Now and forever- I will always be sorry. But I would still write all of this all over again.

It happened that, on the morning of that significant November the fourteenth when Professor Snape's discovery of Professor's Dumbledore insanity created a sensation which, to this day, has not entirely been proven as anything other than a massive accidental ingestion of magical potions, McGonagall had come to his office. It was not a habit of hers to see Snape any more than she had to, but she felt it was her obligated to deliver certain documents to him, the importance of which amounts to nothing in the great scheme of things.

Nonetheless, the fact remains that McGonagall was present in the hallway and this allowed to hear the cry that bent the heavens.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!"

Nonplussed by the scream, McGonagall knocked on the door out of a courtesy that existed only due to its irony, and immediately opened the door without waiting for an answer, her head peeking out of the corner of the doorway. There was nothing unusual inside Snape's office, its atmosphere as grim as usual, and Snape's bad mood continuing its uninterrupted streak(the streak was said to be the second longest streak in history, only after some strange man who worked in a graveyard).

"Minerva," said Snape, nodding curtly but using a tone that implied no such politeness. "What brings you here?"

"I have come to deliver a few documents," she responded, holding up a thick stack of papers. "What were you doing?"

"Though I don't think you are used to such techniques, the principle is quite simple," said Snape, charismatically pulling his hair backwards with his hands as he spoke exactly the way somebody with his ugliness should be dragged to the streets and shot for even attempting. "I was staring at some old manuscripts and attempting to translate them, so I could cure Professor Dumbledore of his…condition."

"Condition?" exclaimed McGonagall. "You mean it's treatable?"

"Possibly," said Snape. "From what I've gathered from my talks with him, he was apparently infected with some sort of electricity when he went into a Muggle sporting event ten years ago. Some sort of…wrestling event."

Snape contorted his face with disdain into an expression of pure, ugly hatred. Naturally, such was his natural ugliness that his negative emotions went by unnoticed—the perfect disguise.

"Is that why Albus fired Quirrel before for such a trivial matter?"

"Perhaps," answered Snape, putting his fingertips together much like a person with two hands would. "I have my doubts however—there is still a chance that the Headmaster is only pretending to be mad in order to throw off the Dark Lord, to make him think that he isn't a threat anymore."

"Dark Lord? You mean—"

"Yes, he's likely alive and I suspect that Quirrel was his servant, which makes Dumbledore's move perfectly logical. However…" Snape shook his head and trembled like a man who's asked if he wants to go shoe shopping. "There's no use wasting our time here, I'll ask the Headmaster myself, I'm sure he trusts me enough to reveal his plan."

"It's no use, Severus. I've tried to do so, multiple times. But Albus—"

"Perhaps you weren't able to do it, but do remember who you are talking to, Minerva," said Snape slyly, enunciating each word so rhythmically that it looked like he was one strangely placed transition away from breaking into a song.

Snape came out of Dumbledore's office with his head low and his eyes more unbelieving than they had ever been before. McGonagall was waiting for him, beside the door and would very likely have had her arms crossed and back leaning against the wall if her age permitted her to do so. Since that wasn't the case, she had to satisfy herself with a well-placed raise of her eyebrow(regretting this motion a moment later as she became aware of her influence).

"How did your attempt to find out more about Professor Dumbledore's thoughts go, Severus?"

"He may have put me in a match against Flitwick."

"That sounds rather serious, don't you think?"

"Not at all—he is a midget with no serious arm strength, I'm fairly sure I can overpower him with no major difficulties."

"In regards to Professor Dumbledore's sanity."

"Oh," Snape would have scratched the back of his head at this point, but doing so would have unleashed a terrible flea plague upon humanity. "Yes that's long gone."

McGonagall raised her hands up to her forehead and began walking in a circular motion, which struck Snape as very pointless, though slightly funny due to her speed.

"We need to do something! We can't have Professor Dumbledore losing his mind when You-Know-Who is apparently still alive and with the Philosopher's Stone…Severus?"

Snape bit his lips, closed his eyes and shook his head, like a man who was trying to soften a blow—only he was far too selfish to do so, in reality he was just unable to properly control his facial muscles due to a surprisingly submission move Dumbledore had put him under in order to force to accept his sanity moments earlier.

"About the Philosopher's Stone—Dumbledore may have mentioned that he sent a letter to Quirrel, saying that Harry Potter was going to be face him in a one on one match for the Philosopher's Stone."

"What?" It was all McGonagall could say in response to that.

"Not you too!" exclaimed Snape furiously. "In any case, it's going to be a "Philosopher's Stone on a pole" match. I frankly have no idea what that even means. Do you hazard any guesses, Minerva?"

"Not particularly, no—why on earth is Dumbledore even making that challenge if he knows that Quirrel is a dark wizard? Wouldn't calling the Ministry be more efficient?"

