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I hate mathematics. Euclid can go fuck himself with an iron spike.

Also, I might go through this chapter and edit parts of it.

Harry Potter and the Life Changing Head Injury

Chapter Seven: This Chapter Contains Graphic Sex...ism

Early on the something-th of August, Albus Dumbledore went before the august body of the Wizengamot, of which he was the Chief Warlock (For Life, he liked to add in his mind). Since Fawkes was still missing in action, Dumbledore had to take the Floo again, and this time when he jumped through it and came out in a manner highly reminiscent of a flying fish or a dolphin, he happened to crash straight into a large number of people, all of whom he had to Obliviate afterward to preserve his image.

It was hell getting to the Wizengamot chambers. Since Harry had destroyed all the elevators during his insane rampage of death, everyone had to use the stairs. And since he didn't have Fawkes to heal his every paper cut and pulled muscle, the venerated Headmaster still had a huge hole in his foot. Damn that Lovegood girl, he thought for the umpteenth time (actually the 267th).

And he thought Snape might have intentionally poured a relatively large amount of salt and lemon juice into the wound while treating it.

"No, no," the greasy roachman had said. "It's just... lemon-scented... and... it has... diluted saltwater in it... yes..."

He stopped in the restroom to place the usual glamour spells over his personage. Oddly, the Ministry bathrooms, which usually smelled terrible due to people missing, didn't smell as bad as they normally did. It was almost as if less people were using them. But that couldn't be; after all, there were more people than ever in the building, what with all the mayhem (witches and wizards were naturally attracted to disasters, and also naturally inclined to constantly shift the blame around in circles between a few people, most of them celebrities). Looking grandfatherly yet regal, Dumbledore left the restroom with a bit of toilet paper stuck to his shoe and swept into the Wizengamot chamber. Each step caused him indescribable agony, especially since he forced himself not to limp or hobble.

"Professor Dumbledore!" someone shouted. "Is it true that Harry Potter has joined You-Know-Who?"

"Professor Dumbledore! Is it true that Harry Potter is You-Know-Who's secret son?"

"Professor Dumbledore! Is it true that Harry Potter was rescued by You-Know-Who after being abandoned in the streets of Muggle London by his Muggle relatives and is now his gay lover?"

"Professor Dumbledore! Is it true that Harry Potter is secretly married to Death Eater Lucius Malfoy and the adopted son of ex-due-to-being-dead-Death Eater Evan Rosier?"

"Professor Dumbledore! Is it true that Bellatrix Lestrange can play Florence and the Machine songs on the piano?"

"Professor Dumbledore! Is it true that Harry Potter was kidnapped by Death Eaters and replaced with an evil version of himself from an alternate universe in which Gellert Grindelwald took over the entire world and You-Know-Who was a hippie, and that he's now having sex with every female of a reasonably close mating age in the entire country?"

"Professor Dumbled-"

"Shut up!" shouted Dumbledore.

He finally reached his goal (the podium, if you're an idiot and forgot, which you are and you did) and congratulated himself on a job well-done. Then he checked to make sure he wasn't having one of those dreams where he went up to speak to a large crowd of people and it turned out he wasn't wearing any clothes. But, unfortunately, he was fully clothed, and there was no naked barely-legal Gellert Grindelwald speeding toward him out of the crowd, so it must have been real.

Usually, Dumbledore waited for the Wizengamot rabble to quiet down on their own. This took some time, and allowed him to compose himself before speaking. However, Percy Weasley was no longer an assistant at the Wizengamot due to having had a ceiling fall on him, and had been replaced by the infinitely more awesome Marcus Shorehouse (whom everybody but Dumbledore wanted as Head Boy in his and Percy's final year).

"Shut up, you idiots!" Marcus bellowed at the crowd. "Shut up or I'll curse all of you to death!" Marcus was the only person in the room who could get away with saying something like that to the Wizengamot, and he knew it. He could get away with it because he happened to be the sexiest motherfucker in the whole chamber.

Anyway, the highly unsexy old man in the flamboyant urine-coloured robes found the Wizengamot waiting for him to speak, so he hastily got to it, even though he wasn't entirely ready.

"Lords and Ladies of the Wizengamot," he said in his most self-important, yet still grandfatherly, yet also even more self-important, and did I mention self-important?, voice, "a great tragedy has befallen our noble magical nation. It is with great sadness and woe that I inform you all... that Harry James Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived and Saviour of the Wizarding World, has gone Dark."

