I do not, in any way, shape, or form, own Harry Potter.

387. That's how many days it had been since Gellert Grindelwald had received a visitor, today being the 388th. So it came as something of a surprise to hear a slightly manic voice screaming, "jailbreak, mothafuckas! Boom! How you like me now, biach?!"

After several minutes of hearing explosions, boasting, and pained screams, Gellert was becoming seriously confused. Judging by the vaguely familiar-sounding voice's bragging, he would guess that whoever was causing all this chaos was there to free him, but that didn't make sense. As far as he knew, there were only two people in the world good enough to break into and out of Nurmengard, and Gellert was one of them.

The other possibility, Albus, didn't bear thinking about. Albus had, after all, been the one to imprison Gellert in the first place. Gellert could only assume that, during his several-decade absence from the world, a new wizard with skill to rival his own had appeared.

Meanwhile, downstairs, an old man with piercing blue eyes, waist-length white hair, and a beard that went just as low was having the time of his life. Considering just how long his life had been (very), this was saying something. Dancing around the many guards placed to jail his old friend, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore was having a grand old time . . . well, blowing shit up, really.

Whenever he saw a guard, he would use a different curse on them. All of them were fatal, but some were noticeably less pleasant than others. For instance: one he killed using a blood boiling curse on his heart (agonising), and another he took out with a cutting curse to his jugular (comparatively pleasant, no?). Really Gellert had been on to something, he thought to himself as he transfigured one guard's bones to glass. Being evil is rather engaging.

A few more minutes of muggle-movie inspired one-liners and attempts at what Dumbledore referred to as "street talk, yo" (the "yo" is very important), utterly pointless explosions (they did make rather pretty colours, if that counts for anything), and thoroughly unnecessary carnage (frankly, the concept of guards just annoyed him), Dumbledore had reached the topmost cell.

"Yo, G, Dawg! In the hizzy!" he called by way of greeting.

"Albus?" the newly christened G Dawg asked incredulously. "What are you doing here? And why are you talking like that?"

"Ain't no thang, G Dawg! I'm jus' bus'in' a brotha outta the joint. Fo' real."

"Please stop doing that."

"Doin' what, though, G Dawg?" he asked, genuinely confused.

"Stop talking like that!" G Dawg was barely able to keep himself from shouting.

"Fine," Dumbledore agreed, though he was clearly unhappy about it. "At any rate, Gellert, old friend, I have come to free you."

"Yes, I gathered as much," G Dawg (yes, he will be referred to as "G Dawg" in the narration, or at least he will be when the narration is based on my viewpoint, Albus thought to no one in particular. Deal with it.) replied dryly. "I meant why are you breaking me out of the prison that you yourself condemned me to all those years ago?"

"Truthfully? I need a new Dark Arts professor."

"I believe you mean 'Defense Against the Dark Arts,' no?"

"No indeed. Hogwarts teaches the Dark Arts now. All up in this bitch."

"That's all well and good," Gellert replied, trying desperately to inject some degree of sense into the proceedings (he probably can't, but it's cute that he's trying), "and I do quite want to go free, but why me?"

"Because you're just so darn cute!" Dumbledore squealed. Upon seeing the look of horror on G Dawg's face, he burst out laughing. "I'm joking! I want you because you're the very best like no one ever waaas!"

It was becoming increasingly apparent to G Dawg that Dumbledore was, quite simply, insane. As a concerned friend, he made note of this that he might exploit it later. That is to say . . . help . . . Dumbledore. Yes, that's it. Help him.

"Very well, Albus. Do you have any conditions?"

"Absolutely. You have to promise to stop being eviltacular."

"Is that . . . all?" G Dawg asked hesitantly. Given that Dumbledore was actually managing to make less sense as the conversation went on (which, considering how little he made at the beginning of said discussion, was pretty damn impressive), he was expecting some truly unreasonable demands.

"That's everything!" Dumbledore confirmed brightly.

"Very well," G Dawg consented. "I hereby forever swear off any . . . eviltacular . . . ness?"

"Eviltacularness indeed," Dumbledore confirmed, suddenly grim. Eviltacularness is no laughing matter. "And actually, I don't want you to swear off all eviltacularness. Just most of it. You can still be an utter bastard to your students; Christ knows I am. And Snivellus. Whiny little ponce. Regardless, welcome to the Hogwarts staff!" Dumbledore happily declared, blasting the bars off of G Dawg's cell.

G Dawg, for the first time in many decades, stepped out of the cell that had become a sort of home to him and joined his old friend. "Grab my arm, G Dawg," Dumbledore commanded. "We out!" G Dawg did as he was bade and the Dumbledore apparated them out of the prison and in front of the gates of Hogwarts.

"Welcome, G Dawg, to the 1990 Hogwarts school year."

"Wait, why did you say that?" G Dawg asked, nonplussed.

"Whatever do you mean, G Dawg?"

"Well, the way you said that, it sounded . . . ominous. So I assume that there's something special about the 1990 school year that isn't true of others?"

"Nothing!" Dumbledore lied (blatantly) "Nothing at all, G Dawg! How about a tour?"

