The slight form of an androgynous ghost huddled further into his warm clothes as he walked along the pavement of the road to Surrey. He was clearly headed somewhere; he clearly had a purpose. Nothing but the sound of a stray cat tipping over a full trash can could be heard in the silence of the early, early morning. It was 4:00 AM.
Crazed with despair that he had missed The Witching Hour on his crackly old hand-held high-tech television by an entire hour, Y. Professor Binns scurried along the concrete, his little ghost feet freezing in the mid-fall chill.
A gust tousled his wispy silver ghost-hair and knocked two books from his ghost-grip. "A History of the Majestic Magypsies" was the title of one, "The Idiot's Guide to Buying Sex Toys" the other. The matter of Binns's cheeks became slightly pink-tinged as he blushed and covered up the second book. "It's for a friend," he said nervously, but no one was around
He tucked the book of his heritage and the one about history into his voluminous khaki shrug, and clicked his heels, wishing he could go home and abort this ghastly, dangerous mission. His trademark purple arm hair, mandatory of the Magypsy sect parted in a map-like pattern, showing him the way to gold and his destination. "Thank you, Ferdinand," he whispered to his arm, which winked in response.
He followed the lines of his google arm hair, slowly memorizing the rest of his route by heart. He clapped his hands two times and the violet gorilla-fur returned to normal. He pondered his plight as he continued on his path.
As a Magypsy, Professor was supposed to make a trek every thousand years to an important hole, and feed the hole, and make love to the hole, and listen to whatever the hole said. The hole was the place the Magypsy elder, Olive Hornby, a feminine soul with a phobia of bifocals had first spat her acidic fluid upon the cobblestones of Marakesh after a waiter had been particularly obstinate.
The Magypsies were a majestic and mysterious people with centuries of history and 365 official national holidays packed with cultural tradition. They were known in the wizarding world as "The Magic Gypsies", partly because of their name, partly because they were magic gypsies. Their traditions and powers remained mysterious, however, as the true magypsy lineage was kept secret and chaste throughout the years. The only thing well-known about the magypsies was that there wasn't a lot to be known.
The only things that distinguished them from ordinary wizards was the thicket of violet thread-like hair exuding from their skin and the word "magypsy" which was imprinted in fiery, heavenly script upon the foreheads of the followers.
It was tricky to know one's sectular affiliation in the tumultuous wizarding world.
Some called them a cult; others called them a public health threat cult. But all were astonished by each individual magypsy's power and talents; they were usually the most popular, attractive, and skilled boys in their grade. The magypsy practiced female infanticide indiscriminately.
Reproduction amongst the magypsies only required one: a magypsy would simply take his flaccid sex pipe in an open palm and insert it into his brain. Pregnancy lasted two hours and was terribly excruciating for the mother. If a female child came of this union of head and head, the child and the mother were burned at the rare steak instantly and for six hours or until a warm golden brown.
Binns had experienced the pain of childbirth. He was a mother, though he had not seen the joys of motherhood; he had had to give his child, his beloved baby magypsy, up for muggle adoption. He had always regretted the day; only now could he take action. He was on his way to retrieve his athena-child, his baby magypsy, who had by now grown up into a man. A beautiful, eleven year-old man.
His thighs trembled as he passed kelly greenery, dusky in the nightly night. He picked a leaf, or tried to, but his hand fell through. He so wanted that leaf for a creamy snack. Embittered by rage at his ghostliness, he ripped off his Dockers shrug and beat a march upon his chest, summoning a bevy of wildlife to his contoured pecs.
A horse whinnied and a crab clenched its crimson claws. The monkey screeched and the iguana noiselessly opened and closed its mouth. A veritable cross-section of beastiary congregated about the tiny ghost. One of his magypsy talents was subjugating and controlling the entire animal world.
His menagerie gripping on his back like a living cape, Professor felt more confident about the continuation of his grisly journey. He popped his collar and bounced his bling against his wrinkly concave stomach before pimp walking through a magical forest.
He was quickly nearing his destination. He shrugged his Cape of Life from his ghostly shoulders and emerged into the manicured back yard of a suburban condominium. He scoffed. A wizard would never live in such a place!