If the Order of the Phoenix had made a lot of noise when they were informed of Harry's disappearance, it was nothing compared to that produced by the Wizengamot and accompanying members of the press. People were demanding further explanation, oblivious to the fact that they couldn't get it if they continued shouting so loudly (wizards; idiots; one and the same); a couple of people were cheering because they had won bets they placed last year when everybody hated Harry and had cleverly avoided paying 'till then; a few single witches were sobbing and screaming incoherently and tearing their hair out and other such things, as were some balding middle-aged, suspiciously pedophile-like men whose brown trench coats (which they had to hold closed) did not cover their bare hairy calves and ankles.

"Shut the hell up!" Marcus repeated. He made a huge bang with his wand and everybody was too irrationally upset to check if he'd killed anyone or not.

Several bangs later, when the crowd had finally shut the hell up, Dumbledore continued:

"Last night, Harry Potter was possessed by Lord Voldemort -" Collective gasp; minor stroke for one Wizengamot elder, "-and subsequently murdered his remaining, completely loving and innocent, biological family. He then murdered an undisclosed number of people at the Ministry, including Senior Undersecretary Dolores Umbridge-" Collective cheers from literally everybody in the chamber, even the man with the burst aneurysm,"-destroyed a great deal of Ministry property, and kidnapped two innocent girls to use as rape slaves."

"Oh my god!" someone screamed. "Those poor girls!"

"Yes," agreed Dumbledore, somehow both serene and grave at the same time. "Among the dead are -"

"Who cares about that?" the same person shouted. "Tell us about the rape slaves!" Most of the other people in the chamber agreed.

Dumbledore harrumphed a bit - at the rudeness he was being shown, not at the crowd's morbid enthusiasm.

"According to a heroic young man who stumbled upon Mr. Potter later that night and was terribly injured in his attempts to stop him in the act of rape, one girl was defiled by way of rape in every way a perverse rapist can possibly imagine before being rapishly sacrificed to the legendary rapist Salazar Slytherin in the middle of a rape pentagram drawn with the virginal blood of rape children. The other has gone mad and joined Mr. Potter in his rape/murder spree, no doubt due to the hours of nonstop super-rape inflicted upon her during her rape captivity."

The reporters were scribbling furiously by now, documenting the fact that the Headmaster had used the word rape and various derivatives, not all of them real words according to the rules of the English language, ten times in two sentences. Rita Skeeter had about five Quick-Quotes-Quills working together while she also wrote with both hands, due to being ambidextrous.

'Highly Esteemed Fanfiction Author Lynched For Making Sexist Rape Jokes', the article would be called, and it would go something like this:

In the early hours of the day which came before today, a well-respected and beloved author of Harry Potter fanfiction fell victim to a mob of enraged femnazis reacting to a scene in 'Harry Potter and the Life-Changing Head Injury' in which Hogwarts Headmaster Albus Dumbledore spoke of the act of rape, as well as the ghoulish and dreaded 'super-rape', in a manner intended to be mildly humorous to the amoral, mentally defective imbeciles who make up the majority of readers on fanfiction dot net.

Mr. Thepsychoti Chouself, who knows everything about everybody ever, fought back against the mob of insane bulldykes using an array of personal info including but not limited to embarrassing photographs from your Myspace you forgot about and left up for years, archived Facebook messages about shit nobody but you would possibly ever care about (even though people pretend to in order to keep you happy so you don't slug them in the face with your steroid-enhanced bulldyke arms), emo poetry from when you were in 6th grade, and replacing all your profile images with goatse.

In the end, however, he fell victim to being hit in the head by a purse (which, ironically, was not swung by a woman at all but a MTF transsexual feminist, the irony of which is absolutely delicious even post-mortem), and dragged from his private cruise liner. He was then castrated, had 'male pig' burned onto his forehead with a branding iron, and was finally strung up from a telephone pole in a highly Christ-like manner while the crowd of femnazis chanted 'Kill all men, kill all men, we don't need 'em anyway, we'll just use the power of science to reproduce and kill all the male children'.

"It's what that male pig deserved," said one feminist. "I mean, he did make a rape joke, and you just can't do that. It's highly degrading to womyn."

When asked how violently removing a man's genitals, using a branding iron on him, and hanging him from a telephone pole to throw things at him until he died was okay to do, she replied, "Well, he was a man, wasn't he? Men are pigs. UGH, men!"

The victim died shortly after being cut down by members of a local fraternity, who chased all the feminists away by asking the hot ones for their numbers and using Axe as pepper spray to ward off the ugly ones. His last words were "I just wanted to make people laugh... Oh, can you find a bitch to go to the kitchen and make me a sandwich before I die." Sadly, he expired before a member of the local non-steroid-crazed female population could be found (they were all being held captive by Rosie O'Donnell, see page 8).

This article was not actually written by a Daily Prophet reporter. It was written by YHWH, who, coincidentally, am that I am.

