AUTHOR'S NOTE:

there was once a challenge on hpff before the forums went down which dared writers to come up with the worst story ever. it had to be written well in terms of tenses/spelling, but the actual plot had to be shit. even though the challenge isn't being continued (as far as i'm aware), this is the disgusting thing that was born of this prompt: a crack!fic lightly taking the piss out of some of the popular tropes of next gen fanfiction. before anyone loses their shit, I HAVE WRITTEN THESE TROPES BEFORE with all of these characters, except matty and liadenaril, in a serious manner (genuinely, it was called 'wit beyond measure & man's greatest treasure' and 'the cliché life' is a nod to it. therefore, this fic is poking fun at myself too really. also, these tropes can be done really well and i've actually read fics that have done so - this is just a crack!fic of when it really isn't. welcome to the dark side.

DISCLAIMER:

ophelia desdemona goneril vicissitude's name was created when i typed in 'tragic heroines in shakespeare's plays'. ophelia = hamlet, desdemona = othello, goneril = king lear

It is a surprisingly gorgeous day. Overhead, the sun shines strongly in the sky, a beacon of light in an ocean of blue, and it is accompanied by a couple of white clouds that exist purely for aesthetic reasons. In the distance, the snowcapped mountains of the Scottish highlands provide a rugged beauty to the landscape as they stand guard to the castle, the Forbidden Forest at their feet seemingly welcoming for once, taking a break from its usual foreboding stance.

Yes, it's a beautiful day.

Every student in Hogwarts has thought this is fit for a celebration because they have spilled out of the stronghold and onto the grounds, apparently under the impression that seeing the sun for once warrants as little clothing as possible, even though it's Scotland so it's still as cold as a Dementor's heart. Hoards of good looking boys have taken the opportunity to shed their tops and show the six pacs that they conveniently have while stunning girls in miniskirts stretch their legs out, seeking a tan.

Everyone is flawless because no one is ever simply average in fan fiction. Hope perpetuates in the air as boy admires girl and girl admires boy, everyone seemingly at ease.

Everyone except for Al Potter.

Al Potter simply doesn't have time to be distracted by Hufflepuffs with long, tanned legs and excellent racks. He can't spare a second for Gryffindors with fiery hair and fiery hearts or coy Slytherins with lithe, supple bodies and enticing smirks because he's Brooding. He leans against the trunk of a beech tree, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he stares stormily across the still waters of the Black Lake.

Al broods on a daily basis. You see, despite the fact that his father is the Boy Who Lived - no, because of this fact, actually - Al feels dead inside. Whenever he looks in the mirror, he just can't handle the reminder that he comes from the loins of the Savior, so he expresses it through many angsty silences. He's quite proud to admit that he's particularly gifted at angsty silences, more so than even Scorpius Malfoy who introduced the concept to him.

Malfoy is the father of angst. When you're the only heir to the Malfoy fortune, a descendant of Death Eaters and corrupt politicians, and you play the Romeo to Rose Weasley's Juliet, you sort of have to be. That's not even counting the fact that he looks like a vampire out of a teen romance: soft blonde curls, delicate cheekbones and skin as white as snow. Perhaps he might've escaped the angst if he filled only one of the aforementioned criteria, but since Malfoy is literally the embodiment of angst, he has been cursed to this life (until Ron Weasley dramatically finds out about his daughter's boyfriend and shit blows up).

But that's not the point.

The point is that while Malfoy is the father of angst, Al can beat him even on his worst days, hands down. He was a novice when they first became best friends back in first year (they sort of have to be best mates with each other since they're the only semi-famous guys with chips on their shoulders the size of the "SLYTHERIN!" that condemned them to this life), but he has exceeded him by far now. When he wants to be, Al can be the best tortured soul in all of Hogwarts.

But now he's sick and tired of being alone in his angst. He wants a girl who yearns to fix him, someone who will give him a hard time while they're at it. Someone unconventional, an awkward teenager who doesn't know that she's the key to his heart.

His dark green eyes swivel away from the Black Lake and scan the grounds for the perfect girl to fix him, wondering who it will be. Angst is so difficult to look past so he needs a girl that will be willing to forget her social life for him. Fixing a well-trained angster is time-consuming, something that requires ruthless dedication and strength of will, but who will fit the bill, he wonders...

And then it hits him.

Ophelia Desdemona Goneril Vicissitude.

That's the girl for him. There is literally no other person in the world, barring him, that has as much angst on their birth certificate. She's practically been made for him. Not only that, but she looks the part too - plain with dark hair, baggy clothes and glasses, but a hint of hotness that will later be revealed in a dramatic declaration of her love for him. She's even reading a book. A book!

