If Harry Potter was a Bro…


This is a short piece about the type of person I wish Harry Potter was. I wrote it because I wish Harry did cooler stuff.

In this narrative I imagined myself as Harry and my best friend, Chris, as Ron. Chris and I made a promise that if one of us ever received an acceptance Owl from Hogwarts we wouldn’t go without the other. So, in this instance, he is Ron and I am Harry… It should probably be the other way around, because I have strawberry blonde hair whereas Chris’ is black, but I’m the one writing this. I want to be Harry.

Before reading these sequences, know two things:

  1. I have nothing but love and respect for Harry Potter. His virtue and morality made him the only one who could defeat the Dark Lord. I owe him for that–we all do. It’s just, with how amazing the wizarding realm is and how invaluable the Hogwarts opportunity surely was, I think Harry could have done cooler shit–namely Hermione.
  2. My favorite parts in the books were those chapters when nothing super eventful happened. Voldemort, for the time being, was held at bay and the only mishap or emotion came from young wizards being young wizards. Typically in these pages Harry and Ron are playing chess or hanging in the common room. I would have done things different. I would have done drugs in the Forbidden Forest.


The Gryffindor tower was quiet. Upon the stones, if you listened, you could hear the wind howling; only if you listened. As it was quiet so it was warm. Embers still lingered in the common room fire. The warmth spread from the large hearth and made its way up the stone parapets and into the dormitory. Four poster beds, crimson in their drapes, lined the walls; mahogany dressers at their sides. The sun had just appeared and its reach was now permeating the tower windows. In a sprawl the light crept across the room. Particles of dust danced in the sunlit beams. This was a place where you slept at ease. You were warm and you were protected and you were safe.

“Wait, bro, not yet.” Harry aggressively whispered. “Not yet. Not yet.”

Ron was irritated. “Let’s go bro. It ain’t gotta be perfect.”

Harry ignored his best friend. Focused, he crab walked a little further, meticulously adjusting himself. He sat down a little lower and finally conceded, “Ok now! Do it now, Ron!”

On cue Ron waved his wand through the air. Against his will a sleeping Seamus was propelled from his bed. Rising like a rigid clock arm, Seamus’ face and nose shot forward straight into Harry’s ass. On impact Harry ripped shit–crushed like twenty butterbeers the night before–and then rocked his torso in a pendulum type movement so his nuts whipped Seamus in the face.

At this point Ron fell onto his side and gave way to uncontrollable laughter, pounding the floor and waking the rest of the room. Seamus shoved Harry off his bed and then started to dry heave. Harry, beside himself in amusement, started screaming.

“SEAMUS SNIFFS ASS! SEAMUS SNIFFS ASS!” He circled the tower, hopping and yelling. “SEAMUS LIKES DICK! SEAMUS LIKES DICK!”

The remainder of the Gryffindor 6th years, now awake, circled Seamus 4-post. Seamus stopped dry heaving. He tried to speak. He couldn’t. Everyone was staring at him. Ron was rolling on the floor and Harry was now hovering on his broom near the ceiling, rhythmically taunting, “SEAMUS SNIFFED MY ASS! SEAMUS SNIFFED MY ASS! SEAMUS LIKES DICK!”

As Ron kept laughing and Harry kept yelling, the other boys left Seamus side, scornful and contemptuous.

“You’re fucking weird, Seamus.” Said Dean.

“Fuck you, Seamus.” Chimed Neville.

Seamus again tried to speak. He tried to defend himself and explain what happened. Ron laughed louder. Harry taunted heavier.

Colin Creevey entered the room. “You’re a bitch, Seamus.”

Sir Nearly Headless Nick glided through a wall, “You, young Master Seamus, are a deplorable little cock.”

Dean, Neville, Colin, and ghostly Nick all turned to leave.

Everyone else left too.

Only Harry, Ron, and Seamus remained in the room.

Harry leapt from his broom and landed near Ron. They approached Seamus, still on his bed. They were no longer joking and they were no longer smiling.

“Seamus, if you ever talk shit again, bro, I’ll end you.” Harry inched closer. “Fucking.End.You.”

Seamus closed his bed curtains and cried, smelling of taint and fear.

*Harry harbors no ill-feelings toward the homosexual community and encourages all to be happy. But Seamus is a little bitch and Harry knew this type of treatment and these comments would upset him most.

