Not Another Hogwarts Musical: A Very Silly Tale

[Schmergo]

NOT ANOTHER HOGWARTS MUSICAL!
By Schmergo

There are some shockingly badly written Harry Potter fan fictions out there. The same goes for The Phantom of the Opera. Only a truly deranged and twisted individual would dare to write one horrible fan fiction that incorporates both elements-- a deranged and twisted individual like me. So let the tale begin! (Let your darker side give in…)
With blatant disregard to the canon, Harry Potter and his two chums were arriving at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry one crisp autumn day. They were eagerly anticipating their seventh year, despite the fact that (a. Dumbledore was dead, and (b. They were supposed to be destroying horcruxes and fighting Voldemort. But fallacies like this tend to occur in shockingly badly written fan fictions.
“Gee,” Harry wondered aloud. “I wonder what kind of wild adventure we’ll have this year, one in which we will learn an important lesson, experience a loss, and ultimately have good triumph over evil.”
“Harry, we have simply got to do something about your habit of talking to yourself,” replied Hermione.
“And saying ‘gee,’” added Ron.

* * * * * *

Moments later, due to an ingenious creation known as ‘plot device,’ the train had arrived at Hogwarts and students were listening to Headmistress McGonagall’s start of term speech. “And finally,” concluded McGonagall as Ron’s stomach gave a particularly loud rumble, “I’d like to introduce our newest staff member, Professor Rosa Aurora Borealis!” Everyone applauded; Professor Borealis was young, blonde, and an identical triplet. (Her siblings were named Barbie and Mary Sue respectively.) “Professor Borealis will be our Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, but she will serve an even more important purpose.”
“A vehicle for yet another evil plot designed by Lord Voldemort and/or Cornelius Fudge?” guessed Hermione in a manner eerily reminiscent of Jeopardy’s Ken Jennings.
“That is incorrect, Miss Granger,” replied McGonagall. There was a slight pause. As Professor Snape no longer taught at Hogwarts, there was no customary shout of, “Fifty points from Gryffindor!” McGonagall shrugged and continued, “Professor Borealis, which is incidentally a fun name to say, will be teaching Musical Theatre Appreciation!”
Instantly, the hall was filled with muttering.
“Musical Theatre Appreciation?”
“Musical Theatre Appreciation?”
“Musical Theatre Appreciation?”
“What did she say about cheese curls?”
“Shut up, Goyle.”
“Musical Theatre Appreciation,” McGonagall repeated for like the squintillionth time. “The Phantom of the Opera, to be precise.”
This sent everyone into a state of shock, even though this is a Harry Potter/Phantom of the Opera fan fiction. Nobody in the school had ever heard of a play being performed at Hogwarts before-- except for Hermione, who knew everything.
“I’ve never heard of a play being performed at Hogwarts before,” remarked Harry, ignoring the fact that a musical at Hogwarts is like the third-most clichéd plotline ever.
“I have,” replied Hermione. “I know everything. When will you ever read Hogwarts, A History?”
“When he--” Ron checked the rating of this story (G) and made a slight adjustment to his word choice. “When Hedwig freezes over.”
“Anyway,” continued Hermione as though there had been no interruption. “Every twenty years, Hogwarts performs The Phantom of the Opera. It’s a time-honored tradition.”
Ron scratched his head. “But wait,” he said. “Wasn’t The Phantom of the Opera only written about ten or twenty years ago?”
Hermione simply rolled her eyes. “Obviously. But there is such a thing as MAGIC, Ron. Anyway, in its last performance, according to Hogwarts, A History, Christine was played by Lily Evans, the Phantom was played by Remus Lupin, Raoul was played by James Potter, and… oh my… Andre and Firmin were played by Sirius Black and Severus Snape.”
Harry and Ron blinked. Then they exchanged glances and burst out laughing.

