Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone (explicit Gen Z edit)

written by Alora Black

Harry Potter has never been OP at Quidditch, living his life on a broom way above the ground. He's not bigbrain on spells, he's never helped hatch a dragon, and has never worn an invisibility cloak like a sneaky bitch. All this basic bitch has ever done is live an unepic life with the Dursleys, his sus aunt and uncle and their fugly son, Dudley, a thicc ass fuckboy. Harry's crib is a lil closet under some dusty ass stairs and he hasn't had a birthday party, like ever. But all that is about to be canceled when a lowkey sus letter gets dropped of by an owl; a letter with an invite to some boujee place that just hits different for Harry and anyone reading this. It's there that he finds not just homies, air sports, and - no cap - magic in everything from classes to food, but also finds out he's lowkey the main character... if he doesn't get unalived that is.

Last Updated

05/17/22

Chapters

17

Reads

85,483

The Boy Who Wasn't Unalived

Chapter 1

[CHAPTER STILL IN PROGRESS]


Mr. and Mrs. Dursley at #4 Privet Drive, liked flexing that they were very basic, thank u. Tbh they were the last people you'd think would be sus, because they were all fax no printer.


Mr. Dursley was adulting at a firm called Grunnings that made drills. He was a dummy thiccc (w/ three Cs) man with basically no neck, tho he had an absolute unit of a mustache. Mrs. Dursley was a Karen with zero chill and had hella neck, which was real useful for highkey stalking her neighbors and not minding her own.The Dursleys had a lil son called Dudley who they really thought was the main character.


The Dursleys were pretty much thriving, but they lowkey had tea that didn't pass the vibe check and their biggest fear was getting called out and cancelled. They were girldbossing too close to the son and didn't think they could deal if ppl found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but she's been ghosting her for so long, that Mrs. Dursley lowkey pretended she didn't have a sister cuz her sister and her dumbass husband were as unBasicbitch as they could be. The Dursley's were straight shook thinking about what the neighbors would say if the Potters showed up outside. The Dursley's knew the Potters had a lil bb boy too, but they've literally never seen him. The bb boy was another reason to keep ghosting the Potters; they didn't want Dudley vibing with a lil bitch like that.


When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the musty ass Tuesday our storytime starts, there wasn't anything about the shitty weather that would make you think anything sus is finna go down all around the country. Mr. Dursley hummed while he picked out his most basic tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley was vibing and talking shit while she shoved Dudley's loud ass in his high chair.


No one noticed a big ass tawny owl fly past the window,


At half past eight, Mr. Dursley snatched his briefcase, pecked miss girl on the cheek and took a fat L tryna kiss Dudley goodbye cause he was too busy bitching and yeeting his cereal at the walls. "Little tyke," loled Mr. Dursley as he got tf outta there. He got in his car and skirrted out the driveway.


At the corner of the street he peeped something sus - a cat reading a map. For a hot sec, Mr. Dursley lowkey didn't realise what he just saw - then he jerked his head to cop another peek. There was a tabby cat chillin on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn't a map anywhere. Wtf was he on? Ain't no way, it was prolly a trick of the light. Mr. Dursley blinked and just stared at the cat. It stared back. As Mr. Dursley skirrted round the corner and up the road, he peeped the cat in his mirrror. Now it was reading the sign that said Privet Drive - nvm, looking at the sign; duh cats can't read maps or signs. Mr. Dursley got his shit together and yeeted the cat outta his mind. As he vroom vroomed toward town, he only thought about a fat order of drills he was hoping to get that day.


But on the edge of town, drills were snatched from his mind by smth else. As he chilled in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn't help noticing a lot of people with sus fits. Bitches in cloaks. Mr. Dursley could not with people that had sussy drip - the shit you peep on these hoes! He guessed this was some dumbass new trend. He drummed his thicc fingers on the steering wheel and he peeped a group of these weirdos chilling close by. They were whispering excitedly together. Mr. Dursley was highkey pressed that some of them weren't even young; shit, that guy had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! Sheeee! But then it hit Mr. Dursley that this was probably some dumbass prank - these bitches were obv collecting for smth... yeah, that's gotta be it. The traffic moved on and after a hot sec, Mr. Dursley skirrted to a stop in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind stuck on drills.