He himself lived in a dirt cave that was covered in daffodils and feces. Perturbed by this residence, he squatted and pinched a loaf on the doorstep and then went on to explore the yard.
Hydrangea bushes lined the house and sidewalk. Everything was perfectly in line, effectively a symbol of man's dominance over nature. Binns paused for a moment and pondered the famed landscape architect, Le Nôtre, which whom he had had a sordid and steamily sensual affair in the 18th century. Or was it the 17th? His sexual memories were far too extensive for him to remember at the moment. He continued exploration.
He found a hole of approximately two inches in diameter, one six hundredth of the size of the holy hole, and began to speak to it, hoping to gain insight from the universe.
He was to listen for instructions. He kept his ears wide open as he gently penetrated the depression in the ground, eliciting groans of the secrets of the universe. "You must collect your magypsy child, Binnssssss" it hissed as the ghost planted his twelve-inch shaft deeply inside the cavity.
The grass tickled his pubic nest as he sprayed toast crumbs from the blowhole on the back of his head. It was hard, but he knew what he had to do. He had to extract his member from the dirt. Carefully. As he did a pushup to remove himself, he faltered and broke an inch off his stone piss pole. "FUCK!" he screeched!
The hole's magical voice was muffled and disabled by the chunk of man-meat plugging its sensitive walls, but Binns would never forget what it said: "Find your boy. Bring him home. And let him grow into a man. A magypsy."
In the largest bedroom of Number Four Privet Drive, Dudley Dursley's backdoor was shuddering around his massive, thick tapioca pump as he thumbed through his mother's nudie magazines. The diluted early morning sunlight was creeping through the translucent drapes the day after Halloween, and he could barely see the woman with breasts on her back licking her lips from the glossy pages of Petunia's little secret.
The little pink piggie grunted and moaned into thin air as his stubby-fingered hand, so fat there were rolls of lard covering each fingernail, flew up and down the creamy-white, hairless, 3-inch shaft of fat boy love in his lap of lard. Dudley whimpered and screeched as he neared orgasm; his pencil-thin dong twitched and jerked with a mind of its own as he concentrated on the baseball-bat-like cock sported by the man-hammer prop of this particular Playboy spread. Dudley liked bunnies.
His furry fetish was nothing new; he'd gotten excited as a child at EuroDisney upon seeing the grownups all dressed up as mice and dogs. The twin-sized bed quaked as the purple and brown flowers printed on the sheets flew up and down in the time of his passion. The flags of bedclothes beckoned PigPen tantalizingly toward climax, writhing with him and producing its own sounds of pleasure: "Flap flap. Flap flap." they sang.
His orgasm was only mediocre. As the thick, chunky, purplish-white fluid leaked weakly from his pencap-cock, he wished he could discover his true erotic passion and find his true self. He had never told anybody this great secret: he felt alone, out of place and alienated in the world. He knew there was something special waiting for him; he knew he himself was special, like that stupid chick in The Little Princess. Some day, his daddy would come and find him and give him the perfect white, heterosexual family to grow up in. He knew it. He just knew it.
As he burrowed his Crisco face in his Ugg-shaped pillow, Dudley let out a single breathy and piercing sigh. He had the melancholy. He was at a loss. He was probably metrosexual.
His agony was interrupted, though, as he noticed the form of a small, pale man examining his front yard. Dudley was well-trained by his mother to detest intruders; he did not appreciate this breech of privacy. He was the only one allowed to breech!
He regarded this silvery purple man critically as the intruder sniffed the ground attentively. Dudley's pupils grew to the size of grapefruits and his chubby little hands clapped together in childlike glee. At last! Santa Clause! Father Christmas, the poor-man's and the British's Santa Clause had not come to Dudley in many a year. He came with pocket knives and handkerchiefs and gold necklaces for his parents, but not in a fortnight had Dudley received a gift from the bearded old white man.
He jumped up as gracefully as a morbidly obese 14 year-old could. He threw on a pair of lacy pink boy-short docker's panties and a shimmery silver bustier, topped off with a sheer purple Victoria's Secret-brand negligée to run outside and greet his master. He stumbled and broke his ankle on his way down the stairs, but he was miraculously and instantly healed. Odd things like that happened to Dudley all the time. He burst through the door in search of his purple messiah.
