Like Family Feud and the Third Reich once did, fan fiction provides an opportunity for lonely and senile individuals to take control of a good thing and ruin it for everybody.
But as the old Mayan expression goes, ‘In 2012, you should do whatever you feel like before the universe explodes’. So in that spirit I decided I would give the detestable genre a shot.
In this excerpt from my latest entry, I provide Harry Potter fans what they’ve long been missing: a detailed account of what happens to Ron during one of the summers between Hogwarts semesters. So please, join me in the celebration of uncreativity that is:
Harry Potter 4 1/2: Ron’s Awesome Summer
Chapter 71 – Camptown Wizards Sing This Spell
Camp Director McPuffin sat still in her office, immersed in silent contemplation as she gazed out the window.
It was tonight.
She simply could not believe it was time already. In just over nine hours, an event would transpire that would shake the wizarding world to its core. The lives of the 75 kids at Camp Magic Mountain would be changed forever.
Tonight, young wizards and witches would have their courage challenged, their hearts tested, and their costumes judged by a panel of 6. Indeed, tonight was the night of the Camp Magic Mountain Midsummer Midnight Dance Jamboree!
The days of Camp Magic Mountain dragged on like dragons; but in the heat of the hot August sun, senior counselor Timothy Spelldervaght didn’t want to waste a second. As the boys camp’s leading jeerer, Timothy followed the rule of the 3 E’s: Enter, Emasculate, Exit.
His next victim would be in Magic Cabin 6 3/4, founded by the esteemed wizard camper Rupert Sixand Three-Quarters. It was the same cabin Timothy himself had spent countless days as a camper, all those years ago. Oh, where had the time gone?
Before entering, Timothy cast a de-sweatifying spell, then put on some deodorant too. Just in case.
Focused and determined to fulfill the great purpose that God had placed him on this Earth for, he reached for the door.
The campers inside Magic Cabin 6 3/4 gasped as the cabin door flew open and a voice called from outside:
“WHERE IS WEASEL-BREATH YOU LITTLE WANKERS?!?”
Behind bunk 3- a frozen Ron Weasley. Why did the counselors always have to pick on him? Well he wouldn’t hide this time. Armed with determination and a little bit of magic, he rose and faced his accuser.
“What do you want, Timothy? I’m really not in the mood right now.” Perhaps that would stave off future jeers.
“Weasel-butt! And what does a little weasel like you have to worry about anyway?”
“Oh I don’t know, how about a little thing called finding a date to the Clambake Dance Jamboree?! Duh!” As upset as he was, it did feel nice to capitalize on the opportunity to do some jeering of his own.
“Ah, so it’s witch trouble, you’ve got? Well here’s some advice for where you can find a date…”
Ron braced himself for the worst.
“The zoo…at the weasel exhibit!”
As his face weaved a rich tapestry of varying shades of red, Ron tried to play it cool. But Timothy knew his three E’s by heart, and before Ron could retort he was in with his famous sign-off:
It was 10:30 pm, and Ron Weasley still had no date. It was basically the worst thing ever. Frantically pacing around his bunk, he brooded over the last-minute options he had feared ever considering.
Could he somehow reach Hermione and see if she would do him the favor? No, impossible. She was at Magic Space Camp, and was probably in Magic Space at this very moment. His owl would never make it out there, and even if she somehow did she would burn up upon reentry.
Could he reach Harry and convince him to come? He could try to play it off as a joke. ‘Haha, get it? Isn’t this totally gay?’ No, no one except Timothy would find it funny. And Timothy would probably just call him a weasel anyway.
He was doomed, and he knew it. This was going to be the worst night of his life! He hadn’t even spoken to a witch since Chapter 42. Remember? That was when he, Jimbo, and surprise guest The Ghost of Timothy Leary cast that pillow-fighting spell in their bunks.
10:55. Still no date. Ron’s life was over.
Or was it? Because then, suddenly, Ron’s magic conch shell necklace vibrated. Harry was trying to reach him!
Frantically, he unbuckled the necklace and placed it up to his mouth, then ear.
“Harry, it’s Ron here!”
A mysterious fuzzy tone emanated from the shell. Ron placed it back to his lips.
“Hang on, I can’t hear you. Let me try your cell.”
Ron pulled out his Nokia cell phone and dialed Harry’s number.
“Harry, you there?”
“Ron! I’m so glad I’ve reached you. I’m in a lot of trouble!”
“Oh, me too Harry!”
“I’ve received word that Voldemort is planning to inhabit the Prime Minister’s body and launch a nuclear missile into the heart of London!”
“How awful! Meanwhile, over here I’ve got an hour or so until the biggest dance of the summer and I don’t have a date!”
Silence on Harry’s end.
“…umm, you wouldn’t want to go with me, as a joke, would you?”
“Honestly that sounds kind of gay Ron.”
The Jamboree was in full swing in the mess hall. Long, magic tables held plates and cutlery despite not being washed in decades. And magic lanterns gave off green and purple smoke that curled through the rafters, escaped into the night air, and destroyed a significant portion of the ozone layer.
11:58. A tap on the shoulder.
Ron spun around. Behind him was the last person Ron wanted to see right now.
Yes, it was Timothy Spelldervaght. And by his side was the most beautiful witch Ron had ever seen.
“Who…who are you?” Ron inquired gingerly.
“I am Melinda Spittle, Timothy’s wife.”
No. It couldn’t be. How could such a gorgeous woman be married to Timothy?!
“I…I can’t believe it”. Ron felt ready to faint.
“She’s telling the truth Ron. We met last year at the weasel exhibit of the Magic Zoo. I tried telling you earlier it’s an awesome place to pick up witches. A weasel like you should know that.”
The dance commenced as Ron made his way to the bowl of fruit salad. Grimly, he plucked out a piece of cantaloupe.
“I carry the sorrow of the world’s lonely wizards on my shoulders. With no hope of finding love or even a friend that respects me, I walk the world as a prophet of pity.”
And in that moment, he remembered the words of the oracle that had spoken to him in the prologue. Cantaloupe in hand and sadness in heart, he knew it was finally time for him to fulfill his destiny.
Clenching the fruit with all his might, he bellowed the exact words the prophesy had foretold he would: