprayed toward the abomination in front of him.
The shampoo flew everywhere -- even under the shower cap that had been so lovingly placed over Snape's hair. The moment that the Potions Professor felt that first drop of soap touch his beautifully maintained hair, he went into to a frenzy. He roared, and dove toward Harry, his hands reaching out like claws to try and rip apart Harry's flesh.
His charge was short lived, however, as he tripped over the edge of the shower and smashed his head on the ground, spraying blood everywhere.
Harry looked down at the corpse below him, brains oozing out of the caved-in skull, and poked it with his toe. He stared at the brain matter and said, "Jeez. Even his fuckin' brain was greasy."
Harry shrugged the image of Snape naked from his mind and left the bathroom. He finally found a robe and, after casting every spell he could think of for cleaning it, and running it under the water for nearly an hour then drying it with heating charms, he put it on. The moment he did, however, he felt as though the grease was trying to infect him, like a symbiote. He shuddered.
Harry was about to leave again when he heard a pair of loud voices. One, he recognized as distinctly Ron . . . a childish, more annoying Ron. The other sounded like Seamus or Dean, but that didn't really matter. They were secondary characters without enough back story to even be considered for sidekicks.
Harry listened as Ron shouted out into the night sky something about being asked to acquire the Firewhiskey for the post-competition celebration. Apparently, Ron was already becoming the pathetic lush that would loiter about Harry's house in the future. Harry laughed to himself until Ron started going on about the more attractive characteristics of Harry's female self.
"Oh, yeah, she's got amazing tits, man. I've seen her in only a bra, they're phenomenal. I could play with them all day. And she's so flexible . . . what I wouldn't give for a night with her."
Harry, forgetting all about the recent traumatizing incident with the grease and the brains all over HIS bathroom floor, grabbed his wand and nearly ended the little ginger right then and there. But somehow, he managed to restrain himself. He would get him, yes, and his pretty little Firewhiskey too.
Harry waited until the red-head was out of sight, and, clutching his stolen robe around him, stepped into the fall night again. This would require all of his stealth skills to accomplish. He therefore snuck along stealthily until he was almost behind Ron and was about to pounce on him -- when he felt an unbearable itch in his crotch. Harry tried to resist it, he really did, but the itch was beyond him.
He slipped behind a building and relieved himself with a good scratch. Then, he crept out behind Ron again, preparing a spell.
"Avada Ked-" he started, but was again interrupted by that same insane need to scratch himself. He slid behind another convenient building and relieved himself again.
Third time's the charm, he thought, and crept out again to attack Ron. He walked slowly up behind him, a gentle breeze swaying his stolen robe, and dropped his hand down to the level of his wand. This was it. This was his moment of ill thought out revenge. That Firewhiskey would be his.
Harry drew his wand with the kind of professional speed that had saved him from a drunken, horny Ginny. His wand was instantly leveled and aimed. He channeled as much magic as he could, and prepared to erase a ginger from existence. For the good of mankind.
And then, he glanced down.
The gentle breeze had revealed him in all his glory. And he learned what poison ivy does to someone who's allergic to it.
"ARRRRRRRRRRRRGH!"
Ron turned around to see a half-naked man convulsing on the ground, staring futilely at his own groin. By this time, Ron was already more than a little tipsy, but this scared him sober. Ron looked at Harry, and Harry looked at his own crotch, and they both screamed in pure torment before running in opposite directions.
Ron would be found more than a week later, twenty feet into the Forbidden Forest, shaking and muttering to himself about half naked men with scary red crotches.
Harry, on the other hand, found an anti-infection potion in Sna-HIS house and conveniently applied it. Problem solved.
Now, all he had to do was deal with his female self. She was becoming something of an obsession to his hungover mind, and it would not do at all. He could do with a power fuck, and knew just the place to find it. He carefully covered himself up again and walked outside to see the ultimate treasure. A bottle of Firewhiskey. It glinted like the rarest of gems in the dusky light, its rich red liquid barely transparent, and yet incredibly delectable. Harry nearly drooled at the sight of it.
He walked toward it like a zombie, the taste of such amazing alcohol the only thing on his mind. Finally, he reached it, his goal just an arm's length away, and a small, petite, finely formed hand picked it up before he could. Harry looked up into the identical green eyes of his female self.
She took one look at him, and clubbed him over the head with the bottle of Firewhiskey. Harry was knocked out cold.
He woke up a few hours later in the hospital wing, to the sight of Albus Dumbledore's long, crooked nose. Harry snatched up his wand and Avada Kedavra'd the old goat fucker.
"I'm sorry, sir, but I just can't let you give anyone else those kind of mushrooms. Animagus potion, my ass."
This may or may not have also been inspired by this video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZA1NoOOoaNw .
Enjoy.
Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived, insert random title, insert second random title, woke up in the middle of nowhere, with a headache that hurt worse than Molly Weasley's screeching and a chill down his spine. He was used to waking up in unfamiliar places, but this was just ridiculous.
