This has got to be one of the worst things I have ever read, but it was still so funny. Read? You don’t have to if you don’t want to (obvi) but still. If you want to have a good laugh at an unfortunate culture, read on. (Click here for the original FFIC page.)
Everything from here onward is the fanfiction.
Harry Potter, Emoness…good times.
A/N: We’re not going to say we mean no offense. If you’re an emo person, please take offense. You dont’ make sense. We hope this fic will cause you to rexamine your values and worth to society. Assuming you have some. :)
Read and review! Punch and Pie will be served!
“Ron,” complained Harry one day as he struggled to get his too-small sweater over his head. “I wish there was a way I could wear my too-tight sweater with my tight jeans , keep my ebony hair greasy and unwashed while still being thought cool.”
Ron ignored him, but Dean looked up from his reading. He snickered. “Yeah sure, go be emo.”
“Huh?” asked Harry, still struggling. He looked at Dean in confusion. “What the hell do emus have to do with my tight clothing?”
“No, you dork.” Dean sighed and struggled to explain. “It’s a genre of music. Emo. Short for emo-tive or emo-tionally charged or some shit like that. I don’t listen to it.”
“Hm.,” Harry mused. “Tell me more of this Emo.”
“He just said he didn’t know a lot about it,” commented Ron. He sat up on his bed. “Emo is like when guys who have angst get together and like, mourn. For lost love and past girlfriends and stuff.”
“How would you know?” asked Harry. “You’ve never had a girlfriend.”
“Tact, Harry. You should learn it.” Dean laughed as Ron blushed furiously. In an utter twist of irony, Hermione and Harry ended up as a “couple”. Harry was sure theirs was not a forever love, but it was entertaining and it was amusing to watch Ron squirm.
“We should start an Emo band!” declared Harry. “It’s the perfect way for us to vent our anger at the world.”
“But I’m not angry at the world!” exclaimed Ron, as he realized Harry was pulling him into another weird adventure.
“Why not?” asked Dean. “I would be, if I was you.”
“True,” agreed Harry. “You’re the youngest son of an impoverished family. Everything you’ve ever wanted to accomplish, your brothers have done. And they’ve done a better job than you probably could. You don’t have a lot of friends, your best friend is dating your one true love…” He paused. “And your sister’s a slut.”
“Shut the hell up! My sister is not a slut!” shouted Ron, infuriated. He reflected briefly and then recoiled in abject horror. “You’re right!” He slumped. “My life sucks!”
Harry glared at him and gave him a quick slap. “Don’t you talk about your life sucking in front of me. You have your family! You have your health! You don’t have your brain invaded by dark wizards or a prophecy to fulfill! You have your whole life in front of you! You aren’t fated or predestined for warfare and violence!
“I have the most angst,” he continued. “So I shall be the lead vocals and guitar in our band.”
“You can play the guitar? And sing?” exclaimed Neville from the other side of the room. “Neat!”
“Shit,” cursed Harry. He turned to Ron. “Do Emo bands have to have talent?”
Ron laughed. “No.”
“So what do we do?”
“Um, we don’t wash our hair.”
“We have to wear dark-horned glasses,” chimed in Dean.
“Perfect!” exclaimed Harry as he felt his own glasses.
“I’m pretty sure you should cut off your balls. If you want to hit those high, emo-tive notes, that is.” Dean smiled wickedly.
Harry looked down and securely crossed his legs. “I will do no such thing.” He clapped his hands. “No we must name our band!” He mused. “How about, “The Pussycats”?”
“How about you shut the hell up,” snapped Dean. “That’s the stupidest name for an Emo band I’ve ever heard.”
“Name an Emo band for me? So I can understand the science of naming them?” plead Harry. He wrapped a strand of greasy black hair around his fingers.
“Dashboard Confessional, Jimmy Eat World…Suicidal Tendencies…Funeral For A Friend, um The Demise of the Siberian Train tracks of Our Rusty Forgotten Pure
Pristine Enduring Unblemished Love…” rattled off Dean.
Harry smiled and patted Dean on the back. “See? You know more than you think.”
“No!” cried Dean. “Don’t do that! Ever again!”
“What?” asked Ron. “Pat you on the back?”
“No, fools. Smile! We are Emo now. We must hang out and… mourn. No smiling,” he instructed fiercely.
“What are we mourning?” questioned Harry. “Besides our miserable lives?”
“Our tragic youths! Our lost models for God!” Dean stood up indignantly. “Harry, if your father abandoned you as a child and your father was your God figure, what does
that tell you about God?”
“That God abandoned me!” cried Harry, tears already coming to his eyes.
“Neville! Your father is incapacitated and has no fucking clue who you are!”
“God doesn’t love me,” whined Neville.
“Ron! Your dad… he’s just retarded,” confessed Dean. “Sorry.” He shrugged and
continued. “We mourn the children of tomorrow! We mourn for our parent’s generation!
We grieve for the environment! For the cows preparing to be slaughtered! We have
unrequited love! We have—”
“Unnatural amounts of estrogen?” quipped Seamus Finnegan, striding into the room. The Emos shot him fierce, unsmiling looks. “Fine, I’ll get my books and leave.” He grabbed his Potions book. “Stop glaring at me!”
“So um…back to our band name.”
“How about Troubled Youth?” suggested Ron, feeling woeful.
“Too cheery,” disproved Harry.
“Earth’s Dead Winsomeness?” bemoaned Neville, feeling depressed.
