Book One:

Whorey Potter and the Pervert's Pleasure

Author's Note: Hey all. Of course I ripped off everything from J.K. Rowling, but I'm not making any money from it. There are few tweaks and twiddles here and there (but not many...). I also want to add that this story was invented by many others as well. I'm just typing it up and putting it on my Fanfiction account. Thanks to those who reviewed!

Happy sexcapades!

Mare

Chapter One:

The Boy Erected

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privates Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything sex-like or pleasure-induced, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.

Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Gruntings, which made drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large …

mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbor doing … 'things' as she hardly had the satisfaction of doing it herself. The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.

The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursely pretended she didn't have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son, too, but they had never even seen him. This boy was another good reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn't want Dudley mixing with a child like that.

When Mr. Dursley headed for work the next day, he noticed something strange… sitting on the corner of Privates drive was a cat reading a map. But when he jerked back around to get a better look, the map was gone.

He also happened to notice there were a lot of strangely dressed people about town, as he drove to his office. People in capes. The weirdos were all in groups, licking each other in the ear. Mr. Dursley was quite enraged to see that not only were young people doing so, but elderly people too!

When lunch came about, Mr. Dursley ran across the street from his office for some buns. It was on his way back that he passed more of these weirdos. They were talking this time, thank god.

"The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard –"

"-yes, their son, Whorey-"

Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the lickers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.

He dashed back to his office. He was about to call his wife about the matter but put the receiver back down. Potter wasn't such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called Potter who had a son called Whorey. He'd never even seen the boy. It might have been Slutty. Or Pimpin'.

As he pulled in his driveway later that night, the cat he had seen that morning was sitting on his garden wall. Mr. Dursley tried to make it go away, but the cat didn't move. What was going on? Mr. Dursley was surely having the strangest day of his life. But he still wasn't going to tell Petunia about it.

Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. Lucky for her. Mr. Dursley sighed and went to watch the news in the living room.

"And finally, porn watcher's everywhere have reported that the nation's porn shops have been behaving very unusually today. Although porn shops are usually open at night are hardly ever open during the day, many of them have been open since this morning. Not that porn watcher's are too upset." The newscaster allowed himself a grin. "Most mysterious."

Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Porn shops open during the day? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters…

Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of tea. It was no good. He'd have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. "Er - Petunia, dear - you haven't heard from your sister lately, have you?"

As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn't have a sister.

"No," she said sharply. "Why?"

"Funny stuff on the news," Mr. Dursley mumbled. "Shops open … when they're not … supposed to be. And there were a lot of funny looking people in town today …"

"So?" snapped Mrs. Dursley.

"Well, I just thought… maybe… it was something to do with… you know… her crowd."

Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley wondered whether he dared tell her he'd heard the name "Potter". He decided he didn't dare. Instead he said, as casually as he could, "Their son – he'd be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't he?"

"I suppose so," said Mrs. Dursley stiffly.

"What's his name again? Whorald, isn't it?"

"Whorey. Nasty, common name, if you ask me."

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking horribly. "Yes, I quite agree."

He didn't say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed. Mr. Dursley looked out the window, the cat was still there. He shut the curtains and went to bed.

The cat, however, was sitting still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privates Drive. It didn't so much as quiver when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when two people having sex screamed in orgasmic pleasure two houses away. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.

A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privates Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing tight hot pants, a purple snake skin jacket, and high-heels. His blue eyes were light, bright, and seducing behind Elton John glasses (imposters of course, cheap too) and his P—is was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This man's name was Albus Dumblewhore.

Albus Dumblewhore didn't seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his heels was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his jacket, looking for something. But he did seem to realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. He giggled and muttered, "I should have known."

He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again – the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer until the only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him. If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumblewhore slipped the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the street toward number four, swaying his hips the whole time. He sat down on the wall next to the cat. He didn't look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it.

"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McWhoregall."

He turned to smile at the cat, crossing his legs at the same time, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman … wait… man? Professor McWhoregall was a woman, but felt that being a man was more suited to her, er, him. Her black hair was cut short. She looked … odd.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked. "I just had the operation a few hours ago."

"Girlfriend, you may have changed your human sex, but you're still a female cat." Professor Dumblewhore had acquired a valley-girl twang when on vacation in the States.

"You'd have gotten the operation too if you were a woman," said Professor McWhoregall.

"An operation? When you could have been getting down and dirty? I must have passed like, a dozen part-ays on my way here."

Professor McWhoregall sniffed angrily.

"Oh yes, everyone's celebrating, all right," she… he said impatiently. "You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no – even the Motha's have noticed something's going on. It was on their news." She jerked her head back at the Dursley's dark living-room window. "I heard it. Porn shops open in broad daylight! Well, they're not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. I'll bet Dedalus Diggle spent all his savings account at the bloody shops. He never had much sense."

"You can't blame them," said Dumblewhore gently. "We've had like, little to celebrate for um … eleven years." He took out a nail file and began the backward – forward motion across his fingernails.

"I know that," said Professor McWhoregall irritably. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Motha's clothing, swapping spit."

She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumblewhore here, as though hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn't, so she went on. "A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You Know … Whore seems to have disappeared at last, the Motha's found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Dumblewhore?"

"Well, duh," said Dumblewhore. "We have a lot to like, be thankful for. Ya' want a hand job?" Dumblewhore held out his left hand to examine the perfect curves of his long, manicured nails.

"A what?"

"A hand job. You are a man now, you know."