Mr. Dursley conveniently always sat with is fat ass facing the window in his office on the ninth floor. If he didn't, then it woulda been lowkey difficult to obsess over drills that morning. He didn't peep the owls deadass skirrting past in broad daylight, tho bitches down in the street did: they pointed and stared, completely shook as a fuckton of owls yeeted by overhead. Most of them had never peepd an owl, not even at nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly basic, owl-free morning. He went off on five different people. He made hella important phone calls and went off a bit more. He was absolutely vibing until lunchtime, when he thought he'd stretch his legs and take a lil walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the bakery.


He'd lowkey forgotton about the cloaked bitches until he passed a group of them by the baker's. He eyed them saltily as he passed. He didn't know why, but they made him uncomfy asf. Those bitches were whispering excitedly too and he didn't peep a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them, snatching a fat doughnut in a bag, that his nosy ass caught a few words of what they were saying.


"The Potters, mhm, that's what I heard-"


"-yeah, their kid, Harry-"


Mr. Dursley straight up froze. He was literally quaking in his boots. He peeped the whisperers again as if he was gonna post up or smth, but he thought nvm.


He yeeted himself back across the road, hurried to his office, went off on his secreatary to mind her own, snatched his phone, and had almost finished dialing his home number when he went nvm. He put the receiver down and stroked his absolute unit of a mustache, thinking... nah, he was being stupid. Potter wasn't such a quirky name. He was convinced there were hella Potters who had a son called Harry. Tbh, he lowkey wasn't sure his nephew was called Harry. He'd never seen the bitch. It mighta been Harvey. Or Harold. There was no reason to involve Mrs. Dursley cuz she gets pressed at literally any mention of her sister. No judgement tho - if he'd had a sister like that... whatever, those cloaked bitches...


He found it real difficult to concentrate on drills that afternoon and when he dipped at five o'clock, he was still so shook that he deadass bumped into someone right outside the door.


"My b," he grunted, as the lil old man stumbled and almost busted his ass. It was a hot sec before Mr. Dursley realized that the old dude was wearing a violet cloak. He didn't seem bothered by almost taking an L on the floor. Tbh, he was smilin like mad and said in a squeaky ass voice that made bitches stare, "No problem, my guy, no way I'm getting pressed today! Live ur life cuz U-Know_who is finally outta here! Even muggles like you should be hyped on this positively bussin' day!"


And the old dude deadass hugged Mr. Dursley and dipped.


Mr. Dursley's wig had been snatched. He just got hugged by some random dude. He also thought he was called a Muggle, whatver the hell that was. He was shooketh to the core. He yeeted to his car and skirrted tf home, hoping he was imagining things, which he literally never hoped before, because he hated that shit.


As he pulled up in the driveway of #4 and deadass first thing he saw - this was not it cheif - was the tabby cat from this morning. It was just chillin on his garden wall. He didn't know if it was the same one; it had the same markings around its eyes.


"Fuck off!" said Mr. Dursley, loud af.


The cat didn't do shit. It just gave him a judgy ass look. Was this normal cat shit? Mr. Dursley wondered. Tryna get his shit together, he let himself in the house. He was still tryna keep his wifey out of it.


Mrs. Dursley had had a basic ass day. She talked shit over dinner abt Mrs. Next Door's beef with her daughter and how Dudley had learned a new word ("Won't"). Mr. Dursley tried not to act sus. When Dudley finally went tf to sleep, he dipped into the living room just in time to catch the last report on the evening news.


"And finally, bird-watchers everywhere are saying that the nation's owls were actin wack af today. Tho owls usually hunt at night and lowkey nobody sees them during the day, there's been a shit ton of them flying all over the place since the ass crack of dawn. Experts don't know what tf is goin on or why their sleeping patterns are fucked up." The newscaster grinned. "A bit sus tbh. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Finna be anymore showers of owls tonight, Jim?"


"Well, Ted" said the weatherman, "Idk about all that, but it's not just the owls acting all sus today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been bitching about how instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've no cap had a downpour of shooting stars! Ig people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early or sum shit - it's not till next week, but get it I guess. I can promise a wet night tonight tho."


