The Ultimate Prophecy

A loud banging against his wall aroused 16 year old Harry Potter from his troubled dreams. Trying (without much luck) to cover up the milky white spot that had emerged on his sheets, Harry quickly threw on his dressing gown in case an unsightly dark wizard should take it upon himself to come bursting in. Harry wanted to be prepared. Wand at the ready, Harry pressed his ear against the wall in an attempt to gain perspective on the situation at hand. As the banging continued in rhythmic fashion, now interspersed with a few animalistic groans, Harry braced himself for the worst. Could his fateful encounter with Voldemort really happen on such an otherwise uneventful night, and in the very house of his wizard-hating relations? The hero within Harry was taking over, and in a moment of glorified dignity, he sprinted out of his bedroom and into the room next door, only to be greeted by a most ghastly sight. It was worse than he had ever imagined.

Harry projectile vomited on the spot, as he saw his tiny charms teacher, Professor Flitwick, “riding” his Uncle Vernon like some deranged cowboy, or British equivalent. Aunt Petunia was hunched naked in a corner, clutching her morbidly obese son Dudley (who was also naked) to her throbbing bosoms, his rolls of fat finally fulfilling their God given duty to cover anything X rated. Harry projectile vomited again, at the pure atrocity of the situation. This was far worse than anything Dark Magic could conjure.

Flitwick suddenly extracted himself from the depths of Uncle Vernon, and dismounted. He bowed in quick salute to Harry, and gave one of his usual high squeaks. “Harry, m’ boy! Fancy seeing you here!”

“This is my house. And you’re still naked.”

Flitwick stroked his beard thoughtfully. “I see,” he drawled, and apparated, leaving behind a small cluster of twinkling fairies, who winked naughtily at Harry.