Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, residing at number four, Privet Drive, proudly proclaimed themselves as fucking normal, thank you very much. They were the least likely cocksuckers you'd expect to get their hands dirty with any weird-ass shit or mysterious crap since they despised such bullshit.

Mr. Dursley was the big shot of a company called Grunnings, which pushed out drills. He was a chunky, meaty man with barely any neck to speak of, yet he did sport an enormous fucking mustache. Mrs. Dursley, on the other hand, was a skinny blonde who had a neck so goddamn long it made giraffes jealous - quite handy since she was so often sticking her nose into their neighbors' business. The Dursleys, bless their filthy hearts, had a pint-size son named Dudley, who they believed was the absolute fucking bees knees.

The Dursleys had everything they could ever wish for, but they also had a secret they'd rather die than share. Their biggest fucking fear was that someone might find out about the goddamn Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't seen each other for yonks; actually, Mrs. Dursley flat-out denied having a sister because her sister and good-for-nothing husband were as far from the Dursley way as one could get. The mere thought of the Potters rocking up made the Dursleys quiver at what the hell their neighbors would say. They knew the Potters had a snot-nosed rugrat too, but they'd never laid eyes on the little shit. All the more reason to keep the Potters the fuck away - they didn't want Dudley hanging around with a brat like that.

It was on a drab, shitty Tuesday when it all started. The overcast sky didn't hint in the slightest that freaky and queer happenings were about to go down all over the damn country. Mr. Dursley hummed a tune as he grabbed his most snooze-worthy tie for work. At the same time, Mrs. Dursley yapped on and on while she fought to shove squalling Dudley into his high chair. Amidst the domestic shitstorm, none of them noticed a big-ass tawny owl swooping past their window.

At the crack of 8:30, Mr. Dursley snatched his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on her smacker, and tried to plant one on Dudley too. But the little fucker was too busy pitching a fit and flinging cereal at the walls. "You rascal," Mr. Dursley chuckled as he bounced out of the house. He slid into his whip and backed right out of number four's driveway.

It was at the fucking corner of the street that Mr. Dursley spotted the first goddamn sign of something weird-ass — a cat trying to read a map like it was some horny explorer. For a split-fucking-second, he didn't process what the hell he saw. Then his thick skull jerked around to look again. There was indeed a tabby cat chilling on the corner of Privet Drive, but not a single map in sight. What the fuck was he thinking? Must've been some trippy optical illusion. Mr. Dursley, with his beady eyes, blinked and stared down the cat. The cat stared the fuck back. As Mr. Dursley cruised past the corner and up the road, he watched that furry little bastard through his rearview mirror. The damn creature was now eyeballing the sign that said Privet Drive — no, no, just looking at the sign; cats can't read shit. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake to reset his brain and booted the cat from his mind. As he drove towards town, all he could fucking think about was the massive load of drills he was hoping to score that day.

But on the dickbutt's edge of town, the drills were fucked right out of his mind by something even more mysterious. Trapped in the morning traffic jam like a caged animal, he couldn't ignore the freakshow that seemed to be going on. There were loads of people trotting around in strange-ass cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn't stand people who strutted in goofy clothes — the clusterfucks you'd see on youngsters! He grumbled that this must be some dumbass new trend. Drumming his meaty fingers on the steering wheel, he caught sight of a bunch of these wackos standing around gossiping. And, what really buttered his beans was that an old fart, probably even older than he was, dared to wear a goddamn emerald-green cloak! The audacity of it all! But then, it hit him that this was likely some dumb publicity stunt — these cockwombles were probably collecting money for a cause or some shit like that. Traffic started moving again, and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley finally pulled into the Grunnings parking lot with his mind full of dirty thoughts about drills.