Confidence in his every step, Al strolls over to the girl with all the ease in the world. Ophelia Desdemona Goneril Vicissitude looks up with an angry scowl when she notices the shadow cast over her book, pissed off with the world for absolutely no reason at all.

"Can I help you?" she all but snarls.

"Yes," he says, tossing her a smirk because he's to be her love interest and the love interest of the awkward nerdy girl always has to smirk in order to fluster the girl he's interesting. "You're going to fix my angst."

"You what."

"My angst," he replies with another funny little smirk. After all, it is a well-known fact that a smirk from a Potter can have every heterosexual girl and a fair few boys whipping off their underwear in desperation. "I'm tired of suffering through it alone and I want someone to see the real me now. And I want you to do it."

Ophelia Desdemona Goneril Vicissitude stares at him incredulously. "I will do no such thing!"

He isn't expecting that. Dumbfounded, he informs her, "But you're Ophelia Desdemona Goneril Vicissitude. Who else would do?"

Right, that's it.

Apparently, she's heard enough. These twenty seconds of socialising has the Ravenclaw at the end of her tether and she stands up, blind with rage. Even though she's terribly shy and awkward with everyone else, she has suddenly grown a spine in her indignation - it's just what Al Potter's angst does to her. She even launches her book to the ground purely to be dramatic.

"For your information," she hisses, grabbing him by the collar of his leather jacket to pull him within kissing distance, "I don't like to be called Ophelia Desdemona Goneril Vicissitude - in fact, the last person who did that had his tongue ripped out. Of his head. So if you don't want to go the same way, you'd best start calling me Liadenaril. I REPEAT: LIA-DENA-RIL."

Though her intensely hostile behaviour throws him off, Al knows that he has to keep his cool or else she won't want to cure him of his angst. Therefore, he shrugs and pastes another cocky smirk on his lips. "I prefer Ophelia Desdemona Goneril Vicissitude, actually."

"THAT'S IT," she thunders, shoving him back so roughly that he falls to the ground. Groaning, he looks up to hear her declare, "Now that you've gone and done that, you have just found yourself on my incredibly long list of people I can't stand. Consider yourself the bane of my existence!"

She stalks away, abandoning her book.

Al stares after her. "But - you can't be the bane of my existence! That's just more angst to deal with! You were supposed to help cure it and take it away, not add to it! Without you, I will actually DIE... No, seriously, the angst comes with smoking and I hear it's really bad for your health and has been associated with all sorts of illnesses." When she continues to walk away from him, he yells, "OPHELIA DESDEMONA GONERIL VICISSITUDE, YOU GET BACK HERE RIGHT NOW, WOMAN."

But it's no use. She's already at the doors and is determined to let him wither away in his angst. As she slips inside, she turns her head and repeats in an echoing cry, "THE BANE OF IT."

The doors slam shut behind her dramatically.

He really doesn't know what he's started.

"She's the bane of my existence," growls Al three hours after his encounter with Liadenaril.

It is tea time and the Great Hall brims with students of all ages, immersing themselves in hot food and steamy gossip because that's all anyone can ever talk about at Hogwarts. The two enemies, Al Potter and Liadenaril, have conveniently found seats which provide them with perfect views of each other on their respective tables and have taken the opportunity to enter a glaring contest. Their food lies forgotten on their plates which really is quite a shame considering it's lasagne today. Unfortunately, lasagne just so happens to pale in comparison to the hatred they have for their respective banes of existence.

"What did she do?" Scorpius asks knowingly, finally dragging himself out of his long, yearning glance at Rose Weasley.

(The girl promptly flips him the bird since no one can ever know that a Malfoy and Weasley - never mind a Gryffindor and a Slytherin - feel their loins burst into flames at the sight of each other. Never mind the fact that the Weasley clan have already accepted Scorpius as an ally after he befriended Al. The angst renders that little detail useless.)

Al looks away from Liadenaril with a foul scowl. "She refused to fix me! Now I have even more angst than my Daddy Issues™ because she's the bane of my existence. And she created a first name for herself - who the frick frack even does that? It's like if I suddenly went around and told everyone to call me - to call me - Alsevter or something! It's ridiculous."

"You probably should do that. It's a lot nicer than your real name."

Al ignores it, continuing with his rant. "She's so irritating! I mean, sure Liadenaril is a gorgeous name for a gorgeous face - I, er, mean -"

But it's no use. At the current moment in time, Scorpius isn't besotted with the forbidden fruit of his life, the rose with thorns in the shape of her parents role as war heroes, Gryffindor's princess - he's actually paying attention to his best friend's words and so he has caught everything he said. Triumph distorts his features; Al looks at his best mate like a deer in the headlights.

(Or wand...lights?

Whatever.)

"Not a word," he hisses threateningly.

"But you fancy her!"

