Disclaimer: Eliezer Yudkowsky pwned me.

This...thing...was begun for my own amusement in 2015, almost immediately lost to a hard-drive incident, recovered three years later from an unexpected backup, and declared finished after a few minor edits.

Were it a parody it would stick closer to the plot. Were it a satire it would comment on HPMOR as a dark mirror of canon. Instead it is a lampoon!

→ NOTE: Not a spittoon / not a cartoon / not a harpoon / but a LAMPOON!

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Reviews make me happy. Paramount On Parade, they don't make 'em like that any more…

And now—

Under the moonlight, the serious moonlight, something glimmers. Black robes fall. Blood sprays higgledy-piggledy, and someone screams a word.

"Medic!"

After many years of contemplation, Professor Michael Evans-Verres (B. Sc., Biochemistry) had finally yielded to temptation and practicality and simply built his house out of bookcases. And so it was that you couldn't get to the bathroom in the Vevans-Erres residence without suffering a dozen papercuts from the countless volumes devoted to maths, science, history, and the unraveling of the mystery that all started with the Big Bang with which the house was lined.

To this A-frame-shaped stack of paper was added, one fateful July 30th in 1991, one more sheet, one single less-than-wafer-thin piece of parchment...

...and so the Professor, his wife Mary Ann Ginger Petula Nervous-Errors, and their adopted son, Harry James Newton Einstein Surak Potter Erdős-Verres-Evans of Ulm were buried alive like the Collyer Brothers.

The next day, after the bulldozers had been, a confrontation occurred.

"You're joking," said Michael to his beautiful wife.

"If I were joking, I would say, what do you do with an elephant with three balls," she replied.

"Walk him and pitch to the gorilla," said Harry. "Look, Dad, it's a letter inviting me to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Mom agrees that it's a letter from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Either she's lying or insane or joking or correct, and she's not joking, so are you going to phone up the booby hatch to eliminate another possibility or am I?"

"I'm not insane," said Petula petulantly. "I've seen things you people wouldn't believe."

"Shut it, mom, we need professional evaluation on this issue," said Harry, who was already on the phone and six digits into the number for the local loony bin.

"Look, dear, I'm a scientist, or at least an academic," said Michael. "I need proof."

"How about this?" said Petula. "I used to look like Fiona Shaw, but my sister fixed my face. With magic. Which you must NEVER NEVER DO."

"Hello, is that Bedlam? I need a psychiatrist, stat! ...what do you mean, is this the Evans-Verreses again?"

"You know, I wondered why you look exactly like Zooey Deschanel," said Michael. "But you'll have to do better than that — as you know, since we take the Skeptical Inquirer. Extraordinary claims demand extraordinary evidence!"

Petula sighed, grasped her nose firmly, and pulled her own face off.

"Sweet Jesus!" said Michael.

"Shut it, Dad, we're atheists," chided Harry, hanging up the telephone. He scanned the numbers pencilled next to the phone, said "Whoa, brainwave," and started dialing James Randi.

Petula stuck her face back on. "This is called Spellotape," she explained, winding the transparent substance many times around her head. "My sister fixed my face with Transfiguration, which never sticks, you see."

"Sweet Jesus!" said Michael again.

"Michael!" chided Petula, winding more tape around her face until she looked a proper mummy again.

"Bugger, voice mail. Hey, I forgot we've got Penn Jillette on speed dial!"

"Oh, come now, Harry," said Michael, taking the phone away. "Really, magic? I thought you'd know better than to take this seriously, son, even if you're only ten. Magic is just about the most unscientific thing there is! Pish posh, fiddle faddle and also foo! This is clearly just an LSD flashback!"

"Ideas are tested by experiment!" said Harry. "Zombie Feynman, XKCD!"

"Not by prodigies," said Michael. "Not in my house!"

"The house collapsed, dear," said Petula.

"Shut it, Pet. There'll be no testing of hypotheses in this rubble, young man, and that's final!"

"What do you know," sneered Harry. "You're just a - a - professor of biochemistry!"

"So was Isaac Asimov!" roared Michael.

Harry took his hat off and put it over his heart. "Isaac Asimov," everyone said reverently. "All right, I'll do it outside!" added Harry.

And so saying he grabbed his Spider-Man® calligraphy kit and wrote a quick letter accepting his invitation, added "P.S. Please Send Incontrovertible Proof This Is Not A Deception, Lie Or Hallucination", stuffed it into the postage-paid reply envelope, and ran into the back yard with it.

"Now, how do I mail this?" he wondered aloud. "Well, it's a magic letter," he rationalized, "and magic is just sufficiently advanced technology, so —"

And raising his head and the letter to the skies he screamed "CHAP FOEY RIDER!"

A grey pegasus pony wearing a postman's hat swooped down and carried the letter away.

Harry turned to the opened door standing alone in the rubble and said "What do you say to that, old man?"

Michael Evans-Verres said "Welp," and flipped the dining room table just as the Army Corps of Librarians arrived.