Due to your regular author being dead, God will now take over and write the rest of the story. However, you should pretend that in addition to being that I am, I am also The Psychotic House-Elf, as I will be referring to myself by that name from now on. Jews, Christians, Muslims, when you go to church, you should pray to JSPR instead of YHWH/Jesus/Allah from now on. Just a heads-up so you don't wind up in hell or anything.

Back to the story now...

"The Ministry of Magic is now offering a one million Galleon bounty to whomever kills Harry Potter," the Headmaster said. "I am personally offering an additional one hundred thousand Galleons -" From Harry Potter's vault, he thought smugly, "-for the death of his insane rape slave, for she is far too mad to possibly be allowed to go on living."

The Headmaster's foot would be avenged. The author's dead body would be desecrated further by BitingBeaver.

Dumbledore was actually expecting Harry to return to Hogwarts because he thought he had insane people figured out. After all, his sister had always wanted to go home when she was tired, and Dumbledore was the kind of person to generalize that sort of thing to everybody and their mother's mother's mother's mother's mother. He would then kill Harry himself, have the Horcrux out of the way, and collect the one million Galleons, even though he had no authority to issue the bounty. People would do it because he was Albus Dumbledore, and god damn it, they listened to Albus Dumbledore.

Interestingly, Dumbledore wasn't too far off when it came to Harry's destination.

In contrast to Blaise's mansion, Daphne's home was very average and normal-looking. Compared to the Burrow, it was enormous and breathtaking - but then again, Ginny thought, even a hut on a rock in the middle of the ocean would probably be preferable to living in the Burrow, which smelled like chickens and felt like it was going to collapse at any moment. The Greengrass home had a lot of paintings of naked women hanging on the walls (most of which were doing things that made Ginny blush) and smelled like perfume.

Many people believed that due to having so many billions of children, or maybe 8, the Weasley's family magic centered around sex and sexuality. This could not have been more wrong. Well, it could have, but either way they were still wrong. The Weasleys actually specialized in prank magic. Unfortunately, Fred and George were the only ones who still carried on this noble tradition.

In reality, it was the Greengrass family that specialized in the magic of fucking. And this was why they had a lot of paintings of naked people on their walls - you try living in an ancestral manor that's been filled with sex magic for like 500 years without getting a little bit pervy.

Speaking of the Greengrasses, Daphne's parents (or Ginny assumed they were, anyway) met her in the sitting room a moment after she tumbled out of the fireplace. Mr. Greengrass bore a strong resemblance to the Malfoys in his demeanor, while Mrs. Greengrass had icy blue eyes and blood-coloured hair. They really were rather intimidating.

"Astoria didn't mention she was having a friend over," said Daphne's mother.

"Asto- What? No, I'm Ginny Weasley - I'm - I'm here to see Daphne," Ginny stammered.

"Is it about her harem?" asked her father.

"Er... yes, it is..."

They both suddenly looked very impressed, and at the same time disappointed. They were impressed because building a harem was one of the most impressive things anyone in the family could do, and apparently Daphne's harem-building skills were pretty impressive. They were disappointed because they had been secretly hoping Astoria had gotten over her sudden obsession with Draco Malfoy enough to think about something besides masturbating in front of her closet shrine devoted to a pair of his tighty-whities. Given the sort of underwear Malfoy wore, the Greengrasses were beginning to think potions were involved.

Anyway, Mr. Greengrass went to get Daphne, while Mrs. Greengrass talked to Ginny.

"So you're Molly's daughter," the blue-eyed woman said thoughtfully. "You're much better-looking than she was at your age, let me tell you."

Ginny nodded. She had seen pictures of her mother at fifteen, when she was being shown what was and wasn't appropriate to wear (according to The Prude). There weren't many people besides Umbridge who were less attractive.

"Wait, you knew the cow - I mean, my mother?" she asked.

"Of course. We were in the same year at Hogwarts," said Mrs. Greengrass. "You're very, very lucky to have an out from her prudish madness, you know."

"Oh, I know," said Ginny, nodding again in complete agreement. "Believe me, I know. Last year, she started talking about learning Legilimency so she could find out if I'd kissed anyone."

Mrs. Greengrass shivered in horror.

"I'm surprised she hadn't done it already," she said as Mr. Greengrass returned with Daphne.

Daphne looked a great deal like her mother: stunningly pretty (for real, not in Skeeterese), blue-eyed, red-headed, and also, like her mother, she had great something-cup tits. Also, instead of looking like an icy bitch as she so often did in school, she was smiling in a very friendly manner.

"Hi," she said. "I'm Daphne."

Feeling a little more relaxed since she wasn't dealing with a bunch of Malfoy impersonators, Ginny said, "Hi. Blaise Zabini said you were starting a harem...?"

"Oh, I'll have to thank Blaise for referring you," Daphne told her, by way of reply. "Come on, then."