It's no fucking wonder Mr. Dursley chose to sit with his back facing the window in his bitchin' office on the ninth floor. He'd otherwise have found it too damn hard to focus on his drill obsession throughout that fateful morning. He never saw the battalion of owls soaring gracefully in broad daylight like a squadron of feathery fighter jets. But those poor bastards down on the street sure did. They gawked open-mouthed and speechless as each owl zipped on by. Most of these fools had never laid eyes on an owl except during the graveyard shift. Mr. Dursley, however, enjoyed a perfectly average, owl-free morning. He yelled at five different sorry saps like a rabid pit bull. He made a big ol' fuss on the phone with several important people and hollered even more. Life was all shits and giggles until lunchtime when he decided to stretch his fluffy legs and take a stroll across the street to nab a bun from the local bakery.

He'd completely fucking spaced on the cloaked cocksuckers until he passed another gang of them next to the bakery. His eyes, full of rage, checked them out with disgust as he marched by. These mysterious assholes made his skin crawl, and he could never quite pinpoint why. This bunch also whispered like schoolgirls with juicy gossip, not a goddamn collecting tin in sight. It was on his way back, and as he clutched a voluptuous doughnut in a bag tighter than his own balls, that he eavesdropped on a few juicy nuggets of their conversation.

"The fucking Potters, that's right, that's what I heard -"

" - yeah, their horny son, Harry -"

Mr. Dursley stopped dead, his dick shriveling. Fear flooded into his balls. He looked back at the conspiring whisperers as if he wanted to say something nasty to them, but thought better of it.

He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb his sexcapades, seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialing his home number when he retracted his greasy fingers like a dirty schlong. He wobbled the receiver back down and stroked his absurdly hairy mustache,, he was being a fucking dumbass. Potter wasn't such an unusual name, for Christ's sake. He was sure there were boatloads of people named Potter who had a son called Harry. Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure his horny nephew was called Harry. He'd never even seen the little prick. It might have been Harvey. Or Harold. Or some ass-tastic name. There was no point in dicking around with Mrs. Dursley; she always got so hot and bothered at any mention of her sister. He didn't blame the poor wench — if he'd had a sister like that...but all the same, those freaky-donkey people in cloaks.…

He found it a shit-ton harder to concentrate on his moist drills that afternoon, and when he left the building at five o'clock, he was still so damn worried that he walked straight into someone just outside the door.

"Fuck off," he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell on his wrinkly ass. It was a hot second before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was wearing a fabulous violet cloak. The old bastard didn't seem at all upset at being almost knocked down. On the contrary, his grotesque face split into a wide cheshire cat smile, and he said in a perverse, squeaky voice that made passersby squirm, "Don't be sorry, my deviant man, for nothing could get me down today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has fucked off at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating, this kinky, horny day!"

And the old geezer hugged Mr. Dursley around his doughy middle and fucked right off. Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot, feeling dirty and confused like it was his first time at a BDSM club. He had been hugged by a goddamn stranger, and it felt scandalous. He also thought he had been called a fucking Muggle, whatever the hell that was. His brain felt like a sticky mess of anal lube. He hurried to his car and floored it for home, hoping he was dreaming about a reality full of orgies, which he had never hoped for before, because he didn't approve of imagination - sexy or otherwise.

As he pulled his beast of a car into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw — and it didn't improve his mood like a good ball-gag would have — was the tabby cat he'd spotted while morning wood still ached. It was now lounging on his garden wall like a seductive temptress. He was sure as hell it was the same pussy; it had the same kink around its eyes.

"Shoo, you dirty beast!" barked Mr. Dursley in pure frustration. The cat didn't give a flying fuck. It just eyed him sternly like a dominatrix gearing up for a session. Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered, his mind slipping into the gutter. Trying to yank his thoughts out of their filthy depths, he let himself into the house, promising not to mention the erotic fever dream of a day to his Mrs. Dursley once he was inside.

Mrs. Dursley had a bitchin', regular day. She dished out the dirt over dinner about Mrs. Next Door's headache with her skanky daughter and how Dudley learned a cheeky-ass word ("Won't!"). Mr. Dursley tried to act like it was a normal fuckin' day. After tucking Dudley in, he hustled into the living room just in time to spank the last report on the evening news:

"And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation's owls have been strutting their sassy feathers very unusually today. Although owls normally get it on at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these sexy birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly swapped their kink – ahem, *sleeping* – pattern." The newscaster gave a naughty smirk. "Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Gonna get more showers of owls tonight, Jim?"