"PANDA CLAWS!" he yelled in rapturous tones. It had been so long since he had spoken to another human being that he had forgotten how to form sounds with his throat. In fact, he hadn't done anything with his throat other than shove pies down it in a millenia. Oh how he longed for a ham pie right now.
Dudley froze when he realized the man was not a safe, pale white-- he was transparent! a ghost! He backed up. "You're not Panda Klauz!!". In his haste, he fatly tripped over an errant root, his escape plan effectively spoiled. He grimaced in bona fide terror.
Professor cried a corpulent drop of cream. "At last! At last!" he whinnied. He collapsed in a heap on the cat turd-ridden grass, hardly breathing. He breathily clutched at the oxygen of the air with his lungs and expired a hearty dose of carbon dioxide.
He descended upon Dudley with the wrath of Drogarth the Armored Dragon Lord. His one clammy hand held Dudley's arms over his head as the other kept his mouth from emitting any alarming grunts. "Son! Son, please shush!"
Son? Dudley thought. But Vernon is my father. My reason for being. His luridly colored mouth gaped open in disbelief and hunger. He wet his pants next. Like a ninja he wet his pants. Chills coursed through his wrists where the see-through man grasped him with fervor. He was afraid his veins would turn into solid threads of ice and the transparency would knit them into an apron or a kangaroo pouch.
"Calm down! Just calm down!" the ghost shouted. Dudley, aware of his inferior strength, ceased his struggled and began sobbing pathetically. Purple snot leaked out of his lardy nostril and tears of blood dripped from his eyes as he sniffelled like a little pussy sissy-girl.
"Stop it! Stop crying like a little bitch!" Professor squirted. Dudley seemed to deflate under the stress of his pencil lard toes on the rest of his body. His bottom sagged on the ground when he walked and he had low self esteem on account of his developing boy-bosom.
"Listen, boy! Listen! Look at me! LOOK AT ME! What do you see!?" the strange fantas-man shouted. Dudley looked into his eyes with fear and anxiety and angst. What he saw shocked him. It was as if it was a mirror plus forty years-- this ghost looked almost exactly like him!
The word "Magypsy" decked both of their acne-covered foreheads. They each had a Mountain Dew blonde cowlick in their thick brush of pubic hair. They each craved the tender, sweet touch of a prostitute named Dazzler.
"That's right, Dudley," the ghost said to Dudley. "I'm your father. And your mother. And my name is Nicole Professor Binns." Dudley passed out cold. Binns tut-tutted and performed a mobilicorpus charm to tug Dudley along with him for the trek back home.
Dudley didn't stir as his body bumped along against gutters, trash cans, hobos, and the like. He didn't wake when he was stepped on by rats. He dreamed of candy canes and horses and wished he could have some goddamn Vicodin.
Binns finally stopped and set up camp on the side of the hedgerow. He made a magical teepee and threw buffalo skin on the ground on which he and Dudley could sleep. He snuggled tenderly against his young son, the perfect picture of corpulent maternal love.
Ships sailed and babies cried and suns rose, just like any other day. But Hermione was not having her usual morning breakfast of lamb's liver off of the end of Ron's half-mast yogurt tube.
She was busy crunching numbers. She was hot on the trail of a new, fantastic, historical wizard event. Reading through her college-level history books, she had come across an obscure mention of long tradition-- that of the Magypsy people. She had always heard stories, but she was now astounded by the information staring into her face from the beautiful, yellowing tome.
"In a bunch of years, a pharoh shall come among us," Olive Hornby wrote, "He shall be reunited with his fathmoth two days after All Hallows Eve Eve, unremarkable but powerful."
Hermione performed several functions on her TI-2000 graphing wizard's calculator and looked up, astonished. The camera zoomed in on her bugged-out puddle-of-shit-brown eyeballs as she gasped for breath. The scene cut suddenly, opening up on the figure of Dudley Dursley perched contemplatively atop a rocky boulder. His chin rested on his right hand in a pensive pose. The ghost Binns is gesturing wildly, obviously explaining something complicated to his son.
"YOU ARE THE PHAROH OF OUR PEOPLE!!!!!" he enunciated, choking back sobs and vomit.