"Don't forget to tell Susan and Tracey," said her father.

"I won't, Daddy," said Daphne as she too Ginny by the arm and led her out of the sitting room and into a hallway, which was also lined with pictures of sexy naked people.

"So, er, what do you do all day?" Ginny asked. The moment she asked the question, she realized how stupid it was.

"Sex," said Daphne. "Lots and lots of sex. On every possible surface."

"Oh. I see."

"Usually it's all three of us at once," the older redhead continued, "but sometimes Tracey likes to get into rougher stuff than most people, and Susan likes boys as well as girls so sometimes this Muggle boy comes over and she gives him blowjobs while we watch. It's all very fun."

"'Rougher stuff? Blowjobs?" asked Ginny cluelessly. Daphne turned around with an expression of horrified shock on her face.

"Your mother is insane," she said unnecessarily. "At least I don't have to worry about STDs. In here."

She half-dragged Ginny through a door on the left. It was a bedroom with very low lighting. On the bed, two girls were playing cards. One of them was the pretty, redheaded Susan Bones, whom Ginny was already friendly with from the D.A. The other had dark hair and was completely naked except for a pair of glasses and shoes. They were clearly playing poker, but there was nothing there to play for. Not even the naked girl's clothes.

"Hi Daphne," said Susan. The other girl waved.

"Susan, Tracey," Daphne greeted them. "This is Ginny Weasley."

"Oh, hi, Ginny. You decided to join too?" Susan sounded delighted.

Ginny meant to say yes, and to add that she was thrilled to see Susan, but she was so distracted by Tracey's nudity that what came out instead was, "Are you playing strip poker?"

"No," said both girls at the same time.

"You're naked," she finally pointed out to Tracey.

"Yes," Tracey agreed, nodding. "Yes, I am."

"...Why?"

"Daphne told me not to wear clothes," said Tracey nonchalantly.

"...and you listened to her?"

"Tracey is my bitch," Daphne explained, and Tracey nodded her head in agreement like nothing out of the ordinary was going on.

"Oh." Ginny couldn't think of anything more to say to this. Despite being in Gryffindor, which was notorious for its output of semi-professional whores and purveyors of the aristocrats joke, she was seriously stunted in her understanding of abnormal, perverse, sick, unholy, unclean, generally kinky sexual relationships due to the fact that Mrs. Weasley had burned all of Bill's BDSM magazines years ago and still covered her daughter's ears every time someone in the vicinity said the words penis, vagina, nipples, or sex.

She finally managed to ask, "What are you playing for, then?"

"Sexual favors," Susan and Tracey said.

"Oh," the younger redhead repeated, because it was the only thing she could think of.

"Now," said Daphne from behind Ginny, "being a Greengrass, I know just about everything there is to know about sex, and that includes knowing who is actually a repressed nymphomaniac. That would be you, Ginny. Therefore, I think it would be best if you did indeed join my harem. What say you?"

Daphne slid in front of Ginny. She was suddenly very naked. It was true, Ginny thought: she had the most perfect tits in the history of the universe, and Ginny really just wanted nothing more than to run her tongue across Daphne Greengrass's entire body and -

"Ginny?" Daphne said again.

"Perfect titties," said Ginny stupidly. "I mean, yes! Yes, I'll join your harem! Yes! Okay! To hell with Harry Potter's penis! From this moment forth, I am a fucking dyke!"

"Excellent," said Daphne, and she seized Ginny by the front of her robes and kissed her very hard. It was rather like having one of Fred and George's firecrackers explode in her head, except instead of screaming in agony and having her brain explode, she was sort of doing the exact opposite (moaning in pleasure while she had a spontaneous minor orgasm triggered by years of repressed hormonal feelings suddenly being unleashed). When she removed her tongue from Ginny's mouth several minutes later, Daphne went on, "Now, let's start the harem bonding ritual..."

In the next two hours or so (oh how time flies indeed) Daphne, Susan, and Tracey proceeded to do a lot of things to Ginny that Mrs. Weasley would never, ever have approved of. Most of the multiple orgasms weren't necessary for the bonding ritual (only a few), but Ginny didn't need to know that, and she wouldn't have objected even if she did.

Madam Puddifoot's tea shop was a very popular spot for people to take other people when they wanted to break up with them. There was a reason for this. It was that Madam Puddifoot was the closest thing to a friend Molly Weasley ever had at Hogwarts. They shared the same hatred of sex and romance. Molly took her madness out on her poor (except Ron; he deserved it) children, but Madam Puddifoot aimed much higher. She strove to build an empire dedicated to destroying love. Like her American cousin Mary Lee Walsh, she created a legitimate business as a front for her dastardly plan. This was her tea shop.

