Post by timtheenchanter on Jun 17, 2008 14:30:23 GMT -5
Hello reader people's,
Few things annoy me more than crossover fics. They lack imagination and combining two perfectly good stories only serves to butcher both of them, creating uninspired hybrid. For instance, on other sites I have seen stories that go something like this: Frodo Baggins and Harry Potter join forces to defeat Voldemort at Mount Doom! Mixing The Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter is somewhat understandable, but I have seen some truly ridiculous combinations, such as Harry Potter crossed with Halo or even Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
So, how do I ridicule the most ignoble crossover genre? That’s simple – I write one of my own!
This story is a most ridiculous crossover of Harry Potter, 300, and Ratatouille. There is very little plot and it is not to be taken seriously.
However, don’t let that deter you from reading this literary insanity. Enjoy!
Tim the Enchanter
Warnings: Some violence, language, and a severe lack of plot!
“OMFG! Death Eaters are in Hogwarts!”
That much is true. The front doors of the castle had been torn clean off their hinges by the curses from the masked figures in their long black cloaks. Like an overpowering flood, the Death Eaters swarm into Hogwarts castle, leaving destruction everywhere in their wake.
“HA HA HA! We are Death Eaters, and we're going to take over Hogwarts!” one of the cruel cloaked figures shouts, but the bone-white masks make it impossible to distinguish who.
Students rush to the defence of their school, desperately trying to stem the oncoming rush of Death Eaters. Among the motley collection of students, teachers, and Order of the Phoenix members is the Chosen One himself: a tall, lanky lad with unruly raven-black hair, glasses, and a lightening bolt scar on his forehead.
“Leave them to me!” Harry Potter shouts at his comrades through the chaos. “Go! I won’t let any of you die fighting for me!”
Not one of the students or adults pays any attention; one of whom is a tall, red-headed boy with more freckles than normal humans are supposed to have. The boy named Ron Weasley shouts back at his best friend:
“Harry, you self-righteous prat! We’re fighting with you whether you like it or not!”
The forces of good and right fight a heroic defence, but the tide of black cloaks is overpowering. Jets of menacing green bolts fly from the Death Eater’s wands, and slowly the defenders are picked off. The fallen drop to the marbled halls like marionettes with their strings cut. The fates are clearly busy tonight.
The combatants make their way to the entrance hall leading to the Great Hall. Normally at this time, the students would be eating their dinner. Now however, many of them are biting the dust, never to rise again.
The battle is intense and furious. Spells of green and red fly in all direction, obliterating all that they touch. Walls are exploding – doors are exploding – ceilings are exploding – people are exploding, but just then, there is a deafening crash as the doors to the Great Hall are ripped open. Then, an enormously loud voice fills the Castle, unsettling the dust of centuries on the stone–
“SPAAARTAAANS!”
Harry Potter spins around and his mouth gapes open in wonder. A thunderous chorus of voices follows–
“AHWOOO! AHWOOO! AHWOOO!”
Enshrined in the shattered doorway is wall of bulging muscles and cold iron and bronze. The battle grinds to a sudden halt as both sides stare transfixed at the men in crimson capes, who are wearing battle helmets and nothing more than leather underpants.
One of the “Spartans” points at the masked Death Eaters with his spear and breaks the silence: “My King! Look! Immortals!”
The man with the black-crested helmet – who is presumably the king – replies with a shout:
“IMMORTALS? WE’LL PUT THEIR NAME TO THE TEST! ATTACK!”
Even behind their masks, everyone can tell that the Death Eaters are shocked and surprised at their impending doom. “WTF!” some of them exclaim.
In perfect unison, the warriors of absurd masculinity heave their large round shields unnecessarily over their shoulders and bring them to their fronts, presenting a solid wall of curved bronze shields with long spears forming a hedgehog of points. With resonating yells of “AHWOOO!” the phalanx of flesh and metal surges straight at the Death Eater’s ranks.
STAB! “AHWOOO!” HACK! “AHWOOO!”