"Well, Ted," said the weatherman, "I don't know about that, but it's not only the owls that have been turning on the kink factor today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the moist rain I promised yesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been getting their rocks off celebrating Bonfire Night early — it's not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight, if you know what I mean."

Mr. Dursley sat there, stiff as a rod, in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying in broad daylight? Mysterious pervs in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a filthy whisper about the Potters...

Mrs. Dursley strutted into the living room carrying two cups of steaming-hot tea. It was no use. He'd have to unburden his dirty little secret onto her. With a trembling throat, he said, "Er—Petunia, babe—you haven't heard from your sister lately, have you?"

As he'd expected, Mrs. Dursley looked gobsmacked and pissed off. Normally, they kept up the illusion she didn't have a sis.

"No," she hissed. "Why?"

"Sketchy shit on the news," Mr. Dursley mumbled. "Owls...shooting stars...and a bunch of freaky-ass people in town today..."

"So?" Mrs. Dursley spat.

"Well, I just was something to do know...her horny gang."

Mrs. Dursley tightened her lips around her tea, sucking it in like a thirsty camel. Mr. Dursley wondered if he dared tell her he'd heard the name "Potter." He decided he didn't dare. Instead he said, trying to sound casual, "Their son—he'd be about Dudley's age now, yeah?"

"I suppose so," Mrs. Dursley replied stiffly.

"What's his name again? Howard, right?"

"Harry. Nasty, common name, if you ask me."

"Oh, yeah," sighed Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking like a lead dildo. "Yeah, I agree."

He didn't dare say another damn word on the topic as they sauntered upstairs to bed. While Mrs. Dursley primped in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley snuck to the bedroom window and peered down at their front garden. That slutty cat was still there, staring down Privet Drive like it was waiting for a hot date.

Was he imagining all this kinky shit? Could it have something to do with the Potters? If it did...if the word got out that they were related to a couple of—well, he felt like his balls might explode from the embarrassment.

The Dursleys tucked themselves in. Mrs. Dursley snoozed instantly, but Mr. Dursley's mind was a nasty whirlwind. His last comforting thought before he finally drifted off was that even if there was some Potter fuckery going on, it had nothing to do with him and Petunia. They knew damn well what they both thought about them and their kind...He couldn't imagine how he and Petunia might get tangled in some messy Potter business. He yawned and turned over, thinking it couldn't possibly affect them...

How very wrong his horny ass was.

Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into a sexually frustrated sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no sign of horniness. It was sitting as stiff as an erect penis, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. It didn't flinch when a car door slammed like a spanked ass on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead like a pair of perverted peepers. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat mounted any action.

A man appeared on the corner the cat had been eye-fucking, emerging so suddenly and quietly you'd have thought he blew in like a desperate booty call. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed, preparing for some hardcore cat-play.

Nothing like this man had ever been seen practicing his kinks on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his pubes and beard, which were both lengthy enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots for some kinky fetish play. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles, and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice in aggressive sexual escapades. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize that he had just arrived on a street where everything from his name to his naughty boots was taboo. He was busy rummaging around in his cloak, searching for his favorite sex toy. But he did seem to realize he was being watched by the voyeuristic puss, because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring him down from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the sexy feline seemed to amuse the old perv. He chuckled and muttered, "I should have known..."

He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver vibrator disguised as a cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up like a rock-hard cock, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a soft moan. He clicked it again — the next lamp submitted to the darkness with a quivering flicker. Twelve times he clicked the sultry Put-Outer, until the only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the lascivious eyes of the cat watching his every move. If anyone looked out of their window now, even the prying eyes of Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn't be able to see any of the smut happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the tantalizing Put-Outer back inside his cloak and strutted down the street toward number four, where he sat down on the wall next to the waiting pussy. He didn't look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it in a seductive tone.

"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."