"No, thank you," said Professor McWhoregall coldly, as though she didn't think this was the moment for a hand job. "As I say, even if You Know… Whore has gone –"

"Girlfriend, surely a sensible person like, uh, you can call him by his name? All this 'You Know… Whore' shit is starting to piss me off. For eleven years I have been tryin' to get people to call him by like, his uh, proper name: Voldematrix." Professor McWhoregall flinched, but Dumblewhore, who was putting away his file and had moved onto checking his appearance in a compact mirror, seemed not to notice. "It all gets soooo confusing if we like, keep saying 'You Know … Whore'. I have never seen any reason to like, be frightened of saying Voldematrix's name. Like GAWD."

"I know you haven't," said Professor McWhoregall, sounding half exasperated, half admiring. "But you're… different." She gave him a look but realized she-he shouldn't talk. "Everyone knows you're the only one You Know – oh, all right, Voldematrix, was frightened of."

"You like, so make me feel good," said Dumblewhore calmly. "Voldematrix had powers I will never, ever, ever, ever, like … have like, in a million years."

"Only because you're too – well – noble to use them."

"It's lucky it's dark, Miner… I mean, Mervin. I haven't like, blushed so much since Madam PornWhore told me she liked my new high heels."

Professor McWhoregall shot a sharp look at Dumblewhore and said, "The porn shops are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You know what everyone's saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?"

It seemed that Professor McWhoregall had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a man had she fixed Dumblewhore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever "everyone" was saying, she-he was not going believe it until Dumblewhore told her it was true. Dumblewhore, however, was sucking a penis shaped lollipop and did not answer.

"What they're saying," she-he pressed on, "is that last night Voldematrix turned up in Godric's HellHole. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are – are- that they're – dead."

Dumblewhore made sobbing sounds. Professor McWhoregall gasped.

"Lily and James… I can't believe it… I didn't want to believe it… Oh, Albus…"

Dumblewhore reached out and kissed her/him on the cheek. "I know… I know…" he said heavily.

Professor McWhoregall's voice trembled as she went on. "That's not all. They're saying he tried to kill the Potter's son, Whorey. But – he couldn't. He couldn't kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Whorey Potter, Voldematrix's power somehow broke – and that's why he's gone."

Dumblewhore sniffled.

"It's – it's true?" faltered Mervin. "After all he's done… all the people he's killed… he couldn't kill a little boy? It's just astounding… of all the things to stop him… but how in the name of heaven did Whorey survive?"

"We can only like, guess," said Dumblewhore. "We may never, ever know."

Professor McWhoregall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her/his eyes beneath her/his spectacles. Dumblewhore gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. "Whorid's late. I assume it was he who like, told you I'd be here, by the way?"

"Yes," said Mervin. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here, of all places?"

"I'm like, going to drop Whorey off for his aunt and uncle. They're like, gawd, like the only family he as left now. Sooo cliché."

"You don't mean – you can't mean the people who live here?" cried Professor McWhoregall, jumping to his feet and pointing at number four. "Dumblewhore – you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two people who are less like us. And they've got this son – I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Whorey Potter come and live here!"

"It's like, the best place for him," said Dumblewhore matter-of-factly. "His aunt and uncle will explain everything to him when he's hit puberty. I've written them a letter. I even put perfume on it, here, smell!"

"A letter?" repeated Mervin faintly, sitting back down on the wall. "Really, Dumblewhore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand him! He'll be famous – a legend – I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Whorey Potter day in the future – there will be Porn Shops named after him – every adult in our world will know his name!"

"Exactly," said Dumblewhore, looking very seriously (for a change) over the top of his Elton John Imitation glasses. "It would be enough to turn any boy's head. Famous before he can strip and lick! Famous for something he won't even remember! Can't you see how much better off he'll be, growing up away from all that shit? I mean, like, until he's ready to you know, handle it and everything." Dumblewhore decided to bring out his nail file again.

Professor McWhoregall opened his mouth, changed his mind, swallowed, and then said, "Yes – yes, you're right, of course. But how is the boy getting here, Dumblewhore?" She eyed his snake skin jacket suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding Whorey underneath it.

"Whorid's bringing him."

"You think it – wise – to trust Whorid with something as important as this?"

"I would trust Whorid with my virginity," said Dumblewhore.

"I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place," said Mervin grudgingly, "but you can't pretend he's not careless. He does tend to – what was that?"

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky – and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.

If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. And you know what they say about big men… with big hands… and big feet…

He had long tangles of bushy black hair and a beard hid most of his face.

"Whorid," said Dumblewhore, sounding slightly horny. "At last. And where did you get that big, fancy, motorcycle?" He was winking now.

"Borrowed it, Professor Dumblewhore, sir," said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. "Young Sirius Bitch lent it to me. I've got him, sir."

"No problems, were there?" Dumblewhore's horny tone disappeared as soon as he heard it was Sirius's bike and not Whorid's.

"No, sir – house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right before the Motha's started swarmin' around. He feel asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol."

Dumblewhore and Professor McWhoregall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like the number 69.

"Is that where-?" whispered Professor McWhoregall.

"Yeah, whatever," said Dumbledore. "Psh, he'll have that scar forever."

Dumblewhore took Whorey in his arms and turned toward the Dursley's house. He laid Whorey gently on the doorstep, took a very perfumy letter out of his jacket, tucked it inside Whorey's blankets, and then came back to the other two.

"Well," said Dumblewhore finally, "that's that. We've no business staying in this dump. Let's go to one of those porn shops. I think there's one around the corner."

"Yeah," said Whorid. "I'll be takin' Sirius his bike back. G'night."

Everyone left in a very dramatic way.

Everyone else in the world made a toast; "To Whorey Potter, the Boy Erected!"