The Death Eaters cast deadly curses at the surging wave, but the green bolts bounce off the bronze shields with sounds of enormous gongs. The motley defenders of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry take new heart, and join the attack with their newfound allies. The Spartans at the front skewer and chop at the Death Eaters, and the mixture of students and adults fire over their heads.
After five minutes of complete carnage and slaughter, the Death Eaters break ranks and flee.
“RUN AWAY! RUN AWAY!” the Dark Lord’s minions cry as they desperately try to escape the kiss of cold iron blades. Not many leave the castle alive.
An uneasy peace returns to Hogwarts Castle, but it is unsightly. Bodies litter the hallways, and there is the inescapable stench of death and blood. Harry Potter looks at his battered comrades and sees pain and suffering, but identical feelings of relief and hope. None of that would have been possible were it not for the mysterious men in crimson capes who came to their rescue, yet the people of Hogwarts know nothing about their saviours.
Harry Potter seeks to remedy that. “Who are you?” he asks the warriors’ king. “Where did you come from?”
The tall man with bulging biceps removes his plumed helmet and cradles it underneath his arm. He has short black hair plastered to his skull with sweat, an impressive beard, and a scar superimposed vertically over his left eye. He fills his lungs with an absurd amount of air, then bellows, “WELL, IT'S QUITE A WILD TALE...”
The Persians sent wave after wave of soldiers at the impenetrable Spartan line. Ruthlessly, methodically, and without mercy, the Spartans cut them down – time and time again.
But when muscle failed, the Persians resorted to their magic. Black-clad Persian magicians approach the Spartans and hurl small clay pots; the ceramic bombs explode with showers of flames and sparks, but the Spartans hold firm.
That was only the beginning. The Persian magicians perform more of their nefarious deeds, and the Spartans are shrouded in a cloud of swirling colours and wind. THEN THERE'S SOME CRAZY SHIТ AND THE SPARTANS ARE PUT IN A TIME WARP!
“Wow. That's awesome!” someone says, and the Hogwarts defenders nod in agreement. The bushy-haired Hermione Granger stands amazed, and mutters, “Of course. The Battle of Thermopylae… why didn’t I see that before?”
“The Battle of Therma-what?” asks Ron, with obvious confusion. Hermione rolls her eyes and replies, “Ther – mah – pa – lee. Honestly, Ron, don’t you listen?”
Harry Potter is just as puzzled. “Well, Hermione, why are they here, of all times and places?”
“Simple,” she replies, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. “They travelled forward in time by that much because the square root of 2,478 years is 49.779, which was King Leonidas’ exact age at the time. They’re in Scotland because–”
“All right, we get it, Hermione,” Ron complains. “We have no idea and only you know. Got it.”
One of the Spartans appeared to have trouble comprehending Hermione’s explanation too, and he started counting his fingers and then his toes. After a moment, an expression of pure shock and anguish appears on his face. He addresses King Leonidas:
“My King, what of the battle? How will we get back to Greece to fight the Persians? If we can’t go back, we’ll be stuck here forever!”
King Leonidas nods in grave acceptance. In his bellowing voice, he shouts in reply, “THEN TONIGHT, WE DINE, IN SCOTLAND!”
And they do. The Order of the Phoenix, members of Dumbledore’s Army, students, teachers, parents, and the Spartan guests enter the Great Hall and take their seats at the long oak tables. Unsurprisingly, the Spartans sit at the Gryffindor table and eagerly await their meal.
A girl with long black hair and a prominent chin takes the seat next to King Leonidas.
“Hi. I’m Vane. Romilda Vane. Has anyone told you how your leather underpants bring out your eyes?” she says, her eyes flicking back and forth to the aforementioned areas, as well as his huge muscular chest and manly beard.
The huge feast materialises out of nowhere, appearing on the surface of the long tables. Romilda Vane instantly takes a bite of kidney pie, and the effect is alarming. She shouts “BBLUUBBAAARRRGGGHHH!” and falls off the seat and onto the floor, where she thrashes for two seconds before falling limp and silent.
She is not the only one to suffer the same fate. Witch, wizard, and Spartan alike scream the absurd scream and end up dead.
“THE FOOD’S CURSED! DON’T TOUCH IT!” yells Harry Potter. Then – “TO THE KITCHENS! CHARGE!”