* * * * * *

The next day was audition day. I mean, seriously, audition day. For some unusual and badly written reason, every single person in the school tried out for a role. Harry thought he was going insane after the 200th rendition of the song “The Phantom of the Opera,” and indeed, his eye was twitching and he was attempting to eat his stew by spooning it into his ear. Ron was muttering lyrics under his breath as he consumed his bread. And Hermione, who seemed totally oblivious to the shrill singing, was simply reading a book, entitled, The Complete Genius’s Guide to Musical Theatre.
The auditions ranged from phenomenal to positively excruciating. (The latter consisting of Lavender Brown and Crabbe.) There were some surprises-- Draco Malfoy, for example, had a magnificent, resonant voice that was low and mournful, but could swoop up remarkably high. Ginny was quite good, too, with a high, ethereal singing voice. Neville’s singing was shockingly operatic, and Dean sounded as though he had been singing on stage his whole life. Hermione was proven to be good at singing, Harry was okay, and Ron couldn’t carry a tune if it was tied to the back of his broomstick. However, he definitely had charisma and enthusiasm.
The cast list was posted at dinner that night. Nobody really paid any attention to their classes that day, which is good, because this author is far too lazy to describe them. At dinner time, Ron charged into the mob of students surrounding the cast list, trampling a few unfortunate first years in the process. Harry kindly scraped the first years off the floor and followed his friend. The cast list read thusly:

“The Phantom of the Opera
Directed by Rosa Aurora Borealis
Starring:
Christine………. Ginny Weasley
The Phantom………. Draco Malfoy
Raoul………. Dean Thomas
Andre………. Seamus Finnegan
Firmin………. Harry Potter
Madame Giry………. Hermione Granger
Meg Giry………. Luna Lovegood
Carlotta………. Cho Chang
Ubaldo Piangi………. Neville Longbottom
Joseph Buquet………. Ron Weasley
Chorus………. Like, everyone else.”

As Harry scanned the cast list, he came face-to-face with the pale, sneering figure of Draco Malfoy. “Potter,” Draco spat, devastatingly clever with his insults as usual.
“Malfoy,” Harry replied with the same rapier wit. “Um, just curious, how can a figure sneer?”
“Shut up,” snarled Draco, positively masterly with his word choice. “Anyway, you’ll see that I’m the star of the show. And you’re, like, not.” Crabbe and Goyle laughed stupidly behind him.
“Oh yeah?” responded Harry. “Yeah? Well…. um… er…yeah?!”
“Yeah!” said Draco.
Interrupting this intelligent exchange, Hermione interjected, “Malfoy, what are you doing at Hogwarts anyway? Aren’t you supposed to be on the run from the law?”
“Plot device,” sneered Draco.
“Why do you always do that thing with your lip?” asked Ron. “Is there something wrong with it?”
“Don’t make fun of me! I was born like this,” whined Draco.
Harry peeked at the cast list once more. As much as he disliked to say it, Draco had achieved the title role of The Phantom, while he had the good but less humongous role of Firmin, one of the managers of the Opera House. “Malfoy, where did you learn to sing like that?” he demanded.
“You-Know-Who,” smirked Draco.
“No, actually, I don’t, or I wouldn’t be asking,” replied Harry.
“No, you idiot! I meant He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!”
“What, The Artist Formerly Known As Prince?” asked Harry.
“I didn’t mean Snape!” exclaimed Draco.
“Neither did I!” hollered Harry. “Haven’t you ever listened to muggle music?”
“No.”
“WELL, YOU SHOULD HAVE!”
By now, Hermione and Ron had the good sense to slip away to the Common Room and allow Harry and Draco to continue their witty repartee.
“Okay, listen, the Dark Lord gave me voice lessons!” shouted Draco.
“Sauron?”
“No.”
“Alex Milroy?”
“No.”
“Jarvis Co--”
“No! Look, it’s not important to the plot, or lack thereof! It’s just something they the author wanted to add in, me being a good singer!” screamed Draco.
“You shouldn’t scream,” admonished Harry. “It’s bad for your vocal cords.”
“GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!” screeched Draco.
“So’s that,” added Harry.
Neither of them noticed the small, grey-brown rat scuttling into the wainscotting. “Hm, wainscotting. I like that word. It sounds like a small British village,” muttered the rat, as dramatic music played in the background. Well, what did you expect? This is The Phantom of the Opera after all!

