This is a parody (say it with me, people – parody) and it was inspired by the below summary. I'm dedicating this story to my friend Another-Picture due to her ability to make me laugh at jokes about faecal matter.


"Dumbledore asks Harry for one more favor. Mpreg. Though not what you think."

-McTabby's Summary Executions

It was an ordinary day in Hogwarts School of witchcraft and wizardry, and after having been to their classes, the students were sitting in the Great Hall and enjoying their evening meal. (Actually, nobody was enjoying their food because they weren't allowed to eat it – it's a film, after all, not a dinner party.) It was with his usual acceptance of Dumbledore's requests that Harry Potter responded to the news that he was supposed to leave his warm, delicious dinner (mince and potatoes, for those of you who give a damn) and go to the Headmaster's office. The invitation itself was not unusual. In fact, it signalled that the annual end-of-term crisis was scheduled as usual. Neither was Harry's initial reaction:

"That senile old bastard probably doesn't even realise that I'm supposed to be eating now." Ignoring the identical looks of shock that Ron and Hermione were sending his way, Harry speared a roast potato with his fork and began to eat. He had finished another mouthful by the time that his friends regained the power of speech.

"But – but Harry, he's Dumbledore..." Ron trailed off, gaping at Harry.

"Yes, Ronald. Albus Dumbledore is the Headmaster. Well done!" Hermione patted his hand as though he was an invalid. She didn't pay attention to the look of outrage that spread across his freckled face as she addressed Harry. "You need to go, Harry; it might be serious. Look – the note says 'Harry Potter is wanted in the Headmaster's office'."

Harry snorted.

"Yeah, maybe he's gone and misplaced his lemon drops, or he can't find his glasses, yet again. Or maybe he needs me to banish the mess he made on his incontinence pad!" At this final outburst, several of the surrounding students fell silent, aghast. "That's right, the all powerful Albus Dumbledore soils himself like a baby. He's screwed if Voldemort comes after him. I don't know why you lot are pretending to care – you're all extras, anyway."

"Oh, don't be cruel, Harry." Hermione shook her head, tears swimming in her eyes.

"I spent more time helping that old crackpot last year than in any of my classes – not that I actually go to them, because I'm. Harry. Potter." He pushed aside his fringe in a would-be-casual gesture to reveal his scar. There was a muffled thud as Ginny Weasley swooned, falling to the floor. Again, this was nothing new.

"No, I meant about..." Hermione lowered her voice to a whisper. "I meant about the extras. It's not their fault that they don't have our talent, and it isn't nice to rub it in. What are we, Slytherins?"

"No." A familiar voice made Harry's stomach lurch. He and Hermione turned in perfect unison to see Severus Snape towering over them both, arms folded, trademark sneer in place. "You do not have the privilege of belonging to a house that isn't infamous for the homoerotic dynamic that existed between the previous generation's quartet of mischief makers. However, you will both be in detention if Mr Potter doesn't go to the Headmaster's office now."

"Harry's going right away, Professor. Aren't you Harry?" Hermione turned to her best friend, anxious. You see, she didn't wish to share her detentions with Professor Snape because they were what could be called 'special time'. Harry was unaware of this and wished only to goad his enemy.

"Questions to which the answer happens to be no: can Snape use shampoo? Will the Chudley Cannons ever win the Quidditch World Cup? Has Professor McGonagall ever had a sexual experience? Am I going to the Headmaster's office?" Shrugging with all of the boyish attitude that he could muster, Harry returned his attention to his dinner only to see Ron scooping a final fistful of mince from his now-empty plate and cramming it into his mouth.

"Lovely." Hermione's voice dripped with sarcasm.

"Fine. Sod this – I'm going, but only because I don't feel like listening to you droning on, sir. You know why? Because I'm. Harry. Potter." For emphasis, Harry jabbed his forefinger into Snape's chest. He stood, passing the astounded Potions Master and clambering over Ginny's prone form as he left the Great Hall. In no time at all, it felt like he had reached his destination.

"Password?" One of the sentient gargoyles leered at him in a way that made Harry wish he was wearing more clothes. Perhaps stripping down to his underwear hadn't been an appropriate response to Sirius' request to find out if Harry was really just like his father, but he hadn't been able to find Colin Creevey to have his photo taken, and until he did then Harry didn't want to get dressed.

"Password? Ha! I'm Harry Potter -" He fell silent as the gargoyle leapt aside. "Wait, my name is the password? No wonder Mrs Weasley thought that he was a paedophile. Especially after he asked all of the muggle born first years if they wanted to sit on Santa's lap... It wasn't even Christmas."

Conveniently enough, Harry's monologue came to an end just before he reached the office. He didn't feel like knocking, so with a quick 'incendio' he burned down the door. It was a suitably dramatic entrance, and hopefully someone would hear him screaming if Dumbledore asked him to pretend to be called Gellert again. It was an experience that Harry would not relive.

As he caught sight of Harry, Dumbledore's twinkling blue eyes widened.

"Alas! You received my note and have agreed to meet with me. Thank you, my boy." Dumbledore stood, rounded his desk and patted Harry's shoulder in a way that left him feeling violated. Uncomfortable, he looked away from Dumbledore's twinkling eyes.

"If you're pleased about it then why the hell did you say 'alas'?"

