Harry Potter had been so happy to be picked up by Hagrid that day on that random ramshackle shack, where Hagrid gave him his first birthday present ever. A cake he had sat on, but whatever, that just made it better. It was home-made and pink. Why pink? Who knows, maybe that was just Hagrid's favorite color, who knows. You don't know his life story, this book wasn't about him. This book was about Harry Wandflippin Potter. The One Who Lived was what they called him.

When Harry entered the magical world, people were already all up on him. They were like, "Ohh, Harry! You're so cool! Wow! You got a scar!" and Harry didn't let that go to his head. Oh, no. Instead of having cool spells and owls, and turning cups into mouses, and mouses into goblets, Harry Wandflippin Potter had to fight an 80-year old snake-man who was stuck being a face on the back of a skinny guy's head. you'd think he would have made a noise when he was suffocating under that turban, but no. That evil snake man was a tricky, crafty blighter.

And that's why Harry knew. He had to fight him.

Harry dealt with fighting Voldemort his entire school year. Who cares that he was literally 11, right? Dumbledore was like 'yeah, let the 11 year old fight the scariest wizard-snake in the entire wizarding world, it'll be fine. Let me eat my lemondrops, darn.'

So, Harry had to fight Voldemort as a little kid. Most kids are freaking out about tests, and here's this punk who fights the baddest wizard in the rapping world since he was literally a baby.

Harry dealt with this pressure his entire life until he realized that in order to beat Voldemort, and be able to live the life he wanted, he would have to do more than just have a school-year hobby of being a pain in this snake-man's booty. he had to make huge amounts of money. He figured he already had fans because of his scar, so getting a fanbase would be nothing.

Forget this Triwizard tournament! He was going to become a spitfire rapper. The baddest rapper the entire British wizarding community had ever seen. That would really irk Voldemort.

Harry vaguely heard Hermione talking to him over his own thoughts. All Harry heard was a great beat in the background, slipping him effortlessly into a montage in which Harry wrote down a bunch of rhyming lyrics and made hand gestures at people. Especially Voldemort.

"Harry, I really think you should get ready for your Triwizard tournament, I mean, you're fighting a dragon. Like, a real dragon. I don't think you understand how big of a deal this is, Harry. This is gonna be scary, Harry. Harry, Scary. Wow, I can Rhyme. I'm a poet and I-"

"DIDN'T EVEN KNOW IT, HERMIONE." Harry jumped up, knocking an entire section of tables in the Great Hall over. Ron was glad he picked up his prune juice and pumpkin cakes. "THAT'S IT, GUYS. I'm not Harry anymore. I'm...

The Boy Who Burned." He nodded at the name with a slowly creeping smile on his face, a slow laughter brewing under his voice. Hermione and Ron were frightened.

Harry then abruptly left the Great Hall in an awkward half-run.