While Dumbledore was breaking his old friend (and would-be boyfriend) out of prison, Harold James Potter was salivating over a letter. The letter in question was a formal invitation to join Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, which, while it had a stupid name, could teach him how to control his powers. As much fun as it was to torment the Dursleys (and it was very fun, indeed), it would probably be a lot more rewarding to tread over people who could, in theory, fight back.

Because really, where was the fun in dominating those who were inherently weaker than oneself? Had they not tried (and, for a very long time, succeeded in doing so) to make his life a living hell, Harry wouldn't take nearly as much pleasure in destroying the Dursleys' spirits as he did.

He was pulled from his happy musings by an almost endearingly timid knock at his door. Almost. "What?" he snapped at what he knew to be his Aunt.

"Brunch is ready, Your Excellence," she informed him, bowing low as she entered his room.

"Clearly it isn't," he argued tonelessly. "If it were ready, I would be eating it, wouldn't I? But I'm not, am I? Why is that, Petunia Dearest?"

"Be-be-because I haven't . . . brought it to Your Excellence?"

"What do you know, you can learn," Harry quipped. "It just takes months at a time. Get on that, would you?"

Petunia bowed out of Harry's room, which, incidentally, used to be hers and Vernon's (the master bedroom was the only one with an attached bathroom, so Harry naturally had to have it) to go get his meal.

"Oh, and Petunia?" he called after her retreating back. She stopped dead, but didn't dare turn to face him. "Go get me Dudley, would you?"

She scurried down the steps to fetch brunch and her son, in that order. Harry had Dudley wait outside his door, which he kept open so that Dudley could see him eat (he was no longer allowed to eat anything with any sugar in it, thanks to Harry, and his brunch was loaded with just that). When he finished three quarters of his meal, he called his dear cousin into the room.

"Dudley, I want you to know something, and I want you to pass it on to your pathetic excuses for parents: starting this September, I will be attending a boarding school outside of the country." Harry could see Dudley's eyes light up with hope, a hope that he was determined to quash. "There, I will be learning to better control my powers." Harry was thrilled to see Dudley's crestfallen face at these words.

"While I am away, the three of you will be under heavy surveillance. If any of you put so much as a toe out of line . . . I will literally eat you. Dismissed." Dudley waddled away as fast as his piggy little legs could carry him (which was quite slow, amusingly) to inform his parents of the unfortunate news.

Humming to himself, Harry finished his brunch and prepared for the day. He would have Vernon take him into London to purchase his school supplies, and after that, who knew? Harry knew for a fact that it had been far too long since he had practised seducing members of the fairer sex, and he rather felt that Alice, from his primary school, was overdue for some flirting.

Oh, the joys of youth.

Voldemort was not a happy man. Truth be told, he wasn't really a man at all, but some expressions just sound better if one ignores such details, no? There was a reason he was possessing the nitwit Quirrel, and it wasn't for the fun of it. The foolish little man had (for reasons that Voldemort would never understand) been offered a job teaching at Hogwarts, and Voldemort would have been a fool not to take advantage of such an opportunity.

Voldemort was a lot of things. He was a psychopath, a bastard (literally and figuratively), more than a little insane, and terrified of death. One thing he wasn't, though, was a fool.

And so he had taken over whatever it was that passed for a mind in Quirrel's world, only to be rebuffed. Evidently, Dumbledore had found another person to teach Dark Arts. Wanker. Whoever it was was a bloody fucking wanker.

"But Headmaster," he whined pathetically, hoping that he could still pull this tactic off. He hadn't tried this approach since he was a child, though he had found it rather successful then. Perhaps it would still be. "You promised me!"

"Yes I did," Dumbledore replied happily. "I promised you, and I'm breaking that promise. Do you know why?"

Quirrelmort (as he would now call himself) shook his head, forcing tears out.

"It's because I don't fucking like you. You smell funny, you wear entirely too much purple, and left nostril is slightly larger than your right. Tell me, Quirrel, why should I hire a man like that?"

"Well," Quirrelmort began hopefully, "can I at least have my old job back, sir? Teaching Muggle Studies? I know how much you hate Professor Burbage."

"That's true," Dumbledore mused, seemingly lost in thought. "Her hands are too big compared to her feet, and I find that quite disturbing. I swear that woman is out to kill me."

"She probably is, sir," Quirrelmort said. Just a little more.

"Yes, I suppose you can have her old job," Dumbledore agreed at length. "But you have to agree to wear less purple. Why not try wearing more . . . fuschia?"

"I believe that fuschia is a shade of purple, sir," Quirrelmort said diplomatically.

Dumbledore stood from his chair and glared at Quirrelmort with undisguised loathing. "YOU SHALL WEAR FUSCHIA!" he bellowed. In that instant, Quirrelmort was both reminded of why he had previously feared Dumbledore and forced to question the basis of that fear. Clearly, the old man was mad as a hatter. Several hatters, in fact.

It doesn't matter, Quirrelmort decided. Just so long as I can get my hands on the stone.

