Disclaimers: There may be a day when I have enough money to buy the rights to Harry Potter. But, as it happens, I don't have that money at present, and would probably be reluctant to purchase said rights before Book 7 is finished, anyway. So, to conclude: this ain't mine.
A/N: I was immensely excited to find out the release date of HBP only about an hour after JKR posted it (see, surfing the Internet at ungodly hours is a good thing!). After bouncing off the walls for a while, I decided that a celebratory fic was in order, and ended up writing this.
"Harry, you're not reading this right." Hermione looked up at her bespectacled best friend, exasperation printed on her features. "There's not any oomph behind it. Your fans expect you to be angsty."
Harry threw aside the script in a fit a bad temper. "I'm trying!"
"We've only got until July 16 to get this down pat." She picked up the crumpled manuscript and smoothed it out in front of her. "Look, try to imagine... You're sad and misunderstood... There's a madman out to kill you... Your godfather has just died..."
"Well that's a little hard to imagine, considering the fact that I've been hanging out with said godfather in this changing room for the past two years!"
"Harry, you've only got yourself to blame. It's only because you're developmentally slower than the average teenager that we have to wait multiple years at a time for you to grow between each book."
"What would you know about it? You're not developmentally slow! You're perfect, Hermione! You don't know what it's like!"
"There you go, Harry, that's exactly the kind of feeling we're looking for!"
"Argh!" groaned Harry, and sunk back into his chair.
"I still can't believe that I got killed off."
"Sirius, you've been saying that for the past two years now."
"Well, it's true! Not only am I dead, but I had to die in a completely ridiculous manner! I fell through a piece of cloth, for God's sake! No dramatic tussle with Dementors, no show-down with Voldemort, not even a duel with Snivellus!"
"That was through no choice of mine," sneered Snape as he billowed past.
"At least you had a role," said James mournfully. "Lily and I only got two parts."
"And we didn't even get to speak in the first one," added Lily.
"And now I have to sit backstage and make cookies and lemonade with Molly all day, just so that all the living can have refreshment between scenes!" groaned Sirius.
"Hey, at least it means more time to hang out with us," said James.
"Yeah, really, Padfoot," said Remus. "I did an awful lot of lemonade-making during Order of the Phoenix. I was barely in for a chapter and a half."
"Plus that little bit in the Pensieve."
"Yes, but all I got to do was read and make werewolf jokes."
"Speaking of Marauders," said Lily. "Where's Peter?"
"Off hanging out with Voldemort in the next room over," said Remus disgustedly.
"Scumbag. Two whole books in the changing rooms because he framed me!"
"I got five books in the changing rooms because of him," said James.
"That's it! I'm not serving him any cookies when he comes in!"
"Father," whined Draco, stomping into the room. "I'm all out of hair gel! And I don't want to go on a detour. Detours are stupid. Detours are for Mudbloods."
"Shut up, Draco, can't you see I'm busy?" snapped Lucius. "Go ask Snape if you can borrow some grease!"
"Fine!" said Draco sulkily and he tromped off again.
"Where were we?" rasped Voldemort.
"It was your turn, my Lord," replied Narcissa.
"Ah, yes..." Voldemort examined his hand carefully. "Avery... got any 6's?"
"Go Fish, my Lord."
"ARGH!" screeched the Dark Lord, leaping up. "I've had to Go Fish for the last five (censored) turns! AVADA KEDAVRA!"
"My Lord, you've just killed Avery. He did have a speaking part in 'Half-Blood Prince,' you know," chided Lucius.
"Oh, no one cares about Avery. Put one of the extras in a black cloak— no one'll know the difference." Voldemort kicked the body away and sat down despondently at the card table. "I never win at Go Fish. Or Rummy 500. Or Old Maid. I would think that playing cards for two years straight would have made me an expert!"
"We all have our different strengths, my Lord," said Narcissa soothingly. "Avery's was Go Fish. The Potter boy's is heroism. Yours is being evil."
"Well, why can't I be evil and be a master card player?"
Because you have no poker face, thought Lucius.
"I heard that!" screeched Voldemort.
"I said nothing!"
"You were thinking it! Never lie to the Dark Lord! Crucio!"
"What's going on in there?" Wormtail asked Rodopholus.
"Voldie's angry about not being the 'Half-Blood Prince.'"
"He's not? Who is?"
"I dunno... I haven't read that far into the script..."
"You can read?"
"So, Albus... what happens when all of this is over?" asked McGonagall, sipping her tea.
"You mean, when we get killed off? We go backstage and make cookies with Sirius."
"No, I mean... when the series is over. When Book 7 is over and done with. Do we start doing fanfiction, or something?"
"No, not fanfiction. Each fanfiction has a special cast all its own, to suit the author's particular whim of character manglement. The only stories we'll participate in are the ones written by J.K. Rowling herself."
"And when that's done with?"
"We linger for a little while, cleaning up the changing rooms. Then we fade away into oblivion, to nothingness. Our part is over. We will no longer be needed."
Minerva gulped on her tea. "You know... I could stand a few more tedious years in the changing room. Rowling can take as long as she pleases on Book 7."
"Indeed," replied Dumbledore, unsticking a sherbert lemon. "But that is far in the future. For now, we must concentrate on July 16— when production commences for 'Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.'"
"Who is the Half-Blood Prince, anyway?"
"Don't you dare tell them, Albus, or I will write you the most painful death that has ever been conceived by wizardkind!" came Rowling's voice out of nowhere.
A/N: That came out a little depressing toward the end... but I did like the part with Voldemort's temper tantrum:)