A/N

Alright you sons of bitches, here it is. Something I've been meaning to do for a while. Ya boi here decided, after reading some good ass fan fiction, to write some bad ass fan fiction. And not bad ass in the good way. Am I making any sense? Probably not. And that's for the best. This here's a Harry Potter fan fiction, written while I'm inebriated. It's ok, too. I'm 21. I'm drinking a Shiner Strawberry Beer. Tasty stuff, I might say. This is not a paid sponsorship.

Here's some basic premise. None of this is planned out. I'm just gonna write shit as I feel it. Don't expect well-written crackfic. I may do some time travel shit, I may do some erotic shit, I don't know. All I know is that you won't see me calling Hermione "'Mione," you won't see Harry Potter being a fuckin young ass Albert Einstein, if I include Luna she won't be some sort of God or some shit, Harry won't be some savant with Goblin folk (srsly that bugs the fuck out of me), the Dursleys won't be running Harry through a sado-masochistic gauntlet, none of that most noble and ancient house of potter shit (that stuff bugs me even more), and no fuckin harems either. these kids are like 12. Wait till they're 18 for that kinky shit, jfc. Also Harry Crow will get kicked in the balls by Harry muthafuckin Orca.

Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling etc etc what you see in the start of every one of these piles of steaming wizard turd.

"Ow, ooh, owie," Harry said, having bumped his head on the backside of a stair, "I really oughta lay off the xannies. They sure do put me over."

Harry Potter was no ordinary boy—he was a wizard. A few weeks ago, a giant man named Hagrid revealed it all. His parents had been a witch and a wizard. They'd attended a school for magic in Scotland, and now it was his turn to attend. Harry wasn't sure whether it was the xanax hangover, or the fact that he had just hit his head, but he wasn't feeling super hot. Today was the day where he would move all of his stuff to his cousin Dudley's second bedroom. Why that asshole needed a second room was beyond Harry's knowledge. But Harry wasn't used to questioning his Aunt and Uncle's strange decisions. They hated magic—and by proxy, they hated him.

Harry roundhouse-kicked the cupboard door open (truly a feat, considering the lack of room in a cupboard), emitting a loud "HIIIIIIII-YA." Vernon Dursley looked up from his morning cup of coffee and shook his head. For a brief moment, Harry thought he recognized a look of terror on his face. The look of terror became a look of fear. The look of fear became a look of anger. The look of anger became a look of hate. And the look of hate became a look of suffering. Harry thought that was a nice little phrase there. He made a mental note of selling it at some future point. Also harry's a seer. This will never be touched on again.

Harry whistled to himself as he carried his shit up the stairs. Not his actual literal shit, but you know, his few personal belongings. He dropped them in his room and then promptly dropped trou in front of Dudley's door. Harry knew Dudley's routine by heart. In approximately 5 seconds, Dudley would leave the door and head downstairs. This time, Harry was prepared. Dudley opened the door to an unexpected walk in the moonlight, when he expected a walk in the morning sunlight instead.

"Mummy, Harry has exposed his derrière to me! I wish to press charges!"

Harry wasn't sure exactly what the fuck was going on. He never remembered Dudley being such a whiny little bitch. Harry giggled and walked into his new bedroom. His new owl hedwig was already chilling in her cage on his dresser.

"H-h-h-how are you doing, Hedwig?" Harry stammered.

"Jus chillin', you know what i mean?" Hedwig responded, despondently.

"You… you… you…. you… you… you… you can talk?" Harry ejaculated.

"Nah, man, you're still on them xans, my man—ha HA! chill tf out my dude," Hedwig articulated. (A/N I've used these shitty words intentionally).

Harry woke up, collapsed on the floor of his new bedroom. Had this morning been a dream? In the background, he heard Dudley bitchin and moaning about having seen Harry's ass first hand. Nope. Harry figured he passed out after coming in through the door.

The rest of the month went by swimmingly for Harry. So swimmingly that he blacked out and couldn't remember anything to write. Soon enough, he was at King's Cross Station, prepared to board the Hogwarts Express (A/N I went there when I was young and took a picture where Harry busted thru the barrier and I showed the kids in my class and told them I got through. Also when I was even younger I thought Harry Potter was real and lived on the roof of my school). Only problem was, how the fuck was this little son of a bitch gonna manage to get on the train?

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