Author's Note: Sara was on the SU's "Fandom Cliché Challenge" thread when she asked for "(Shameless author self insert character) saves the life of/gets (story character) to fall in love with him/her. Mad hot monkey sex may follow. Other students seeing the absolute magnificence of this character and/or being scared/jealous of his/her awesomeness a bonus." So blame this on her.
I'll warn you crackfiends now: I'm horrible at updates. This may be updated, or it may not. I may get bored with this or it may turn into a 64-chapter epic of lulz.
This takes place in the Summer of '96, which is, coincidently, the name of my other love letter to a certain pink-haired fictional character. That was an attempt at serious-ish fic. This isn't. No Tonks in the opening chapter, but I hope you'll stick around nonetheless. And now:
Harry Potter and the Shameless Author Self-Insert
Chapter One: Exposition
Harry was disturbed by the haste with which Mr Slughorn retreated back into the mess of his abode. But he was even more disturbed with the prospect of having to explain to Dumbledore how he had failed.
"Professor, I - I mean, he - "
"That's quite alright now, Harry. It was not an easy assignment I gave you, but then again, the most important ones rarely are," the kindly Headmaster cut off his young charge. "We'll make do, I assure you."
"But how, sir? How will you ever find someone who could take the place of a former Hogwarts professor?"
"Never you mind that, Harry. I think I know of just the person who could help you - er, I mean, help Hogwarts in her hour of need," Dumbledore replied, a mischievous glint eerily visible in his eye. "Just hold on tight, young man. This could be a bumpy ride."
Later that afternoon, Harry explained the odd things he'd seen to Ron up in the twins' room.
"Oh, it was brilliant!" he exclaimed. "First we apparated all the way to California. Then we found the new professor on board this large grey ship. You wouldn't have told that he was a wizard or anything, Ron. He just had the one stripe on his arm, and some coffee and a cigarette like everyone else. Then Dumbledore -"
"That's Professor Dumbledore, Harry. Honestly, boys. You ought to know better." Hermione took a seat next to Ron, while Ginny - who had followed her upstairs - sat down next to Harry. "Now," Hermione continued, "unless you're talking about that tall drink of water that's monopolizing Molly, Tonks and Fleur's time downstairs, this conversation has no relevance to my life today, and as a girl I demand you change the subject now." Hermione punctuated this outburst with a rather self-satisfied huff, which Ginny mimicked.
"Well I am certainly glad that that is precisely what I was talking about, because it certainly would have been awkward for me to have to explain exactly why you can't just order me and Ron around like that like you can other boys. But no need - I'll just continue. Anyway, so Dumbledore whispers something in his ear, and all of a sudden there's a great glow of magic around him - right there on the smoking deck, mind! - and the new professor gets an evil grin on his face. Dumbledore hands him a wand, and that's when things really start to get odd!" Harry took a deep breath while considering how best to describe his adventures in California.
"Interesting?" Hermione asked, her hair-trigger curiosity piqued once again, "How so?"
"Have you ever seen a baby-pink Naval vessel before, Hermione?"
"No," she answered, warily, "but I have a feeling you have."
"It was brilliant!" Harry exclaimed. "He turned the whole bloody ship pink!"
"The whole bloody ship?" Ron echoed.
"Ronald? Language!" Hermione admonished.
"But that's not all," Harry continued. "No. He went up to the missle deck and re-named it - the Lido Deck. Bloody brilliant, what?"
"Bloody brilliant is right, Harry," Ron agreed.
"Language again, Ronald Weasley. How many times do I have to -"
"Bloody buggering hell! How many times do I have to tell you that even if I did fancy birds, I'd - What? What's everyone looking at this time?"
Harry stepped in to save the day. "Never mind, Ron. We'll just have to have a talk with them before we get back to Hogwarts is all." Ginny's eyes opened to the size of saucers.
"We? Harry, you're not - Aaaaaugh!" she shrieked as she was running out of the room. There was a rather awkward pause before Hermione
"Well, now that that's all cleared up, boys, we do need to find out exactly who this new Defence against the Dark Arts professor is. What else can you tell us about him, Harry?"
"Oh, the story's just getting started, Hermione," Harry answered...
"Just getting started you say, Harry?" Hermione asked.
"Oh my yes. After the professor was finished with the ship, he confunded the crew and re-wrote his paperwork giving him a retroactive discharge. Then we popped out of there and over to his cottage by the ocean."
Hermione was confused, which is never a good thing to have happen in the middle of a good story. "Wait. You say Dumbledore gave him a wand, right?"
"That's the way it looked."
"So, he didn't have one of his own?"
"Guess not, or else he'd have popped out of there awhile ago, you reckon? Oh, and he would have ditched the woman he was living with, too. Because once we got to his cottage, she started laying into him in not one, but two languages - simultaneously. I think the Malfoys treated poor Dobby better than tha-" There was a pop in the room, and the trio fairly jumped out of their skin until they realized it was merely Dobby.