Nobody actually knew how it worked, but somehow, when Madam Puddifoot set up her shop, the breakup rate at Hogwarts jumped about 278 percent. It was once theorized by top romance scientists Cedric Diggory and Terence Higgs, who by the way were not actually scientists but horny teenaged manwhores, that it went something like this:

Phase 1: Date at tea shop
Phase 2: ?
Phase 3: Profit!

Except that 'Profit!' actually meant 'We need to talk...'

But they were completely wrong. How it really worked was its gratuitous and insidious use of old memes. That's what really powered the tea shop. Old, retarded 4chan memes. And ground-up newfags.

Anyway, the first section of this chapter ended with the words 'Interestingly, Dumbledore wasn't too far off when it came to Harry's destination.' This will now be explained. The inclusion of the history of Madam Puddifoot's tea shop will also be explained. Do you see where I'm going with this?

The explanation begins at about 12 in the afternoon at the Rookery (which, if you forgot, which you did, is where Luna lives). 12 in the afternoon was the time Harry and Luna actually got up, because even though they woke up at about 8, they kind of just sat around and tried to find interesting cloud formations through the blocked skylight in the Lovegoods' sitting room for four hours. There weren't really any interesting cloud formations; all of them looked like the ceiling.

Xeno was gone. He had left to go report on a very important emergency press conference at the Wizengamot that morning. It may seem irresponsible of him to leave his completely insane daughter alone with an equally insane serial killer, but you ought to remember that Xeno was also completely insane. And Luna already knew to kick people in the groin if they made her uncomfortable, so it wasn't like she was helpless, anyway.

Because his clothes were stained with blood, Harry changed them after he showered. Madam Malkin had replaced his entire wardrobe while he was at her robes shop. Now, instead of oversized hand-me-downs from a dead whale, Harry had sexy, black, badass, yet not at all poser-like clothes which actually fit him and whose specifics I will not go further into because I am not Tara Gilesbie. Luna went up to her room and came back down a short time later, wearing a lime-green sundress and red-and-black socks patterned with moving spiders. Huge moving spiders. The kind that would give Ron Weasley nightmares forever.

"Hum hum hum, lobotomizing Ron Weasley..." Luna used the bloodstained kitchen knife from the previous night to halve the onion-and-pepper-jack-on-rye sandwich she had just made for her lunch. "Where shall we go today, Harry?" she asked as she sat down at the table, where Harry was eating some spaghetti.

Harry slurped up a spaghetti noodle. "I'm not sure," he mused. "There are so many choices..."

"We could steal Time Turners, set someone's house on fire, and then throw them at it to see if the house goes back in time," Luna suggested.

"Why set it on fire first?"

She shrugged. Harry, too, shrugged, realizing she was right. Why did anyone need a reason to do anything, anyway?

"Eeny meeny miney moe," he said, and picked a completely random location on a map made out of spaghetti and meatballs. Then he ate the meatball he had just stabbed with his fork and picked a completely random place to go to from a map in his head. And then he disregarded it completely, because: "I know where we could find some Thestrals."

"Me too," agreed Luna. "At Hogwarts."

"Mmhmm," said Harry. "We should go there."

"I agree. But first we should get protection against the Wrackspurts before they steal more of our thoughts. If it hadn't been for them, I would have remembered the Thestrals years ago. Not that I blame them; they can, after all, only eat thoughts, and one has to eat in order to live."

Luna was a very understanding person, Harry thought to himself.

When they came out of the Floo in Honeydukes, both Harry and Luna were wearing tin foil hats on their heads. The reason for this was that despite the fact that Wrackspurts needed to eat in order to live, neither of them really fancied having their thoughts be meals for them. Since wearing tin foil hats was generally considered the stuff of crazy nutjobs even in the Wizarding World (though wearing tall pointy ones with shiny gold stars on them wasn't, for some reason), a lot of people stared at them as they strolled down the streets of Hogsmeade in the direction of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Also, both of them were wearing mirror sunglasses. This was because wearing mirror sunglasses automatically made you cool, even if you were wearing socks with giant spiders on them. The unintended effect of this was that neither of them were recognized by the people of Hogsmeade, who had all read the Daily Propaganda, I mean the Daily Prophet, featuring Dumbledore's announcement about the one million Galleon price on Harry's head. Luna might have been recognized due to her bizarre fashion sense if anyone had bothered paying attention to her before then. But they hadn't, and it was their one million Galleon loss.

They attracted a lot of attention because of their complete and utter insanity, though.

"Nice hats!" someone (this someone happened to be a Muggleborn wizard with a rather rude temperament who would die several days later in an unrelated incident involving Argus Filch, three blind mice, and a box of Sugar Quills) guffawed.