The Gryffindor Quidditch Team had been on the pitch for nearly three hours. The sun was beginning to wane and their practice was drawing to a close.

Harry, team captain and undoubtedly their best professional prospect, was drilling his squad with both instruction and encouragement. He had been pleased with the evening’s workout, more so than he actually anticipated, but he would never do more than internalize that satisfaction. As a leader, he sought to incite a hunger in his squad. He wanted to make them better–always.

“Angela, what the fuck!” Harry bellowed, hovering midfield. Angela was attempting a particularly difficult barrel-dive and had just dropped the quaffle. “Are you shitting me, AJ (Angela Johsnon) I’ve seen better hands on a snake!” Harry was actually very impressed. He knew she could be great; he wanted her to know it too. Angela retrieved the plummeting quaffle, balanced her broom, grabbed her crotch and told Harry to suck ‘dis wand’, and then resumed practice in determined fashion.

Harry smiled, pleased, and then turned towards the other end of the field.

Fred and George Weasley, two of the most skilled beaters in Gryffindor history, were flying–descending rather–towards the locker room. Harry knew they were consummate performers and had no doubt that they had had a great practice, but extra work was something he demanded of everyone, even his two most veteran players.

“Yo! Yo Fred! Hey that’s cool man if you’re ending practice early and heading for the locker room. Can you just check my bag real quick and make sure your sisters virginity is still in there? I put it there when I took it last night.”

If brooms made sound, a deafening screech is what you would have heard. In abrupt, impassioned form, George and Fred halted their flight, making immediate 180’s.

“Potter, you motherfucker!” George screamed, charging Harry.

“Potter, you motherfucker!” Fred, George’s twin brother screamed, charging Harry.

As they flew towards him Harry began assailing them with bludgers. He fled from their pursuit, in skillful display, continuing to pelt bludgers in their direction.

“I’m going to ki–“ Fred’s threat was naturally cut off as he took an impressive swing smashing a bludger back at Harry. “Kill you Harry!”

George, just behind his brother in pursuit, jolted forward in a saved burst. Reaching out to grab Harry, within feet, he strained, “Arrgh, Harryyy,” stretching further, “I’mmm going to shove this snitch uppp your di–“


Harry performed an aerial contortion so skilled, so advanced, that George was completely taken by surprise as Harry’s broom flipped and drilled him in the nose. Harry sped away.

“Fuck me!” George agonized. He grabbed his nose, which was bleeding and exactly where Harry’s broom struck him. “Fuck me, right in the face!”

Harry circled back around George whose flight was idled in pain.

“Fuck me right in the face, eh? That’s the same thing your sister said last night!”

With that, Harry sped away and the Weasley brothers resumed their pursuit. The team flew well into the night, having their best practice of the semester thus far.

Hermione disappeared first behind the stone wizard.

She had walked for ten minutes with casual grace. If you saw her you would have assumed she was on her way to the library or something of that sort; certainly free of mischievous intent. That was why she walked alone. No one supposed any shenanigans on her part. Harry and Ron, who trailed in her wake underneath a cloak of invisibility, would not have been granted the same consideration. They remained hidden, sipping malt wizard liquor and shooting dead-leg-jinxes at first years, until they arrived at the statue that covered a clandestine entrance into the castle kitchen.

Once out of sight, they discarded their cloak.

“Ay! Ay yo Dobby! Where you at?” Ron bellowed, getting aggressive with his “Accio’s” and snagging three or four different anticipatory condiments.

Four loud snaps signaled that Dobby, accompanied by three of his house-elf friends, had just apparated.

“Sir. Sir Harry Potter and his best friends have come to see Dobby!” The amiable elf let tears form at the bottom of his large eyes. “Dobby is the luckiest to have friends like you, and he knows it!”

Harry extended an arm and pulled in Dobby for a hug.

“Dobby,” Harry spoke. “Do you think you could do Harry a tremendous favor and prepare me and Mr. Ron and Miss Hermione a meal before we return to our studies?”

Dobby looked up very slowly and met Harry directly in his eyes. “It would give Dobby no greater honor than to serve Mr. Harry Potter and his friends.” The elf held his gaze while he wiped tears from his cheek using his tattered ragged clothing. “Please, Mr. Harry, Dobby will always do what you ask of him. And Mr. Ron. And Miss Hermione. You are my friends. Dobby loves his friends.”