"FARO DUDLEY, FARO DUDLEY!" Binns shouted, crazy in ecstacy. His brawny man-arms made vein-popping fists as he ejaculated in emotion. "The first in CENTURIES!"
Blood slipped from his arms to his manhood like as much vaseline on a hot, spicy griddle. He emphatically knelt before his son, head down, rear raised in a sign of animalistic submission. Dudley shat upon his fathmoth's crack in an ancient annointing ritual of the Magypsies.
A bright light shone from behind his wreath of laurel leaves. It was a truly glorious sight, some say.
Then Professor made a selfishly racist jokes about Canadians and that was that. "YOU ARE THE PHAROH" and "FARO DUDLEY FARO DUDLEY": "You are eleven today, my son. You are a wizard. Haven't you always noticed odd things going on? You are my son, the pharoh of the magypsy people." He looked earnestly into Dudley's shocking, light-blue eyes.
Just then, Dudley began to undergo a glorious transformation. His form was overtaken by a blinding white light as loud wind ripped through the otherwise silent forest. When the spectacle subsided, the creature left behind was unlike Dudley in every way. His shimmering-liquid-clear green irises blinked in awe as he surveyed his new body: skin of the purest white glimmering bright light, dainty toes and fingers that could harmlessly cradle a rose bud, the slim body of a swimmer, and a face like an androgynous angel. His pure white wings sprouted behind him; they were huge, easily 3 meters across each. He was truly an angelic boy.
Even his name had changed. Henceforth he was to be known as Faroh Delicious. Pharo Delicious took flight like a majestic eagle, looking for a nice vermin or grue to feed its young.
Meanwhile, Hermione turned to Ron in the Hogwarts library. They had just gone through a long day, and it was about to get longer. "Ron, the magypsy faroah is reborne. Faroh Delicious was fated to transfigure today; the world as we know it is about to change."
"Change?" Ron wondered, scratching his groin pensively. He pondered the matter carefully and debated taking out the batsuit again... no. No one must know his true identity before he was sure evil was to strike.
He finished packing his suitcase and stood up in his three-piece suit. "See ya later, honey," he said, and gave Hermione a peck on the cheek. She smiled lovingly as she buckled the twins into their car-seats in the minivan. "I love you!"
As Hermy trifled with Fred and George, Ron speed-ran for the dark yellow bicycle waiting for him at the other end of the deserted parking lot. "Morning, Smithers," he greeted his driver before strapping a purple hockey helmet over his passionately fiery locks. He kicked a leg over the back wheel and situated himself in the tiny tan baby seat that buckled around his bony girth.
The baby-seat dug into his hips as he pumped his legs in his toeclips. His purple helmet fell over his eyes several times, but he kept pushing it back with utter determination. He had to get to the pub and talk to Professor Grohl!
Propelling himself off the bike like a lithe swimmer from a bike, Ron gracefully floated down to the doorstep of McCurdy's Pub of Ponytail Drunks. Immediately upon entering he saw the disheveled Jebadia Grohl, in all his near-drunken glory.
Before him sat a man of average stature and unassuming disposition. The man was obviously a regular at the bar; he got discounted drinks, but spent more than any other customer. He had dark red hair and dark blue eyes and a glass of straight whiskey in his hand. He caught sight of Ron and sighed heavily.
Hiccuping an anxious hiccup, Professor Grimfaldinolio Grohl stood in his immaculate black suit to shake hands with the assertively chaste Hogwarts student. He opened the puffy cotton candy pillows that were his lips to reveal a rosy slab of tongue behind the ivory cage of teeth, up then closed the magenta cupid's bow that hid the inside of his cavernous mouth.
"Professor Grohl, I know about the magypsies. And I know what you have to do with it". The man's eyebrows shot up; he was obviously impressed. "Yes? And what does that mean, Ronald?" he asked enigmatically. The baroque classical music of the pub overtook the two as they stared motionlessly into each others eyes for fifty seconds.
"That means I want to be your partner in this deal," he replied, stoic as Stonehenge. "And what if I do not agree? After all, I see no benefit for me in this arrangement." The professor raised his pencil-thin eyebrows in inquisition. "I will take this matter to both Dumbledore and Riddle," Ron smirked angrily.
