Well, I was fucked. Screwed. Given a good rogering by Destiny. Fucked by the fickle fingers of the furious Fates. I think you get the idea by now, so let me introduce myself. I am known as Harry James Potter. I'm fairly sure that's only part of my name, but it's all the parts I know, so what the hell, who cares...

The rogering began when I was just about one and a half years old, and was just about to come to it's painful conclusion. I had managed to mitigate some parts of it, but now, as a fourteen year old, I was going to die, and it would finally be over. In one way I was almost grateful, I suppose. Still, I didn't really want to die, so I did the just about last thing any upright english member of the Church of England would actually do. I prayed.

Looking back at it, it was pretty stupid, but hey, what do you expect, I was fourteen. As a member in good standing of the COE, I had been taken to a church two times a year by my most lovely relatives, and proceeded to believe in god for as long as I stood in the church, as just about everybody except the vicar did. The vicar, well, to tell you the truth, I'm still not sure if he did actually believe at all. But I'm getting sidetracked.

So, I prayed. I hadn't even prayed when I faced a basilisk, but then, I wasn't really thinking at all then, just going through the motions while trying to stay alive. Sure, I had prayed before, asking to leave my relatives, and those had never been granted. The Guy Upstairs must really dislike me somehow. The difference this time though was that I, for absolutely no reason I can grasp, decided to pray to Odin. Further, I compounded my idiocy by focusing on my prayer the same way I focused on a spell, and pushed some of my will and magic into it.

Yep, you see, I am officially a bonehead. A moron. Someone a little behind the curve. And so on. I guess maybe I should have actually thought about some of the stories I had read in times past, but that wouldn't be me. No. I, in all my glorious, moronic, idiotic, and truly stupid life never bothered to actually stop and think about what I read. I had never managed to screw up quite like this, it quickly became clear.

There is a chinese curse I have been told, that goes 'May you live in interesting times.' Well I later found out that the full curse goes 'May you attract the attention of powerful people, and live in interesting times' …. Well, I can say that I can say from personal experience that it is NOT FUN!

So back to me sitting in the tent, looking at a miniature of a dragon and, rather stupidly, praying with everything I had, magic included. Then I heard my name called. And I compounded my already monumental idiocy by just praying harder, and pushing more magic into the prayer.

Well. Let me tell you now, apparently, praying does work! Yes, it does indeed work. But, apparently, when done by someone who is currently being fucked by the fickle fingers of the furious Fates, well, it becomes somewhat like a hydrogen bomb. Pretty amazing to watch later, while sitting in your comfortable house, on your comfortable couch, but not something you want to happen anywhere on the same continent as you...

Let me take you on a mental exercise. Imagine you're a powerful, immortal entity, that has been worshipped as a god for millennia. Now, for the past several centuries, you've retreated to your house and have been basically spending the time drunk as a skunk. Sloshed. Boozed up. Off your head, and so on. So, by now, you are getting monstrously bored, but the 'mortal world' isn't really your place any more, and year by year, you are getting the urge to do something. The last time you got that urge, well, let's just say bad things happened, and the those annoying damn greekies on Olympus still haven't forgotten or forgiven you for it, not to mention what the Lithuanians have planned for if you ever get caught by them.

Then, in one of your rare moments of sobriety, some annoying little bastard SCREAMS for your help. Not only does he just scream, but he is so loud that it's rather the equivalent of him standing right next to you, with a trumpet in your ear, and trying to play a fanfare...

So, naturally, you get shall we say, rather annoyed. Then, seeing as you are sober and you have absolutely bugger all else to do, you decide to actually take a look at the annoying little bastard. Now, you see that it's a mortal annoying little bastard, hereafter just called 'the bastard', and you see that the bastard is barely even a man. Further, he's about to go and fight a dragon. Well, that's a rather odd situation, and on a whim, due to the sudden slight hope that you might actually see something interesting, you look at the bastard's life.

Now, you see that the titch is a child of destiny, marked by fate. And here you do something that has gotten you into trouble before. You decide to intervene out of boredom, and actually answer the little bastard's prayer. In person.

So, with that little mental exercise done, let's return to my situation in the tent. There I was, sitting feeling sorry for myself, and praying for a way out. Then, to my immense surprise, my prayers were actually answered. Let me tell you, having your prayers answered is not always a good thing. The tent flaps open, and in walks some annoying functionary, who proceeds to annoy me by telling me that I am needed right now! and that I have to go fight the dragon. Then a series of things happened very quickly.

First, a monstrously huge raven walked into the tent and ran over to me. It stood in front of me, then jumped up onto my lap, and cawwed harshly. Then to my great amusement, it turned to face the flunky, coughed, muttered "Moron!", coughed again and looked back at me, seemingly very pleased with itself.

Then a second raven the same size as the first stalked in, and jumped up onto my shoulder. By this point I was, shall we say, concerned. Otherwise described as frozen with fear and not daring to move my head. You see, ravens look pretty cool, true. Up close, their beaks also look really fricking sharp, too! And I had one less than six inches from my face, with the owner of said beak now trying to have a staring contest with me...

Then came the third and final blow, even if it wasn't obvious right away. The flap that served as a door for the tent was kicked aside and in walked an old man, dressed in grey with a long beard and an eyepatch. His eye looked at the flunky for a second, before he snorted and turned to me.