"No, I don't! She is the BANE of my EXISTENCE, okay? THE BANE. I can't stand her."

Scorpius snorts, raising a pale eyebrow because everyone in fanfiction has the ability to raise only one of their eyebrows at a time unlike the author of this fic. "Sure, you do. A LIKELY STORY. Just admit you like her, Al, and that you want to do the frick frack knick knack paddy whack 1960s Cadillac with her. Mostly so that I can get five galleons off Rose."

"What - you bet on us? Since when?" he splutters.

Scorpius looks at him in surprise. "Since you called her the bane of your existence two minutes ago. I knew you'd crack within the hour, but Rose thought it'd take a day at least."

He huffs. Clearly, Rose and Scorpius are too dense to understand what the bane of his existence means. Just because they used to hate each other and now hook up every other hour of the day doesn't mean that he's going to do it with Liadenaril.

Her name is Liadenaril for Salazar Slytherin's Basilisk's sake!

With all of the anger and angst in the world, Al shoves a forkful of lasagne into his mouth. His jaw furiously sets to work as his eyes stare out at the sea of students before him, as stormy as the Black Lake during the winter, only considerably greener.

And then his heart stops.

Because it is at that moment that his eyes land on Liadenaril, purely for the sake of it, and he catches sight of the prat beside her. He isn't particularly sure why there is a prat next to her because Liadenaril is notoriously invisible and hostile to anyone who breathes in the near vicinity, but there he is. Matty Matthews, Prat Extraordinaire.

"What the frick frack is he doing?" he hisses, slamming his utensils down in a show of his anger.

Scorpius places a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Maybe he's just asking her about the Charms homework..." He trails off as Matty Matthews brushes back a strand of her hair.

"I'm going in," Al snarls once he sees this.

It doesn't matter that she's the bane of his existence and that he is mostly decidedly not attracted to her, even if he finds her name pretty and her lips pouty and her attitude enticing. The point is that he knows people like Matty Matthews - a boy who happens to be Ravenclaw's Quidditch Captain and lost his last match to Slytherin - and knows that there is one single clear intent behind this business. Just the one: pissing off Al Potter and getting Liadenaril into his bed.

"Ophelia Desdemona Goneril Vicissitude," Al announces, plopping into the seat beside her. He slouches in a classic carefree posture, conveniently whipping out a cigarette to place between his lips. He touches it with his wand and blows the smoke purposefully into her direction. "What are you doing in these neck of the woods?"

Matty Matthew growls. "Your in 'Claw territory now, Potty."

"First of all, you're*. Second of all, think of better insults," he smirks. Mostly because he knows it's infuriating.

Just as he predicted, Ophelia Desdemona Goneril Vicissitude's nostrils flare and she hisses, "Potter, how many times do I have to tell you that it's Liadenaril? I repeat: LIA-DENA-RIL. And besides, as Matty said, this is the Ravenclaw table, so I think you'll find that you can leave."

Matty Matthews smirks.

Al Potter sneers. "Oh, Matty, is it? Cute that you have nicknames for him now."

"Literally everyone calls me Matty."

"Ophelia Desmodena Goneril Vicissitude isn't just anyone though, is she?" he demands, crushing the cigarette in the palm of his right hand. It burns, but he shoulders through the pain because the angst is just so much more important.

Matty smirks. Unlike when a Potter smirks, it doesn't have every girl and boy in the room ready to rip off their robes - though Liadenaril seems to straighten up at the sight of it, Al notes grimly.

"If I didn't know better, Potty, it sounds like you're jealous."

"Jealous?" he scoffs, the rage simmering inside him. Him, jealous? Jealous? The nerve of these people! "Of what? In case you haven't noticed, Ophelia Desmodena Goneril Vicissitude happens to be the bane of my existence."

"So I guess you won't mind if I ask her out then."

Liadenaril blushes a deep crimson. The colour reminds him of the scarlet of Gryffindor's sigil, though the green that blurs his own vision distracts him from that fact. In all of the three hours that he's antagonised her, he has not once managed to entice a blush out of her, even when he leant against every available surface with a cigarette in his hand and a leather jacket on his body.

"You want to ask me out?" she asks tentatively.

Matty shrugs, running a hand through his stupid hair. "I like smart girls. I want to be with someone I can have a real conversation with, you know? I don't want it to be all about sex."

Liadenaril melts by the second. She's almost a pile of goo that is 5 ft 5" wide, about to open her mouth to accept the offer - when Matty shifts and Al sees the two fingers crossed behind his back.

The frick fracker is lying through his teeth!

Sex is the only thing this fiend is after and Al can't have that. Liadenaril might be infuriatingly annoying and the literal bane of his existence, but she deserves more than to be used for fornication. She deserves to be loved and cherished for who she is, not what she can offer.