"They wouldn't care. The magypsy have always been a relatively harmless cult. They wouldn't believe in an extermination plot!" shouted the mysterious professor. "Then why not let me help you!?" Ron shouted back.
The professor grabbed Ron by the baby-blue lapels. "Because it is far too DANGEROUS! Because you could be KILLED! Because I don't know what I'd do if something ever happened to you!" Grohl held the boy's coat fast and close, the tension building. He saw in the mediocre student's eyes confusion, irritation, and...was that?...lust?
Ron caught himself just in time and looked away angstily, penis erect. He couldn't get involved. Not again. Not after Quirrell. "P-professor, I... just give me a chance," he begged, eyes watering over. Grohl stared at him sternly and stated his terms.
"You must always wear this bell," Grohl, who himself had a few rolls of half-dollar coins developing in the crotch of his pants, produced a ball-sized purple metallic jingle bell on a spiked and furry cat collar. He had made it from his very own cat in his devotion to his cause.
Ron gulped. Wearing a bell had always terrified him, but he needed to prove himself. He slowly strapped the jangly jangler from his bony wrist. He was now a kept man. He looked anxiously into Grohl's eyes."You'll have to follow my directions."
Grohl blinked slowly. "I sometimes have... urges," he began to explain, those perfect lip pillows trembling with every intake of breath. Ron orgasmed in sympathy, creamy man juice trickling down the main shaft of his spandex mermaid tail.
The professor looked away in polite ignorance. "You must never speak of our quest. It's a dangerous mission, and you know it isn't socially acceptable, and people would probably call us mean names or something if they knew-- and I can't bear to be called 'fag' anymore!" he paused to catch his breath, left hand stroking his purple beard. "Uh, anyway. You must also never touch the pubic hair of a magypsy." Ron looked at the unremarkable man before him warily. "What the hell?"
"Is this when the pubic hair is still attached, or can I not touch it when it's shaved or waxed or plucked off?" Ron for the first time began to doubt his devotion to the mission. Could he really not touch the fragile, tender hairs of the pelvic region of an entire sect of people? What about his collection? He tousled the orangey strands of ginger that permeated through his scalp, ridding himself of all insecurities and considering the option of his woolen latex mitts. "As you wish, Master," he said condescendingly, while crying internally over the miscarried fetus of possibility.
Meanwhile, in the magypsy lair, the ghost Professor Binns was tucking his one and only son into a bed of rocks and straw. "Goodnight, son. This time tomorrow, you shall sleep in your glorious bed at Hogwarts". Dudley's eyelids fluttered down and he fell into a peaceful sleep.
Faro Delicious awoke the next morn to a sweetcake and fried piggy, lovingly prepared by his several manservants. He patted the one bowed on his knees next to the Pharow's stone bed swiftly on the behind, fingers lingering near the crack.
His father, the purple-haired magypsy Professor Binns, patted him on the head with a loving smile. "Good morning, son, and welcome to your new quarters". The room was enormous-- located in the dungeons, as indicated by the lack of windows, and decorated in the most clashing of purples and oranges. "You shall be sorted this morn at the breakfast feast," he explained. Dudley nodded, strips of pigfat dangling and dripping from his jiggling jowls. He swallowed and wiped the barbecue sauce across his face. He looked at his father expectantly.
Ontonia Professor Binns looked around the ceiling nervously with his translucent, empty, soulless eyes and hummed something that sounded like the theme song of the hit Civil War thriller "Yam Pants" or maybe like a whinnying platypus. Dudley Delicious smacked his theme park turkey leg down on the floor and screeched "WE NEVER DO ANYTHING ANYMORE! IT'S LIKE YOU'RE A TOTALLY DIFFERENT PERSON!!! DO YOU EVEN LOVE ME???!?!?!?!"
Binns stared at him with tender love in his fat-people eyeballs. "Catch-22, Dudley". They made their way, walkers side-by-side, through the halls of Hogwarts, father pointing out points of interest to son, slowly, together, side-by-side, along the thruways of Hogwarts. Dudley sneezed. Magypsy Binns wiped his nostrils with his creamy silk sleeve. Ghostly apparition Binns turned and held the Risen Faro by his shoulders, looking earnestly into his eyes. "Son, I have to tell you something," he begun, eyes already beginning to fill with ears.
