Work Text:
My name is Harry Potter and I am living a CRAZY life!
And not how you might think. Sure, I live in the sewers with my gay dads at the age of 25, and yes , it is the middle of quarantine so I’m not allowed to go out and buy McDonalds chicken mcmugglers. But these things really aren’t all that unique to me.
What makes my life especially crazy is something no ordinary boy has to deal with.
Because I…
am…
PREGNANTE!!!
I know what you’re thinking just now. How am I, a penile person, pregnant? My answer: I don’t fuckin know bish. I woke up this morning, and BAM, I had a big baby belly and felt super hormonal. At first I thought it might’ve just been another watermelon shoved up my shirt, but when I fell flat on my tummy it didn’t explode like last time.
Anyway, I have no idea how to take care of a baby, but I sure do know two fellas who do: my dads. They’ll know what to do about my unexpected pregnancy. Both are munching on a big slice of pizza and don’t notice when I walk in on their sewage pipe.
“Dads,” I say, looking down at them. Neither of them answer, so I try again. “Dads I have something to tell you.” Still no answer. They don’t even look up at me. That’s okay, I’ll just have to learn about the wonders of childbirth on my own.
I begin to walk down a different sewage pipe and ponder what having a kid will mean. I’ve never tried changing diapers besides my own and to be frank, I don’t even really know what a baby looks like. I know i was one at one point. Everyone’s a baby at some point! I figure I can read up on babies later.
I enter a big, dank room with lots of smelly sewage. A big rat man approaches: Grandpa!
“Hello, Grandpa!” I say to the rat man.
“For the last fucking time, kid, I ain’t your fuckin grandpa. And call me Master Splinter.” His whiskers twitch as he sniffs the room. “You smell like hot garbage. What do you want?”
I’m not sure what smell he’s referring to, since we live in a sewer and therefore all literally smell like actual shite and piss, but that’s just Grandpa for you, always pulling your leg.
I smile down at Grandpa. Shawty’s only like one meter [translator's note: that’s non-american for three feet] tall. “I’m pregnant!”
“S’not mine,” Grandpa says, beginning to walk away.
“What—I know that!” I scramble to catch up with him, which turns out to be not that hard at all, what with his wittle tiny vermin legs. “That’s incest and beastiality all wrapped up in one ugly—” Grandpa shoots me a warning look with his creepy, beady eyes, “—er, unique combination. Plus, I’m not gay.”
That one’s a bloody lie. I’m actually quite a bit fruity myself, but telling Grandpa that seems like a bad idea. I am not about to be hate crimed down in my own home.
“Anyway,” I continue, “I could really use some help figuring out how to take care of a human baby because I’m going to have one any second now. Please, Grandpa?”
Except Grandpa just hisses and scurries off into a little hole in the wall. He’s like, nine centimeters [translator’s note: that’s non-american for 3.5 inches] tall, so his plump rump fits right in the tiny crevice. I briefly wonder if he has a whole other little rat family in there. Nah, Grandpa’s not a player.
I’m a bit bummed, if I’m being perfectly honest. I’m not sure I even want to have a baby anymore if it’s going to be this hard to even learn about one. I’m about ready to give up when I see him .
At first I mistake him for a very large naked mole-rat. An easy mistake, and certainly not the strangest thing these sewers have seen. He’s super bald and ugly, no eyebrows or nothin. The weirdest part is that he’s missing a nose. There are two slits that I’m guessing act as little slots to put your coins in that’ll make him do a cool trick. His skin is also super wrinkly and washed out, reminding me of that creepy baby fetus from Resident Evil. I bet he makes little children scream when he passes them by on the street. His long black robes don’t exactly help his image. He’s by far the most hideous creature that I’ve ever met. Worse than my disgusting rat grandpa.
I am unbelievably attracted to him.
“Hot damn,” I can’t stop myself from saying. You’d understand if you saw him. Already my head is full of such dirty thoughts. I briefly wonder if he’s bald all over, but the image goes straight to my wiener and I force it away. Focus, Harry, focus.
“Huh? Who said that?” The Mole-Rat Man, who was crouched down eating something off the ground, suddenly sits up, and I’m startled all over again by his beauty. A strange orange sauce drips down his chin, and the man brings up a bony finger to wipe himself clean. His tongue flicks down over his finger, sucking up all the sauce and disappearing behind crusty ass lips. Suddenly I’m horny again.
It takes all my will to not rip my pants off here and now. I can’t remember being so turned on ever before in my life. I clear my throat, sending my voice echoing through the tunnels. “I did, sir,” I say. The honorific feels necessary.