The kitchen grew quiet. Dobby’s words lingered–in a good way. The friends were touched and a weight of warmth pervaded. Dobby, still looking at Harry, shifted towards Ron.

“Mr. Ron, Dobby will go now to prepare the food for his best friends. I will also keep following Mrs. Hermione, like you ask, and tell you if she is ‘taking clothes off with any other wizards’.”

Dobby performed a couple consecutive pelvic air thrusts after saying ‘other wizards’–clearly something Ron did when he told the elf to creep on Hermione–thinking it was part of a code, and then dissaparated.

Harry fell over.

Hermione reddened and grabbed her wand.

Ron unfolded the invisibility cloak and sat in the corner.

After a quick meal–and after Hermione crucio’d da fuck out of Ron–the three friends left the kitchens in good spirits. Together they headed for Transfiguration.

This semester had been difficult. One thing seemed to pile upon another and on top of all that, Lord Voldemort was gaining power. Harry knew it. He could feel it. To those who knew him best, they could sense when he was distracted.

“Harry, something is the matter with you,” forced Hermione. “I can see it on your face. You are pale and your complexion is bleak.”

Harry shrugged his shoulders. She was right. He lowered his head as they walked. He hated admitting his fears, even to his two best friends.

“My scar,” Harry began. “In the night, I can–“

“O FUCKKKKKK MEEEEEEE WITH THAT SHIT AGAIN” Ron interjected–miming an ejaculative cock stroke. “Blow me, bro.”

“RONALD!” Hermione screamed. “HOW DARE YOU SAY–“

“OH YOU CAN BLOW ME TOO HERMIONE!” Ron yelled, making another insinuative gesture. He threw a sideways thumb towards Harry, still speaking to Hermione, “It’s all about the scar with this dude when he’s trying to get you to take his notes, Hermione. Don’t buy that. I didn’t hear shit about the scar when he was throttling Cho last week. He didn’t feel his scar when he broke his Nimbus over Parvati’s ass. Dude is lying, Hermione. Dude is full of itttttt.”

Hermione looked horror-stricken.

Harry, seemingly about to clock his boy, broke gaze and let his face give way to smile. “Hermione,” he said sarcastically amidst false sniffles, “can you take notes for me today, my scar hhhh-urtsssss so bbbbadddd.”

Ron and Harry collapsed into one another and cascaded into shared laughter. They fell to the ground.

Trying not to smile, but unable, Hermione called them both “motherfuckers” and sped away to class.

After a few moments, and realizing Hermione had left them, Harry and Ron stood up and dusted themselves; their laughter slowly subsiding. In no rush, aware that they would be a few minutes late but not giving AF because Professor McGonagall was their girl, the two friends lit cigarettes.

Carrying themselves as young men entitled to privilege because of past services rendered to the wizarding community, Harry and Ron strolled with aimless pace. Fred and George had recently divulged a spell that enabled a longer smoke–perpetuatobaccio–so they idled outside, away from study. After a few minutes, when they had sufficiently ripper their heaters and Ron let Harry know about Lavender Brown’s penchant for spellbound bondage, they looped back towards the Great Hall entrance.

As they approached, within a few hundred meters, the large wooden door, bracketed with strong horizontal beams, swung open. Out of it, in haste, came Rubeus Hagrid; their ride-or-die.

Harry watched as Hagrid ran for his hut. His strides, already three times the length of a normal wizard, seemed to carry him faster. Within a minute, covering the jagged, slope expanse leading away from the castle, he reached his home. The friends watched as his front door slammed shut. Something wasn’t right. Hagrid, characteristically relaxed, was panicked.

As best friends do, Ron and Harry’ thoughts seemed to align.

“Bro, Hagrid has been gone for a while.”

“Three weeks,” Ron marked matter-of-factly.

“Yup, three weeks. Wasn’t he away in–“

“The mountains with the trolls,” Ron interjected.

“Rightttt. You don’t think he–“

Ron nodded.

“You think it’s the same shit from Yule Ball Weekend?”

Ron nodded.

“And you think he brought it back with him?”

Ron nodded.

“You think it’s the same–“

Ron nodded.

“Fuckkkk. Let’s go.”

Ron was already running.