"Thank you!" said Luna happily, and she waved at him. Happy that people liked her anti-Wrackspurt hats, she skipped joyfully for a bit, and the knives in her schoolbag jingled merrily. Maybe other people would start wearing the hats, too! Her father had always said her fashion would catch on someday.

It just so happened that about 30 seconds after that meeting, Harry and Luna passed by the concentration of pure evil known as Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop. Harry, of course, stopped dead in his tracks and stared at it for a while, unmoving, as memories of the pink horrors within flowed through his cracked brain and poured out his ears. Luna decided to imitate him (including the memories flowing out the ears part) because it was fun. They stayed like that for a good long while.

"Nrgghl," Harry said, his mouth hanging open and a bit of saliva drooling down the side.

"Hdrfhd," agreed Luna.

Then Harry drew his wand and, as if in a trance, blew up the front window of Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop and climbed through it.

There sat inside the tea shop several couples. These consisted mostly of obese losers and failures (read: /b/tards) trying unsuccessfully to impress hot sexy women with huge tits, and ugly fat chicks with huge abdominal panniculi trying with about the same level of success to woo good-looking sexy men. The sheer amount of pink, lace, and frills was so reminiscent of Dolores Umbridge that it made Harry want to projectile vomit right then and there, but fortunately he was able to distract himself by turning away to help Luna climb in through the window after him.

"This is quite an unpleasant place," said Luna, shivering, as she looked around. "There isn't enough bright colour."

And she waved her wand.

The whole shop turned into a psychedelic LSD trip. The walls looked like rows and rows and rows of parked hippy buses from the 1960s, the colours interrupted only by the doorways, furniture, and people; the tablecloths became tie-dyed with insanely bright neon patterns; the PA system, which had been playing Justin Bieber's 'Boyfriend' due to a temporal fluke, suddenly began playing 'Helter Skelter' by The Beatles. Most of the patrons screamed in horror/ocular agony. One fat, balding man (out of many) fell out of his seat and started having a seizure.

"This is much better, Luna," Harry declared.

"WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?" another fat, balding man, I mean woman, screamed as he, I mean she, stomped over to the two of them.

"Painting the roses red," Harry replied vacantly.

Obviously, the man (it actually was just a fat, balding middle-aged man in a dress and some lipstick) was a Pureblood (and a fine specimen at that) because he/she demanded, "What are you talking about, you impure peon?"

Harry Conjured about a hundred white roses all over him/her, most of them inside his/her dress (which, by the way, belonged to his/her wife, who was, unlike her husband, not fat). He/she screamed because the thorns were about twice as sharp as they should have been had the roses been natural or conjured by someone without a life-changing head injury, and the ill-fitting dress made them go 'stab-stabbity-stab-stab-stab' into his/her hairy, sweaty manwomanflesh.

"How dare you assault a lady like that?" he/she shrieked, drawing yet more unnecessary attention to the fact that he/she was really just a balding fat man dealing with his/her midlife crisis by putting on a dress and some lipstick. He/she drew his/her wand to curse Harry. But before a curse could leave the manwoman's lipstuck lips, Harry made his/her head explode. Blood, brains, skull fragments, microscopic particles of mascara, and bits of balding scalp spattered the walls, floor, ceiling, tables, customers, Harry, Luna, and everyone else in the restaurant. Some of the white roses turned red due to all the blood covering them, thus making Harry's statement about painting the roses red completely true. But he also lied a little because some of them turned purple-ish pink (due to the brains), rather than red.

"We're painting the roses red," Luna (who had seen the Alice In Wonderland cartoon three hundred and ninety-six times, read the books all the way through two thousand seven hundred and nine times, and owned at least one of every piece of Wonderland-related media/collectables ever produced) sang loudly as she made one of said newly-painted-red roses shoot like a missile into the ear of a short, fat little man with acne and impale his brain. Instantly, the three Veela he had under the Imperius Curse were released, and they became quite enraged and started killing anyone they saw who resembled their former captor (that is to say, just about everyone in Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop who had a dick, and also an unfortunate bulldyke).

Some ugly fat chick with an abdominal panniculus managed to hit Harry in the head with her teacup. Fortunately, Harry turned her inside-out before she could run/waddle/roll away. This is fortunate because she was a fursuiter in her spare time and therefore deserved to die a painful, horrible death. You may be wondering why anyone would wear a shitty home-made fursuit when they could just learn to be an Animagus or find someone who could do Transfiguration on them. The answer is that furries all have defective brains, so none of the magical ones ever thought of doing those things. You may also be wondering why someone would deserve to die for wearing a fursuit. If this is the case, please commit suicide you disgusting furfag scum.

"This is ever so much fun," said Luna. She decapitated a pear-shaped woman with very short legs and twirled around merrily on the spot.

