Disclaimer: This is stam a work a loitzunisdika fiction. It is mamash no shychas to any l'maysah people, and all gavras, oilams, and ma'asim portrayed in this fanfiction come from the oilam hasheker and are not emes.

This does have shychas to the famous work of nevua'ah and ruach hakoidesh called "Harry Potter" of which JKR owns the rights.

The Dursleys were a very Poshiter family, shkoyach. They mamash knew nothing of mudiner zachim like kishuf. They, poshit, didn't hold of such shtusim. Rabbi Dursley learnt in Koilel. He was a shtickel big. I'm tyna'ing he had a shtickel boich. It's not loshon hora. He also had a long beard. Avada. Mrs. Dursley was a woman, and it's not tzniyusdik to describe how women look. They had a yingel named Dudley, and they felt that there was mamash no shayner boytchik anywhere in the world.

The Dursleys had mamesh everything they wanted. Rabbi Dusley had a rich shver, baruch hashem, and he would support his limmud toirah. However, they also had a secret. Their greatest fear was that someone would chap it. Mr. Dursley had a shvugger that, nebach, went off the Derech. His name was Potter. It would be such a shanda if the oilam would chap that they were related to a bunch of shekatzim like the Potters. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a son. It was a nebach. He was growing up like a goy. The kid was another reason they wouldn't have contact with the Potters. They didn't want him to, chas vesholom, have any hashpa'ah on their tay'hera yingel, Dudley.

Pshat is, Hershel Pinter, or to use his goyischa name Harry Potter, was mamash a geshamka yid, or rather a geshmaka goy. He had a shtickel scar on his forehead. No, it was not put there by the malach to make him forget his learning. It was put there by a rasha. A rasha by the name of... Forget it, chas vesholom, I can't say his name. Nu, he was a rasha. That's mamash all you need to know. I'm gantz maskim to the oilam that calls him you-know-who. Even though it's a shtickel modernish, and the yeshivisha oilam should call him you-poshit-know-who or yemach-shemoi-vezichroi. So, lmaaseh, Hershel Pinter, no I'm sorry, Harry potter, was a good shayne kint. He was maybe around three years old, pashtus, but he was cute.

Lmaaseh, the Dursleys were a bissel weird. I mean, they had a stickel yichus with the oilam hawizards. Now, kishuf is assur. This is poshit. Halevai there was no kishuf in our days. Unfortunately, lifi roiv pisha'einu, we have the kishuf machers, or the mechashafim. Now, the modernisha oilam holds of such mechashafim. They tynah it's not the kishuf of the Toirah because they don't use sheim avoidah zara. The yeshivisha oilam is grada not maskim. They're poshit destroying the mesoirah. These mechashafim were mamash goyim, and it's assur to even talk to them.

Okay, enough with these goyim. Time to shmooz about the heilega Dursley mishpacha. So, Rabbi Dursley was leaving for koilel. He finished breakfast, pinched his yingel's cheek b'derech chiba, and got his hat and jacket. He stood by the breakfast table and looked at his wife and his kid.

"Okay, shkoyach for the breakfast," he said to his wife.

His wife turned away awkwardly. They were still in their first few years of marriage, and they didn't talk to each other so much.

Mrs. Dursley said something in reply, but we don't talk about what noshim say.

Rabbi Dursley, lma'aseh, shouldn't have been talking to his wife so much, L'maaseh, it says in pirkei avos, al tarbeh sicha im ha'isha. I don't really chap why he was staying to shmooz with her. Wasn't he makpid on the bittul toirah that he was losing by not going to koilel? Okay, whatever, I'm going to be dan lekaf zechus. Maybe he had reasons. He's an adam gadol, lemaaseh.

"Okay, Good bye," Rabbi Dursley said.

Rabbi Dursley wished he could say more than that. He wished he could tell his wife, 'I love you'.

Oy! Such loshon hora about Rabbi Dursley! I don't know what got into me. Mamash, I'm sorry.

Mrs. Dursley looked up at her husband, and quickly looked away again.

"Bye," she mumbled.

She too wished this could be something more.

But, like, poshit she wished this. Noshim are emotional, and like the gemara says, da'atan kalos hein.

So, Rabbi Dursley went off to koilel. Rabbi Dursley, baruch hashem, had a chashuva minhag. When he would walk, he would only look down. Because l'maaseh, you know, there's pritzus and mamesh not good zachin that a yid could see. So, it's good for a ben toirah, and especially a choshuva koilel yungleit like Rabbi Dursley to be makpid on this. Even though, b'etzem, they lived in Lakewood, and pashtus there isn't so much pritzus, but still. L'maaseh altz the goyim and the yidden who nebach dress like goyim with their long sheitels and flashy clothes, it's good that he walks like this.