Mole-Rat Man’s eyes meet mine and I wonder if he feels that raw spark of pure sexual energy between us too. His voice is raspy but vivacious when he says, “You dare disturb my mealtime, child of these musky, dank sewers?” That’s awfully presumptuous of him considering he’s the one eating off the musky, dank sewer’s floor. This particular chamber is known for being a dumping ground for lots of revolting things. I keep the thought to myself. “Well,” the man continues, “what gives? You’re not getting any of my Chick-n-Minis™.”
For the first time, I take a closer look at what he’s eating. I barely recognize the logo on the grease-stained takeout bag: a red outline of a chicken head that closely resembles a butt. Chick-fil-A®. My gay dads never let me eat there because they make charitable donations to anti-LGBTQ+ organizations and their employees say cringe-ass shite like “my pleasure” when they hand you your nasty pickle chicken. Mole-Rat Man dips a waffle fry into the telltale Chick-fil-A® sauce and sucks it into his chomper like a living vacuum cleaner. My boy-ovaries (we don’t have sex ed down here) tingle as I see him in a new light: he’s hot and evil.
I’m knocked out of my demented sexual awakening when a stone hits me in the forehead, wiping my glasses off my head. “What the bloody hell was that for?” I say. I remember that I’m British and have a sudden urge to kill myself.
“I saw you eyeing my Chick-n-Minis™ and I already told you I’m not sharing. Don’t make me use my wizard powers on you.” He throws another stone in my direction that I barely manage to dodge.
“You’re a wizard?” I say, taking a step in his direction. He bares a set of pointy-looking teeth at me and swoops his robes protectively around his precious pickle nuggets. “What kind of wizard? Gandalf? Merlin? Rasputin?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Leave me at once so that I may attempt to enjoy the remainder of my meal.”
I can’t just leave him, though. How often do you come across a sexy evil wizard man in the natural world? I rake my mind for some way to keep the conversation going. “A wizard, huh? Your bald little head must be riddled with arcane knowledge and ancient magical spells. I bet you’re the brightest man of these sewers—nay, all of England.”
I’m a little worried that I’m laying it on too thick and the man will see right through my jest, but he only appears to sit up a bit straighter and puff out his chest.
“Oh, I am quite intelligent, aren’t I?”
I nod in affirmation, taking a step closer. He no longer seems to care, and soon I’m standing just a couple feet in front of him. This close, I begin to notice the pungent odor secreting from his head pores. It’s rank, worse than the usual sewer smells, so sharp that I can taste it on my tongue. I don’t know why I find it kind of sexy.
“You are!” I say. An idea pops into my head. “Hey, do you know anything about male pregnancy, often dubbed ‘mpreg?’”
He looks taken aback as if I’ve offended him. “Child, I’ve been writing slash fiction for thirty-five years now. What the fuck do you think? Plus I’m a wizard. We practically invented the thing.”
Finally, someone who can help me! “Oh, this is wonderful,” I say, doing a little twirl in place. I feel the baby kick inside my tummy. It seems to be happy too! “I didn’t know that about wizards. You gotta help me, sir, uh…” It dawns on me that we don’t even know each other’s names.
“Lord Voldemort,” he helpfully supplies. “But most people just call me the Dark Lord or He Who Must Not Be Named.”
“That’s not ominous at all! I’m Harry Potter. So what do you say? You want to help me give birth to this bad boy or not?” I slap my belly, earning another painful kick from the baby.
Voldemort tosses another fry in his mouth. He speaks through a mouthful of potato when he says, “Not particularly. I’m eating.”
I’m about to ask him if he’ll help me learn about pregnancy after he’s finished eating, but my water breaks right then and there.
“It’s a bit urgent, Voldemort!” I cry out, already feeling the first contraction. “Blimey, this is happening fast. Is it supposed to happen this fast?”
I can tell Voldemort is irritated, maybe because I’m getting bodily fluids all over his Chick-n-Minis™, but he attends to my needs anyway. It instantly becomes apparent that he’d be a fantastic father and I can’t help but to imagine him being my baby daddy…
“I’m going to do wizard spells on you now,” he says, producing a wand from his robes and pointing them at my man parts. “Is this your first one, child?”
I feel the need to correct him this time, even though I’m in the middle of birthing a human baby. “I’m not a child , Voldemort,” I say through deep breaths. “I’m in my mid twenties, a full fledged adult boy.”
“When you get to be my age,” Voldemort says, swishing his wand around a bit, “ten, twenty, thirty, a hundred, why it’s all the same.” With that, he casts a magical spell on me. Childbirth hurts ten times more now, but it’s over in a matter of seconds. He hands me my new baby—a bald eagler!—and I smile down at the creature I just made.
“Well would you look at that,” I say, cooing at my baby, who makes high-pitched whistling bird noises in return.