There is a resounding shout of “AHWOOO!” and the wave of vengeful humanity thunders down the stairs and corridors, with Harry Potter leading the way. He reaches the painting of the silver fruit bowl and vigorously tickles the green pear. The painting swings open and the wizards, witches, and Spartans surge through the opening.
They are greeted by a horrific sight. The kitchens are packed with Death Eaters. Standing by the ovens is the Dark Lord himself, and struggling in his arms is a House Elf wearing the oddest set of clothing ever seen.
“Harry Potter sir! Harry Potter sir! Help save Dobby! Dobby is going to die-WHHAAAAGGGHHH!”
Voldemort had casually tossed Dobby into the open oven. There is an ear-piercing shriek and a huge roar of flames and sparks.
Both sides draw their weapons and prepare to do battle, but there is a deep, bellowing voice that shouts, “NO!”
From the Death Eaters’ ranks emerges an enormously tall and bald man, with gleaming bronze-coloured skin. His is almost naked save for the plethora of gold jewellery and piercings that adorn his body and face.
“XERXES!”
“Yes, King Leonidas,” Emperor Xerxes says in his deep voice. “I am a kind God-King; just think of the glory Sparta will have under Persian benevolence. Just bow down before me and I will proclaim you warlord of all Greece!”
“NEVER! BESIDES, WE’RE STUCK IN SCOTLAND, REMEMBER?”
Emperor Xerxes suddenly looks around him, as if his surrounding had taken him by surprise. He exclaims his same deep voice, “OH BUGGER!”
Lord Voldemort approaches the black-haired youth with the lightening bolt scar on his forehead. “Harry Potter…” he breathes menacingly. “We meet again at last.”
Wand drawn, Harry Potter steps forward and confronts the Dark Lord. “You’re right. Let us finish this once and for all!”
Voldemort smiles. “Of course. We are here to do battle. No more cowering behind better witches and wizards, Potter. You have no House Elves to help you now – COOKOFF!”
He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named snaps his fingers. Immediately, Voldemort’s Death Eaters run to their posts at the worktops and ovens and stoves. Like a furious, ravenous storm, they evilly dice tomatoes, peel potatoes, cleave meat, stir soup, and basically cook with an air of malevolence.
The defenders of Hogwarts start to panic. “What are we going to do? They'll win if we can't cook anything!” some people say. Others anxiously look at the Spartans, hoping for a second deliverance.
“Don’t look at us!” one of the muscular, spear-wielding men says. “Cooking is women’s work!”
“Hey!”
Just then, when all had seemed lost, a rat jumps onto the worktop and starts chopping unions!
“OMG! That rat, is like, totally like, cooking!”
The multitude stares in wonder at the rodent-cooking spectacle. Molly Weasley approaches the rat, which is currently dismembering a goose with an enormous meat cleaver. “Can I help?” she asks. “What are you cooking?”
The rat pulls out a cookbook and points to a page. “Are you sure about that?” Mrs. Weasley inquires worriedly, but the rat simply nods.
After several furious hours, both sides finish cooking. First, the Death Eaters divide their soups and assorted dishes and distribute their savoury creation amongst themselves, the assorted students and adults, and the Spartans.
“Goyle! You’re supposed to take the mask off before you eat!”
Both sides try the meal, and the kitchens are filled with murmurs of delight. The forces of evil (with bits of food stuck in their teeth) grin evilly at their opponents.
“Now, let’s see what Potter’s little rodent managed to scrape together,” laughs Voldemort.
“Ha ha ha ha ha!” the Death Eaters chorus.
But the last laugh is not theirs. The Death Eaters take a bite of the rat’s cooking and instantly, all of them have shocked expressions on their faces. The forces of good smile, their honour upheld.
The Death Eaters’ leaders are not pleased.
“You fiend! How could this food be so good?” Xerxes stutters in astonishment.
To answer, the rat points at a dead horse, a dismembered goose, and a bucket of snails. Lastly he points to his bottom and squeaks:
“Ha ha, ВITCH! I crapped in that food!”