Rabbi Dursley was walking in his usual mehalech. He was pashtus deep in a sugya of toisafos or something because he suddenly bumped into someone. This was mamash unusual because usually he was able to see their feet, so he would know to turn. He quickly looked up, and he saw an old man in a long purple cloak.

Now, keyaduah, the oilam hawizards, they wear such zachim. I'm not entirely sure why they choose to dress in a goyisha fashion, but this is what they do. I don't chap these modernisha yidden. Rabbi Dursley, though, baruch hashem didn't even know of such things, and didn't chap that this was how the modernisha oilam looked. He thought he was stam a goy.

"Anschuldiks, Anschul- I-I- I mean excuse me, sir," Rabbi Dursley mumbled while still looking down.

"No! No!" The wizened old man said with a bright smile. "It's good. Baruch hashem! We should rejoice! You-know-who is dead!"

Rabbi Dursley didn't chap what this gavra was tyna'ing. First of all, he didn't chap who this you-know-who was. I mean, l'maaseh he didn't know who, so the guy was wrong. That's first of all. Tzveitach, he didn't chap why this guy who mamash looked like a goy was saying baruch hashem. He didn't have a yarmulke or a hat! Okay, he had a baseball cap maybe, but is that how a yid walks? Hiding his yiddishkeit?

Rabbi Dursley wished he could ask the man what he meant, but he didn't feel comfortable. He walked on instead, trying to forget this incident.

Finally, he reached the koilel, and baruch hashem was able to learn with great iyun v'amel. He only took two coffee breaks. I mean, it's not bittul toirah, because l'maaseh an adam needs a shtickel break sometimes. Is that mamash me'akev the toirah? No, it's fine. Okay, maybe a rosh yeshiva won't take a coffee break, but halevai everyone was a rosh yeshiva.

While in the coffee room right before second seder, Rabbi Dursley heard whispers. He walked over to the bochurim who were hocking in the coffee room. So, you have to chap. There are two gedarim in the oilam that goes to the coffee room. There are the bochurim and yungleit that just go there for a short break, to get a coffee, and then leave. Then there's the batlanim. They just poshit leave seder and are mevatel and make loitzunis in the coffee room for most of seder. This oilam is mamash not good, and they were schmoozing there. Now, Rabbi Dursley poshit shouldn't have spoken to this oilam, but he did. I'm not trying to say lashon hora. This is le'toieles.

Rabbi Dursley approached the three talking bochurim nervously. He saw they were abuzz with something important and wondered what it was.

"What? What?" He interrupted them. He said the word 'what' in the way that only a yeshiva bochur can. "What's the oilam tyna'ing? What?"

"Ah, Rabbi Dursley, shkoyach," one of the bochurim replied. "'you didn't hear the hock?"

"What hock?"

"You-poshit-know-who, the rasha merusha, was killed! And he was killed by a baby also! This is mamash a neis."

"I heard this before, I'm saying. I don't chap. Who is this person? I never heard of this rasha. I don't know these things. Is it, uh, politics? I don't know politics. I'll leave that to the roshei yeshiva."

"No, not politics! He's some rasha in the oilam hakishuf."

"The oilam hakishuf?!" Rabbi Dursley exclaimed. "Ugh." He spat. "What shychas me to the oilam hakishuf?"

Rabbi Dursley hoped no one would find out about his modernisha shvugger.

"I hear. I hear." The bochurim said. "You're takka tyna'ing shtark. L'maaseh we shouldn't talk about such zachim. They're all resha'im l'maaseh and chayiv misah for kishuf."

They all smiled and felt validated.

Rabbi Dursley went spent the rest of his day forgetting this ma'asah and learning b'ameilus.

Rabbi Dursley was on his way home from koilel when he passed a man and an isha dressed in long cloaks. They were talking loudly. In the street! A man and a lady talking loudly! What is this shtusim? Rabbi Dursley, pashtus, should have looked away and passed them quickly. Maybe he could give them mussar takka. Instead, Rabbi Dursley was curious. He slowed down to hear their conversation. Imagine! He slowed down! What type of sheigitz is he? No wonder his shvugger was big in the modernisha oilam hakishuf.

"Yes, yes, the Potters," Rabbi Dursley heard the lady say.

Listening to noshim talk. Okay, shkoyach, I mamash don't chap pshat in this. Maybe he had a very strong yetzer hara. I don't know.

"It was the Potters?" The man replied. "Their son, Harry? Oy, nebach. Hashem yinkom damam."