Harry stared into the distance. In front of him stood a sight that he had not seen since he had finished school. It was almost odd to see a medieval castle, with a lake and surrounding forest. It was a truly beautiful scene, from the picturesque grass, to the tiny hut on the base of the grounds, to the giant fire breathing dragon trying to roast a little girl on a broomstick.
Wait, what?
Harry Potter: The Girl Who Lived, LE Style
Harry stared at the dragon. Since when had there been a dragon on Hogwarts' grounds? Granted, he had drunk quite a lot the previous night, but this was a little ridiculous. He had a vague memory of some sort of red-headed beast slipping something into his drink, but had been too drunk to care. Now, Harry regretted that. A lot.
He sighed. He was getting too old for this. At twenty-one, Harry James Potter was something of an international celebrity. He had finally realized his ultimate dream: he had a private beach, with his name written on the most attractive women's delectable butts. Oh, and he had also killed Voldemort by sending him some of Ginny Weasley's finest pornography . . . but that's a story that would never, ever be told. No matter how drunk Harry was.
Harry shook his head and continued on his way up to Hogwarts. He supposed that, as there was a dragon there, he might as well do the hero thing and shake a stick at it or something. It wasn't like he had anything better to do. What's more, the last time he had fought a dragon, he had ended up in bed with two Veelas, a can of whipped cream, some fruit, and a small dog toy. Quite enjoyable.
Harry walked up the hill to the castle, taking his merry time, until he arrived at the area that normally housed the Quidditch stadium. With a start, he realized that, no, this wasn't a dragon on the loose; this was a repeat of the Triwizard tournament. Harry was now pretty sure that he should have refused whatever it was that that ginger put in his drink. It was seriously fucking with his mind.
Clearly, this could not have happened. First of all, Harry was almost certain that it was supposed to be around June second or third, which meant that the orange trees were clearly a figment of his imagination. Second, he was pretty sure that this had happened seven years ago . . . and that he hadn't been a girl during it. Third, he just plain didn't think that God hated him this much.
Any takers on that bet?
Harry shrugged and decided to watch the event. It wasn't like he could come out worse for it. He watched as the tiny, but surprisingly developed fourth year version of himself performed various acrobatic feats to dodge the dragon's breath. Harry was more than a little impressed at how flexible she was, and couldn't help but wonder how she'd perform in other, more enjoyable activities.
Of course, as soon as he did, he was disgusted with himself. Completely and utterly. Harry couldn't believe how despicable his thoughts were, and vowed never to think that way again. Until he looked up at her straddling her broom, juking back and forth, licking her lips every so often in concentration, guiding the broom skillfully . . . right into the spiked tail of the dragon. The female Harry nearly fell off of her broom, but managed to keep herself in place. She dove down, and snatched the egg away from the dragon, leveling out and soaring away from the scene almost effortlessly.
Harry pulled out a cigarette, lit it with his wand, and puffed away, completely satisfied with the fact that he had done it better.
He turned and walked away from the scene, into the castle main. The event was nearly over, anyway, and he had already seen his female self make her attempt. He meandered slowly in the general direction of the castle as students ran by, shouting excitedly about the competition. Harry looked back to survey the crowd of students, and was nearly knocked over as one student bowled into him.
Harry looked down at his female self, receiving an almost perfect view down her shirt. She looked up at him. He felt a stirring in his loins. And she gave him a terrified, 'oh my god, it's a stalker' look, kicked him in the shins, and ran for the castle doors. Harry felt a little insulted, especially because he thought that he should have made more of an effect than that. After all, he wasn't that unattractive. Then he looked down.
He was naked.
Harry looked down at himself in disbelief. His littler brain looked up at him in greater disbelief. Harry stood like this for at least five minutes, as students ran by, seemingly unaware of the random naked man in their midst.
Finally, his brain jump started, and he ran into the Forbiddon Forest for cover, grabbing the first leaves that he found -- leaves that were came conveniently in sets of three, shiny heart-shapes. Harry covered himself as best as he could with the leaves and his wand, and kept running. As soon as he had cleared the Hogwarts wards, he apparated away to the first place he thought of: his house in Hogsmeade.
Harry sighed, relieved. He was finally safe. There weren't any crazy people out to get him anymore, nobody was going to attack him, it was perfect. He tossed the leaves into the nearest trashcan -- oddly, a trashcan that he had never seen before -- and headed into the bathroom to take a shower. He was so tired that he didn't hear the water running.
Harry walked into the bathroom and nearly tore open the shower curtains, desperate for cleanliness. And stopped. And stared.
There, in all his nude glory, was Severus Snape. His huge nose over shadowed the rest of his face, his hair was carefully protected in a shower net to preserve the greasiness, and his body was pathetically skinny and skeletal. He had odd splotches from potion stains everywhere. The moment the curtain opened, Snape looked down his giant hooked nose at Harry, his gaze traveling up and down Harry's body, and looked to the sky.
"Thank you, God!" he yelled, and gestured invitingly to Harry.