“WHAT?” Emperor Xerxes spits, jettisoning globs of the food in his mouth onto the gleaming floor. “You will PAY for your BARBARISM!”
Xerxes whips out a menacing net, straight from the pits of hell itself. The handle is black and cruel, and the ensnaring web of beaten leather and thorns merciless. Emperor Xerxes swings the net in a great arc over his head, with malicious intent to catch the hapless rat. The plethora of gold chains and jewellery glimmer in the torchlight as he attacks.
Just at that moment, King Leonidas takes a running jump while drawing his sword from its scabbard. Flying through the air, he delivers a great, two-handed overhead stroke, which cleanly cuts off Xerxes’ arm. The net falls to the floor with a clatter and the severed arm with a wet thump.
Pandemonium ensues. The Spartans stab and slash with their spears and swords. The Order of the Phoenix, Dumbledore’s Army, and the assorted students and teachers blast away Death Eaters with curses. The kitchen is soon transformed into an abattoir, filled with a cacophony of clashing iron, screams, and explosions.
After fifteen seconds of furious fighting, all of the Death Eaters are dead, and only Voldemort is left standing, cornered with his back to an open oven.
“This is blasphemy. This is madness!” Voldemort spits, his crimson eyes wide with fear.
The kitchens had gone completely silent. The air is so tense, it can be cut with a knife. Harry Potter stands there, eyes boring into the Dark Lord’s disbelieving face. A slow moment snails by, but then, Harry lowers his wand; Voldemort’s snake-like nostrils widen as he takes a deep breath of relief.
The Dark Lord’s reprieve is not to last. Harry Potter slowly turns his head and looks over his shoulder at Ron, who nods. Harry then faces Voldemort again for the last time.
“Madness...?” he says softly. Then, in a deafening roar that shatters the silence, reverberating off the kitchen walls: “THIS – IS – HOGWAAAARTS!”
Harry lifts his right leg and simply kicks Voldemort squarely in the chest. The Dark Lord falls into the open oven and ignites. His shrieks are terrible… yet oddly satisfying.
“YAY! VOLDIE'S DEAD!”
Few things annoy me more than crossover fics. They lack imagination and combining two perfectly good stories only serves to butcher both of them, creating uninspired hybrid. For instance, on other sites I have seen stories that go something like this: Frodo Baggins and Harry Potter join forces to defeat Voldemort at Mount Doom! Mixing The Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter is somewhat understandable, but I have seen some truly ridiculous combinations, such as Harry Potter crossed with Halo or even Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
So, how do I ridicule the most ignoble crossover genre? That’s simple – I write one of my own!
This story is a most ridiculous crossover of Harry Potter, 300, and Ratatouille. There is very little plot and it is not to be taken seriously.
However, don’t let that deter you from reading this literary insanity. Enjoy!
Tim the Enchanter
Warnings: Some violence, language, and a severe lack of plot!
THIS IS HOGWARTS! – A Stupid Crossover Parody
“OMFG! Death Eaters are in Hogwarts!”
That much is true. The front doors of the castle had been torn clean off their hinges by the curses from the masked figures in their long black cloaks. Like an overpowering flood, the Death Eaters swarm into Hogwarts castle, leaving destruction everywhere in their wake.
“HA HA HA! We are Death Eaters, and we're going to take over Hogwarts!” one of the cruel cloaked figures shouts, but the bone-white masks make it impossible to distinguish who.
Students rush to the defence of their school, desperately trying to stem the oncoming rush of Death Eaters. Among the motley collection of students, teachers, and Order of the Phoenix members is the Chosen One himself: a tall, lanky lad with unruly raven-black hair, glasses, and a lightening bolt scar on his forehead.
“Leave them to me!” Harry Potter shouts at his comrades through the chaos. “Go! I won’t let any of you die fighting for me!”
Not one of the students or adults pays any attention; one of whom is a tall, red-headed boy with more freckles than normal humans are supposed to have. The boy named Ron Weasley shouts back at his best friend:
“Harry, you self-righteous prat! We’re fighting with you whether you like it or not!”