"It wasn't much fun when I came here the first time," Harry told her, striking an obese black man deader than Trayvon Martin, "but for some reason this date is a lot better than the first."

"Oh, are we on a date?" Luna asked. Harry shrugged. Then he bent down and picked up one of the red roses, which (if you forgot, and you did) was actually a white rose stained with the blood of a headless middle-aged crossdresser.

"I guess," he said as he handed it to her. She took it with a squeal of delight and put it behind her ear, where it dripped blood onto her lime-green sundress.

"I've never been on a date before. What do we do?"

"When I was here with Cho, we sat and made awkward conversation. But I don't think we can do that, as we've destroyed all the tables. She also yelled at me a lot for making plans to see you and Hermione -" Harry stepped out of the way of a Killing Curse and made its caster implode, "-but I don't have plans with Hermione this time."

Luna thought very hard. Eventually, she came up with, "Maybe I could yell at you for making plans with me this time?"

"That's a good idea," said Harry, nodding.

"Excellent!" Then her face fell. "Oh dear, but this wasn't really planned, was it? So that won't work. Oh! But we were going to go see the Thestrals! That counts as a plan, doesn't it?"

"I think so. It'll probably count if you yell at me for that."

"We came up with it together, though. Hmm..." She thought very hard again, and came up with another idea. "What if we went and visited the Thestrals instead of yelling at each other for our date?"

Harry considered this. He didn't really like yelling very much, and he did kind of like Thestrals, and he did kind of like not getting green lights of death shot at him.

"Okay," he agreed. "Let's do that."

"Yippee! And then we can make brainstem zombies later!"

The Aurors arrived about five minutes later to find a smoldering ruin where Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop had once been. Unsurprisingly, most of them cheered.

But in the shadows, something watched and plotted revenge. Something evil. Something terrible. Something puddi.

Ron Weasley really should have been thinking very hard about his life, given what had just happened to him: he had just been chased through a house by his insane former best friend's knife-wielding new best friend, been locked in a room with spiders for hours for slamming a door in said former best friend's knife-wielding new best friend's face, and (unknowingly) lost his sister to a lesbian harem due to his mother's psychotic behavior, among other things. Life-changing events such as those typically called for reflection.

However, Ron was basking in the attention instead.

"Him and Loony had Ginny, and they were sacrificing her to Salazar Slytherin," he told his mum, who was the one giving him the attention (everybody else was busy caring about Charlie, since Charlie was generally considered a more worthy recipient of most people's attention than Ron, and also he was going into rehab). "I dueled them both for hours, but they cheated and locked me in that room using my only weakness of spiders."

"My poor heroic Ronnikins," sobbed Mrs. Weasley as she hugged her son and nearly crushed his ribs. "So brave and noble, risking your life to save your sister like that! I can't believe Harry would do a thing like this after we opened our home to him! And my poor innocent virgin daughter - defiled in every possible manner and murdered so her blood could be drained in the name of that heathen sex addict Salazar Slyth-"

The door of Ron's St. Mungo's hospital room suddenly burst open and Hermione Granger rushed in. Mrs. Weasley eyed the bushy-haired potential scarlet woman with suspicion. Hermione, who had been summoned in the dead of night, had been sleeping in the nude (it was fucking summer and the AC was broken) and had just thrown a shirt and some jeans on. It was very obvious indeed that she wasn't wearing anything besides those two pieces of clothing and her shoes. Furthermore, she was also very sweaty and breathing heavily due to a combination of the summer heat and the fact that there was a 614 pound man jammed in the elevator when she came through the Floo, forcing her to run up the fire escape to get to Ron's room. Since wizards are born without logic, the fire escapes were unconnected to each other and alternated between floors - left, right, left, right, etc., so she also had to run through the entirety of each hospital floor as well.

"Ron!" Hermione gasped, her breast (and breasts) heaving. "What happened?"

"Harry and Loony sacrificed Ginny to Salazar Slytherin with anal sex," said Ron stupidly. Hermione stared at him.

"What?" she said, equally stupidly, mostly due to the excess stupidity of the previous statement overflowing into her own words.

"I'm getting an Order of Merlin," Ron added, despite the fact that it was completely irrelevant to the topic of anal sex with Salazar Slytherin, or whatever. "For fighting them." He puffed himself up as much as he could - which was kind of a lot, actually, because in the real world when you eat constantly you start to put on weight after a while, and Ron was beginning to get a bit chunky, according to the Healers who had treated him.

"Harry and Luna did what?" Hermione repeated, still stuck on the Slytherin thing.

"Sacrificed... boobs..."

"Stop staring at my breasts, Ron," said Hermione crossly, putting her hands on her hips. "What the hell happened? All Dumbledore said was that Harry did something and you got hurt. I assumed it was Death Eaters."

