((A.N. You've all seen them on TV . . . soap operas. Dramatically overdone, extremely complicated, and hilariously cliched. So here it is . . . it was going to come eventually . . . the Harry Potter soap opera. This story contains outlandish treasures, insanely foolish Dark Lords, time travel, resurrection, evil identical twins, polyjuice potions, love triangles, ingenious plans, and long lost brothers! Let the drama begin . . .! And review.))
(Que for dramatic music to begin)
Hermione Granger was poised above the world, on a balcony under a velvet blanket studded with diamonds. Below her, the lake glistened with sapphire-ebony ripples. She wore a flowing gown, made of midnight silk and embroidered with champagne colored pearls. Her hair, a river of golden fire, shimmered in the pallid glow of the autumn moon.
Harry Potter strode valiantly onto the balcony, and came to stand behind Hermione. For approximately five, maybe ten, minutes, they stood, staring out at the icy September evening.
"Hermione," he whispered softly, and reached a hand out to touch her back. She closed her eyes for a moment, savoring his touch, before whirling around and slapping him across the face.
"Stop!" she cried, with the ferociousness of a deadly flamingo. "I can't be with you anymore, Harry!"
Harry dropped down on one knee, and hand on his broken heart. He reached out to her. "But, Hermione . . . I love you! Why not?"
She looked at him, her eyes ablaze. "You wouldn't understand."
With that, she wrenched herself from the balcony, silent tears pouring down her face.
"Fine!" Harry yelled to her retreating back. "I never loved you anyway! I don't need you! I . . . I . . . "
He had an emotional breakdown.
"We have but one shot, Wormtail," Lucius Malfoy whispered in a sinister fashion. "One shot to kill Harry Potter." A giant cannon was aimed directly at Harry Potter.
He was dressed in pure black and had a giant Dark Mark on his cloak.
"Remind me again why we're killing Harry Potter, Master?" Wormtail asked. Lucius failed to see the lovesick look that Wormtail gave him.
"How many times, do I have to tell you, Wormtail? James Potter's great Uncle Eulfrid led a splendid expedition to Kazakhstan, and dug up an ancient Aborigine sacrificial landmine, which led him to the Secret Society of Bolivian Pacifists, who told him of the Sacred Chamber of Amon-Ra in Nigeria, but when he tried to fly there he crash landed on an island off of Madagascar and found a random pile of Galleons lying on the road. But that wasn't even the beginning . . ."
(Three hours later)
" . . . and that is how the Turkish barbarians found him stranded in the middle of Lake Victoria."
"And . . . where exactly did you hear this?" Wormtail asked skeptically.
"Never mind that, Wormtail. The point is that we must kill Potter in order to get the 500 million galleons that he is supposed to inherit."
"But, Master . . . if we kill Harry Potter, how will that help us inherit the money?"
"Never mind that, Wormtail. We'll get to it when it comes. Now, the cannon."
He turned to where Harry had been standing on the balcony. He was, unsurprisingly, gone.
"WORMTAIL! You messed me up again! How many times do I have to tell you? Don't ask me to recite that story ever again! Cockroach whiskers!" He slammed his fist down on the cannon, and it exploded, flying completely off course into a red-headed boy halfway across the lake, feeding the giant squid.
"Oops," said Lucius. "I almost hit the giant squid."
He strode away into the woods.
He had been minding his own business, really. Well, minding his own business and contemplating his relationship with Harry Potter. No, not like that. The relationship in general though. Harry Potter had everything he'd ever wanted. Popularity, fame, fortune. And all that he, Ron Weasely, steadfast best friend and sidekick, got, was a maroon sweater with an 'R' on it. Where was the justice in this? He must've been pretty angry, because he heard a voice in his head say, "cockroach whiskers." He took the time to contemplate the fact that it was 'whiskers,' not 'clusters,' that the voice in his head had muttered. Harry always liked cockroach clusters, Ron thought angrily. Harry always got as many as he wanted!
He peered across the lake. Hm, that's odd.
He awoke an obscure amount of minutes later. He struggled to remember, but then, a solitary phrase came back. 'cockroach whiskers.'
He'd been hit. With a cannonball. He'd been hit . . . with a cannonball.
He stared, for awhile. At the giant squid, who was undoubtedly mocking him. Mocking him . . . MOCKING HIM!
This is the last straw! Ron thought. Harry Potter never had to worry about going to the Yule Ball without a date, about money, about friends. Harry Potter never got maroon sweaters for Christmas. Harry Potter never got hit by cannonballs at three in the morning.
Ron Weasely was a bitter, bitter boy. He was sick and tired of being overshadowed by Harry. But most of all, he was sick and tired of the unfairness of his life. No one got hit by cannonballs at three in the morning. But him.
It was time to take some action, and Ron knew just what to do.
"And you imbeciles failed . . . how?" Voldemort spat, pacing back and forth in his Evil Lair.
Wormtail stood in front him, sweating noticeably.
"The canon, sir . . . it accidentally went off."
Voldemort raised an eyebrow. "Do you . . . agree with him, Lucius?"
They both turned their attention to Lucius, who was curled in the corner, a maniacal expression on his face. His eyes darted back and forth. He was twiddling his thumbs and muttering something that sounded like 'Bolivian Pacifists.'
Wormtail removed his pitiful glance. "My Lord . . ." he said remorsefully. "I'm afraid Lucius is not entirely with us. He had occupied himself with finding an ancient treasure . . ." he lowered his voice even more, " . . . that I'm afraid does not exist."
They turned to look at Lucius, who had not even noticed they were talking, much less about him.
"Never mind that, Wormtail," Voldemort said with a wave of his hand. "Now, what is our newest plan? Assassination?Aggressive negotiations? Diplomatic solution?"
"You do realize you're quoting Star Wars, correct?" Wormtail asked quickly.
"We're out of assassins, sir," Wormtail said slowly.
Just then Ron Weasely burst through the door. Voldemort, being Voldemort, stared. Lucius, being insane, continued twiddling.
"Lord Voldemort . . ." Ron said, breathing raggedly, a glint in his eyes. "I have decided to pledge my allegiance to your service."
Voldemort gave hin a calculating glance. "Why the sudden change of heart, young Weasely?"
"I was hit by a cannonball," Ron spat, as if this explained everything.
Lucius momentarily stopped twiddling his thumbs. His eyes darted towards Ron, before he resumed his thumb twiddling.
Voldemort considered his options. It was Weasely, or it was Lucius. He wasn't positive which one was saner, but anyhow, Weasely seemed more determined.
"I want to assassinate Harry Potter," Ron declared, his voice quiet.
"What is your price?" Voldemort interrogated
"I want a Firebolt . . . 2. I want a tawny white owl named WigHead. I want round black glasses with clear lenses. But most of all, I want free origami lessons with Dumbledore. And no more cannonballs!" He shot an angry glare at Lucius, and confirmed Voldemort's suspicions.
Voldemort contemplated this, looking from Lucius to Ron. Lucius, to Ron.
"You've got the job," he said with a sinister laugh.
((A.N. Random? Absolutely. Entertaining? I hope. Give me a review.))