"Alas! Since I used the word in your first year whilst helping myself to your Every Flavoured Beans and failing to answer questions about your fate and destiny, several fanfiction authors with limited vocabularies have taken to using it within a completely inappropriate context whenever they choose to write a story about me. My favourites are the cross-overs with the film 'Moulin Rouge'. Did you know that some rather disturbed people fantasise about me siring a bastard daughter with Minerva and having her replace you? Quite often the girl is called Mary Sue, and-"

"What's fanfiction, Professor?" Harry felt as though he should be addressing the issue of his fate and destiny, but he didn't want the old man to get sentimental. He could only take so much, after all, and as the hero of the wizarding world, Harry felt that he was burdened enough.

"What indeed, Harry." The Headmaster peered at him over his half-moon glasses, eyes twinkling. "What indeed."

"That was a helpful answer."

Dumbledore smiled, his eyes (as the more astute of you may have surmised) twinkling brightly, before returning to his seat.

"Sit down, my boy." Dumbledore patted his knee, causing Harry to sit in the vacant seat across from the desk before the Headmaster could specify where he ought to rest his behind (preferably not too close to Dumbledore's magic wand, if you catch my drift). "I have something to ask you."

"There's a surprise." Harry muttered the words so that Dumbledore wouldn't hear.


"I said I'd like some apple pie!" Harry felt perfectly justified in trying to remind the Headmaster that he was now missing the best part of dinner due to this dubious errand.

"Ah... well, it doesn't involve dessert of that nature. No, I think that these fanfiction authors are on to something quite ingenious; as you may be aware, I'm not as sharp as I once was -"

"No shit, Sherlock."


"I said, that's silly talk!" Harry nodded in what he hoped was a suitably patronising manner that he reserved specifically for Ron and the elderly.

"It's true, Harry, and so I ought to reproduce in order for my greatness to live on in mortal form." Dumbledore leant across the table, his expression perfectly serious. "And to do this, I need your help."

Horrified, Harry could only stare. The conversation was putting a new slant on the phrase 'wanted in the Headmaster's office'.

"What? I know you're old, and that this is the wizarding world, but surely you know enough about biology to know that what you're suggesting is... impossible." Harry felt his skin crawl at the idea.

"I'm not suggesting that we attempt some form of surrogacy, Harry. That would be ridiculous." Dumbledore stared at Harry as though suspecting him to be several sandwiches short of a picnic, and for a moment Harry's faith in the Headmaster was restored. "I need a wizard with red hair, not black, because ginger is what we refer to as a 'recessive allele' of a gene – that's how the fanfiction authors write about it."

"If you know about dominant and recessive genes, why in the name of Dobby's sock do you think that two men can spawn a child together? That makes no sense..." Harry was about ready to curse something – he needed to express his angst.

"It's covered in the 'mpreg', male pregnancy, slash stories, Harry. A potion is required, and it..."

"Yes? How does a potion allow a man to conceive a child? And what's the potion called?" Harry raised a sceptical eyebrow as the Headmaster continued to stammer. Clearly, Dumledore's ramblings were a sign of a not-so-early onset of Alzheimer's.

"And it... well, maybe it was a charm. I can't quite recall -"

"Because it's impossible, you bumbling old basketcase!"

"It's not! It's really quite ingenious, Harry – what happens is a charm is cast -"

"What charm? Shall I ask Flitwick about it?"

"And then there is... coupling, and pregnancy is the result." Dumbledore nodded sagely, his blue eyes twinkling merrily as though he hadn't heard a single word Harry had said, which was, of course, entirely possible.

"I'm still not buying it."

"Unfortunately, due to my phenomenal genius, not everyone else is capable of arriving at the same conclusion as I am, Harry. What I wish to ask of you is advice on a candidate for my... surrogate, as it were."

"I'm not sure there's much more I can say, Professor." Harry was well and truly perplexed, and extremely happy that, for once, the buck didn't stop with him.

"Marvellous. I'm glad that you've chosen to place your faith in me." For a moment, it looked as though Dumbledore might cry.

"Why not find a ginger girl, Professor? Wouldn't that be... easier?" And within the realms of possibility. "What about Ginny Weasley?"

"My dear boy, has your lightning scar sizzled away what limited brain power that Voldemort had left you with?" Dumbledore sighed, exasperated. "Ginny Weasley is, to phrase it delicately, ugly. I'd sooner request a date with one of my brother's goats. What's worse is that when I read the books, I had been under the impression that she was stunningly attractive."

"You've got a point there." All of Harry's reservations vanished as he was forced to consider plain, ugly little Ginny Weasley. "Well, how about Ron then? He's the only person I can think of who's actually stupid enough to go along with a plan like this."

"Yes, he's the perfect candidate. Why don't you write him a letter for Miss Granger to read to him, and I'll go and... get ready." Dumbledore winked in a way that Harry dearly wished he hadn't witnessed.

As the Headmaster retreated, Harry took a quill and a sheaf of parchment from his desk.

'Dear Ron,

You've always said that you wanted a chance to take my place and perform a heroic task for Dumbledore. Well, this is your chance, and it's going to be more trying than the time we went down into the Chamber of Secrets. The action is all yours...'


Thanks for reading. Please review. For the record, I think that Ginny is actually rather pretty.