"Do you think so?" asked Snape, as if he had some reserves about the idea.

"Yes, I think that—"

"IT DOESN'T MATTER WHAT YOU THINK!"

Snape screamed at McGonagall's face, prompting her to fall backwards and be forced to turn into her cat form to survive. Even in her animal body, her expression of sheer disbelief and confusion explained exactly what the numerous and complex thoughts that went through her highly sensible mind at the moment. SEVERUS WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?

In response, Snape smirked and ripped up his robes—which caused a few first year girls to run away, shrieking in panic. Underneath it was a shirt that said "Corporate Hogwarts."

"Professor Dumbledore was kind enough to show me his memories of this electrifying wrestling event he went to, and this caused me to accept his viewpoint. I then turned my face to true goodness and joined the good side."

McGonagall had slightly over forty seven and a half issues with what Professor Snape had just stated, though curiously none of which were related to the fact his alignment change did not at all match the corporation.

"Severus, if you—if you truly went to his side, then why did you act like a normal human being when you came out of his office?"

"That, McGonagall," said Snape, lifting his finger higher than his nose and wagging it from side to side, "is what we call a swerve."

Professor Dumbledore burst out of his office—quite literally. He blew up a hole on the wall instead of using the door. He offered no explanation for this behavior, and instead locked eyes with Snape. Both men understood each other immediately, and strutted out of the room together their heads so high up they were actually nearly looking backwards as they marched away from McGonagall.

McGonagall only one thing to say about the incident.

"What?"

"WHAT?" cried back the crowd of students that had inexplicably formed behind her.

It was not unusual for Harry Potter to have breakfast, but it was fairly unusual for him to do so without being introduced by Hogwarts' orchestra.

"I'm having them rest for tonight," said Harry, smirking and nodding to some girls he quite clearly wouldn't remember four phrases later. "I need them ready for when I kick that Voldemort jabroni's ass."

"But Harry," said Ron, who was sitting beside Harry and the girls and was now wearing a strange mask for reasons unknown to him, "why am I wearing this mask?"

"Yeah Harry why" said a girl.

"Because—" Harry stopped his sentence to turn to the girl, and then lowered his sunglasses"—who in the blue hell are you again?"

The girl was obviously embarrassed. "I—"

"And would you like to taste some of The Wizard's strudel?"

"I—of course The Harry!"

"What the hell is the matter with you?" exclaimed Harry, flipping over the breakfast table. "You are eleven you shouldn't be thinking like that!"

"But Harry, you are elev—" began Ron, before being thrown against the breakfast table so hard the wood exploded in a thousand pieces.

"IT DOESN'T MATTER IF THE HARRY IS ELEVEN!" shouted Harry, Harry Bottoming' Ron through the table.

Neville knelt down beside the destroyed table to pick up some of the food he missed. He picked up some tacos, and a lightbulb went up in his head.

"Spanish. Of course."

"I'm not much of a fan of Spanish food fella," said Seamus. "I prefer lobster heads," he added as he bit off a lobster's head.

The reason for this fateful meeting was a matter of business—or, rather, of aesthetics. If Dumbledore didn't issue the challenge to Voldemort, there existed a distinct possibility that Voldemort and Harry would have to face each other without a crowd of screaming fans, and he simply could not let that happen.

A word concerning Snape's dislike for Harry's father is necessary. Though this dislike came from matters of what was hidden underneath their pants and their contact with a certain girl, their rivalry did not start there. Snape's hatred for James began when he saw the boy playing around with Hagrid, the giant, and managed to lift him over his head and slam him against the floor, immediately turning him into the most popular boy in Hogwarts.

This was not, in fact, necessary to establish, but what is necessary to mention is that this memory may or may not have been implanted by Dumbledore later in order to further convince Snape of his electrifying viewpoint. Potato, potato, not a man in the world cared.

The only thing they cared about was—

IF YOU SMELL

WHAT THE HARRY

IS COOKING

The Harry came out from the middle of a gigantic crowd that far surpassed Hogwarts' logical capacity. Magic and electricity fused to create an atmosphere that not a thing in the world was capable of matching, the sky itself seemed one musical note away from exploding. Hogwarts' orchestra, joined by three other orchestras, played The Harry's musical theme perfectly. He then raised his arm high up in the air, and looked at Voldemort, who was both using Quirrel's body and quite confused about the situation.

The Harry then picked up his wand and pointed towards his own throat. "Sonorus."

With a dramatic clearing of his throat, he went on.

"Finally," he said, "finally, VOLDEMORT, HAS COME BACK, TO HAVE HIS JABRONI ASS KICKED!'

The crowd exploded—there was no longer any trace of fear in their cheers. They weren't afraid of Voldemort, not while The Harry was there. McGonagall considered this to be what Dumbledore planned for a moment, but quickly dismissed it as it would require a lodicule of sense which the situation did not have.

