Author's Notes: Well, I got a review from Heaven's Flying Fish which was too funny for words an inspired me to make fun of myself. (Which, I have found, is depressingly easy to do.)
Anyway, this little mocking of my other story, Choice, is dedicated entirely to HFF because, without the review, I wouldn't have gotten the chance to poke fun at myself.
…And because he/she has left reviews that are very good for my ego. So really, I'm just trying to give something back to the community.
It was, to all pretense and purposes, an ordinary day. The sun was beating a nearby star in a galaxy far away, the grass stood rigid on the earth because of a disagreement they'd had, and the wind was on holiday in Aruba.
But it was not an ordinary day.
For on this day an event was taking place – an event so huge that God himself had paused in his game of Battleship to watch everything unfurl.
Well, Harry Potter was about to show the world if he truly was as dark as they'd made him out to be. For around this time last year, he'd had a rather nasty Death Eater resulting in the death of an innocent.
Naturally, the world realized that it must have been Harry to kill the woman, not the Death Eater. Because Death Eaters just didn't do that sort of thing anymore.
Anyway, here Harry was, standing and facing his two greatest enemies: Albus Alfred Anthony Andrew Angus Alexander Albert Argus Agamemnon Dumbledore and Tom Marvolo Riddle.
"Choose me," Dumbledore suggested hopefully. "Choose the light, Harry!"
"Don't be daft Harry, choose me," Tom interjected, attempting to twist his face into something that resembled a smile and accomplishing only a grimace not unlike the one he wore for weeks after eating too much of Lucius' beans.
Harry flip-flopped. Voldemort's ugly, he reasoned, but then, Dumbledore's old. I could flip a Galleon.
See, he didn't really care which side one. Even if he killed Voldemort, he'd be considered evil by the Wizarding world, and if he killed Dumbledore he'd have to listen to Tom's awful pop music for the rest of his life.
"Do it for the sherbet lemons!" Dumbledore cried, looking triumphant. Who, after all, could deny a good sherbet lemon?"
"Do it for the acid pops," Tom countered cajolingly. Harry thought about that, weighing his options.
Sherbet lemons … acid pops. Lemons … pops.
He licked his lips. Oh how Harry loved himself a good Whizbee. He was going to name his first child Whizbee. "Meh," he said to the two wizards, who now appeared to be thumb-wrestling. ("Loser burns in eternal purgatory!") Harry waiting, quite patiently, until Voldemort trapped Dumbledore's thumb under his own and crowed in triumph. ("No fair," Dumbledore grumbled. "You used your pinkie.")
"So?" Voldemort asked hopefully. "You've chosen the delightful, delicious acid pop over those stupid, tangy sherbet lemons, I assume?"
"You know what they say about people who assume," Harry scolded. "But yes. I've made my decision."
The world waited with bated breath.
God began to bite his nail nervously.
The wind called the grass on her cell phone, asking how things were going.
The grass didn't communicate her message of love to the earth, since they still weren't speaking.
And then Harry declared, "Neither! I like Fizzing Whizbees!"
And, with that, he blew the both of them up.