Harry had been told his whole life he was a freak.

He could make things happen that shouldn't happen. He could make things disappear when they scared him, himself included. He could grow back his hair after having it shorn off in the most hideous of chops with only a night between.

So surely he must be a freak.

Why else would his aunt and uncle treat him so. His good-for-nothing parents had gone and gotten themselves killed. He was a freak boy with worthless parents who left a burden on his charming, normal family.

Until he wasn't.

Dark eyes stared at neat little rows of identical houses with their identical lots and barely there space with absolute contempt. Now, please don't be mistaken. This gaze was in no way seeing the homes or its inhabitants as inferior. No, this gaze simply belonged to the most painfully blunt person to have ever graced the Wizarding World.

"This is the most bitch ass neighborhood I have ever seen in my entire motherfucking life."

There, standing in all his 6'2 glory, was the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Professor Samuel L. Jackson. Now one may assume that someone with such foul language couldn't possibly be an authority figure, especially around children. But you would be sorely mistaken. And so, let us resume our story.

"I cannot believe that Dumblefuck let the Fucker Who Lived in such a basic ass neighborhood…" The man mumbled to himself as he approached #4 of Privet Drive. Professor Jackson had forgone the long robes that would easily identify him as a wizard, a move the "dumb motherfuckers I work with" would have never thought to do, despite the Statute of Secrecy. Common sense is quite uncommon amongst magicals. Instead he wore a simple pair of black slacks, matching blazer and a white button down. No need to draw anymore attention to himself than he already would.

Even with the precautions, he could still feel the gaze of watchful eyes peeking through closed curtains. A sigh escaped him as he walked up the short set of stairs and knocked on the front door. "Nosy ass neighbors probably waiting to call the cops on my black ass…" He mumbled to himself while politely waving to a woman whose eye contact. Her curtains instantly snapped shut.

"Boy, answer the door!"

There was a thump and stumble from inside the house. A displeased frown graced the headmaster's face as he listened to the approaching footsteps. The door opened to reveal a terribly small child with the most shocking pair of green eyes he'd ever seen. Even though he'd never met the boy, it was obvious who this was. The lightning shaped scar peeking through inky bangs only solidified his identity.

This was Harry Motherfucking Potter.

But he was so tiny, practically swimming in the overly large shirt and trousers. This was the savior of the magical world? Well fuck. He was doubly glad he took over as Headmaster.

Even if he didn't want the job in the first place.

"Can I help you sir?" The boy, Harry, asked. His eyes were downcast and shoulder drawn close, as if he were expecting some sort of blow. Several pebbles mysteriously found themselves transfigured into screws and punctured into all four tires of the car parked in the driveway. Ain't that a motherfucking shame.

"Why yes." Professor said with a forced yet somehow genuine sounding chuckle, going for reassuring but the small flinch he got said otherwise. Well shit. It takes a decent amount of restraint not to walk past the boy and start telling off some motherfuckers. "Yes you can."

"I'm here to speak to your guardians, Mr. and Mrs. Dursley." An envelope made of a rich vanilla parchment was withdrawn from an inner pocket of his blazer. "This is for you." The envelope was taken with some waose emerald eyes brightened like the killing curse that took everything from him. He allowed the boy to marvel at the envelope, elegant writing and seal in wonder. It wasn't everyday you got your first Hogwarts letter. However, there were still things to do today. With a small chuckle, the professor spoke up. "Mind letting me in?"

Harry seemed to start as he was broken from his reverie. His cheeks turned a soft pink as he quickly shoved the letter into a pocket. "O-of course sir. Right this way Mr…"

"Jackson. Samuel L. Jackson."

Harry led him into the house and closed the door softly before continuing towards the living room. Mr Jackson followed along quietly, taking note of the various pictures and cupboard under the stairs. Oh, he was gonna jinx a motherfucker. Harry turned the corner and flinched at the sight of something in the living room. Samuel turned not a second later to see the fattest motherfucker he'd ever seen in his life with a fist raised. Now, sure, you may call him impolite for saying such a thing. And you'd be in-motherfucking-correct if you thought he gave a damn. Looking at Mr Dursley was like looking at a shit attempt at making a stop motion walrus look human human. Or maybe a perfect attempt, if Tim Burton were doing it. He was simply a big, no neck, motherfucker. The man had fucking rolls upon rolls and looked like one hard sneeze would rip all the seams of his clothes. And the mustache just added to the whole walrus effect, as pimping as it was.

"Good afternoon sir." Mr Jackson said with fake cheer as he gave the man a chance to pretend he wasn ' t about to fucking hit a child. The fist dropped quickly and a disgustingly fake smile graced the man's lips. "I'm here to speak to you and your wife about Harry and his education?"

And goddamn, he didn't think it was possible for someone to go through so many motherfucking colors in one go but this ass in front of his did it. Was that a world record?

"You're one of those freaks, aren't you!" Mr Dursley raised a sausage-like finger at him. How the fuck did that man type on a computer with those big ass things. They were like a bunch of small dic-

Nope. That mental image is not motherfucking needed.

"Now, I find that incredibly racist that you would call me a freak." Mr Jackson said with mock hurt and confusion. He held back a smile as Mr Dursley suddenly lost all steam and tried to apologize. Not that it was doing any good. Samuel adjusted his blazer to subtlety flash his watch, a Rolex, at the man. Mr Dursley seemed to pale and more apologies and attempts to appear better in his eyes poured out.

"I'm truly sorry sir." Mr Dursley simmered as he led his guest fully into the living room where his wife and child sat before the telly. "Why don't we all just start over with a cup of tea?"

Harry seemed to take that as his cue as he disappeared into the kitchen. Mr Jackson made yet another mental note and took a seat. He took one look at the other Dursleys and thought, "Did these motherfuckers put animal hair in a motherfucking polyjuice potion?".

Mrs Dursly had the most pinched ass face he'd ever seen I his entire mother fucking life, and he's sat next to Professor McGonagall after she'd listen to his opening speech. She looked like she'd sucked on and entire fucking lemon and forgot to spit that shit out. It looks like she took her husband's neck in the marriage, because she had to fucking much. He could decide if she looked like a horse or a fucking giraffe.

Now his math may be wrong, but he's pretty sure a walrus plus a horse should not make a pig. But that's the only explanation for why a fucking pig in a wig sat upon the couch. His mother's long necked ass obviously didn't share any with her kid. It's almost magical the kid could rotate his head without a neck. Was his head just held on by its own weight?

This had to be the strangest barnyard show he's ever seen. Professor Jackson finds himself wondering if this is truly a muggle family, or just a bunch of failed motherfucking animangus.

Harry returns with a tray laden with tea cups and biscuits soon after he's finished his assessment. And perfect motherfucking timing too. He doesn't know how much longer he can put up with this bullshit. So he decides to rip the motherfucking bandaid off. Accepting a cup and adding two spots of sugar (because let's be real, the tea was motherfucking bitter), he took a sip. Turning to Harry with a charming smile, he said:

"Harry Potter, you're a motherfucking wizard."

The sound of tea cups shattering on the floor was seren-fucking-dipity.