"I've waited ten long years to see the jabroni who gave me this scar," said The Harry, somehow lifting his hair simply by frowning really hard. "And then you turn out to be what I've been waiting for all along? You?"

"Potter," said Voldemort, "I've been waiting—I've been dreaming—I will kill you, I'll reclaim the darkness inside of my—"

"Know your role and shut your damn mouth!" exclaimed Harry. "You don't get to interrupt The Harry! Especially not you! Not when you look like a snake high on fruity pebbles!

"Not when come out here dressed in those purple robes and scarves, like you are Barney the Dinosaur's Muslim Cousin!"

The crowd cheered, but all McGonagall could do was rub her temples, somewhat hopeful that this was not actually happening and that it was just her dying dream. This was not the case.

"That is not very PG…Harry…Potter…"

"Know what else isn't PG? Your damn obsession with snakes. Listen up you homeless Darth Vader, it doesn't matter how many snakes you collect, it's never going to be enough to compensate for the fact you never got pie!"

Voldemort couldn't take the insult—he threw a powerful spell at Harry, and the match had begun. Had the spell hit him, he would surely have died, but Voldemort missed due to not accounting for the fact that Harry planned on running from one side of the squared ring to another in order to "pump up the crowd" as he put it.

Voldemort then followed up that attack with numerous other smaller attacks that, though not lethal, knocked Harry down multiple times. Then, once Harry was down for a substancial amount of time, Voldemort pointed upwards—toward the Philosopher's Stone hanging from the pole.

"I do not understand why he felt the need to point," said McGonagall, baffled. "Couldn't he just accio the stone to—"

"IT DOESN'T MATTER IF THE STONE CAN BE ACCIO'D!" exclaimed Snape, causing McGonagall to pass out once more.

Voldemort had nearly climbed the entire pole when a change in atmosphere happened. Electricity charged up, the temperature became hotter, and an eclipse happened as though the sun itself as trying to hide from the presence of this man. It is possible that some of those traits were coincidental, but there was little denying that the man had a certain affinity with the miraculous.

He did nothing but look at Harry—he didn't need to say anything. Harry understood. Harry felt the electricity, the cheers of the millions—

"AND MILLIONS!" screamed back the crowd.

—of The Harry's fans hoping for a comeback. So he jumped back to his feet and ran toward the ringposts, using them to jump toward Voldemort. The evil wizard, who was nearly done climbing the pole at that point, turned back and looked at Harry, horror splattered across his particularly ugly face. He felt Harry's palm be placed against his chest, but he couldn't do anything due to the incredible pain he felt. All he knew was that he was now being thrown against the ground by Harry.

"ROCK BOTTOM! HARRY BOTTOM! IT'S THE BOTTOM LINE—WAIT NO, WRONG LINE," said the commentary. "BUT THAT'S NOT ENOUGH! HE-WHO-MUST-HAVE-HIS-ASS-KICKED IS STILL ALIVE! HOW CAN THE HARRY PUT HIM DOWN?"

Harry looked at Voldemort, who was still on the ground but trying to get up, and then back at the crowd. Then back to Voldemort. Then back to the crowd. And then it happened.

"OH MY GOD!" exclaimed Jordan on commentary. "CAN IT BE—?"

Harry punched the air in front of him. He fixated his feet on the floor with such intensity that the Earth itself stopped spinning for a moment. Harry began to roll up his sleeves and tossed his completely non-functional watch toward the crowd, perhaps injurying somebody but not caring, and then he flopped his arms around.

And by God did he flop his arms around. It was almost like he was gonna take flight, but toward the opposite direction then turned 90 degrees to the side. He ran toward the ring ropes, jumped over Voldemort, and repeated the process. Then, as he approached Voldemort's fallen body, he stopped running and began slide.

"THE MOST ELECTRIFYING MOVE IN HISTORY OF EVERYTHING! THE PEOPLE'S—NO THE WIZARD'S ELBOOOOOW!"

It was the apocalypse, the big bang, and an office bathroom after a taco party all rolled into one—pure, Bayian explosions. The moment Harry's elbow fell and made contact with Voldemort's heart, the evil wizard's body was disintegrated. He could not come in contact with the electricity contained in Harry's elbow.

"Do you see now, Professor McGonagall?" asked Professor Dumbledore kindly. "This is why Harry needed to be raised by that man. His electricity allowed him to destroy Voldemort."

"In fact, I do not see that Albus. In fact, I think that Voldemort was killed by love rather than—"

"IT DOESN'T MATTER WHAT YOU THINK!"

Dumbledore threw McGonagall through a table. Nobody paid any attention to it, as they were too busy celebrating Voldemort getting his ass jabroni ass sent all the way to the Smackdown hotel.

All was well.