Chapter 4
The book's first page declared that it was "The Character's Guide to Fanfiction". The title was written in printed letters, not script, and the ink looked remarkably fresh. Harry flipped through several "blank" pages, disturbed to find huge penises carefully shaded in pencil across each page. The phalluses were colored, actually colored in flesh-like tones. There were all sorts: Light-skinned, dark, long, short ,flaccid, erect, circumcised, in the middle of an orgasm… Every possibility of penis-dom was explored within these pages. Harry thought he saw a perfect likeness of Malfoy's member, and Ron's with its red pubic hair, and Hermione's tiny vestigial organ, and even his own enormous package.
By the time Harry had flipped through (and admired) all the pages full of genitalia, the book was down to a single penis-less page. He flipped it over, fingers trembling. He felt a strange mixture of relief and disappointment at seeing actual words on the last page. For whatever reason, he wouldn't have minded seeing another penis instead.
Even though the words were tiny, they practically jumped off the page.
Hello, Harry, the book began.
Who are you? Harry wrote in a conveniently-placed space under the first line. Nothing happened. Then he thought to read the text beneath the space.
I'm not Tom Riddle's diary, you know.
The words didn't just appear like they would have in the aforementioned diary. The text had been there all along, but Harry had somehow managed not to see it. "Weird," he whispered to himself. And then he gasped, throwing a hand over his mouth like a girl, because he had seen the next line.
I know you're thinking this is weird.
It was weird, and things were only getting weirder by the second.
Yes, they certainly are.
Harry tried to make his mind go blank, but he had never been good at Occlumency. He was sure that the book somehow knew what he was thinking, and he desperately wanted to close it and throw it in the Lake or down a toilet or something. But for the sake of Hogwarts itself, he read on.
Enough, said the next line. I'm tired of this game. This book is an interesting plot device, but it needs to serve its purpose.
"And what might that be?" Harry said aloud, rather sarcastically. After a dramatic pause, he looked back at the book and kept reading.
To tell you that you're not real.
"What are you talking about, you stupid pile of dicks?" He must be as mad as Hermione, to be talking to a book out loud in a bathroom.
You are the main character in a work of fiction. Fan-fiction, to be exact. A British Muggle woman invented the first sixteen years of your life, and I have taken custody of the rest.
Harry wondered what kind of sick joke was being played on him. Yeah, right, he thought, not bothering to speak out loud. Did Fred and George put you up to this?
Unsurprisingly, the book read his mind again. The next line of text jumped out at him, actually getting larger and larger until it caught Harry's eye.
You can believe that, if you want. But your lack of faith disturbs me. Sorry readers, couldn't resist making that reference.
This book was becoming totally incomprehensible! Unless he'd gone completely, Hermione-style crazy –which was a possibility, of course – Harry knew he was the only one reading the book. He tried to look at the line under the one he had just read, which was the very last one in the whole book, but it remained impossibly blurry and unreadable.
"Ugh," he growled, and slammed the thing shut. As if to spite him, it flew open again and flipped to the last page all by itself. Harry had just enough time to notice that all the penises were gone. Instead, they had been replaced by spread-open vaginas.
The last page of the book said:
Hello, Harry.
I'm not Tom Riddle's diary, you know.
I know you're thinking this is weird.
Yes, they certainly are.
Enough. I'm tired of this game. This book is an interesting plot device, but it needs to serve its purpose.
To tell you that you're not real.
You are the main character in a work of fiction. Fan-fiction, to be exact. A British Muggle woman invented the first sixteen years of your life, and I have taken custody of the rest.
You can believe that, if you want. But your lack of faith disturbs me. Sorry readers, couldn't resist making that reference.
And finally, on the very last line…
Look behind you.
Harry dropped the book and whirled around, bumping into the back of the toilet and looking like a total idiot. But clumsiness wasn't exactly his primary concern at the moment, because Voldemort was behind him.