* * * * * *
“M’lord.” Wormtail kneeled down before Voldemort.
“Wormtail, my servant, that was unwise,” replied Voldemort in his dangerously high-pitched voice. He sounded like a cross between Michael Jackson and Michael Crawford.
“What was unwise? Disguising myself as a rat, scuttling into the wainscotting of Hogwarts, and spying on the students?” Wormtail wondered timorously.
“No, fool,” hissed Voldemort. “You knelt in Nagini’s litter tray.”
“Oh dear.” Wormtail tried to rid his robes of snake dung, which was not, I may add, a terribly fun task. “Anyway, master--”
“M’lord,” said Voldemort.
“Did you just call me your lord?” asked Wormtail, his eyes widening.
“No, you dipwad. I was correcting you. I prefer to be addressed as ‘m’lord.’ ‘Master’ is sooo Goblet of Fire.”
“Right-o, mas-- I mean, m’lord. Anyway, I have some breaking news from Hogwarts.”
Voldemort looked interested. “Hogwarts? What is it?”
“It’s a big castle with wizards,” explained Wormtail. “But that’s not the point. Hogwarts is putting on The Phantom of the Opera, and guess who’s in it?”
“Michael Crawford?!” squealed Voldemort. “Because he’s my idol!”
“No, sir… I mean, m’lord,” Wormtail informed him timidly.
“Gerard Butler?” Voldemort asked perkily. “He may not be as talented as the original, but his hairdo is ever so lovely.”
Wormtail stifled a nervous giggle and informed his master (I mean, his “m’lord,”), “Actually Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter are both in it. Your original target, as well as the slimy little git you’ve been trying to capture since the end of last book! Isn’t that exciting, Boss? I mean, m’lord?”
“Boss is fine,” said Voldemort.
“Yes, I think Bruce Springsteen is a fine singer, as well,” chirped Wormtail.
“Who’s that?” asked Voldemort, puzzled. “I meant that you can call me ‘boss,’ if you want to.”
“Thank you. But seriously, you’ve never heard of Bruce Springsteen? Haven’t you ever listened to muggle music?”
“No.”
“Well, you should have!”
“SILENCE, FOOL!” roared Voldemort. “YOU’RE DISMISSED! I’m trying to plot and conspire here! I need solitary peace!”
“ But Boss!” protested Wormtail. “Don’t you need more than one person to conspire, technically?”
“Not when you have acute schizophrenia!” shouted Voldemort. This frightened Wormtail so much that he left at once. Plus there was far too much dialogue in this scene as it was.
Voldemort had a plan. A wonderful, terrible plan, kind of like the Grinch’s, only not. His plan involved going to see the play, then killing Draco and Harry backstage and taking Draco’s part in the song “The Point of No Return,” at which time, he would send the chandelier crashing down and kidnapping Ginny. This plan, though creative, seemed oddly familiar, but he couldn’t put his finger on where he’d heard it before.
Voldemort, however, was no stranger to The Phantom of the Opera. In fact, he had once played the title character himself, in a Hogwarts production quite awhile before. That Draco Malfoy thought he was so great with all of his pretty blond hair and all of his designer robes. He would forever rue leaving the forces of Lord Voldemort, yes he would! At this, Voldemort stood up from his evillicious armchair and bellowed, “YOU WILL CURSE THE DAY YOU DID NOT DO… ALL THAT THE DARK LORD ASKED OF YOOOOOOOOOOOOOU!!!”
There was a loud burst of random applause in the doorway. Voldemort whirled around to see who the culprit was, only to spy every single one of his Death Eaters standing there, looking excited at the prospect of live musical entertainment.
“GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!” screeched Voldemort.
“You shouldn’t do that, Boss,” admonished Wormtail. “It’s bad for your vocal cords.”