The forces of good and right fight a heroic defence, but the tide of black cloaks is overpowering. Jets of menacing green bolts fly from the Death Eater’s wands, and slowly the defenders are picked off. The fallen drop to the marbled halls like marionettes with their strings cut. The fates are clearly busy tonight.
The combatants make their way to the entrance hall leading to the Great Hall. Normally at this time, the students would be eating their dinner. Now however, many of them are biting the dust, never to rise again.
The battle is intense and furious. Spells of green and red fly in all direction, obliterating all that they touch. Walls are exploding – doors are exploding – ceilings are exploding – people are exploding, but just then, there is a deafening crash as the doors to the Great Hall are ripped open. Then, an enormously loud voice fills the Castle, unsettling the dust of centuries on the stone–
“SPAAARTAAANS!”
Harry Potter spins around and his mouth gapes open in wonder. A thunderous chorus of voices follows–
“AHWOOO! AHWOOO! AHWOOO!”
Enshrined in the shattered doorway is wall of bulging muscles and cold iron and bronze. The battle grinds to a sudden halt as both sides stare transfixed at the men in crimson capes, who are wearing battle helmets and nothing more than leather underpants.
One of the “Spartans” points at the masked Death Eaters with his spear and breaks the silence: “My King! Look! Immortals!”
The man with the black-crested helmet – who is presumably the king – replies with a shout:
“IMMORTALS? WE’LL PUT THEIR NAME TO THE TEST! ATTACK!”
Even behind their masks, everyone can tell that the Death Eaters are shocked and surprised at their impending doom. “WTF!” some of them exclaim.
In perfect unison, the warriors of absurd masculinity heave their large round shields unnecessarily over their shoulders and bring them to their fronts, presenting a solid wall of curved bronze shields with long spears forming a hedgehog of points. With resonating yells of “AHWOOO!” the phalanx of flesh and metal surges straight at the Death Eater’s ranks.
STAB! “AHWOOO!” HACK! “AHWOOO!”
The Death Eaters cast deadly curses at the surging wave, but the green bolts bounce off the bronze shields with sounds of enormous gongs. The motley defenders of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry take new heart, and join the attack with their newfound allies. The Spartans at the front skewer and chop at the Death Eaters, and the mixture of students and adults fire over their heads.
After five minutes of complete carnage and slaughter, the Death Eaters break ranks and flee.
“RUN AWAY! RUN AWAY!” the Dark Lord’s minions cry as they desperately try to escape the kiss of cold iron blades. Not many leave the castle alive.
An uneasy peace returns to Hogwarts Castle, but it is unsightly. Bodies litter the hallways, and there is the inescapable stench of death and blood. Harry Potter looks at his battered comrades and sees pain and suffering, but identical feelings of relief and hope. None of that would have been possible were it not for the mysterious men in crimson capes who came to their rescue, yet the people of Hogwarts know nothing about their saviours.
Harry Potter seeks to remedy that. “Who are you?” he asks the warriors’ king. “Where did you come from?”
The tall man with bulging biceps removes his plumed helmet and cradles it underneath his arm. He has short black hair plastered to his skull with sweat, an impressive beard, and a scar superimposed vertically over his left eye. He fills his lungs with an absurd amount of air, then bellows, “WELL, IT'S QUITE A WILD TALE...”
2,478 YEARS EARLIER…
The Persians sent wave after wave of soldiers at the impenetrable Spartan line. Ruthlessly, methodically, and without mercy, the Spartans cut them down – time and time again.
But when muscle failed, the Persians resorted to their magic. Black-clad Persian magicians approach the Spartans and hurl small clay pots; the ceramic bombs explode with showers of flames and sparks, but the Spartans hold firm.
That was only the beginning. The Persian magicians perform more of their nefarious deeds, and the Spartans are shrouded in a cloud of swirling colours and wind. THEN THERE'S SOME CRAZY SHIТ AND THE SPARTANS ARE PUT IN A TIME WARP!
2,478 YEARS LATER…
“Wow. That's awesome!” someone says, and the Hogwarts defenders nod in agreement. The bushy-haired Hermione Granger stands amazed, and mutters, “Of course. The Battle of Thermopylae… why didn’t I see that before?”