“What are you going to name them?” Voldemort asks.
A terrible, devious idea forms in my head. I want this man to be mine , and fast. “I’m naming them after the baby daddy,” I say.
“Who is?”
“Why Voldemort, it’s you! Meet Voldy Junior. Junior for short.”
He grimaces as Junior squawks up at him. “Impossible!” he yells, batting away Junior’s eagler beak as it reaches up to peck at him. “My genes are incapable of producing a foul creature such as the one you call Junior .”
I find that a bit surprising for him to say. Just ten minutes ago I thought he was a naked mole-rat man, and he thinks Junior is ugly?
Ugh, I don’t have time for this! The lie just comes out. “We met at that one bar. Chamber Pot of Secrets.” I’d heard my dads talk about it before. It’s one of those sketchy pubs where the beer is cheap but only because there was a fifty-percent chance you’d be sharing it with the roaches.
“Huh? What are you talking about?”
He isn’t buying into this blasted story as easily as I thought he might. “Uh… you were drunk! Really drunk. White girl wasted kind of drunk. You probably don’t remember it.”
“Hmm, that does sound like something I would do,” Voldemort ponders aloud. “Alright, so the kid’s mine. Now what?”
Whoa, I’ve never successfully gaslit a wizard before. Wicked!
“We have to show my parents our new baby!” I say.
For the first time since knowing him, I see Lord Moldy Butt smile. It’s hideous and sultry all at once. “Alright, let’s go meet your parents.”
I take him at once to see dad and dad. They’re still working on that same slice of pizza from earlier.
“Dads,” I say, a little nervous now that this is really happening. “Meet my boyfriend, Voldemort. And… And our child, Junior. I’m so happy.” I begin to weep, hiding my face in Voldemort’s robes, who shrugs me off with a scoff.
My dads don’t respond. Bloody typical.
“What exactly am I looking at here?” Voldemort asks, his voice thick with disgust.
“You’re looking at my dads.” I point to one of them. “Donatello.” And then the other. “Raphael.” I pause. “Or maybe it was the other way around. I’m not sure, I just call them dad.”
“Your dads are turtles?” Voldemort says.
I look down at my dads. I guess I never mentioned that I was adopted, so it might come as a surprise to people who don’t know me that my dads are in fact just sewer turtles. “Yeah, I guess if you see things like that…”
“You, a human boy fresh out of labor from birthing a bald eagler, have turtle dads?”
I have a feeling he won’t take well to the news of Grandpa Splinter. “It’s not really that surprising, is it?”
Voldemort just stares at me for a moment. His gaze instantly sets my insides on fire. I’m already ready to gaslight him into having another baby with me. Right as I think it, his eyes travel down to Junior who’s taking a nap in my arms. It’s kind of creepy how long his gaze lingers on my healthy baby birb.
His wand lifts in one fluid swoosh pointed at Junior, and before I can think to move he’s shouting the most powerful sounding wizard spell I’ve ever heard.
“Avada Kedavra!” he says with such bravado that his hot rancid breath sprays all up in my face.
A green spark flickers out of the tip of his wand and engulfs little baby eagler Junior, and suddenly it’s so bright that I can’t see a thing. When I finally regain vision, I see that I’m no longer holding the Junior that I once knew and loved. Instead, they’ve been replaced by something only an evil wizard could make. For I am now holding an order of… of… It can’t be.
I’m holding an order of fresh Chick-n-Minis™.
“What the…”
“Haha!” Voldemort shouts. “My evil plan has worked once again. The spell killed that atrocious beast so hard that it turned into my favourite meal, just like the baby before that. I am an all powerful wizard!”
I’m sad that Junior is gone, but at least they turned into my boyfriend’s favourite snack. I can’t help but smile and look sweetly up into my beloved’s eyes.
“Too bad we don’t have any Chick-fil-A® sauce to go along with this, huh, Voldy?” I say.
Grandpa appears out of a small rat hole in the wall. “Did someone say Chick-fil-A® sauce?” he says, producing a container of it out of his secret rat pocket.
“Dad!” Voldemort says. “You came just in time to enjoy some Chick-n-Minis™!”
Hold up— “Did you just say Dad? ” I ask, bewildered.
“Oh yes,” Voldemort says. “It’s only fair since you introduced me to your parents. Harry, meet my dad, Master Splinter.” He gestures to Grandpa, who’s busy sticking his dirty muzzle into what used to be Junior.
“But… if Grandpa is your dad, and he’s my grandpa…” I do the convoluted math in my head, before arriving at one crystal clear conclusion.
Smiling, I can’t help but to smack myself upside the head. I guess it was an incest fic after all.