* * * * * *
The first rehearsal of The Phantom of the Opera was a total fiasco. Draco, who had been so proud of himself for garnering the lead role, was less than happy about his on-stage relationship with Ginny. And nobody liked their costumes for the Masquerade scene.
“A SHEEP!?” exclaimed Harry. “Why do I have to look like a SHEEP?! I don’t do the whole horns-and-cotton-balls look.”
“At least you don’t have to look like a stinkin’ potato!” added Seamus. “I don’t know if that’s a slur against the Irish or what, but wasn’t Andre dressed as a rooster in the film?”
“So you think you’ve got it bad?!” fumed Hermione. “I’m a COW!”
“I know,” said Ron. “But what’s your costume for the Masquerade scene?” He, Harry, and Seamus found that terribly funny. Hermione evidently didn’t, because she smacked him hard across the face.
“All right, all right, what was that for?” Professor Borealis demanded sternly, gliding over to where they were standing.
“Oh, Professor, we were just rehearsing,” Hermione told her with an expression of wide-eyed innocence. “You know, during ‘Magical Lasso,’ when Ron’s character, Joseph Buquet, gets smacked by my character, Madame Giry?”
“She’s never gonna buy that,” Ron muttered under his breath.
Professor Borealis blinked. “Oh, I see. Well, carry on then!” she chirped happily.
As rehearsals for the play continued, they got rather… strange. Any doubts that a cast member was not right for their role quickly vanished. Draco began to stalk Ginny, and would randomly appear in unexpected locations (ie. the Hufflepuff third year girls’ dormitory), accompanied by a burst of dramatic music. Dean had taken to trying to convince Ginny that they were perfect together, and kept attempting to rekindle their relationship. Meanwhile, Ginny was regularly seen wandering the halls with a morose expression, exclaiming, “HE’S HERE! THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA!” whenever anyone tried to talk to her. Cho had suddenly begun to speak in an Italian accent, and now had random diva fits, in which she referred to herself as La Cho-lotta. Luna seemed, unlike everyone else, much saner than usual; whenever someone said something not quite plausible, she would reply, “You must have been dreaming. Stories like that can’t come true.” And, of course, Hermione and Ron “rehearsed” their scene quite a lot.
Indeed, nobody seemed to be able to want to talk about anything but The Phantom of the Opera. “Oh, god in heaven! You’re all obsessed!” Harry had snapped on several occasions. This would have been a perfectly sensible statement if it had not been one of Harry’s own lines in the play. Every time a teacher instructed the class to take notes, they would all break into song-- “Far too many notes for my taste! And most of them about Christine!”
As the day of the play approached closer and closer, more and more classes were canceled because of rehearsals. There were even rehearsals up until two o’ clock in the morning for some of the main characters. “I’m always up until the wee hours singing!” whined Draco. “I need my beauty sleep!’
“Oh, come on!” replied Professor Borealis. “If we had them earlier, it wouldn’t be ‘The Music of the Night,’ now would it?”
The night of the show, everyone was scurrying around frantically backstage, getting last-minute adjustments to their hair and makeup. “Oh, Harry, you have something on your face,” Professor Borealis said distractedly, quickly sponging Harry’s forehead. “Okay, everyone, top of the show, opening number! Is everyone set to do ‘Hannibal?’ Do you have your mic, Carlotta? There’s, er, no need to throw a slipper at me, thank you.”
And with that, the curtain rose.

