The Satanic Harry Potter

The Satanic Harry Potter

“…Add four cups of hunkypunk teeth, a tea spoon of ground kitten noses, and a piece of octopus colon. Mix till a boil, add a pinch of baby seal fat, thorn bristles for spice – and there. Killing Potion number 236. Three times more effective than Borgana’s Instant Homicide Juice, an estimated five point nine times less effective than Adver Kadaver – take notes. Can anyone tell me the effects foregoing the death of the Muggle in question? And NO, not you, Miss Granger…”

Hermione dropped her brow in disappointment.

Draco Malfoy didn’t bother raising his hand. He smiled, standing up and clearing his throat, “The Muggle is stunned, the whites of his eyes yellow, he salivates, sputters, and drops to the floor, arms-spread eagle-style – Mother and I used it over summer holiday in the alps!”

Harry clenched his black-leather gloved hands, gritting his teeth as Malfoy stuck his nose up proudly. It wasn’t fair that his parents were experts at slaughter jinxes…

“Very good, Mr. Malfoy.” Professor Snape sat down at his desk in the front of the dungeon. “Ten points from Gryffindor.”

Half the class – the Gryffindor half – groaned, and Ron swore aloud.

“Make that twenty points, then, and a word after class, Mr. Weasley,” Snape said fluidly, scants of contempt woven in at the tips of his words. The bell rang. “We’ll be doing Martíno Moréno’s Shrinking Potion, Thursday – bring plenty of clipped rabbit ears. Class dismissed.”

Titanium bottomed boots dragging on the ground, Harry Potter shuffled out of Potions. He held back from the rest of the crowd in the corridor, waiting miserably outside the classroom. He halfheartedly hoped that Ron’s lecture would take less than five minutes…

It was lunch, and Harry was starving. A goblet of lamb’s blood, a slug cruller, a piece of poison apple pie, and – yum! – Norwegian Ridgeback liver… Harry had been preoccupied with food all morning, spending the better part of Transfiguration with the head of a toad, too distracted to hear McGonagall yell, “Duck!”

That morning, the entire Quidditch team had to skip breakfast. On Wood’s orders, they held a meeting to discuss George Weasley’s current condition and whether they could have practice that evening, or not. George had been wandering around headless for a week, now, after he and Fred had tried to add a bit of “zest” to their latest trick-concoction. The school staff, though confident the appendage would turn up, was getting a bit impatient with George for bumping into suits of armor in the hall and not being able to take adequate notes in class. He was useless on a broom, of course – a headless Beater whacking at everything that moved, Chaser or otherwise.

Lee Jordan had noted that the silent, headless George was constantly pointing somewhere toward the Forbidden Forest. He and Fred supposed the twin was either signaling toward the location of his lost head or the stash of Emergency Fireworks they had hid there. Either way, all three thought it was a capital idea to take a look after class that day.

“Harry!” Hermione interrupted his train of thought. She was carrying a wicker basket in her arms, her steel-toed boots clicking away furiously as she walked down the hall. “First of all, is Ron out yet?”

“No,” Harry shook his head. “You don’t think Snape will use the Bleeding-Ear Curse again, do you?”

“I hope not – it takes a lot less time to get rid of the Frostbite Finger Jinx,” Hermione rubbed her chin with her satin-gloved fingers. “Though I heard the school just got in another shipment of elf brains, so – oh! Harry, I wanted to ask you if you were attending the Occult Ceremony, tonight.”

“Top of the Astronomy Tower at ten pm? Sure. I’ll bring my own pitchfork, I guess… Do we have to wear the black tunics or our regular dress-robes?”

“Tunics, and don’t forget the sacrificial-rights scrolls.”

That reminded him… “Did the Virgin Sacrifice thing go through, by the way?”

Hermione groaned. “Don’t remind me – Professor McGonagall had already said that being a zombie could inconvenience me in a future career, but I only decided to pull-out when--” she shuddered and grimaced, “--when Trelawny said she had predicted I’d want to be sacrificed – said the entire thing was in a vision of hers, the nerve! The old badger probably just saw my name on the ballot in the teacher’s lounge…”

“What’s with the basket?” Harry inquired, deciding to change the subject. Hermione had already gotten upset enough to set Trelawny’s robes on fire once that week.

“This? I wanted to be part of the Devil’s Day Festival in some way, so I joined the planning committee,” she opened the basket to reveal a mountain of red, plastic horns, a pair each mounted on what looked like black halos. “Here, take one – it’s three points from any of the opposing houses for every student they see wearing these.”

“They’re, um, a bit tacky…” Harry took one, and examined it. “They’re Muggle-made, aren’t they?”

Hermione nodded. “Budget problems – these are all left over from the class village-plundering last month. The Weasley twins got them from a Muggle costume shop, and were kind enough to donate them.”

“Those gits – they said they were going to give me one!” Ron was standing beside them, his all-black robes as silent and stiff as starch from ages of use by his brothers. His uniform black gloves, spiked boots, and red star pendant held similar wear and tear. Harry noticed that something was seeping out of Ron’s ears--

“Not the Gray Matter Leak!” Harry contorted his face in disgust. “You won’t be able to hear yourself chant at the Occult Ceremony if your brain’s dripping out of your ears!”

“Yeah, well, I just hope Neville will loan me his ear plugs – I don’t want to forget what Flitwick was saying in class, today… What’re your names, again?”
“I’m Hermione, and that’s Harry – we’re your best friends,” she said in passing, reaching into her basket once more. “Mind putting these on, Ron? Three points from an opposing house every time a teacher sees you with--”

The pinkinsh-gray ooze started to come faster out of Ron’s ears. His eyes grew wide and glassy and he began to drool.

“Restoria!” Hermione waved her wand. The grayish substance slurped back into Ron’s head, and he blinked. Hermione continued. “Right, where was I? Now, every time a teacher sees you with these, they’ll take a three points off any of the opposing houses.” She placed the plastic horns in his hand. “This pair glows, I think…”

Ron touched his ear with his vinyl-clad fingers. “Ugh, that always feels weird... Holy hellfire! It’s lunch, innit? Common, Harry – I’m about to eat m’own stomach!”

Hermione jumped up, apparently having had a revelation. “That’s it! That’d be a perfect festival event…” She turned to leave. “Sorry that I have to miss lunch – save me a troll-tongue tart, would you, Harry…Ron? Thanks! Praise Satan!” Hermione said her farewell, and was off.

“Praise Satan,” Ron and Harry waved goodbye, and hurried to lunch. As they walked, they turned the conversation to their successes (or lack-there-of) of hell demon-summoning spells.

End.