Disclaimer: Harry Potter et. al. is the property of JKRowling et. al.

...in which KafkaExMachina overuses both parody and vocabulary.

Harry Potter sat in the smallest bedroom of Number Four Privet Drive, brooding over a number of different things: Cedric's recent death at the hand of Wormtail, Voldemort's subsequent return, the lack of correspondence from his friends and the rather irritating lack of climate control in his room.

At the moment, the lack of climate control was winning the battle for the most painful thing to deal with. As such, his window was wide open in the futile hope that a breeze would enter therein. In preparation for said refreshing breeze, Harry was dressed much as nature intended, excepting the pair of ratty boxers about his hips.

Instead of a refreshing breeze, a most hideous variety of bird swooped into the room. It deposited a loosely wrapped scroll into his lap and, with a grace that belied it's pugnacious appearance, performed a perfect wing-over and swooped out of the room.

Lacking anything better to do, Harry unrolled the scroll and read the contents.

"Dear Mr. Potter,

The Inheritance Branch at Gringotts Bank has been anxiously awaiting your arrival for two years. Since you have failed to reply to the other seventy-three messages sent via postal owl, we have taken it upon ourselves to use our Custom Goblin Carrier(tm) to deliver this missive. You will find yourself deposited in our offices right about..."

Harry felt like a hook was dragging him by his navel as the room vanished from around him in a whirl.

"... now." The letter continued, quite helpfully, as Harry found himself sprawled upon a high-quality blood-red carpet.

"Mr. Potter!" A gravelly voice said 'cheerfully'. "I'm glad you could make it!" There was a surprising lack of sarcasm in the tone.

Harry looked up. He landed in a well-furnished office. He'd missed cracking his head against the mahogany desk that sat to one end by a mere half inch. The voice belonged to smiling Goblin dressed in a hideously tacky gold-lame three-piece suit.

The goblin rambled on, ignoring Harry's supine indignation. "I'm sure you're curious as to why you've found yourself in my office."

"Yes, quite." Harry replied as he stood up. He had slight rug burns across ninety percent of his torso. The goblin gestured to the chair in front of him. "Have a seat. Nice digs, by the way."

Harry blushed.

The goblin's smile widened.

"Well, as you might have guessed, this is my office in The Inheritance Branch of Gringotts Bank. I am Blingsaw, Senior Customer Satisfaction Specialist III, and it is my proud duty to inform you of your full inheritance. There's been some... complications involved in getting the full list." Blingsaw was interrupted by a pounding at the door. "And that would be one of the complications right now." As fast as lightning, Blingsaw's hand whipped out and grabbed Harry's. Before he could complain, the Goblin jabbed one sharp claw into the flesh of Harry's palm. Ignoring the boy's cry of pain, he slapped the bloody palm onto a sheet of paper.

A single solemn bell tolled. Harry didn't ask for whom the bell tolled, it tolled for he.

"Enter," the goblin said with entirely too much enthusiasm for anybody's well-being. Harry turned about, cradling his injured hand to his chest as the door was flung open.

Dumbledore burst into the room. "Harry, don't!" He cried in vain.

"Too late!" The goblin cried, not in vain.

Harry saw a sight that, for the rest of his days, would haunt his dreams.

Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, Order of Merlin First Class, Supreme Mugwump of the Wizamgot, face-palmed.

Twice.

Before turning around and banging his head against the wall.

Twice.

"Mr. Potter," the goblin said, distracting Harry from his slack-jawed observations, "now that we have performed the Goblin Pointlessly Painful Blood-Based Inheritance Test™, it is my honor and privilege to inform you of your delightfully fantastic heritage."

"...delightfully fantastic heritage?" Harry repeated dully.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Dumbledore's head interjected.

"Oh yes, quite so." The goblin flipped the blood-stained parchment over and began to read. "Firstly, we'll cover the Families that you are the sole remaining Heir to."