* * * * * *
“Are you sure no one will spot our disguises, boss?” whispered Wormtail as he, Snape, and Voldemort sank into seats in the auditorium.
“Absolutely,” replied Voldemort. “Totally inconspicuous.” The three men were wearing tuxedoes with red suspenders and wrap-around sunglasses.
“The Phantom of the Opera, eh?” Snape said critically. “I remember when I was in that play. I was Firmin. Who is it in this one?”
Wormtail checked the program. “It says, ‘Harry Potter,’” he informed his colleague.
Snape fainted. “Snape, are you all ri—“
“Shh, it’s starting, it’s starting!” squealed Voldemort, bouncing up and down in his plush velvet seat.
And start it certainly did—with Cho belting out, “This TROOOOoooOOOoooOOOoo-phyyyyy, from our saviours, from our SAAAaaaAAAaaaaAAAAaaaAAAVIOOOOURS! From the enslaving force… OOOO-ooof ROOOOOOOOOOOOME!” The lenses of Voldemort’s sunglasses shattered.
The performance was riveting. Ginny and Draco were appropriately hypnotizing, Dean was the audience heartthrob as Raoul, Harry and Seamus as the managers were very comic, Cho was enchantingly ghastly as Carlotta, and Ron did a fantastic job of being smacked by Hermione. (Apparently, practice made perfect.) Voldemort, in turn, made a lovely audience. He “ooh”-ed at “Music of the Night,” and “aww”-ed at “All I Ask of You.” He giggled at “Notes,” and got teary-eyed at “Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again”
“Boss? Er, boss, are those tears?” wondered Wormtail
“Shut up!” growled Voldemort, dabbing at one red eye with a pink lace hanky. “It’s hot in here, and my eyelids are merely perspiring.”

* * * * * *

[Schmergo]

