Help write the Harry Potter book with a difference: for non-readers only

Professor Dumbingdown stepped in something unpleasant and ferretish near the potting shed, but merely scrapped the bottom of his shoe and hurried on. He was headed for Franke’s Cafeteria, and he didn’t want to miss the Seinor Citizen Lunch Special.

How so? Because I participated? You’re right. I shouldn’t have. It’s always a bad idea to defend people who are being mocked. You might come to find out that they don’t mind a bit.

My apologies.

He settled down to his regular meal, a brimming bowl of his favorite cereal.

"Ah, green clovers, yellow moons, blue diamonds … " He smacked his lips. "No other cereal in this or any other dimension can hold a candle to you. It took years of study in the black arts – Death a thousand times over! Horrors the likes of which mortals could never comprehend! I sold my soul countless times as my loved ones watched, unable to stop me, unable to reach me, unable to save me. And I left behind a part of my humanity that fateful day … when I finally faced him.

When I faced Lucky… "

The professor shuddered. He wiped a single tear from his eye. “But it was worth it,” he whispered. “Whatever hell I crossed, whatever trials I met, whatever green felt demons in buckled shoes I slew, It was worth it. For these truly are magically delicious.”

A small figure cald in dark green lowered his newspaper to eye the Wizard with milk drippling down his unevenly shaven chin.
He slipped his sunglasses down his nose and made eye contact with another small, green figure, who tipped his green hat in response and whispered into a tiny green cell phone.
“The fat man is here!” he hissed.

Miss Snarky (for, Dear Reader, I have regrettably forgotten the name of the woman who can change into a cat) slit open the pale green envelope.
“Good gad!” she exclaimed. “He’s kidnapped Professor Stumbledown!”
“Dumbingdown” corrected Snapes casually. “Who, you-know-who?”
“No, no, “responded Snarky. “Whats-His-Name. And he wants Harry in exchange!”
“Well, let’s give him the little bastard then.” Snapes replied thoughtfully.
“Yes,” agreed Snarky, “let’s. He’s not good for anything except playing that stupid game. And I’ve come up with a lovely spell for washing your hair.”
Ignoring her implied remark about his personal grooming, Snapes inquired, “What are the instructions for the exchange?”
“We are too ‘stuff him headfirst into a Hefty trash bag…’ Is that something American? And ‘put the bag in locker 666 in Grand Central Station.’”
Snapes rolled his eyes. “Bloody Lepru…Whats-His-Name can’t even get the continent right.”
“I suppose we could magically travel through the sewers or something.” Remarked Snarky brightly.
“There aren’t any sewers crossing the Atlantic Ocean.” Remarked Snapes, and, thoughtfully, “How well do you suppose he can swim?”

Her-money shook with fear as she listened from behind a suit of Armour. Ron must deal with the Doxies on his own. She must save Harry!

It was Harry’s worst nightmare, his worst recurring nightmare, a nightmare that recurred so frequently that it seemed it would never end. He was trapped in a series that would never end, and he still had the same glasses.

“Why the f*** can’t that J.K. Rolling give me contact lenses, especially those tinted ones that would make me look less of an oik?”

Scrape peered down his aquiline nose at his one-time protege (cursing that the magic that had once allowed him to produce acute accents at will had deserted him).

“It’s Rowling, with a “W”, my boy,” he growled.

“Not any more it isn’t, matey,” Harry hissed back. “It’s J.K. Rolling, init?”

“No,” intoned Scrape, “it is not. And while we’re at it, it isn’t ‘innit’, it’s ‘isn’t it’. That is the proper tag form. Did you learn nothing from Doctor Coldrain?”

“Gotcha, Scrape,” Harry’s voice quivered with excitement and anticipation in equal measure. “After six books she’s Rolling In It, ain’t she?”

“Wanker,” hissed Snope, gathering his vestments around him and thus unwittingly revealing to Harry his penchant for wearing his socks in the modern soccer style over his knees a la Cristiano Ronaldo.

“Woof,” retorted Harry, picking up his iPod from the re-charging unit.

It was Voldermort again, thought Harry, as he looked over the dark spires of Muggleton, illuminated by the cold moonlight. As he perched on the edge of Potter Tower, Harry could still make out the faint glow of the unextinguished fires coming from the smouldering remains of the mass transit system that his father had built for Muggleton before his murder. By the agents of Voldermort. And Harry’s mind raced back to the bats that swirled in the streetlights as he had fled for his life and his father’s last words, holding his dying mother’s head in his lap: “Run, Harry!”

Harry needed to get back to the Cave under Potter Manor. Alfred would be able to help him cook up a potion to lure out Voldermort and his henchman. He took his broom in his hand and set off among the bats looking for their evening meal. His flapping robes would help him blend right in with them.

If the Muggles couldn’t police their own city, Harry would have to do it for them. Harry and Voldermort had a score to settle tonight.

“Wait just a bloody moment! Where d’you think you’re going, then?” thundered Uncle Vermilion indignantly, his bloated features turning purple with rage. “Haven’t we been through this before, you miserable little weed? I don’t care what sort of unearthly powers you have, or how many supernatural guardians are watching you from afar, or how often your freakish abilities run out of control to maim and deform other members of the family! You’ll stay right here in this house where I can continue to heap cartoonishly spiteful abuse on you until I’m stricken down by some form of dreadfully humiliating sorcerous retribution!” Uncle Vermilion chortled malevolently at the sheer unlikelihood of such a possibility, accidentally burping up a rasher of bacon in his mirth.

Harry trembled with barely concealed rage. “Things have gotten much darker and more fraught with dire omen over the last few years, Uncle.” he hissed at last. “I’d choose my words more carefully if I were you.”

“Hah! Threaten me, will you?” Uncle Vermilion bellowed, scalp veins pulsing menacingly. “We’ll just see about that! You’re not the only one who can learn new tricks, boy! I’ve been reading about your kind in the American news!” All at once, he drew out a steaming cup of Creamy Turkish Maple Old Fashioned Irish Loco Kahlua Maraschino Cinnamon Espresso Vienna Royale Frappuccino, downed it with one almighty gulp, and immediately transformed into a giant Squid!

Back at the cave, Alfred pondered long and hard the sudden appearance of a large crustacean with a paper cup emblazoned with “Hardbucks” in angry purple lettering attached to one of its suckers on one of its tentacles.

“That kind of creature belongs in the depths of the sea if I knows me National Geographic channel,” muttured Alfred under his breath, careful lest he be overheard by one of Lord Vulvacord’s omnipresent spies.

“Little does this senile idiot understand about the workings of green magic,” the squid muttered in response, waving his arms in a display of aggression, while being careful not to spill any of his beverage.