“The Battle of Therma-what?” asks Ron, with obvious confusion. Hermione rolls her eyes and replies, “Ther – mah – pa – lee. Honestly, Ron, don’t you listen?”
Harry Potter is just as puzzled. “Well, Hermione, why are they here, of all times and places?”
“Simple,” she replies, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. “They travelled forward in time by that much because the square root of 2,478 years is 49.779, which was King Leonidas’ exact age at the time. They’re in Scotland because–”
“All right, we get it, Hermione,” Ron complains. “We have no idea and only you know. Got it.”
One of the Spartans appeared to have trouble comprehending Hermione’s explanation too, and he started counting his fingers and then his toes. After a moment, an expression of pure shock and anguish appears on his face. He addresses King Leonidas:
“My King, what of the battle? How will we get back to Greece to fight the Persians? If we can’t go back, we’ll be stuck here forever!”
King Leonidas nods in grave acceptance. In his bellowing voice, he shouts in reply, “THEN TONIGHT, WE DINE, IN SCOTLAND!”
And they do. The Order of the Phoenix, members of Dumbledore’s Army, students, teachers, parents, and the Spartan guests enter the Great Hall and take their seats at the long oak tables. Unsurprisingly, the Spartans sit at the Gryffindor table and eagerly await their meal.
A girl with long black hair and a prominent chin takes the seat next to King Leonidas.
“Hi. I’m Vane. Romilda Vane. Has anyone told you how your leather underpants bring out your eyes?” she says, her eyes flicking back and forth to the aforementioned areas, as well as his huge muscular chest and manly beard.
The huge feast materialises out of nowhere, appearing on the surface of the long tables. Romilda Vane instantly takes a bite of kidney pie, and the effect is alarming. She shouts “BBLUUBBAAARRRGGGHHH!” and falls off the seat and onto the floor, where she thrashes for two seconds before falling limp and silent.
She is not the only one to suffer the same fate. Witch, wizard, and Spartan alike scream the absurd scream and end up dead.
“THE FOOD’S CURSED! DON’T TOUCH IT!” yells Harry Potter. Then – “TO THE KITCHENS! CHARGE!”
There is a resounding shout of “AHWOOO!” and the wave of vengeful humanity thunders down the stairs and corridors, with Harry Potter leading the way. He reaches the painting of the silver fruit bowl and vigorously tickles the green pear. The painting swings open and the wizards, witches, and Spartans surge through the opening.
They are greeted by a horrific sight. The kitchens are packed with Death Eaters. Standing by the ovens is the Dark Lord himself, and struggling in his arms is a House Elf wearing the oddest set of clothing ever seen.
“Harry Potter sir! Harry Potter sir! Help save Dobby! Dobby is going to die-WHHAAAAGGGHHH!”
Voldemort had casually tossed Dobby into the open oven. There is an ear-piercing shriek and a huge roar of flames and sparks.
Both sides draw their weapons and prepare to do battle, but there is a deep, bellowing voice that shouts, “NO!”
From the Death Eaters’ ranks emerges an enormously tall and bald man, with gleaming bronze-coloured skin. His is almost naked save for the plethora of gold jewellery and piercings that adorn his body and face.
“XERXES!”
“Yes, King Leonidas,” Emperor Xerxes says in his deep voice. “I am a kind God-King; just think of the glory Sparta will have under Persian benevolence. Just bow down before me and I will proclaim you warlord of all Greece!”
“NEVER! BESIDES, WE’RE STUCK IN SCOTLAND, REMEMBER?”
Emperor Xerxes suddenly looks around him, as if his surrounding had taken him by surprise. He exclaims his same deep voice, “OH BUGGER!”
Lord Voldemort approaches the black-haired youth with the lightening bolt scar on his forehead. “Harry Potter…” he breathes menacingly. “We meet again at last.”
Wand drawn, Harry Potter steps forward and confronts the Dark Lord. “You’re right. Let us finish this once and for all!”
Voldemort smiles. “Of course. We are here to do battle. No more cowering behind better witches and wizards, Potter. You have no House Elves to help you now – COOKOFF!”