Harry stood there, traumatized. His beautiful shower . . . had been infested by grease. Even the walls were greasy. He couldn't move. He couldn't adapt. He just, stood there while Snape gestured more and more emphatically. Then, when Snape started to reach an oily hand toward Harry, Harry finally reacted. He grabbed the first object in reach, which was oddly a bottle of shampoo, and sprayed toward the abomination in front of him.
The shampoo flew everywhere -- even under the shower cap that had been so lovingly placed over Snape's hair. The moment that the Potions Professor felt that first drop of soap touch his beautifully maintained hair, he went into to a frenzy. He roared, and dove toward Harry, his hands reaching out like claws to try and rip apart Harry's flesh.
His charge was short lived, however, as he tripped over the edge of the shower and smashed his head on the ground, spraying blood everywhere.
Harry looked down at the corpse below him, brains oozing out of the caved-in skull, and poked it with his toe. He stared at the brain matter and said, "Jeez. Even his fuckin' brain was greasy."
Harry shrugged the image of Snape naked from his mind and left the bathroom. He finally found a robe and, after casting every spell he could think of for cleaning it, and running it under the water for nearly an hour then drying it with heating charms, he put it on. The moment he did, however, he felt as though the grease was trying to infect him, like a symbiote. He shuddered.
Harry was about to leave again when he heard a pair of loud voices. One, he recognized as distinctly Ron . . . a childish, more annoying Ron. The other sounded like Seamus or Dean, but that didn't really matter. They were secondary characters without enough back story to even be considered for sidekicks.
Harry listened as Ron shouted out into the night sky something about being asked to acquire the Firewhiskey for the post-competition celebration. Apparently, Ron was already becoming the pathetic lush that would loiter about Harry's house in the future. Harry laughed to himself until Ron started going on about the more attractive characteristics of Harry's female self.
"Oh, yeah, she's got amazing tits, man. I've seen her in only a bra, they're phenomenal. I could play with them all day. And she's so flexible . . . what I wouldn't give for a night with her."
Harry, forgetting all about the recent traumatizing incident with the grease and the brains all over HIS bathroom floor, grabbed his wand and nearly ended the little ginger right then and there. But somehow, he managed to restrain himself. He would get him, yes, and his pretty little Firewhiskey too.
Harry waited until the red-head was out of sight, and, clutching his stolen robe around him, stepped into the fall night again. This would require all of his stealth skills to accomplish. He therefore snuck along stealthily until he was almost behind Ron and was about to pounce on him -- when he felt an unbearable itch in his crotch. Harry tried to resist it, he really did, but the itch was beyond him.
He slipped behind a building and relieved himself with a good scratch. Then, he crept out behind Ron again, preparing a spell.
"Avada Ked-" he started, but was again interrupted by that same insane need to scratch himself. He slid behind another convenient building and relieved himself again.
Third time's the charm, he thought, and crept out again to attack Ron. He walked slowly up behind him, a gentle breeze swaying his stolen robe, and dropped his hand down to the level of his wand. This was it. This was his moment of ill thought out revenge. That Firewhiskey would be his.
Harry drew his wand with the kind of professional speed that had saved him from a drunken, horny Ginny. His wand was instantly leveled and aimed. He channeled as much magic as he could, and prepared to erase a ginger from existence. For the good of mankind.
And then, he glanced down.
The gentle breeze had revealed him in all his glory. And he learned what poison ivy does to someone who's allergic to it.
"ARRRRRRRRRRRRGH!"
Ron turned around to see a half-naked man convulsing on the ground, staring futilely at his own groin. By this time, Ron was already more than a little tipsy, but this scared him sober. Ron looked at Harry, and Harry looked at his own crotch, and they both screamed in pure torment before running in opposite directions.
Ron would be found more than a week later, twenty feet into the Forbidden Forest, shaking and muttering to himself about half naked men with scary red crotches.
Harry, on the other hand, found an anti-infection potion in Sna-HIS house and conveniently applied it. Problem solved.
Now, all he had to do was deal with his female self. She was becoming something of an obsession to his hungover mind, and it would not do at all. He could do with a power fuck, and knew just the place to find it. He carefully covered himself up again and walked outside to see the ultimate treasure. A bottle of Firewhiskey. It glinted like the rarest of gems in the dusky light, its rich red liquid barely transparent, and yet incredibly delectable. Harry nearly drooled at the sight of it.
He walked toward it like a zombie, the taste of such amazing alcohol the only thing on his mind. Finally, he reached it, his goal just an arm's length away, and a small, petite, finely formed hand picked it up before he could. Harry looked up into the identical green eyes of his female self.
She took one look at him, and clubbed him over the head with the bottle of Firewhiskey. Harry was knocked out cold.
He woke up a few hours later in the hospital wing, to the sight of Albus Dumbledore's long, crooked nose. Harry snatched up his wand and Avada Kedavra'd the old goat fucker.
"I'm sorry, sir, but I just can't let you give anyone else those kind of mushrooms. Animagus potion, my ass."