“I know.” Harry stood up and announced his name in a droning tone. “The Boy-Who-Lived-To-Wish-He-Hadn’t.”
“…what about us?” demanded Ron.
“…And His Friends Who Are Sad, Too,” finished Harry. “It’s wonderful. I feel like crying already.”
Neville wiped away a lone tear from his pale cheek. “I’m feeling a little weepy myself.”
“Now we have to make ourselves look Emo!” exclaimed Harry sadly. “We are wearing clothing right now that could have been sewn by children in sweatshops in
“Where the hell is Honduras?” whispered Ron.
“I don’t know,” answered Neville quietly. “Isn’t that tragic?”
The next half hour was spent pleasantly as The Boy-Who-Lived-To-Wish-He-Hadn’t and His Friends Who Are Sad Too discovered Emo fashion. Ron at last had a use
for all of his hand-me down clothing. He could pretend they were vintage! Harry
collected 6 years worth of Weasley scarves and knotted them around his neck.
“Harry, it’s spring. Isn’t it a little warm for wool scarves?” asked Neville, who was trying on skullcaps.
Harry scowled at him. “This is my way of rebelling against The Man.”
“Who’s The Man in this scenario?” inquired Ron, aside to Dean. “The Sun?”
“The whole world is The Man, Ron,” he answered. “Everyone. And they’re all against us.”
“I feel so alone!” cried Ron. “The universe, the sun, it’s all so vast! And I’m so insignificant!”
“That’s in, Ron,” supported Harry. “Let it all out. We support you!”
A few moments later, a sharp rap was heard on the door. “Hey,” said Hermione, stepping into the room. She opened her mouth in shock at the surly expressions and copious amounts of wool she saw. “Er…’ello, Harry.”
“Hey Hermione,” he responded, looking dejected and sullen.
“What died?” she asked jokingly as she tried not to be intimidated by the people around her.
“My soul, belief in humankind and trust in God.”
“All in one day? Rough.” She shifted uncomfortably. “So what’s up?”
“Formed an Emo band.” Harry stared at her, fixated. “Can I help you with something?”
“Um, I was actually wondering if you wanted to go have sex.”
Harry looked behind at his friends. “Nah. I’m too sad.”
“Okay,” Hermione said slowly and a little annoyed.. “How about we have sex and then we can cry together?”
“I feel like crying already. ‘Bye, Hermione.” He turned his back and picked up his new guitar. Transfiguration turned out to be good for something. He strummed a couple random strings and then gave a satisfied sigh, as if he had been waiting his whole life to
play an A chord with an F natural in the middle. “Gentlemen,” he began as he saw Ron gaping at him. “I think it’s time we wrote our first song.”
Harry and the band sat in their dorm, staring at the insturments that magically appeared. Harry plucked nervously at the guitar strings. It certainly didn’t help the band he had no musical aptitude or knowledge, but Dean insisted that the talent portion was unnecessary.
Harry frowned and searched for the emo-child with in.
He plucked at the C Chord tentatively before professing in a whiny voice, “I
“Hello Harry,” purred Ginny. “How are you this fine day? I like your hat!”
“Ginny… did you just purr?” Harry questioned. “As in… a feline?”
“Never mind that, Ron tells me that you are writing a song.” She said in excitement. “What have you written so far?”
“Well, listen.” Harry re-struck the C-Chord and crooned, “I Decay!”
Ginny stared for a moment, “You decay? You have been sitting up here for three hours and all you have is a c chord and two words. You decay? That does even make sense, Harry.”
“Well, maybe it doesn’t make sense to you, Ginny but Dean and Ron loved it.” This was a perfect opportunity for Harry to master his inner- emo and overcome the rush of emotions from flooding his countenance.
“Dean and Ron are retarded,” said Ginny, hotly rising from the bed. “Jason Bond!” she screamed as she exited the room.
“He got dumped by Liz,” said Ron tearfully. “It ended.”
“What?” demanded Harry. “God no! My fragile existence, the very fabric of my universe has been ripped!”
“Whose Jason Bond?” whispered Dean.
Ron was aghast at Dean’s ignorance, “Jason Bond is merely a METAPHOR! For something much bigger. Dumbass.”
In his inner angst and turmoil, Harry was able to compose a piece of epic, emotional history. His first song;
Once a prisoner
We were ghosts in a
Translucent web of velvet eternity
That pale at the translucent threads of my knit scarf
Slowly choking me
Thus, leading to my decay
Ginny is menstrual
And a bitch
And a kick ass witch.
That desire and rhythm to bleed
The sacred poison of women
It’s their red hot moist champagne
Linger about the naked belly-button
The TRAINTRACKS WAIT
PMS makes girls wake up
Screams echo within my tiny wool hat
The deep pro
The emotional lyrics were about sadness, love and even anger. They were also composed with Dean’s wonderful magnetic poetry board.
“Wow Harry,” said Neville as he put down his tambourine. “That was so spiritual.”
“God is dead,” spat Harry. “We are alone in a meaningless vast black universe.”
“We have to write that down!” Ron declared, as he set aside his drumsticks.
Dean glanced at the clock, and observed the time. “Dudes? Has anyone noticed we are two hours overdue for Potions?”
“Potions!” gasped the boys like a chorus of gaspers. “How could we have forgotten? We must gotten so involved in our emotions and angst that we lost track of
“Clearly,” Harry concurred. “I’m sure that Snape will understand!”