Mr. Dursley sat absolutely quaking in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying around by daylight? Sus bitches in cloaks all over the place? And some lowkey tea, tea abt the Potters...


Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of actual tea. This ain't it. He'd have to spill the tea. He cleared his throat, all nervous. "Er - Petunia, dear - ur still ghosting your sister, right?"


Like he thought, Mrs. Dursley look absolutely pressed. After all, they usually didn't fuck with that shit.


"No," she said saltily, "wtf"


"Sum weird shit on the news," Mr. Dursley mumbled. "Owls... shooting stars... and there were a lot of fruity looking people in town today..."


"So" went Mrs. Dursley.


"Well, I just thought... ig.... it might be smth to do with... yk... her crowd."


Mrs. Dursley sipped her actual tea with chapped ass lips. Mr. Dursley wondered if he should let slip that he heard the name, "Potter." He decided no balls. Instead, he said, as chill as he could, "Their son - He'd be about Dudley's age rn, right?"


"I guess," said Mrs. Dursley, not vibing.


"Wut's his name again? Howard, right?"


"Harry. Lameass basic name imo."


"Shit okay," said Mr. Dursley, lowkey panicking. "Yeah, facts."


He decided to stfu aout it as they went upstairs to bed. While Mrs. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley skirrted up to the window to peep the garden. The cat was still there smh. It was just staring down Privet Drive like it was waiting for smth.


Was he seeing shit? Could this all have smth to do with the Potters? If it did... If the tea was spilled that they were related to a pair of - well, he deadass could not deal. 


The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. Dursley passed tf out, but Mr. Dursley was not having it, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comfy thought before he passed tf out was that even if those Potter hoes were involved, there's literally no reason for them to fuck wit him and his boo. The Potters knew for damn sure what him and Petunia thought about them and their homies... He couldn't sus out how it was he and Petunia's problem if any shit is going down - it wasn't their business tbh...


That was mega cap.


Mr. Dursley may have been drifting into an uncomfy sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was not fuckin with that sleep shit. It was sitting still af it's creepy ass eyes that on god are not blinking staring at the corner of Privet Drive. Deadass it was so still that it's wig would not falter when a car door slammed on the next street, or even as the owls yeeted overhead. Fr, it was almost midnight b4 the cat moved at all.


Some dude posted up on the corner the cat was watching, he posted up so damn quickly, you'd have thought he'd just girlbossed out of the ground no cap. The cat's tail shooketh and its eyes narrowed.


Nothing like this shawty had ever been peeped on Privet Drive. He was tall, skinny, and old af judging by his gray ass hair and dank ass beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. His fit was absolutely dripping with long robes, a purple cloak that snatched your wig, and was serving us some high-heeled, buckled boots. He was almost girlbossing too close to the sun with his sparkly blue eyes behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was long and crooked af, as if someone threw hands and broke it once or twice. This fruit snack's name was Albus Dumbledore.


Albus Dumbledore was unaware that his boujee ass had just arrived in a street where everything from his wig to his boots was not it. Mans was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for smth. But he was too busy serving looks to realize someone was peeping, because he looked up quick af at the cat, which was deadass still staring at him from the other end of the street. Ngl, the sight of the cat was mad amusing. He loled and muttereld, "I shoulda known."


He finally found his shit inside pocket. Ngl it kinda looked likea silver ciggy lighter. He popped that shit open, held it up in da air, and clicked it. The nearst street lamp's light dipped with a lil pop. He clicked that shit again - the next lamp light dipped into the darkness. He clicked that Put-Outer shit twelve more times, until there only two tiny ass lights in the distance that hadn't dipped on the whole street, which wuz the eyes of the stallker cat. If any bitches looked out there window rn, they couldn't peep anything that was happening down there. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back in his bombass cloak and skirrted down the street toward #4, where he popped a squat next to the cat. He didn't peep, but he talked to it.


"Bussin', peeping you here, Professor McGonagall."


He turned to smile at the lil pussy, but it had dipped smh. He was actually smiling at a lowkey intimidating girlbosss dripped with some square markings just like the markings the cat had around it's eyes. Her fit also included a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was absoluetly giving, in a tight as bun. She looked positively shook.


"How tf did u know it was me?" she asked.


