"Your awesome is as big as mine!"


The next thing Harry knew he was at King's Cross Station.

"Well, good luck, my only adopted son," said Petulia, weeping.

"Shut it, mom," advised Harry, "there's no such thing as luck."

"They bottle it, you dolt," she replied, "it's fscking magic."

"So, Platform 9.75000," said Michael through his tears. "How many magical platforms are there between 9 and 10, anyway?"

"An unnatural number, I expect," said Harry. "And I'd hate to walk into the wrong one, so I'm going to do my usual isolated nerdboy thing and hang back and observe until I see some other wizard enter the secret entrance."

A boxed set of redheads walked past and disappeared into a solid wall.

"There we go!" said Harry. "Well, see you in June, if the prophecies don't come into play!" He took off at a run.

"Wait, what?" said Michael. "Prophecies! What prophecies?!"

"The usual," sniffled Petula. "Rosemary's baby, Damien Thorn with extra science..."

Harry disappeared into the wall and the next scene began.


In short order he found himself settling into a seat on the Hogwarts Express, just another facet of the wizarding world to do away with. Sitting opposite him was the blond boy from Madam Malkin's.

"Hallo," said the blond boy languidly. "Are we doing murder yet, or should we start with rape and work our way up?"

"Hush!" said Harry. "You want to get on J.K. Rowling's bad side? Besides, rape is biochemistry. PhbPchbPhbPchb!" He paused to spit out the window and into the face of the smallest boy in the redhead boxed set. "Ten points! Stephen Hawking is taken, but I'm totally Stephen Spitting."

"Is it wise to spit in the face of people you haven't met?" inquired the blond boy.

"Nah, he'll turn out to be a normal person. I can sense the future with surprising accuracy because Hilbert space. Incidentally, how are you on hiding bodies?"

"Father makes a market in it," sighed the blond boy. "By the way, my name is Darko. Darko Malfoy. But you can call me Ducky when we get around to the autopsies."

Two tall red-headed boys poked their heads into Harry and Darko's rail compartment. "Oi," said one. "You just spit in the face of our baby brother."

"So what's it to you?" said Harry.

"We worship you for it!" said the other. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a lolly. "We hate his stinking guts. Here, this is called an Acid Pop, if he ever gives you trouble, just stick it in his mouth and dissolve his tongue."

"That sounds cruel," said Harry.

"Nah, he doesn't feel pain the way humans do," rationalized the first one. "Just ignore the blood and screaming."

"You, I like," said Harry, accepting the Acid Pop and tucking it into his Bag of Holding.

"So," said the blond boy once the door was closed again, "can we get on with the murdering?"

Harry, almost having second thoughts, said "Why do you want to kill your father, other than to inherit his title and estate?"

"I hate him," yawned the blond boy. "When I fell off a broom and broke every bone in my body he sat up with me for six hours to make me feel indebted —told me it made him miss casting a vote in the Wizengamot. But he lied, he cast it using a Time Turner. That's why I want to kill him."

"For his seat on the Wizengamot."

"Oh yes. It's all old-boy-network, 24-hour-bribery service, get-out-of-Azkaban-free when you're on the Wizengamot. Heaven!"

"Heaven does not exist," said Harry sternly.

The door opened again. It was the small redhead with spit running down into his worn shirt collar. "They said you're Harry Potter," he sobbed, "But I know you're not Harry Potter, because Harry Potter would never do something so mean."

"Quite right!" said Harry. "I'm Spock Tibbs, but you can call me Mr. Frost. I am more powerful than time itself."

He slammed the door shut, removing some of the boy's long nose, and made a mental note to send him a bill for the plastic surgery. "Now, Darko, about our conspiracy," said Harry. "Do you know anything about — science?"

"No, but I'm keen to learn."

"Good! For Harry Crumb-Zell never learns, only teaches. Now, the first thing I'll teach you about is game theory. The Nash Equilibrium is—"

The door slammed open again.

"I'm a girl!" said a girl.

"Have a seat!" said Harry. "I'm supposed to get a girlfriend."

"I'm looking for a toad!"

"Well, you found one," sobbed the red-headed gob-faced boy across the hall.

"No, I'm looking for a real toad," explained the girl. "Neville's toad." She pulled a sobbing black-haired boy from her mokeskin pouc. "This is Neville."

"Where's my toad?" said the sobbing black-haired boy. He looked at Harry. Harry made a PhbPchbPhbPchb noise. "That is not my toad!" cried Neville from the racked depths of his nonexistent soul.

"It died," explained Harry kindly, lifting up the corner of his trunk to expose the squashed member of the class Bufonidae. "You should have frozen it when you had the chance. Alcor can't wait til tomorrow."

"NO!" screamed Neville. "TREVOR!"

The girl stuffed Neville back into her pouc. "Now, what was this about game theory? I'm a genius and love learning about all kinds of theories."

"Weren't you LISTENING?" screamed Harry. "I said HAVE A SEAT, are you STUPID?"

"Only compared to you," she sniffed, and flounced down.

"Humility, good, you're minion number two," said Harry. He opened his trunk and got out his Spider-Man calligraphy kit and made a sign reading MENSA MEMBERS ONLY, which he hung on the outside of the door to avoid further interruptions. After a moment's reconsideration he took it down again to add NO LIT MAJORS. "What's your name, girl?"

"Hermione," said Hermione. "Hermione Granger. Initials HG. That's Mercury, which is my alchemical function in Harry Potter stories."

"Not in this one!" chortled Harry, carefully inscribing, in parentheses, NO POMO on his sign before returning it to the outside of the door. "I declare the first meeting of Get Rid Of Slimy normalS open! Now, we begin with Gilliland's Law: prioritize, optimize, finalize!" He flipped Hermione two Knuts. "Go get us some Klatchian coffees, will you, Miss Granger?"