"So, Harry... It seems my ravens like you... I wonder what they see..."

At this point the ministry moron proved his moronocity by interrupting, walking up to me and grabbing the shoulder that didn't have a raven on it. He then proceeded to attempt, for about half a second, to drag me out of the chair to go face my dragon. Well, the raven on my lap took extreme exception to being knocked off my lap, and well, let's just say that I was given a first hand view of what a raven's beak can do to an unprotected hand. It's not pretty.

So, as the twit stumbled out of the tent holding the bleeding ruin that had once been his hand, the raven that had been in my lap jumped up onto my now free shoulder. The old man cocked his head and walked around me, his single eye flicking here and there, and all around giving me a severe case of the willies.

"Tell me a story, young Haraldr Jamesson, please, tell me a story. I collect them you know, I have collected them for so long now, and I still find them as fascinating as the very first story I heard."

I, being not the sharpest tool in the shed, just started blabbing about how I had been entered into a contest against my will, how the world hated me, how my friend turned on me, and so on, and so forth. Yeah well, like I said, I'm not the brightest spark, and I had a major case of the Pity Me Syndrome. Slowly, I ran down and just sat there. I do have to say, that it did feel good. Cathartic, I think is the word.

At the end of it all, the creepy old man cocked his head and said, "Well, you are no skald, that is quite clear to me." He walked around me in a circle turning examining me from every angle as the huge raven on my shoulder decided to have another staring contest with me. "No, young Haraldr, you haven't told me the whole story. You have told me of this year only, a single chapter in your life." He waved his hand and a seat appeared opposite me. In the half a second before he sat, I saw wolves and snakes twisted about each other carved over the whole thing. "Tell me from the beginning. You caught my attention, and I dragged myself here because of you, so the least you can do is tell a proper story, maybe even give it some poetry. I have always been so very partial to poetry."

Now, I, bring the most perceptive and brilliant little idiot in the world, immediately seized on one sentence and ignored the rest. "Wait, what? Who are you? What do you mean you came here because of me?"

The old man just looked at me like I was a dullard, tilted his head and sneered. Let me tell you, his sneer was and is impressive. In the tiniest facial movement, he could put more distilled disdain than a years worth of Snape's lessons. He looked me up and down and demanded,"Tell me, child, were you hit on the head when you were younger? Get touched up by a mace? Perhaps take a spear butt to the head?" By this stage, I have to say, he had reached an impressive volume, which only got louder. "Who am I? Why did I come here? By my bloody missing eye, are you truly that stupid, you moronic little twig waver? WHO AM I? YOU ANNOYING LITTLE WELSH WANKER! YOU SCREAMED AT ME TO COME AND SAVE YOU NOT EVEN THIRTY MINUTES AGO!"

By this time he had launched himself out of his seat, and looked like he wanted to rip the tent and everything in it to pieces, me especially. At that stage, I was feeling mildly apprehensive, much like the North Sea is a bit cold and slightly wet. Then something marvellous happened. For the first time in a good while, I was happy to see the man of the minute himself, the good old white whiskered pervert, the candy muncher himself! Dumbledore stepped into the tent with remarkable alacrity, given his advanced decrepitude, and, with his most annoying twinkle firmly in place, asked "Excuse me, but I must ask Harry to come along to compete – his Task awaits! So, if you could stop shouting and move your pets, that would be just wonderful!"

Now, that was a marvellous thing for me, but not so much for Twinkle-robes. It turns out that the ravens really didn't like being called pets. It also turned out that the creepy old one-eye didn't like getting interrupted when he was on a rant. He thrust his hand forward, as if grabbing something, and in his hand a seven foot tall spear appeared, of which fully a foot was the blade. I then found out the answer to the question 'Just how fast can the dear old Headmaster move?'. Well, let me tell you, BLOODY FAST!, especially when being chased by a man with a spear intent on shoving that spear where the sun doesn't shine!

At that point, both the ravens on my shoulders chorused "Go fight!" and then clacked their beaks bare millimetres from my eyes. It was at that point that I learned an interesting fact about myself – in certain circumstances, it is indeed possible for me to keep one eye fixed on each shoulder, even as I walk, or rather stumble quickly, toward what I think is certain death...

So, there I was, stumbling out of the tent, and into the view of the waiting crowd, and the never-to-be-sufficiently-damned judges. I probably didn't look too prepossessing, walking along while swerving side to side as I kept my eyes upon two enormous ravens that, defying all that I thought I knew about birds, seemed highly amused by me walking like a drunken sailor. As soon as I stumbled into position, the haranguing from the Bulgarian Bastard began. He demanded that I remove the ravens as I was not permitted any help, that I explain why I kept them waiting, who the old man that was chasing their fellow judge was, and on and on and on... He just would not shut up, at least until said old man stepped out of thin air next to him and held the tip of a spear against his adam's apple. Then, I discovered yet another interesting factoid! I found out that it was possible for the Durmstrang Duffer to go from harangue to the silence of the grave in less than half a second, given the right incentive.

So, there I was, standing before an almost full panel of judges, and getting ready to face a dragon. Just as I was about to step into the ring, Twinkle-toes Dumble-bore very cautiously slipped into his seat, with many a sidelong glance at the man with the spear, who seemed to be ignoring him for that moment.