"Queen, I've deadass never seen a cat sit that stiff."


"Bitch please, you'd be stiff if you were chillin on a brick wall all damn day," Professor McGonagall clapped back.


"Fr all day? When you coulda been gettin lit? On god I musta passed a fuckton of parties on my way here."


Professor McGonogall sniffed saltily.


"Oh, everyone's getting lit, yes ma'am." she sad, mad impatient. "You'd think these hoes would watch themselves, but noooo - even the Muggles have noticed something's sus. It was on the damn news." She jerked her head back @ the Dursley's dark basic-ass living room window. "I heard that shit. Flocks of owls... shooting stars.. I mean, they're not totally stupid. They were bound to peep smth. Shooting stars down in Kent - bet that was Dedalus Diggle. Bitch is dumb."


"You can blame them queen," said Dumbledore all gentle. "We haven't had shit to get hyped about for 11 years."


"Facts," sad Professor McGonogall, lowkey pressed. "But that's no reason to lose our shit. People are being deadass stupid, out on the streets in broad-ass daylight, not even in their Muggle fits, spilling tea."


"She gave a salty glance at Dumbly, like she hoped he would spill some de, but he didn't, so she kept going, "It was just be so dope is on the same fuckin day U-Know-Who seems to have finally dipped, the Muggles sussed us out. Ig he really has dipped, Dumbledore?"


"Facts ig," said Dumbledore. "There's a lot to be hyped about. Wanna lemon drop?"


"wtf"


"Did I stutter? They're some Muggle candy I vibe wit."


"Uh, no thank u," said Professor McGonagall, lowkey judging him for that shit. "Like I said, even if U-Know-Who did dip -"


"My homie Professor, surely a girlboss like u can call him by his name? All this 'U-Know-Who' shit - for eleven years I been tryna get ppl to call him out wit his real name: Voldemort." Professor McGonagall was quaking in her boots, while Dumbledore, who was vibing with his lemon drops, didn't give a fuq. "It' gets hella confusing if we keep saying 'U-Know-Who.' I don't see why these bitches get so worked up about saying Voldemort's name."


"I know you don't," said Professor McGonogall, literally done with him, but lowkey impressed. "But your quirky and different. Everyone knows ur the only one that got U-Know- ok bitch fine, Voldemort, all shook up."


"Your gassing me," said Dumbledore, straight chillin. "Voldemort had powers I don't got."


"That's only cuz you're too - well - girlboss to use them."


"Damn I'm lucky it's dark. I'm highkey blushing rn. Haven't done that shit since Madam Pomfrey said she liked my new drip."


Professor  McGonogal gave Dumbledore the bitch face and said, "The owls ain't shit next to the tea flying around. You know what they're all saying? Abt why he dipped? About what finally stopped him?"


It seemed that Professor McGonagall finally stopped being fake and got to the real shit, the real reason she was chilled on that musty ass wall all day. Neither as pussycat or pussyqueen did she give Dumbledore as spooky of a lewk as she did rn. It was clear that whatever bitches were saying, it was cap until Dumbledore said it was facts. Dumbledore, however, was still straight up vibin with lemon drops quietly.


"What they're saying," she kept on, "is that last night, Voldy posted up in Godric's Hollow. He was tryna peep the Potters. The tea is that Lily and James Potter are - are- that they were - unalived."


Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall's wig was snatched."


"Lily and James... ain't no way... I hoped it was cap... shit, queen..."


Dumbledore reached out and patted her shoulder. "Facts... facts..." he said heavily.


Professor McGonogall was quaking in her cloak as she kept on. "That's not all. Bitches are saying he tried to unalive the Potter's son. There's no reciepts, but they're saying that when he couldn't unalive Harry Potter, Voldemort broke or sum shit - and that's why he dipped."


Dumbledore nodded, big sad.


"Fr - no cap?" faltered Professor McGonagall. "After all the shit he did... all the hoes he unalived... he couldn't unalive a lil boy? It's absolutely shook... of all the things to stop him.. but how tf did Harry live to girlboss another day?"


"Idk queen," said Dumbledore. "We may never know."


