fan fiction

i was always kind of aware that this kind of writing must exist somewere in the world...we think up new and, in our opinion, better endings and outcomes to tv episodes and books all the time. i was shocked, however, to find so much fic on harry potter! it's interesting that the books that are the most profitable are also the most parodied--it's like we want to insert our mark on harry, too. i read fic that followed more or less along the lines of what i enjoy reading/watching for pleasure. i started out by wandering the vast jungle that is the harry potter fic, and ended up finding a slash fic that i really enjoyed. "how the king doth fall" is the story of harry after hogwarts, living in london as an auror, with his lover, malfoy. malfoy's dad just died and harry and malfoy walk each other through this hard time. the next one that i read was called "consequences," regarding harry being accused of ron and hermione's deaths. this one was very long--23 pages. i was surprised by the length and by the creative force of this fan fiction piece--someone obviously makes a great effort to bring her voice to the crowd of harry potter fan fiction. this piece helped me understand a thought in one of the earlier articles that i read on fan fiction, which indicated that readers of fan fiction get as absorbed in it as they do in j.k. rowling's stories that it brings them to tears and they beg for the story to be finished. then, i moved on to some tv shows that i watch. i was drawn to a sex and the city ff, but, after reading it, it left something to be desired. some fan fictions are entirely engrossing, like "consequences," and some are riddled with spelling mistakes and bad grammer.

all in all, it's just so much fun to read all of this fic. it's like trashy tv for book lovers.

below is my addition to the world of harry potter ff:

Harry wasn't sure if he was going back to Hogwarts on the first of September.

He spent the whole gloomy summer in his room on Privet Drive. It was gloomy, of course, because the Dementors were breeding now that Voldemort was again gaining support and followers. Harry chose not to share this information with Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia—they wouldn't understand and besides, Harry didn't want to talk to anyone.

Harry lay in his bed looking up at the ceiling and tried not to blink. This was an exercise that he had come to perfect after weeks and weeks of practice. It helped erase his mind. Harry had too much to think about and preferred to not think at all right now.

The mist dragged across his window and matched Harry perfectly: gray, depressed, and watery. Harry could hold back no longer—he blinked. Behind his eyelids flashed that warm smile of Professor Dumbledore, his crooked nose, his twinkling eyes. Harry could still hardly believe that he was gone.

Nobody could understand how much Dumbledore had meant to Harry. Everyone mourned Dumbledore, but Harry had lost a father figure, a teacher, a friend, a guardian, and…more.

Scattered around Harry's room were birthday cards, old faded copies of The Daily Prophet, pieces of food, owl droppings from Hedwig's cage, old bits of birthday cake his friends had sent him, dirty clothes, and letters. Letters were scattered all over Harry's room—heaped up in little hills in the corners, stacked up on his dresser and bedside table, and thrown off in random directions from his bed. They were from all sorts of people. Reporters wanted to know exactly what happened the night that Dumbledore died--Rita Skeeter actually dared to ask for an interview. The Order of the Phoenix wrote letters daily to try and cheer Harry up, as they were too busy to come by and check up on him. Ron and Hermione wrote almost daily. They were both staying at 12 Grimauld Place, helping out with the less dangerous activities. The house was still full of strange Dark creatures, so mostly, they were firing off spray bottles full of magical potions to kill doxies rather than firing off their wands. They would tell Harry about conversations they just happened to overhear, though, and they'd keep him up to date on the various people who would drop by.

None of it interested Harry anymore. Thoughts of Ron and Hermione just made him think of Ginny. And Harry would have liked it if Ginny never crossed his mind again. He would get sick with anger whenever he'd think of Ginny and that one night.

He tried not to blink, but the images just came rushing past the back of his eyeballs.

He couldn't help it. The swirling images overwhelmed him, made him dizzy, made him faint. He couldn't help thinking of that night, right after Dumbledore's funeral, and how he was wandering around the castle, at a loss for what to do, under his Invisibility Cloak. He heard the echo of swift moving feet in the other direction. Naturally, Harry's instinct told him to follow the soft sounds of running and see what the trouble was. He adjusted his cloak around him and headed off in the same direction that the sound came from. The sound slipped behind a tapestry concealing a hidden staircase that Harry knew would lead to the Slytherin dormitories. Harry hesitated for a moment. Who could be running at this hour into the dungeon? And why? What could be so important? Just as Harry's thoughts were reaching their boiling point, he heard a giggle.

He thought he recognized that giggle. And it seemed as thought he hadn't heard it too long ago.

He followed. Whoever was running was certainly in a hurry. Harry had to be very careful in his pursuit—running quietly and trying not to knock into suits of armor was a hard task. He knew that he would have to catch up to this runner quickly. Harry took a shortcut that he remembered being on the Marauder's Map. He emerged from the other side of the hidden tunnel just in time to see a shadowy figure rounding the corner. But, it was too big to be one person. And the figure was too wide—it was two people standing very close. They moved more slowly now, stopping after a few paces. What was going on?

The hallways in the dungeons were too narrow for Harry to stand there waiting for the people to get nearer to him, so he slipped into an open classroom. They stopped right outside of the door, but Harry dared not move. When they finally got to the door of the dormitories, Harry gathered his courage. Very slowly, he stuck his head out the door.

What he saw rent the pieces of his heart, so torn and broken from the events of the day, into bits so small, they might never be able to be placed together again.