He plucked an ear out of his eye and lovingly stuck it to his magypsy son's forehead like a post-it note and sighed. "I was cruising Wikipedia, and I..." he choked back a sob, only bringing forth a raincloud of wet, silvery, chocolatey ghost tears. Dropping his walker to clutch his ailing, heartbroken, heartburny, Melissa Joan Hart, red heart, Binnseys fell to the cold pink shag carpeting of the hallway, crying and clutching and falling through numerous stories of brick, concrete, paper, plastic, packing peanut, circus peanut and peanut brittle flooring and pipes of the Hogwarts castle.
His magical magypsy-ghost wings sprouted behind him in his time of need, however, and he floated serenely back to Dudley's level in front of the Grand Eatery. "I mean, I just wanted to tell you: Don't freak out, Duds. You'll do fine. Have fun getting sorted". He slapped his son sharply across the ass as he watched him walk inside the cafetorium. The entire student body saw the display of sexual aggression, but pretended not to. The sorting hat was waiting atop a rickety old stool made of the femurs of humans and the penis-bones of elephants. Dudley approached it slowly. Dumbledore stood to give his speech.
All those girls in ties and boys in bikinis reminded Delicious of a good friend's words of wisdom, words he hadn't thought of in a decade. "Bitches ain't shit but hos and tricks," he whispered to his horses, who yakked in reply.
"YAKK!". Dumbledore rose and tapped his glass. "Excuse me, students," he began, but his dentures fell out. Fred and George cackled like a pair of laughing hyenas, or perhaps a pair of homosexual identical twins. "SHUT THE FUCK UP!" he shrieked like a photo of Helen Keller, or perhaps a portrait of Peter Paul Ruebens as a young child dressed in purple. He began once the students were all systematically petrified by a basilisk on a leash held by the new teacher who was also a mountain giant, Professor Giant. "Thank you. Students, there is a new student coming today. He is very special. And he will now be sorted!"
Delicious spread his creamy wings and thighs and squat-walked to the diamond-encrusted hovercraft upon which Dumbley was perched. Dumbo pulled out his metal wand and cursed the chafing prophet with a "Shumfafa" spell. He smirked with the self-satisfaction of a scarecrow on fire as Delicious writhed and pivoted his hips and breakdanced. No one will upstage me on my own hovercraft, the D-man laughed uproarously.
"Buh-BAM!" he shouted with the ferocity of a black person. He whipped his schlong out and began stroking it with such intensity that layers of his delicate flesh began falling off in not-so-thin layers. Soon he was pumping the exposed spongey tissue of his erection; blood was spurting in all directions, and the old, saggy man was turning an alarming shade of transparent white. Soon enough, however, Dumburr gave a hoot and a grunt and ejaculated the most expensive display of fireworks the students had ever witnessed. As the show ended and the smoke disappeared, one saw the sorting hat, in all its understated glory, coughing and regurgitating chunky, blood-streaked cum. Old-man cum. Dudley vomitted in his mouth, swallowed, and approached the hat, face scrunched up in a horrible display of anxiety, or perhaps constipation.
Truly, his face was one of rapturous joy upon seeing a condom that would actually fit his flabby chode. Spinning the hat prophylactic on the end of his ring finger, he whipped it to the top of his head, delicately placing it upon his Cerberus-esque suncolored locks. The cap cupped his cranium, squeezing until only the most necessary of brain waves were heard. After sixty-eight minutes, it sputtered and shrieked, spun and shat "VIACOM!!!!!"
The students, who had all be un-petrified by a magical spell only Professor Giant and his pet Basicock knew, gasped in shock. "WHAT THE FUCK IS VIACOM?" shrieked Crabbe and Goyle at the same time. Draco sneered and strangled Crabbe to death, looking Goyle pointedly in the eyes the whole time. Dumbledore, a look of serene surprise on his ugly-fugly mugly-mug, rose to address the issue.
"Viacom is our brand new house that none of you 'tards can be in," he explained eloquently, shifting his package out of his tight leather pants. "My tight leather pants," he gestured, "are made out of the finest and purest cowsheeppig shells on the market." He spun, pausing at 180 degrees so the students and faculty alike could admire his sagging man-ass that dribbled down the legs of the pants.