Harry and Ron sprinted. In few other instances–those being times involving congregations of Death Eaters or Lord Voldemort himself–had they strained as they did now. Bounding the hillside, leaping steps and rocks, they ran with reckless abandon. Like Hagrid, they arrived at the hut within minutes.

Equally tense, both Harry and Ran cast their satchels aside and raced upon the door. Harry entered first, forcing his entrance with a kick; Ron urgently following behind. Hagrid, bent over a bag placed on the floor, turned in an anger you would expect when having your door kicked in.

“WHAT IN THE FUCK IS THIS?” Hagrid raised his fists as he spun. He charged, and then stopped, aware that Harry and Ron had forced the intrusion. His fists lowered and his attacking progress ceased.

“Fuck boys. Ya be barging in a feller li’ that. I coulda’ knocked your skulls in, catching me in er panic an all.”

Ron closed the cabin door and Harry stepped forward.

“Hagrid. Did you get it?”

Hagrid fiddled his thumbs and lowered his head. He made an arbitrary swipe of the floor with his boot and then placed his hands in his pockets. For a second, if you saw him, you would almost have forgotten he was a giant.

“Wha I bee doing an wha I been getting’ are strictly the business of me and Albus Dumbeldore.” Hagrid kept his gaze fixed on the floor.

Ron chimed “Hagrid, bro. You’re our boy. You ain’t gotta worry bout us saying shit.”

Harry followed, aware that Hagrid was nervous, “Hags, you been gone three weeks, bruh. We don’t care if you got it or not. Just glad you’re back.” Harry came forward with an arm offering a dap.

Hagrid swiped the floor again, still looking at his feet. His hands remained in his pockets and, if you could see them, would know his cheeks were flush.

“You two I swear… Of course I gah it. It’s in the bag over by Fang.”

Harry and Ron sprang forward, “Fucking right Hags!”

As they bustled past him, Hagrid took his hands from his pockets and brought them together behind his neck. He turned towards the boys who were now hunched over the bag. “Now don’t go breakin everything apar’. Be careful you hear.”

Ron was pilfering through the bag. Harry was stroking Fang behind the ears and looking over Ron’s shoulder. “Be careful I said!” Hagrid took a large step forward, still staring at the dusted floor but aware of the disregard Ron was displaying for the contents of his bag by the sheer ferocity of his movements.

“Arrgh you fucker! Move, leh me get it!” Hagrid took a final step forward, covering his hut in two strides and tossed Ron to the side. He grabbed the bag, sat in his large chair, and placed the contents over his lap. “I’l do it!”

“Grab a damned butterbeer in me ice box, ya Hippogrifs.” Hagrid started talking to himself. “Be it me luck Ron pick everything apart an I be left givin the headmaster but a bag full o’ stems!”

Hagrid, with surprising dexterity, unrolled a small piece of parchment. He continued to mutter to himself, inaudibly grumbling while he worked upon his lap. Ron and Harry sat across the hut, with Fang, drinking their butterbeer. They knew that Hagrid flustered easily and at times like these it was best not to press him.

“Righ,” Hagrid said, rising from his char. “I dohn have ter say it buh I will.” He held forth a skillfully rolled blunt that was in proportion to the size of something a giant would smoke. To Harry and Ron it was almost a wands length. “Nah a word bout this! This is the Deathly-Highlows. Straight shot tuh Azkaban dey sure give me if anyone knew I brung eh back from the mountains.”

Harry and Ron stood transfixed. They lowered their butterbeer and stepped forward. They had smoked it once before, but only a puff. Its high was legendary. Ron had said before that his brother Charlie, who works with Dragons in Romania, uses this Kush to subdue full sized Horntails.

Harry took the blunt.

“Now geh back up to the castle, for’ word goes roun yer missing class a’gain. Straight into thaht Room o them Requirements and puh yer wands in the lock box before ya go lighting this. I mean it!”

The boys exchanged glasses, overcome with anticipation.

“Hags, bruh. We owe you for this one.” Ron spoke in sincerity.

Hagrid shrugged, putting his hands back in his pockets.

“If only yer mum and da were here ter smoke it with us, Harry.” Hagrid sniffled, quickly and rapidly giving way to emotion. “Ya have his laugh Harry, buh when ya smoke, its–“

“My mother’s eyes.”

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