He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead, he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the sex-kitten had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a sensual cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight and sexy bun. She looked like someone just waiting to be spanked.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked, hungry for his touch.

"My dear Professor, I've never seen a cat sit so provocatively."

"You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day, waiting for some action," said Professor McGonagall, aroused.

"All day? When you could have been screwing? I must have passed a dozen orgies and gangbangs on my way here."

Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.

"Oh fuck yeah, I've been celebrating like a horny teenager," she hissed impatiently. "You'd think they'd put a goddamn condom on it, but no —even the Muggles have realized we're up to some kinky shit. It was on their fucking news." She jerked her head back at the Dursleys' dark living-room window. "I heard it. Orgies of owls…shooting stars…Well, they're not completely limp-dicked. They were bound to notice when things got steamy. Shooting stars down in Kent — I'll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much goddamn sense, always eager to whip it out in public."

"You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently, stroking his beard like a beloved sex toy. "We've had precious little to get off on for eleven years."

"I know that," snapped Professor McGonagall, clearly gagging for more. "But that's no reason to lose our goddamn panties over it. People are being downright careless, strutting their kinky asses out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle-approved sex gear, swapping dirty rumors."

She threw a sharp sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping to catch his wandering hands, but he was hands-off, so she went on like a rampant rabbit. "A fine fuck it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have finally blown his load, the Muggles found out about our licentious lifestyles. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?"

"It certainly seems so," said Dumbledore. "We have much to suck and swallow for. Would you care for a lemon-drop-flavored dildo?"

"A what?"

"A dick-shaped lemon drop. They're a kind of Muggle adult toy I'm rather fond of for their unique taste."

"No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall, icy as a frosty butt plug, as though she didn't think this was the time for tongue play with lemon drops. "As I say, even if our twisted fucker You-Know-Who has gone —"

"My dear Professor, surely a dom like yourself can call him by his name? All this 'You-Know-Who' pussyfooting around — for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper fetish name: Voldemort." Professor McGonagall winced, but Dumbledore, who was unpeeling two lemon drops with orgasmic delight, seemed not to notice. "It all gets so fucking confusing if we keep calling him 'You-Know-Who.' I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's pet name."

"I know you haven't," said Professor McGonagall, sounding half annoyed, half turned on. "But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one who makes You-Know-Oh, all right, Voldemort, get down on his knees."

"You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly. "Voldemort had sexual powers I will never have."

"Only because you're too — well — noble to use them when making the beast with two backs."

"It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new nipple clamps."

Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, "The sexy owls are nothing next to the sordid rumors that are flying around. You know what they're saying? About why he's vanished? About what finally fucked him up?"

It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most desperate to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a penetrating, scandalous stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever "everyone" was saying, she was not going to take part in this orgy of gossip until Dumbledore assured her it was a safe kink.

Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not spill the beans (or the lube).

"What they're saying," she pressed on, desperation dripping like a wet dream, "is that last night Voldemort, our kinklord, turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are — are — that they're — fucked."

Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.

"Lily and James… I can't believe it… I didn't want to believe it… Oh, Albus…"

Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder, comfortingly but without getting handsy. "I know… I know…" he said heavily, his voice laden with moist sorrow.

Professor McGonagall's voice trembled like a buzzing vibrator as she went on. "That's not all. They're saying he tried to nail the Potter's son, Harry. But he couldn't. He couldn't screw that little boy's life up. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Harry Potter, Voldemort's power somehow blew a fuse — and that's why he's gone."

Dumbledore nodded glumly.

"It's — it's true?" stuttered Professor McGonagall amid erotic gasps. "After all he's done… all the people he's screwed… he couldn't kill a little boy? It's just astounding… of all the things to stop him… but how in the name of all that's kinky did Harry survive?"

"We can only guess," said Dumbledore, a twinkle in his eye. "We may never know."

Professor McGonagall dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief disguised as silk panties. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch with twelve hands, but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge, each resembling a different sexual position. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said, "Hagrid's late. I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, eating out… I mean, eating treats by the way?"

