AN: Satire begets satire. This has been done before, yes, but I want to try my hand at it.
I, SolisLiquid, hereby referred to Dolcinea Dawkins, (a pen name no doubt) will paint you a picture of words.
Dearest reader, I am a byproduct of a rigorous faith-based birth in which I was of the Latter Day Saint denomination of Christianity. I, however, had grievances with the church, mostly regarding the fact that I liked women, a grave sin to the church.
So, I casted aside such things like religion in order to live my life. As such, I will write what I know, so the Dursleys are of the Mormon faith.
Harry Potter lived in a modest home on Privet Drive, the adopted child of Petunia and Vernon Dursley, a family of unnasuming members of the Christian faith which enjoyed their relationship with both biological child Dudley, and adopted son Harry.
"Harry, mom made breakfast! Eggs and bacon!" gleefully pronounced the boy that acted as his brother.
The scraggly boy tenderly woke up from his rest, wiping his eyes and opening the door in his bedroom, walking down the stairs to the table where his family sat.
Petunia was a quiet spoken housewife in a dress and apron, a lady of the faith for a long time, she always went to church on Sunday, never swore, and was always mild mannered.
Vernon was a kindly man who wore khaki slacks and button up shirts, he worked at an insurance company, and he'd always root for his team in the big football game.
Dudley was an only child, raised to pray to god, and was deeply invested in the local football team. He was planning on joining the team at the school he went to, and was excited to show off his skills that culminated over a long life of practice in the arts of the good pigskin.
Now as they sat, Dudley voiced the prayer of blessing for the food, and shortly after, a knock on the door interrupted the smalltalk of the family, about the big football game. Harry, being eager to leave the conversation about the big football team's rival, the other big football team with different players who weren't nearly as immaculate as the members of Vernon's favorite big football team, and such, found himself in front of the door, looking at a strange hulking man.
This man wore a shirt with a band called Filthy Mouth Fred and His Possé of Pissers, on which a man with spiky hair and a hand gesture that wasn't in the slightest bit holy stood, screaming into a mic.
This man has a wild beard which was not well-groomed, wore sunglasses despite it being night, and had a jacket made of leather which was blacker than the souls of the damned. He had a tattoo on his hand that read "Magic", apparently part of a bigger tattoo.