"Ooookay..." Harry said. He was rather off-put by how hollow the thud made by Dumbledore's venerable noggin sounded.

"Good, good." The goblin whipped out a pair of platinum-framed glasses, rimmed with diamonds, emeralds and rubies, and looked over the parchment. "Hmmm... that's some impressively fine print here. I should have requisitioned a larger Goblin Pointlessly Painful Blood-based Inheritance Test Blood Absorbing Parchment of Doom™."

Harry never thought that gems could clash. He found himself proven wrong. "Wow... so there's a lot?" He asked wisely.

"Yup, and such an incredibly distinguished list of families here as well. Why, I'm feeling positively giddy simply being in the same room with somebody with such a splendorous pedigree."

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Despite his Headmaster's antics, Harry couldn't help but become quite excited at the prospect. "Great - so lets get cracking!"

"That's the spirit!" The goblin replied. "I'll start with the top of the list. You, Harry Potter, are the sole magical Heir to the following families: Hitler, Stalin, Manson, Le Fey, Rasputin, Mussollini, Tepes, Reagen, Lector, Mao, Cho, Hannibal, Brutus, Cassius, Judas, Hyde, Dahmer, Thatcher-"

"Wait, Thatcher?" Harry asked incredulously.

"A minor family, and all-in-all not terribly distinguished, but the muggle side's done some wonderful things. Carrying on: Khan, Gryffindor, Himmler, Gaunt - due to the last Gaunt female's inappropriate relations with a Muggle named Riddle, Grindelwald..."

"Wait, wait!" Harry interrupted. The goblin paused.

"Yes?"

"Hitler? Grindelwald? Thatcher? The Hell?" Harry asked.

"I'm sorry," the goblin asked with genuine confusion. "What seems to be the problem?"

Thud. Thud. Thud.

"They're all right bloody bastards! I mean, come on! Thatcher?!?" Harry exclaimed.

The goblin grinned. "Yes! Isn't it grand! You, Mr. Potter, have almost nothing but powerful genocidal madmen in your lineage - and all the magical implications therein!"

"...magical implications?" Harry asked in a very small voice. He paused. "Wait, didn't you mention Gryffindor? He wasn't a genocidal bastard; he was a hero and one of the founders of Hogwarts!" Harry said, grasping at straws.

Blingsaw stared queerly at Harry for a moment before breaking out in a great full-bellied guffaw. "Oh... oh give me a moment," the goblin said while clutching his sides. "Oh that's grand." He looked over at Albus, who was still busily introducing his forehead to the wall. "Headmaster, just what are you teaching your children these days? Obviously not any history." The goblin turned his grin back to Harry. "Mr. Potter, you do know when Godric Gryffindor was in his prime, yes?"

Harry nodded.

"Then you should have some grasp on the times. Godric Gryffindor was a hero to his people, yes." Blingsaw slowed his words down, as if talking to a dullard. "He was a hero because he killed lots and lots of people in lots and lots of really painful ways. Think about it. Hogwarts is in a castle. Castles were built to withstand sieges. Sieges are part of warfare. The first wizarding classes weren't about cleaning dishes or mending fences, they were about cleaving skulls and mending sucking chest wounds. Why, he was so fantastically brutal and brilliantly murderous that the goblin chieftains crafted a sword, forged with basilisks venom, out of appreciation for his artistry." He smirked at the gob-smacked boy. "Oh come now, Mr. Potter - what did you think an eternally sharp blade forged with the deadliest poison in the world was used for? Dry-cleaning?" The goblin wiped the tears from his eyes. "The Goblin Nation considers Godric to be one of the greatest wizards ever for a very good reason. Here, let me show you something." The goblin reached into his desk and pulled out a brightly bound book. "I was going to give this as a present to my son, the little rapscallion."

Harry took a look. 'Godric Gryffindor - A Pop-Up Book for Goblings' the title read. He opened the book to a random page.

Harry nearly vomited.

