This Story Has Nothing To Do With Underwear



"Hey, Harry," Hermione whispered when he walked into the library, "Have you spoken to Professor Dumbledore lately?"

"No, why?" he said a bit loudly, since Madame Pince shushed him.

"He's been acting… odd lately."

"I'll go visit him," Harry decided, abandoning his studies.

Later that day

"Blood Pops," Harry said to the gargoyle guarding Professor Dumbledore's office.

He walked up the stairs and Albus smiled at him, "Harry, old sport, how are you doing?"

"I'm fine. Hermione said you've been acting oddly."

"Oh, well, that's because I have. You see, I was fighting this beast called a Balrog and I fell down this really, really, really, really, really, like totally long cliff thing, but when I landed, I was, like, here," for some reason Albus had adopted a valley girl accent.

"Your voice is weird. Do you have a cold?"

"Of course not, old sport."

"Why are you calling me old sport? Didn't you used to call me my boy?"

"Hmmm? I have, like, no idea who you are."

"But you called me Harry earlier."

"Harry? Who's that?"
"Professor? What's going on?"

"Professor? Why, I'm a wizard, old sport."

"I know that!"

"Gandalf the Lime Green, they call me. Nothing about a Professor in my title."

Harry blinked, "Let's go see Madame Pomfrey."

"No, old sport, no! I cannot!"

"Why not?'

"Because I am allergic to lanterns!"

Harry shook his head and walked out of the office, "I think I'll go write that Potions essay now. It's making more since than you."

"OOOOOOOLD SPOOOOOORT!!" Dumbl-dalf's voice echoed through the castle.