This week’s Daily Post Writing Challenge is “Stylish Imitation”, so here is the world’s most famous playwright telling the world’s most famous story…
Alarums, fanfares and trumpets. Enter Harry, Hermione and Ron.
Harry: When shall we three meet again?
Hermione: Next term at Hogwarts.
Harry: Oh, true. (they exit home for the holidays)
Enter He Who Must Not Be Named.
Voldemort (oops, sorry): Fast fare thy failure, Potter, with thy stupid scar
I’ll kill thee fore you can say, er “Nascar”.
Ghost of Nearly Headless Nick enters.
Voldemort: Sodeth off, thou twerp. (Nick exits, pursued by his career).
First Day of New Term. Enter Harry, Hermione and Ron.
Hermione: Grave news. (Holds up skull). Dobby is not to be.
Harry: Alas, poor Dobby. I knew him well.
Hermione: Not well.
Harry: I can see that.
Hermione: No, the word “well” ist not in that sentence.
Harry: What, just “I knew him?”
Hermione: Yeth. I mean, yes.
Harry: Well, that’s not very personal. I could just as well be talking about the milkman.
Ron: The Who?
Harry: Exactly, I could just as well hath been talking about the Who. They art ancient enough to be in this.
Roger Daltrey: Oy! I heard that. (he exits, singing “Magic Bus”, since this play hath wizards and stuff).
Voldemort: Prepare the world for lots of sorrow
Tomorrow, and tomorrow and tomorrow.
Harry: My name is Harry Potter, you killed my father, prepare to die.
Ron: Wrong story, methinks.
Harry: Is this a dagger I see before me?
Voldemort: No, it’s a wand, thou brainless berk. (Blasts Harry with a spell)
Hermione: Harry, the killing curse thou useth must, before thou turn to a pile of dust!
Harry: Very well. (points wand) Yippee Kay-ay, Motherf***er!” (Voldemort explodes in a puff of Elizabethan make-up).
Hermione (aside): That wadst not the curse I meant. (aloud) Oh Ronneo, Ronneo, wherefore art thou, Ronneo?”
Ron: I hate it when you call me that.
Harry: Well-met by moonlight, proud Ginny. Where hast thou been?
Ginny: I couldeth not think of anything to say. I studied nottest Shakespeare at school.
Harry: Well, we four have met again. (Weather turns shite). In thunder, lightning and in rain. Ow, and also hailstones.
Hermione: Methinks our weddings could be a double. We could serve a cauldron of hubble-bubble. (Others look at her) It’s a type of stew.
Cheers, throwing of Sorting Hat into the air. Exeunt.
JK Rowling: For never was a story of more joy
Than this of Harry, the who-lived boy.