Professor Giant applauded, making such a huge clamour that most of the students and faculty were knocked out of their chairs, landing conveniently crotch-to-crotch or crotch-to-face. Everyone blushed and Dumbledore did an about-face, continuing. "Dudley gets to stay in his own private room because he's special and we like him better than you faggots. Faggots. Prissy-sissy QUEERS!" he yelled, eyes squinched shut and spittle flying from his mouth to collect in a spit-puddle. Hermione began to cry.
"HermishitfuckIdon'tcareaboutyouatall," Dumbfuck threw a tomato in her general direction, instantly killing one of those fucking Creevey brothers.
"CLASS IS MOTHERFUCKING DISMISSED!" he shrieked in the highest falsetto possible. He Cleeyayed, popped & locked, and collapsed on the floor in a heap. McGonagall rolled her left eye and Professor Snape snickered. Dudley slowly made his way to his single-serving, American bungalow-style television dinner table. He sat down on his child-sized stool and farted silently. He felt awkward. The only Viacom.
Suddenly, Professor appeared in his lap, singing words of comfort and homogeny. But no, it was only a hallucination brought on by the spoiled life of a coke dealer. Cracking open a can of the good beer that he'd taken from the stores in his pocket, he chugged it in a pathetic amount of gulps and ended up crying as the other children laughed at his feeble effort.
Meanwhile, a suspiciously average man in classy black robes was watching all the while. It was professor Grohl, and he was staring at Dudley with hatred in his face. Professor Giant noticed with a chest-jolt the prejudice and made a mental note to remember to physically intimidate him into submission later. His cock hardened at the thought. His cock was three feet long.
Fang the bird lept into the air like a jackal and took Delicious's american cheese sandwich. Giggling haughtily, it sashayed on back to Professor Yiffy Quirrel, who petted it with a gleam in his freakishly yellow-red eyes.
The Super Hall was a veritable Zoo Of Chaos this morning! Dudley attempted to slink out unseen, but was tripped twelve times by eighteen different students, one of which was Ron Weasley. Dudley's bloody nose cried tears of blood as he pushed his way out of Ham Center.
He ran as fast as his piggy legs could carry him, which was a trifle slower than ancient Professor Tortoise, the only demon on staff. Thighs rubbing so fervently they caught fire, he sped to his lonely, cock-infested room. Upon entering, he was greeted with crowing of the cocks as they all laid eggs on his cheapie shit.
"NOT MY PLAYSTATION!" he grunted like a gay man. He wrung their necks one by one while singing a jolly song about songs, in french. His room was covered in blood and feather, but he finally found some fucking piece and quite. He collapsed on the bed with a heaving, wheezing, sleazing sigh. He fell asleep like a rock.
But all rocks must be kicked. This time Zabini Blaise and Ernie "Chartruese" MacMillan, two Slytherpuffs with upstanding moral cred, did the honors. They kicked him with their fists and faces until he started drooling, and then they hid in his drawers.
The next morning, Dudley awoke to find his face had been kicked in. It was depressing. The intense emotion made him sprout wings and turn into his Faro Delicious form, and all his wounds were healed and his beauty returned. He was no longer a pudgy mess of a human being. He was skinny. Finally!
The blond turned to Faro with an appraising eye. His cock twitched, and he knew it was true. "It's you!" he whispered excitedly. "You are the Faro!"
Pansy's recent sex-change in order to be more like her boyfriend, Draconium Mafofo had provided her with the necessary skills to pursue her dream and become an Andean lumberjack. But passage to the Andes was punishable by death unless permitted by one with the initials F. D.
She was struck instantly with the fact that Dudley's real name wasn't Faro Delicious-- it was Dudley Dursley. She pissed and wept.
Hermione Granger, for that was Pansy's male name, punched the Faro in the face and ran out of the dungeon sobbing. Snape made a lewd thrusting gesture and grunt, licking his lips lasciviously.
A young girl passed by with huge tits and a loud mouth. "AHHHHHHHH!" she screamed. She was loud, but cool.
Luna Lovegood waggled her funbags at Snape and the Patil twins, winking her squinty little lazy eye. Faroph took a large swig from the plastic milk jug of whiskey he carried under his golden robes.