"Harry... Potter...? You is such a good wizard. You has need of Dobby?"
"I... Oh bugger me."
"Not now, Ron. Dobby, I didn't call you - honestly. I just mentioned your name whilst telling a tale," Harry told the elf softly.
"Youse remember poor Dobby? The great Harry Potter knows an elf's name? You is the greatest wizard ever, Harry Potter!" Dobby had tears in his eyes as he regarded the young savior of the Wizarding world. He then opened his enormous eyes, tilted his head, and addressed the object of his affection tentatively. "I can haz something to do?" Harry tossed a book at him.
"No, you bloody well can not have something to do. Now scram, you miserable whelp! Scram!"
"Oh, Harry Potter is being kind to be so cruel to an elf! Thank you, Harry Potter. May an elf have another?"
"GET!" Harry shouted, and Dobby popped away after blowing Harry a gentle kiss. "Bloody masochistic freak. Now, where were we - Oh, right. So, the professor's wife had him good and yelled at before he pointed his wand at her and hit her with a Silencio. This at least shut her up long enough for him to tell her that they needed to pack up and go to Scotland, but she wasn't having any of that. She actually sounded eerily like my Aunt Petunia before he gave up on her and stunned her."
"He stunned his own wife? Isn't that - ?" Hermione was very concerned.
"No, she only fell onto the futon. That professor sure is quick with a wand. I overheard him tell Dumbledore - "
"Professor Dumbledore, Harry."
"Right. I over heard him tell Professor Dumbledore, you miserable swotty **, that he'd performed Legilimens on her while she was yelling at him about the magic. Apparently she was afraid that she'd not be able to control him any further, so that's when he made up his mind just to ditch her there in California. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say."
"Ooh, so he's on the rebound, is he?"
"Seems to be, Hermione. But he's far to old for you. 25, according to Dumbledore."
"Really? But he doesn't look a day over 20."
"All that California sunshine, I suppose. Strange thing is, I never did catch his - " Harry was interrupted by the dulcet tones of Molly Weasley hollering up the stairs.
"Golden Trio! Supper!"
Hermione stopped dead in her tracks upon exiting the staircase into the Weasley family kitchen. This specimen of manhood in front of her consumed her entire vision, and was on the verge of consuming her entire soul. His hair was light brown, what little there was of it. His eyes a twinkling blue-green, so that when they caught the light, the colors would dance a tarantella on her heart. Eyes that were care-worn, yet compassionate. Hopeful, but not naive. Eyes that had a tale to tell, if one would be lucky enough to catch but a stanza. Eyes with which he could barely see, as the thick pieces of clear plastic that hid them from all but those who had a true desire in her heart to see them could attest.
His t-shirt was black. Black as the hope of a new moon's light. Black as magic Herself. Black as he took his coffee, Molly would soon find out. It was worn and nearly threadbare, but looked to have borne witness to a hundred adventures, and lain on the floor during a thousand nights of passion. On it, in simple block letters, was a single, solitary word. A word so lonely on the garment that one wanted to stroke it soothingly, telling it that all would be well. Of course, with the shirt on the mystery DADA professor, one would generally want to do that anyway. The word: Ramones. Hermione, being a good girl, had no idea what that word meant, but she was certain that she would repair the lost libraries of Alexandria itself to find out. She was also certain that she would repair the lost libraries of Alexandria itself to find a recipe for Shepherd's Pie, but equally certain that that was besides the point. One day she would know the meaning of this cryptic message, "Ramones," and it would change her irrevocably.
His dungarees were blue. Blue as an F# in a descending c-minor scale - a joke only he understood, but one he used with foolhardy abandon nonetheless. They gracefully hugged - nay, caressed - his slender frame, gathered at the hips in a stout black leather belt. The dungarees ran down his legs like the Niagara River at Niagara Falls, not that Hermione knew this, as she'd never been to either New York or Ontario, but that's how they ran down his legs just the same. They were not so tight that one would be able to tell the mystery professor's religion from outside of them, but what was outside of those blue jeans became less and less significant to the young Gryffindor by the moment. The jeans ended in a pool of denim by his ankles, which, along with his feet, were enclosed in shiny black leather boots, which were adorned with silver buckles.
And that moment's reverie was broken in an instant, when, like a chorus of angels conducted by Caecilia Herself, the mystery professor opened his mouth and addressed Hermione.
"Hi there. It was Hermione, right?" he asked, and time and space collapsed in on each other as she became weak in the knees. She gracefully sat down, squeeked out
"Yes. It's Hermione. From Shakespeare, as I'm sure you're aware," and began to eat her supper, hoping beyond hope that it would provide the nutrients that her body so desperately needed.