He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named snaps his fingers. Immediately, Voldemort’s Death Eaters run to their posts at the worktops and ovens and stoves. Like a furious, ravenous storm, they evilly dice tomatoes, peel potatoes, cleave meat, stir soup, and basically cook with an air of malevolence.
The defenders of Hogwarts start to panic. “What are we going to do? They'll win if we can't cook anything!” some people say. Others anxiously look at the Spartans, hoping for a second deliverance.
“Don’t look at us!” one of the muscular, spear-wielding men says. “Cooking is women’s work!”
“Hey!”
Just then, when all had seemed lost, a rat jumps onto the worktop and starts chopping unions!
“OMG! That rat, is like, totally like, cooking!”
The multitude stares in wonder at the rodent-cooking spectacle. Molly Weasley approaches the rat, which is currently dismembering a goose with an enormous meat cleaver. “Can I help?” she asks. “What are you cooking?”
The rat pulls out a cookbook and points to a page. “Are you sure about that?” Mrs. Weasley inquires worriedly, but the rat simply nods.
After several furious hours, both sides finish cooking. First, the Death Eaters divide their soups and assorted dishes and distribute their savoury creation amongst themselves, the assorted students and adults, and the Spartans.
“Goyle! You’re supposed to take the mask off before you eat!”
Both sides try the meal, and the kitchens are filled with murmurs of delight. The forces of evil (with bits of food stuck in their teeth) grin evilly at their opponents.
“Now, let’s see what Potter’s little rodent managed to scrape together,” laughs Voldemort.
“Ha ha ha ha ha!” the Death Eaters chorus.
But the last laugh is not theirs. The Death Eaters take a bite of the rat’s cooking and instantly, all of them have shocked expressions on their faces. The forces of good smile, their honour upheld.
The Death Eaters’ leaders are not pleased.
“You fiend! How could this food be so good?” Xerxes stutters in astonishment.
To answer, the rat points at a dead horse, a dismembered goose, and a bucket of snails. Lastly he points to his bottom and squeaks:
“Ha ha, ВITCH! I crapped in that food!”
“WHAT?” Emperor Xerxes spits, jettisoning globs of the food in his mouth onto the gleaming floor. “You will PAY for your BARBARISM!”
Xerxes whips out a menacing net, straight from the pits of hell itself. The handle is black and cruel, and the ensnaring web of beaten leather and thorns merciless. Emperor Xerxes swings the net in a great arc over his head, with malicious intent to catch the hapless rat. The plethora of gold chains and jewellery glimmer in the torchlight as he attacks.
Just at that moment, King Leonidas takes a running jump while drawing his sword from its scabbard. Flying through the air, he delivers a great, two-handed overhead stroke, which cleanly cuts off Xerxes’ arm. The net falls to the floor with a clatter and the severed arm with a wet thump.
Pandemonium ensues. The Spartans stab and slash with their spears and swords. The Order of the Phoenix, Dumbledore’s Army, and the assorted students and teachers blast away Death Eaters with curses. The kitchen is soon transformed into an abattoir, filled with a cacophony of clashing iron, screams, and explosions.
After fifteen seconds of furious fighting, all of the Death Eaters are dead, and only Voldemort is left standing, cornered with his back to an open oven.
“This is blasphemy. This is madness!” Voldemort spits, his crimson eyes wide with fear.
The kitchens had gone completely silent. The air is so tense, it can be cut with a knife. Harry Potter stands there, eyes boring into the Dark Lord’s disbelieving face. A slow moment snails by, but then, Harry lowers his wand; Voldemort’s snake-like nostrils widen as he takes a deep breath of relief.
The Dark Lord’s reprieve is not to last. Harry Potter slowly turns his head and looks over his shoulder at Ron, who nods. Harry then faces Voldemort again for the last time.
“Madness...?” he says softly. Then, in a deafening roar that shatters the silence, reverberating off the kitchen walls: “THIS – IS – HOGWAAAARTS!”
Harry lifts his right leg and simply kicks Voldemort squarely in the chest. The Dark Lord falls into the open oven and ignites. His shrieks are terrible… yet oddly satisfying.
“YAY! VOLDIE'S DEAD!”
THE END