"Harry and Loony kidnapped my sister and did a bunch of weird stuff to her because they're both crazy, and then Loony chased me around the house with a kni- I mean, I dueled them both for hours in an epic battle trying to save her life and soul but they locked me in a room with spiders."

"Harry's not crazy," Hermione protested, and then she began processing the rest of Ron's verbal diarrhea.

"Loony is," said Ron. "She probably infected him." Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Whatever Luna has isn't contagious, Ronald," she said. Then she added, thoughtfully, "...unless it's some kind of viral encephalopathy..."

"Leave the complicated thinking to the men, dear," said Mrs. Weasley kindly and very sexistly. "You're far too smart for your own good, you know. And for Morgana's sake, put a shirt or three on! I can see your-" She covered Ron's ears, "-nipples through your shirt."

Hermione left again before Ron's ears were even fully uncovered. True to form, Ron complained bitterly about not getting any because his mother was in the room, and Mrs. Weasley said that that was precisely the reason she was there, and also precisely the reason why she had put a Shrinking Charm on his penis when he started puberty that he could only undo when he got married, and even then only for short periods of time when he genuinely wanted to procreate and not to simply enjoy the act of having sex.

Hagrid is awesome.

(dear beta-reader: this is not an in-text author's note because the author is dead and cannot write in-text author's notes, and JSPR is a character in the story, which means that not only is this not an in-text author's note, but Harry Potter and the Life-Changing Head Injury is actually writing itself)

At Hogwarts, Rubeus Hagrid was wrestling a flesh-eating slug in his garden. He enjoyed it far more than going on missions to the giants, to whom he had just sent a letter instead. Hagrid may have been large and rather slow in the brain sometimes, but that didn't mean he was a dolt or anything of that nature. Flesh eating slugs trumped sharp mountains of certain death, murderous giants and giantesses who had sexual fetishes for humans, and Walden MacNair (self-explanatory), any day.

Anyway, he was just strangling the slug with its own tail when someone familiar walked by.

"'Arry?" he said, having to yell to be heard over the slug's gurgling shrieks.

"Hi Hagrid," said Harry, who was wearing a bloodstained leather trench coat, mirror sunglasses, and a tinfoil hat. "That's a very large slug."

"O' yeah, 'e's a flesh-eating slug, 'e is," Hagrid told him happily, losing his grip on the slug's tail. "They - oof - got a bit big since I accidentally bought steroids instead o' flesh-eating slug repellent a couple o' years ago. Yeh want a go at 'im?"

Harry was joined by a blonde girl wearing a lime-green sundress and red-and-black socks patterned with large, moving spiders, as well as mirror sunglasses and a tinfoil hat like Harry's.

"Sorry," said Harry sincerely, "but Luna and I are kind of in a hurry. We're on a date, and we, uh, had to leave the place we were just at due to, uh... zombie epidemics, yeah. Maybe some other time?"

Hagrid waved a huge hand, which was promptly bitten by the slug. "Not a problem," he assured his friend.

"We're going to visit the Thestrals, Professor Hagrid," Luna said with a smile. "If that's all right with you."

"O'course it is," Hagrid replied. "You two 'ave fun on yer date."

"Thank you!" they chorused, and vanished behind his house. Luna reappeared seconds later.

"Also, have you ever seen a large, floating, blimp-like creature about the size of a Muggle dirigible, which appears to be made of stitched human flesh, emits puffs of smoke from a bent tube-like appendage on its topside, and has several very long, half-coiled tentacles dangling from its body?" she asked, cocking her head to the side a little. "Daddy is looking for new witnesses to interview about the Blibbering Humdinger."

"Nope, can't say I have," said Hagrid after a moment of thought, during which the slug tried to slug itself away, but he stomped on its tail to keep it in the garden so it couldn't cause havoc elsewhere. "I'll keep me eyes open, though."

"Thank you!" Luna repeated, and scampered off to join Harry.

"Nice girl," Hagrid said to himself as he attempted to put the collar and leash back on the giant mutant flesh-eating slug so he could finish walking it. "'Arry'll 'ave a good time, I'm sure o' it."

It wasn't until quite a while later that he remembered Harry and Luna weren't supposed to be at school, and by then he was so drunk (grieving over the fact that the flesh-eating slug got away again and abandoned him in the forest the first chance it got) that he forgot it again until two days later (the next day was spent dealing with his planet-sized half-giant hangover).

The last three or four or something things the reporters ask Dumbledore about are all premises from stories on my favorites list.

Did I commit self-insertion (lol insertion) by writing an article about my own murder? Tell me what you think.

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TuesdayNovember was the only person on earth not offended by my writing. The rest of you suck.