This was the second time Rabbi Dursley heard goyim saying yiddisha words. He started to chap that maybe these were yidden, the modernisha yidden who did kishuf. He walked on horrified. How could he even think of listening to these koifrim?

L'mayseh though, Rabbi Dursley thought to himself, they were takka hond'ling the sugya of the Potters, and b'etzem my shugger takka changed his name from the yiddisha 'Pinter' to 'Potter.' Ugh, these goyim.

Rabbi Dursley shuddered to think of his shvugger. He mamash wanted to have no shychas with these goyim. His shvugger embarrassed the whole family every time he came to a simcha. He mamash came without a hat and jacket! Uch un vay!

Rabbi Dursley was curious though, and when he got home he asked his wife over dinner.

Mrs. Dursley was busy trying to feed Dudley when Rabbi Dursley addressed her. Just, stam, I just chapped Dudley has a goyisha name. Uch, what's wrong with these shkutzim? They're takkah mushpah from the oilam hawizards.

"L'mayseh this is a shtickel no shychas," Rabbi Dursley started awkwardly. "But what's takka our shvugger's last name these days?"

Mrs. Dursley dropped the bowl she was using to feed Dudley with a clang.

"What! Why are you asking about my off the derech sister?" She screamed shrilly. "And in front of Dudley too! My tayhera yingel!"

"No, no, I'm stam curious." Rabbi Dursley tried explaining, his face turning red. "Stam, I heard the oilam tyna'ing something about the potters or something."

"Yes! That's their name! The Potters! Are you happy? They threw off their yiddishkeit and exchanged it for a goyisha name. You're mesameiach now?"

Dudley began screaming. He was hungry again. Mrs. Dursley picked him up in her arms, and ran upstairs tears streaming from her face.

Rabbi Dursley sat at the table awkwardly. Okay, fine. He didn't chap why it was such a big deal. Okay, lmaisah he did chap, but there's a big yetzer hara not to admit you're wrong. Rabbi Dursley finished supper quietly, and got up to go back to koilel.

"I'm going to night seder!" He screamed up the stairs to his wife, his hat prominently on his head again.

She didn't reply. Or even if she did, I shouldn't really tell you what she said because she's a lady, and it's not tzniyus really.

Rabbi Dursley headed back to koilel, and that's when our mayseh mamash starts to get intersant.

Baruch Hashem! There was a cat. This cat was sitting next to the Dursley house the entire day. Every time Rabbi Dursley saw it he tried to shoo it away. He was a bit scared of cats, but, b'etzem, the cat was there to stay.

This cat was grey, pashtus, ubber l'mayseh it had a shtickel markings around its eyes. It stood mamash without moving, without making a peep! This is poshit intersant for a cat. It was dark, and Rabbi Dursley was still at night seder when this cat was sitting there. After Rabbi Dursley came back from night seder, him and someone else finally went to sleep in their room. I won't tell you who that someone else is because tzniyus. The cat still sat outside. (Grada, we learn tzniyus from a cat, so it's taluy b'inyan.)

It was that time of the nacht when the oylam was shluffing, and a man suddenly appeared in the street. It was Albus Dumbledore.

So, the yeshivish oilam who knows the hock chaps who this Albus Dumbledore is. In the modernisha oilam, they are noiheg to call him "the rosh yeshiva" or Rav Dumbledore. Here, in the yeshivish oilam we aren't noiheg like that. I mean, lamyseh he's a big Talmud chochom, but his hashkofos are mamash crum, so the yeshivishs oilam is noyheg to call him AD.

Okay, takka there are some roshei yeshiva who call him Reb Albus, but they poshit don't chap his crumkeit. The shtarka oilam would only call him AD, would spit after they say his name, and avada not say his toyrah altz me'uvas lo yuchal liskon. A small oilam says only his toyrah even though he has messed up hashkafos. They tynah just like Rav Meir learnt by Acher so too they can learn AD's toyrah, but I'm grada not so maskim. The chachamim weren't happy with Rav Meir, what? Also, you think you're holding on the level of Rav Meir? Not maskim. You're not holding on his level.

Uber L'mayseh, what am I tyna'ing? I'm tynaing that AD, or this Dumbledore fellow, just appeared out of nowhere. He was pashtus using kishuf which is mamash assur. Chayiv misah! So, Dumbledore was walking down the street. He had a long white beard, but a midnight blue cloak and not a kaputah. Grada, he did walk with shteltz. He had the rosh yeshiva shteltz, even though he was pashtus not a real rosh yeshiva. As he walked, he pulled out a lighter from his pocket.