Professor McGonagall whipped out a fancy ass hankercheif to dab her crusty eyes under her specs. Dumbledore got mad sniffly as he took a drippin golden watch from his pocket and looked at it. It was mad weird. This shit had 12 hands and zero numbers; instead, lil planets were skirrting around the edge. Ig it made sense to Dumby tho cuz he put it back in his pocket and said, "Hagrid's late smh. Ig he spilled he spilled the tea that I'd be here, btw?"


"Facts," said Professor McGonagall. "And ig ur not finna tell me why your here, of all places?"


"I came to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They're deadass his only family left."


"Cap - ain't no way you mean these hoes???" cried Professor McGonagall, standing tf up and pointing at #4. "Miss girl - you cannot. I been stalking them all day. You deadass couldn't find anyone more basic. Plus, they've got this son - I deadass saw him throwing hands with his mom all the way up the streets, bitching for sweets. Harry Potter come here? Bitch please."


"On god it's the best place for him." said Dumbledore, srs af. "His aunt and uncle can spill all the tea when he's older. I even wrote a letter."


"Fr?" said Professor McGonagall, chilling back on the wall. "Deadass, Dumbledore, u think u can explain all this shit in a letter? These hoes don't get it! He'll be famous - an absolute legend - he'd have so much cloat today might be known as Harry Potter day at some point - there will be fanfics about Harry - all these hoes will know his ass!"


"Facts," said Dumbledore, lookin mad srs over his half-moon glasses. "It would be enough to turn anyone highkey bitchy. All that clout before he can walk and talk! Can't you see that ain't it and he'll be better growing up away from all that shit until he's ready to take it?"


Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, went nvm, swallowed and said, "Ok- yeah, ur spitting facts, obvi. But how's the kid getting here, Dumbledore?" She peeped his cloak like he was hiding Harry in there or sum shit.


"Hagrid's bringing him."


"Uh, u sure about trusting Hagrid with smth as important as this?"


"I'd trust my homie Hagrid with my life on god," said Dumbledore.


"I'm not saying his heart his heart in the right place," said Professor McGonagall, fake af, "but u can't lie, he's kinda careless. He does kinda - wtf was that?


A low rumbling sound rudely interrupted the silence around them. It kept getting louder as they peeped up and down the street for some kinda headlight; it got hella loud as they both looked up at the sky - a big ass motorcycle fell out the air and skirrted to a stop in the road right in front of them.


The motorcycle was chonk af, but it was nothing to the man sitting on it. He was deadass twice as tall and at least 5 times as wide. He looked to big not to be cap, and absolutely wildin - long tangles of bushy black hair and a beard that hid most of his face, and hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were like fuckin baby dolphins. In his big, swol arms he was holding a bundle of blankets.


"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, releaved. "Hey queen. Where's you cop the motorcycle?"


"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, ma'am," said the giant, tryna climb of the motorcycle while he talked. "Lil Sirius Black lemme cop it. I've got him queen."


"No trouble, right?"


"No ma'am - house was almost destroyed, but yer boi got him out alright before the Muggles stopped minding their own. He passed tf out as we was flyin' over Bristol."


"Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent over to peep the bundle of blankets. Inside, barely peepable, was a bb boi, passed tf out. Under a tuft of jet black hair over his forhead they peeped a weirdass cut, like a bolt of lightning :0.


"Is that where - ?" whisped Professor McGonagall.


"Facts," said Dumbledore. "He'll have that shit 4eva."


"Can't u do smth abt it, Dumbledore?"


"Tbh, even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I got one above my left knee that's a dope-ass map of the London Underground. Well - give him here, Haggy - let's get this shit over with."


Dumbledore snatched Harry in his arms and turned toward's the Dursley's basic house.


"Could I - could I say bai to him, queen?" asked Hagrid. He bent his bigass shaggy head over Harry and gave him what was tbh prolly a real scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, randomly, Hagrid let out a howl like a dying dog.


"Stfu!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "you'll unasleep the Muggles!"


"M-m-my b," sobbed Hagrid, snatching his large, spotted hankercheif and showing his bigass face in it. "But I literally c-c-can't rn - Lily an' James unalived - and poor bb Harry off ter live with Muggles -"


"Okay yeah it's all big sad, but get ur shit together, or we'll be found," Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid weirdly on the arm as Dumby stepped over the garden and skirrted towards the front door. 

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