"My... that's... realistic," he said, waving his hand at the hundred Turks impaled screaming on pikes. He could almost smell the stench wafting off of the viscera slowly dripping down the poles.

"Isn't it though? Really Mr. Potter, you should understand that most 'innocent' children's' tales revolve around the horrific tragedies of the past. Why, take this lovely children's' rhyme. I'm sure you've heard it before. 'Ring around the rosy, pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes, we all fall down'. It seems so painfully innocent at first, but once you know the origin," the goblins said with a wide smile, "it becomes such a happy thing."

"Really?" Harry asked with no small amount of trepidation.

"Oh yes. You see, that particular rhyme originated during that great floor-show known as the Black Plague. Rings of rose flowers were worn about the neck to stave off the 'foul vapors' that were thought to cause the plague. Same with the posies. 'Ashes, ashes' refers to the morbidly gray skin of those plague victims in the final stages of morbidity... and I'm certain I don't have to tell you what 'we all fall down' means." The goblin lectured with a toothy smile.

"No... I can gather that on my own," Harry said after swallowing.

"Now, you might think this a pointless digression, but it segues quite nicely to the final name on the list. Peverell!"

Thud. Thud.

"Pardon?" Albus said. "Did you say Peverell?"

"Indeed I did," The gobin answered before turning back to Harry. "Now, being the Heir of the Peverell line carries with it three most fabulous inheritances. Firstly is the cloak which we have recorded as already being in your possession."

"The cloak?" Harry asked. "You mean my Invisibility Cloak?"

"That's the one," the goblin said. "Next is the Resurrection Stone - which is currently placed as the main gem in the Gaunt Family ring." Albus gasped. The goblin rummaged around in his desk. "Ah, there it is." The goblin placed the ring down on the desk. Albus reached a shaky hand towards it, until the goblin slapped his hand. "Stop that! It's not yours!" Dumbledore's arm retracted, chastised. "That is the second item. The third is currently in this office."

The goblin glared at Dumbledore.

"What?" Albus asked innocently.

"Give it to him," the goblin commanded.

"But... but..." Albus said.

"Don't make me get the Probity Probe," the goblin warned.

"Fine," Dumbledore said with a huff. He reached into his pocket and handed Harry his wand.

"Sir?" Harry asked.

"Just take it," Dumbledore moped. Shrugging, Harry took the wand.

"Yes, the Elder Wand," the goblin said. "The Death Stick. The Deathly Hallows united again!"

Harry stared blankly at Blingsaw.

"Oh come on! Didn't your parents read to you like a normal child?" The goblin said, exasperated at Harry's lack of excitement.

"I'm an orphan," Harry said flatly.

"Right. Forgot about that." The goblin coughed once. "No matter. So, now you possess the three Hallows." The goblin repeated.

"Oookay. And this ties in with your earlier lecture how?"

The goblin positively beamed. "That, Mr. Potter, is the best part!"

"It is?" Dumbledore asked.

Blingsaw nodded. "Oh yes, because... having all three makes you the Master of Death, a title earned by the original owner of the Deathly Hallows."

"Why do I have a sudden sinking feeling," Harry said.

Ignoring his client's words, the goblin continued. "Yes! And the Master of Death is probably the only wizard that we goblins love more than Godric! Why did I tell you the rhyme was related? Because, Mr. Potter, the Master of Death got his title by starting and spreading the Black Plague all by himself! It was wonderful! Plague! Misery! Suffering! War! Death! DOOOOOOOOOM!" The goblin cheered. "Ah… good times." He stared straight at Harry. "We goblins have high expectations for you, my boy! High expectations indeed!"

...Meanwhile, off the coast of France...

Mr. Granger was in an exceptionally good mood. They'd just returned from a brief sojourn to Bulgaria to meet that scallywag who dared abscond with his precious perfect princess's first kiss.

Why, the healers even said that young Mr. Krum might possibly regain feeling in the left side of his body some day.