"Yes," said Professor McGonagall, her voice dripping with lust. "And I don't suppose you're going to fucking tell me why you're here, of all fucking places?"

"I've come to dump Harry on his aunt and uncle. They're the only fuckin' family he has left now."

"You don't fucking mean – you can't mean the assholes who live here?" cried Professor McGonagall, getting all hot and bothered on her feet and pointing at number four. "Dumbledore, you can't. I've been watching these pricks all day. You couldn't find two fucks more unlike us. And they've got this son — I saw him curb-stomping his mother all the way up the street, screaming for goddamn candy. Harry Potter living here!"

"It's the best place for the boy," said Dumbledore firmly, his beard quivering with conviction. "His aunt and uncle will be able to spill the beans when he's older. I've written them a fucked-up letter."

"A fuckin' letter?" repeated Professor McGonagall, her mind blown, sitting back down on the wall. "You really think you can throw down this shitstorm in a letter? These motherfuckers will never understand him! He'll be famous – a hotshot – I wouldn't be surprised if today ends up called Harry Potter Day in the future – there'll be goddamn books written about Harry – every brat in our world will know his fucking name!"

Dumbledore just eyeballed her over his naughty half-moon glasses. "Exactly. It'd be enough to inflate anyone's goddamn ego. Famous before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he won't even fuckin' remember! Can't you see how much better off the little shit'll be, growing up clueless before taking on that kind of bitchin' life?"

Professor McGonagall wanted to pop off, but she kept her mouth shut and finally agreed, "Yeah – yeah, you're right, of course. But how the fuck is the boy getting here, Dumbledore?" She eyed his cloak suddenly, wondering if he had Harry hiding beneath it, like a dirty secret.

"Hagrid's dragging him here."

"You think it's a wise-ass move to entrust Hagrid with something so goddamn important?"

"I'd trust Hagrid with my fucking life," said Dumbledore without hesitation.

"I'm not saying the dude's heart ain't in the right place," said Professor McGonagall, trying to hold back her judgmental side, "but you can't pretend he's not a klutz. He tends—what the fuck was that?"

A low, throbbing sound cut through their filthy conversation. It got louder and louder as they looked up the street. The noise swelled to a wall-shaking roar as they both looked up at the sky – and a massive motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the street in front of them like a shit ton of bricks.

The motorcycle was a fucking monster, but the man riding it was even more of a beast. He was almost twice as tall as a normal dude and at least five times as wide. Long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his mug, and his mitts and boots were comically ginormous. He cradled a bundle of blankets in his massive, muscular arms.

"Hagrid," exhaled Dumbledore, relieving the tension in the air. "At last. And where the fuck did you nab that chopper?"

"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir," the giant rumbled, carefully dismounting. "Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I've got the kid, sir."

"No hiccups, I hope?"

"No, sir—house was fucking wrecked, but I got him out right before the rubbernecking Muggles started swarming. Kid zonked out over Bristol."

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall leaned the fuck in to see the sleepy boy inside the bundle. Under a tuft of jet-black hair on his forehead, they spied a one-of-a-kind cut shaped like a lightning bolt.

"Is that the mark of—?" whispered Professor McGonagall, her jaw dropping.

"Yep," Dumbledore confirmed. "He'll be stuck with that scar forever."

"Can't you do jackshit about it, Dumbledore?"

"Nope, wouldn't do it even if I could. Scars can be fuckin' handy sometimes. I've got one myself above my left knee that's a perfect map of the London Underground. Alright, hand over the kid, Hagrid – we'd better get this shit over with."

As they placed the sleeping baby on the doorstep, Hagrid tried to hold back heart-wrenching sobs, creating an odd mix of whimpering and snorting. Dumbledore placed a letter inside Harry's blanket, and then they hightailed it the fuck out of there.

Harry slept on, completely oblivious to the fact he was a legend, famous, or to be woken up in a few hours by Mrs. Dursley's screech when she found him on their doorstep. He had no idea that people were raising their glass to him all over the country, whispering in awe, "To Harry Potter – the boy who lived!"