* * * * * *
Backstage, a drama almost as interesting as the one onstage was unfolding. “Harry, U have to go touch up Draco’s blush. Would you mind holding this for me?” requested Professor Borealis, handing Harry a brown paper sack.
“Sure, no problem!” Harry responded cheerily, taking the bag happily. He could hear Cho onstage, singing the intro to “Don Juan Triumphante,” the number before “The Point of No Return,” his favourite song in the show. Professor Borealis had only been gone for about five seconds when disaster arrived in the shape of Ron, kind of like those ‘fun-shaped’ fruit snacks that are shaped like the gang from Scooby-Doo, only not really.
“Hey!” said Ron. “Harry, look what I can do! This is really cool!” And he did a double back aerial, right there backstage.
Harry was suitably impressed. “Dude! Do that again!” Obligingly, Ron ‘did that again,’ with one slight difference—he reversed the direction of his aerials, and accidentally ended up crashing into the sack, knocking it out of Harry’s hands.
CRASH! Fragments of shattered objects lined the stage where the sack had met its untimely end, causing Professor Borealis to zip back over to analyze the damage done. “WHAT THE?!” she shrieked. “HARRY, I ASKED YOU TO HOLD THE SACK FOR FIVE SECONDS! AND WHAT DO YOU DO, YOU PATHETIC DISEASED CARROT?! YOU DROP IT, THAT’S WHAT YOU DO! NOW ALL OF MY HORCRUXES ARE RUINED!”
“Horcruxes?” Ron repeated, at the same time that Harry muttered, “I thought only I was allowed to use the Caps Lock of Rage!”
“Yes, I collect horcruxes!” exclaimed Professor Borealis. “This was my Voldemort collection! I own The R.A.B. Horcrux Museum!”
“R.A.B.?” Harry and Ron repeated, beginning to sound like parrots. I would say ‘budgies,’ for the authentic British-sounding word, only I’ve never actually seen a budgie, and I wouldn’t know whether or not they can talk, or if they even exist. But that’s off-topic.
“Yes, R.A.B.! Rosa Aurora Borealis,” shrugged Professor Borealis. “Who did you think it was, Regulus Black?”
“I’m going to act like that’s a rhetorical question,” mumbled Ron.
Harry’s eyes widened. “Wait, so I destroyed all of Voldemort’s remaining horcruxes when I dropped the bag?” clarified Harry.
Professor Borealis nodded. “Hufflepuff’s cup, Slytherin’s locket, Ravenclaw’s pantyhose, and your scar,” she replied nonchalantly.
“My scar? What do you mean my scar?” Harry demanded, rubbing his forehead frantically.
“And pantyhose?” Ron added excitedly. Harry stared at him. “What, I just don’t see how they’re going to break when you drop ‘em!”
Professor Borealis ignored Ron’s comment and replied to Harry’s alone. “Remember when I rubbed your forehead with a sponge before the play? I was removing your scar. I guess you can have it back, though. The surface is a little cracked, but it should still look equally dashing.”
Harry accepted the scar and adhered it to his forehead. The sticky part was a little bit fuzz-covered from being in the sack, but it stuck firmly on, good as new. “So, basically, now that all the horcruxes are destroyed, Voldemort is mortal again?” asked Harry.
Professor Borealis nodded absentmindedly. “I guess. Now, Harry, Seamus, get ready to go on. The next number is about to start.”
Ron turned to his friend. “Should we just split and try to find You-Know-Who?” he asked. “I mean, the play isn’t that important, compared to ridding the world of evil and stuff.”
Harry shook his newly re-scarred head. “Nope. We’re going to go back onstage.”
“Go back on stage?”
“Hey, that was my idea!” pouted Harry indignantly, and he slipped over to make his entrance.
* * * * * *
Meanwhile, back at the ranch… or theatre, as it were…
“This is it!” cackled Voldemort as Cho sang the opening strains of ‘Don Juan Triumphante.’ “I shall now rush onstage, murder Potter and Malfoy, send the chandelier crashing down, and all that jazz!”
“Um, boss, wrong musical,” whispered Wormtail. “This isn’t Chicago.”
“Drat! I wore my fishnet tights for nothing, then!” griped Voldemort, a little too loudly. Several people in the rows ahead turned around to see who had made the comment, only to see Voldemort turn to Snape and hiss, “Ew, Snape, why did you say that?”
The Dark Lord was just gathering his cloak to sneak onstage, when suddenly, he felt a change within him. It was an unusual feeling of losing part of himself, a wearying, yet oddly liberating feeling, rather like taking off a particularly uncomfortable pair of control-top pantyhose after a very long and hard struggle. “Why is this author so obsessed with pantyhose?” grumbled Voldemort.
“Why are you?” I, the author, replied, making a brief cameo appearance. “Oh, shot down! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m trying to write an increasingly sillier fan-fiction, THANK YOU!” You can see where Harry and Draco got their skills (or lack thereof) in the art of dissage.
Anyway, Voldemort felt a change within him, the type normally felt when someone has destroyed 6/7 of your soul. “I’m… kinda tired…” he mumbled, swaying on the spot. “I… I think I’ll sit down… watch the play… pull off my evil plans some other time…” His Michael Crawford-esque voice trailed off as he sank down into his plush seat. He remained seated through “The Point of No Return,” with its almost palpable rays of emotion.
The performance proceeded normally, or at least, as normally as a musical performed by teenage fictional wizards and witches, with an audience that included a certain currently-lethargic Dark Lord can proceed. Ignoring this run-on sentence, Draco was pumping up all of his inner Phantom to blast out the song “Down Once More.”
“This face, which earned a mother’s fear and loathing
A mask, my first unfeeling scrap of clothing.
Pity comes too late, turn around and face your fate
An eternity of this before your eyes.”

To which Ginny replied,
“Your haunted face hold’s no horror for me now.
It’s in your soul where the true distortion lies.”

The tears were flowing freely down Voldemort’s face now. Michael Crawford was not just his vocal idol, he had influenced Voldemort in more ways that he’d ever known. The Phantom of the Opera was his life story. His mother hadn’t stuck around to care for him. He wore the mask of his magically distorted snake-like face to hide the fact that he would have been the spitting image of his muggle father if he hadn’t transfigured himself. And now, it was too late for turning back. He wasn’t fooling anyone anymore, and his soul… his soul was about as distorted as the came. What had happened to him? How could he, the sensitive, emo Tom Riddle have become this monster?