"You little pile of excrement," Al snarls, cutting off her reply. "You've got your damn fingers crossed behind your back."

Instantly, Matty whips his hands out to disprove this theory. Pulling the puppy dog eyes on his victim, he speaks softly, "Why would I ever do that, Lia? You know you're the only girl for me."

"I think you'll find it's Liadenaril," Al says menacingly, slowly rising from his seat. "Do you think you'll remember that after your concussion?"

Matty furrows his eyebrows. "Wait, what concuss-"

That's when Al punches him in the face.

At first, there is nothing but a numbing darkness. He is aware of nothing other than this darkness and briefly wonders whether he is looking at the colour of his soul. But then he slowly opens his eyes and sees the blinding white of the Hospital Wing, a stark contrast to everything he knows.

His body aches.

The fight of the century is nothing more than a blur of fists in his mind - apparently, both he and Matty Matthews conveniently forgot they had wands on their person in an effort to look more impressive - and he vaguely remembers the shrill screams of Liadenaril over the commotion. The fight was pretty brutal, resulting in a fractured bone in his arm and a bloody nose - though you readers really should've seen the other guy - and he recalls Madame Pomfrey ordering him to stay overnight.

Yes, she can fix fractured bones and broken noses in less than a second, but she didn't this time due to plot reasons.

Al decides to pass the time by Brooding. Sighing, he rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling, consuming himself in self-pitying thoughts about the fact that he comes from the loins of the Saviour of the Wizarding World. Now that he has landed himself with a bane of his existence, he throws in some brooding about how he can never have her in there too.

Sigh.

Just as he's truly in the throes of his brooding, the soft patter of feet alert him to a coming presence and he shoots up in bed, wincing as pain shudders through his ribs for no apparent reason, to meet Liadenaril's shocked face.

For once, her hair isn't tied back and is let loose in carefully styled waves, framing her face attractively. Something about her face is oddly open and her eyes aren't obstructed by glasses, so he can see how they are a million shades of brown - walnut, hazelnut, peanut, almond, cashew and pecan - even though the only light is from a candelabra a few metres away. She wears a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, ignoring the fact that they're not exactly in the Bahamas, and clutches a carton of ice cream to her chest.

"Oh," she says.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, the question coming out harsher than he intends.

Her face transforms from the open look to one of rage. "I came to give you this stupid carton of ice cream since I heard you liked it, but if you're going to talk to me like that-"

"I didn't mean it like that!"

"Then what did you mean?" she exclaims, throwing down the ice cream carton in yet another dramatic gesture. She pushes forward as she speaks, eyes growing wilder and her voice speeds up. "I don't understand you, Potter. You said that you wanted me to fix your angst, but then insulted me in the process and then you became the bane of my existence, but even when you're the bane of my existence, you - you flirt with me and smoke cigarettes in an unnecessarily sexy fashion and then protect me from boys who want to fornicate with me - but why? Why do any of it if you're the bane-"

It is then that Al decides he's had enough.

He doesn't care if Rose and Scorpius, those two starcrossed lovers with an inevitably tragic end, bet on this. He doesn't care that he's supposed to be the bane of Liadenaril's existence or that he's been in the hospital for hours or that he is conveniently only in his boxers. He doesn't even care that he is riddled with angst, that he is the frick fracking King of it.

He only cares about yanking her forward and smashing his lips against hers.

It's an incredibly romantic kiss, very passionate and heated. It doesn't matter that Liadenaril has never ever kissed anyone before so she shouldn't be like a goddess at it or that his breath tastes minty fresh even though he has been knocked out for hours. There are only fireworks of the Weasley Wizard Wheezes kind in the background and a kiss that sweeps Liadenaril off her feet.

Literally.

"I thought I was the bane of your existence," she whispers when they are finally done. She is lying in his hospital bed, head on his chest so she can hear how his heart skips a beat every few seconds. If it continues like this, it won't be the cigarettes that kill him but her intoxicating presence.

"Not anymore," he says, smiling secretively. "Now you are the reason for my existence."

Her eyes fill with tears. "You really mean that?"

He bends down to kiss her. "You were never really it. I just haven't been able to handle my feelings for you for the past eight hours. Because it turns out that I don't hate you, Liadenaril... I love you."

So ends the story of how Al Potter was cured of his angst. After five long years of dealing with the torture of looking like the Saviour, of never being able to deny coming from the loins of the Saviour, and of smoking his way through endless brooding, he finally took off his crown for good.

And proceeded to do the frick frack knick knack paddy whack 1960s Cadillac with Liadenaril.

Aka Ophelia Desdemona Goneril Vicissitude.

and fin.

dost anyone want to gouge their eyes out with a spoon? x