"Orin!" His wife's voice interrupted his happy musings.

"What is it Audrey dearest?" Mr. Granger asked.

"We just got this letter from an owl," Audrey Granger said happily.

"Really?" Orin Granger asked. He peered at the missive in his lovely wife's hands. "It's rather brutally orange, isn't it!"

Audrey smiled affectionately at her husband. "Now snookums, don't be such a sourpus." She opened the letter. "Oh isn't that nice!"

"What does it say honeybuns?" Orin asked.

"It's a lovely thank-you note from a group that calls themselves the Chuddly Cannons. Look, they all signed it."

Mr. Granger walked over to his wife and took her in his arms. Together, they read the note.

"Hmm... excitable fellows, aren't they?" He asked dryly.

"I think it's sweet," Audrey chided her husband gently.

"Now fluffypoo, you know how I feel about sweet things," Mr. Granger said sternly.

Audrey Granger laughed. Birds dropped from the sky, and two cats fell off a wall, howling. "Oh stop snugglebunny. That was old in Dental School."

"But you still smiled, buttercup." Orin said with a laugh.

"So I did!" Audrey said happily.

And then the two began sucking on each other's faces like a pair of starving lampreys.

"For Christ's sakes, we're in public!" Hermione screeched. A block away, an old mother died.

"But we're in Paris, the City of Love!" Audrey said before returning to face-raping her husband.

"Honestly! We are in St. Troppes! Daddy, did you let mom 'read' the map again?" Hermione said bossily. The sky swallowed up the moon, and the seas turned red as blood. Well, not really, but a whale farted off the coast of Wales.

Thankfully, before Orin and Audrey Granger's outdoor activities turned from 'Things Old Ladies Gossip About In Hushed Tones' to 'Things That Violate The Laws of Man And Nature' the elder Grangers froze.

"What is it?" Hermione asked, worrying her lower lip in concern.

"I sense a disturbance in the floss." Orin said.

"Like a thousand drills whirling, then suddenly silenced." Audrey continued.

"Dentist... senses... tingling." They intoned together.

Hermione rolled her eyes. A hurricane started in China. "Oh ha ha."

"The Chosen One has Arisen!" Her parents shouted in glee.

"What are you on about?" Hermione asked, getting a bit (more) worried. In Hell, Michigan... nothing happened. The differentiated universe recognizes, but disregards, constants.

"The Lord of Evil! The Duke of Doom! The Harbinger of the Apocalypse! The Anti-Crisp!" Her parents repeated by rote in a psychotically happy sing-song.

"Whatever," Hermione said dismissively. "Everybody knows there's no such thing as Dentist Sense. You're just being silly."

"Hmph! I'll have you know that ever since I was a child, I always knew I'd be a dentist!" Audrey lectured at her daughter.

"Hear Hear!" Orin said. He began to sing.

"When I was younger,

just a bad little kid,

My mama noticed funny things I did,

Like shootin' puppies with a B B gun

I'd poison guppies, and when I was done

I'd find a pussycat and bash in its head

That's when my mama said..."

"What did she say?" Audrey sang back.

"She said, "My boy, I think someday

You'll find a way

To make your natural tendencies pay

You'll be a dentist

You have a talent for causin' things pain

Son, be a dentist

People will pay you to be inhumane

Your temperament's wrong for the priesthood

And teaching would suit you still less

Son, be a dentist

You'll be a success!"

"Absolutely no singing!" Hermione screeched. "Honestly! I can't take you two anywhere!"

"There's no time for hysterics, puddin'!" Audrey said as she grabbed her daughter.

"We've got to get you ready to meet Him! Quickly honey, do you remember where we found the perfect Dark Princess outfit?" Orin asked.

"It was that quaint fetish shop in South Berlin, I think." Ms. Granger replied.

"Well then, we're off!"

...

My Apologies to Little Shop of Horrors.

And the readers, of course.