“Pitiful creature of darkness,” sang Ginny,
“What sort of life have you known?
God give me courage to show you
You are not alone!”

How could Voldemort have ever planned to kill people who made such beautiful music? And why were the muggle-borns and blood traitors just as talented at singing as the purebloods? Had he been wrong his whole life about purebloods being superior? Why had he ever engaged in such violence, anyway?
“ALL I EVER WANTED TO DO WAS TO SING!” yelled Voldemort, standing up in the middle of the theatre, his arms spread wide. “I ONLY WANT TO TOUCH HEARTS WITH MY MUSICAL GIFTS!”
There was an awed, stunned silence. “Er… boss…” began Wormtail.
“Please, call me Tom Riddle!” exclaimed his boss, I mean m’lord, I mean Voldemort, I mean Tom Riddle.
Harry rushed out into the audience. “Hey, uh, I just thought you’d like to know, I destroyed all your horcruxes, ‘kay?” he mentioned casually. “So you can, like, die now and stuff.”
“Kill me if you must!” the wizard formerly known as Voldemort shouted dramatically. “I deserve it!”
Harry laughed. “Are you kidding? Kill you? I’m a little wimp who can’t even handle the Cruciatus Curse, let alone the Avada Kedavra!” chortled Harry. “No, I’m afraid I have other plans for you.”
Tom Riddle trembled. “Like what?”
“Like you have to do 15 hours of community service, and apologize to the hundreds of people whose lives you’ve ruined, including the dead ones. And you have to play a role in our next musical, Cats,” Harry told him sternly.
“Macavity, the evil cat?” Tom Riddle asked eagerly.
“Nope, Skimbleshanks, the railway cat,” responded Harry.
“ALL RIGHT! SKIMBLE!” shrieked Tom Riddle, hopping up and down with glee. “That’s been my dream role for as long as I can remember!”
And thus, Voldemort was defeated in a totally peaceful and nonviolent manner, and thus our inane story draws to a close. If you’re really a Harry Potter nerd, you may remember J.K. Rowling mentioning that the last word in the last book was ‘scar,’ so I will not disappoint. I hope that in reading my terribly bad Harry Potter/Phantom of the Opera fan-fiction, you did not warp your brain, mangle your innards, nor permanently damage your soul. And if you did, that’s all right, too. I know of a shop in Diagon Alley that sells an excellent ointment that’ll heal any fanfic induced scar.
The End

[blackbelt]

Wow.

[slowlearner]

yeah so much wasted time

[Schmergo]

I shall take these as a compliment.

By the way, my hand says, "TIME TIME TIME TIME" so I can prove that I have too much time on my hands.

[blackbelt]

That never gets old.

[Schmergo]

Why, thank you.

[Me *hearts* HP]

I agree it never gets old!!!

[Kloud]

XDD That was marvelous! *applauds loudly* Absolutely astounding! ...In more ways than one. It was still an enjoyable read. ;D A fine job again, Schmergo.

[Schmergo]

Thank you, Kloudie and Mediator! Who likes pantyhose!pansy!Voldemort?

[Kloud]

I put that for one of my answers on the HP quiz. =P "Some guy in Pantyhose"

XD I couldn't think of much else at the moment...

[strwberryblondie(potter4life)]

he he he he

[artemisfowl]

okay schmergo you have sunk to new lows in fanfiction. really you need help.

[strwberryblondie(potter4life)]

that's not nice.

[Schmergo]

No, it isn't. And you're just taking your anger out on me because Michelle zapped me to ask you out! And I did it in front of Nelson! BLAHAHAHAHAH!

[artemisfowl]

shut up... besides i turned you down

[Me *hearts* HP]

I be sorry if I made you angry at me.......!!!

[strwberryblondie(potter4life)]

i'm not in this. hehe

[Schmergo]

Peace!

[strwberryblondie(potter4life)]

yeah for that!