"69 Points from Viacom for inappropriate imbibation-nation of illicit alcoholic substances!" yelped Snape, who was fondling his cock n balls like a baby bunny. "Tonight we'll learn the Magypotion. Can anyone tell me about this potion?"
HermioPansy practically wet himself while straining his obtusely short arm up into the heavens. Shooting out a single stream of mucous from all of his pores, Snape pointed his pussy poker at the human abomination.
"Yes, Yoland?" he sneered, the corner of his nose raising to meet the corner of his greasy black eyeball.
"Oh, thank you, father!" squealed the melting snowman, hissing and grunting with pleasure. "Thank you, my liege!. Snape rolled his eyes and slapped Pansione in the face with his face. Her corpulent cheek made a sharp "slap!" noise.
Popping in creamy climax, UglyMcFuck deflated like a creampuff, sinking dazedly back into it's chair, oozing pus onto the stone cold brick carpet.
"The Magypotion has been used for centuries," she began, and puked up a little in her mouth. She swallowed, and continued. "Nobody knows what it does, but Geraldo the Geriatric prophesied three thousand years ago that it should be duplicated perfectly each year and kept in high supply throughout the world for some event in the future," she finished and shrugged. "It's very mysterious, but people keep at it."
Delicious snorted in triumph, casually brushing his golden blondey locks as a more emo and covert way to hide his MAGYPSY forehead mark. He squeezed Luna's thigh and giggled at some inside joke that no one but he knew. Luna wept at the five bruisy thumbprints that appeared on her anemic leg-skin, mourning her now-dead career as an "after picture" for a thigh acne advertisement (or advert, in Brittospeek).
Snape sneezed in agreement."Indeed, Snaggletooth." His sagging grey underwear squeaked as he paced up and down the aisles of students in his clacky pink rabbit-fur stiletto platforms. "Now work with your partners to complete the potion!"
"I hope you forwent the glute implants," Draco sensuously mouthed to Far0h Duddy Delight. The chubby, bewinged blonde spasmed against his potions cauldron in shock, pouring molten steel in a suit of armor over his nebulous fairy-wrists. Shrieking in agony, DJ Duddlematron shook his delicate forearms, causing his hands to snap off the lithe supports. Alex Mack gratefully ate the hands and slithered under Professor Snapes robes and down into Hell.
The next day after lunch, Hermione got busy sorting through her old fat-clothes. She gasped, teeth falling out of her face as she discovered something she hadn't seen in months; a time-turner! Hermione gently and tenderly picked it up, gently stroking and fingering its hourglass figure. Just then, Parvati opened the door to their room. Hermione quickly stood up, trying to hide her new treasure-- but in her haste she tripped over her Jared dockers and fell down fourteen flights of stairs! The time turner turned, and turned, and turned... Hermione was in time-limbo for what seemed like forever.
When she crash-landed onto the stone floor with enough force to create and destroy thirty universes, Hermione looked around at the sepia-colored setting. Had she truly penetrated that deeply into the past? She brushed an ebony black strand of heat-straightened hair out of her eyes with a pale, white, moonlike, creamy, opalescent, bone-white, sugary, caucasian, gothy hand, which had a tarot card tattooed on the back.
"Maybe mistory-hystery times has a good beach somewhere," she thought to herself as she surveyed her surroundings. Oh yeah, Hogwarts. Except this Hogwarts looked a little less worn-- maybe 30 years less, she estimated looking at the erosion patterns on the granite tiles. She suddenly heard footsteps behind her-- she whipped around to see Professor Snape turning around the corner toward her. Except this wasn't Professor Snape-- this was Severus Snape, Slytherin fifth-year!!!!!!
Her blood-red eyes flicked over him appraisingly. He had the body of Adonis's younger twin, Fotchney, who hadn't received enough oxygen during birth. Herminone liked that in a manboy. She slid languidly greasily out in front of him in her floor length midnight evil black satin dress that showed her egg-like breast implants to their nippliest advantage. "I'm Shamboza," she whispered hungrily.
"Shamboza Yonifer-Lipton"
Snape blinked in horny fervor, but his Death Eater training prevented him from doing anything but murdering this stranger. "AVADA KEDAVRAAAA," he murmured, wand and cock out. Hermione died and never returned to her time ever ever again the end.