As Quirrelmort was pathetically grovelling to get a job, Cornelius Fudge was sitting in his office, staring at a wall. He was terribly bored, but, unfortunately for him, there was really nothing at the moment he felt was worthy of his interest. Had he known that Dumbledore, Voldemort, Grindelwald, and Harry Potter were all currently plotting to rule Hogwarts, the wizarding Britain, non-wizarding Britain, and, well, everything else, he might have felt differently.

Sadly, though, he didn't know these things. As far as Fudge was concerned, very few things were more interesting than setting up plans that were approximately four-thousand times more complicated than was even remotely necessary, so this was a competition in which he would love to participate. Nevermind that none of his plans had ever worked. Literally. That wasn't an exaggeration. Of the 427 overly-complex plans that Fudge had made since becoming Minister ten years ago, not a single one of them accomplished what it was meant to. Most chalked this up to Fudge being an idiot.

As if to prove this very belief, Fudge called for his secretary. "DIGGORY! Get your lazy ass in here!"

Amos Diggory, a man who was distinctly overqualified for his job, walked into the minister's office, eying his boss with open distaste. Not that Fudge recognised it as such. "Yes, Minister?" he asked in a tone that should have left Fudge in no doubt as to the esteem Diggory held him in. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, Fudge was too busy focusing on what had caused his annoyance to notice, and we can't be certain that he would have realised what it meant even if he wasn't.

"Why was there fudge included in my lunch this afternoon?"

"For the exact same reason literally everything that happens here happens: you requested it. Sir."

"I DID NO SUCH THING!" Fudge roared. "DO I LOOK LIKE A BLOODY CANNIBAL TO YOU, DIGGORY?"

Amos put his head in his hands, trying to stop himself from sobbing in frustration. It didn't work particularly well. "You aren't fudge, sir. You're a wizard named Fudge. You eating a foodstuff whose name you share isn't cannibalism, sir. It just isn't."

Fudge picked up his paperweight, which was actually a brick of heroin, and threw it at Amos' face. "I didn't ask you for semantics, Diggory. I will not eat my own people!"

Count to ten, Amos told himself. Changing the subject, he asked a question of legitimate concern. "Can I keep this, sir?" he asked, picking up the brick as he did.

"No," Fudge replied, sounding smug. "I need to add some bleach so that it puts a kid in a coma, then give it to a girl who's pregnant with an ex-boyfriend's baby, even though she tells another boy that it's his and a third boy assumes that it's his. Then, the third guy will kill the girl because he isn't ready to be a father, and this will send the first boy on a revenge fueled mission, bringing him into the criminal element that pervades his high school, though most don't see it."

"That's the plot of Brick, sir," Amos pointed out.

"What's your point," Fudge snapped, his mood shifting from jovial to annoyed faster than was likely to be healthy.

"That movie won't come out for another fifteen years, sir."

"So then stop breaking any willing suspension of disbelief by pointing that out, dumbass."

"But sir," Amos protested, "isn't giving the entire plot of the movie more distracting than pointing out that it's distracting? Besides which, you gave multiple spoilers for the film, despite the fact that very few people have ever seen it. Wasn't that rather inconsiderate?"

Fudge stared at him, confusion evident. "Can you repeat that? Using smaller words?"

And he wonders why his plans always fail, Amos thought to himself.

AN: Woo! First crackfic! I love the idea of a sociopathic Harry (I don't really know why, to be honest), and (even though I usually hate evil!Dumbledore fics) I love the idea of a whole bunch of villains vying for the top spot. Also, evil!insane!Dumbledore is more fun to write than I can ever tell you. Sorry not a whole lot happened in this chapter, I just wanted to introduce the five major players in the story (Harry, Dumbledore, Voldemort, Grindelwald, and Fudge) and show how they deviate from their cannon counterparts. Also, the pop-culture and time travel stuff will be exclusive to Fudge's POV, and Dumbledore directly addressing the audience through his thoughts will (hopefully) be a one-time thing.

One problem with this concept: reading (or writing, for that matter) about a protagonist who gets off on subjugating others, making people feel inferior to him, and crushing any hope they may have under his boot isn't quite as light-hearted and fun as I thought it would be. Clearly I didn't think that one through at all; I kind of just figured "evil!Harry vs evil!Dumbledore. Should be fun."

Look, I know that updates for VTW have been really slow lately, and I'm sorry for that. The problem, really, is that I have too many ideas. Like, I have an idea for a marriage contract fic where the contract is in the background, a vampire Harry fic where Voldemort is permanently dead even though his horcruxes are still active, a Percy Jackson fic that ends with a Percy/Rachel pairing (because nobody writes that pairing. Nobody.), the yet-unnamed fic that rewrites the entire HP series with AU, its sequel (which will be at least a trilogy), and its sequel (which will probably be a stand alone if I ever get around to writing it). Deets are in my profile for those who want 'em. Finally, I should point out that, of the four stories that I'm currently juggling (VTW, the AU one, this one, and the PJatO one, this is my lowest priority at the moment.

Well, I think that's everything. Thanks for reading my story and my ramblings (wait, those are the same thing. Ah well.)! Duke out!