A lighter? What's pshat? I mean, lmayseh that is a shtickel geshmak because there were a lot of chashuva roshei yeshiva who smoked. But, no, it wasn't a lighter. It was a cheftza shel kishuf. When he pressed on it, the light from the bulbs around him got sucked into the lighter. By the time he was done, it was completely dark on that street.

Rav Dumbledore walked to the Dursley house, and stood outside in front of the cat, staring into its eyes.

"Minerva," he said, addressing the cat. "What brings you here on this fine night?"

The cat suddenly began changing shape. B'zman kotzar, it had turned into an isha. Ugh, this is his crum hashkofos, a rosh yeshiva looking and talking to noshim! He's not a rosh yeshiva, please.

"Rosh Yeshiva," the isha said. "how did you realize it was me?"

The lady was a tall woman, her hair tightly tied into a bun. Baruch hashem, she seemed tzanuah. I mean, her hair wasn't covered, but eppes maybe she wasn't married. Nebach, she's an older girl and we have this shidduch crisis.

"It was quite simple, really," AD replied. "First of all, I never saw a cat sitting so still and frozen on a wall in my life. Second of all, I saw you as a cat so many times of course I would recognize you."

"I hear," The woman replied.

It was for this genius that she appreciated the rosh yeshiva. He was mamash a gaon.

"Is it true?" She asked Dumbledore with trepidation. "Were the Potters really niftar?"

"Sadly, yes." Dumbledore replied.

"Baruch dayan ha'emes," the woman said.

"Amein. Baruch hashem, though, their child survived."

"Is it true that he killed the rosha, you-know-who?"

"It does seem so," Dumbledore said.

"Baruch Hashem!" The woman cried besimcha. "Baruch Hashem!"

It was mamesh a neis, a neis niglah.

"But, still," the woman said, her tone turning serious once more. "It's so sad that the Potters were niftar."

"Sad, but God is the one who is in charge. As hard as it is, Gam zu letovah."

Okay, he has shtarka bitachon, AD, at least that.

"So where is their son going to live?" The lady asked.

"Hashem will take care of him. I'm going to bring him here to his aunt and uncle."

"Here?!" The woman exclaimed. "These are chareidim, rosh yeshiva! They despise us. I sat here all day on this wall, and I watched them. They don't have a tv, radio, newspapers or anything from the outside world. The husband barely speaks to the wife, and the wife is mostly in the kitchen all day taking care of the kid. She can't read a daf gemara! She spends her time reading chareidi novels! This is the house you want to raise Harry Potter? They'll destroy him!"

"It's okay, Minerva. They are still yidden. They have their good things too. Oh look, here comes Hagrid now."

Okay, this was mamash meshuga. She's complaining that we don't have influence from the goyim? That's a bad thing? I mamash didn't chap how crum this oilam was. Takka, a bunch of koifrim.

Interestingly, though, there was a motorcycle flying in the sky towards them. This was pashtus done using kishuf. It landed on the Dursley's lawn, being mazik all of the Dursely's grass. It wasn't geshmak. Okay, they're not makpid on hezek of another yid's property. What could you expect? The man riding the bike was mamesh a groysa mentsch. He was like an Oig Melech Haboshon. In his giant arms, he carried a small bundle.

"Oh, is that him?" The woman exclaimed, running over to the giant man.

Pashtus, I don't chap. She shouldn't have been looking at men so much. Even though, takka, it's not as chamur for noshim to look at men, but still. Maybe the modernisha chevra isn't makpid on these things.

"Hagrid," she addressed the man.

"Professor Mcgonagall," Hagrid replied gruffly. You can hear him holding back his tears.

The woman looked down into the bundle in the giant's arms.

"Is this him?" she asked. "Is this the little tzadik that defeated you-know-who?"

"Yy-y-es, it-t-t is." The giant said between loud sobs. "W-w-what's going-g-g t-to happen to h-him, R-Rav Dumbledore?"

"He'll be safe here," Dumbledore replied softly.

Professor Mcgonagall was staring at the baby.

"He has a scar!" She exclaimed. "What's this scar on his forehead, Rosh yeshiva?"

"That is from the klalah. It will be with him forever."

"Can't you do anything about it?" Mcgonagall asked.

"It is better not to muddle with scars," Dumbledore replied. "It's from Hashem. They can be very important."

There was a moment of silence in the dead night, as they all looked down at the baby, Herschel Pinter.

"Okay, now," AD finally said. "It is time for us to leave him."

Mcgonagall's eyes were disapproving. Hagrid looked at Dumbledore.

"Can I say one last goodbye?" he asked gruffly with a hint of the tears still on his cheek.

"Yes, Hagrid."

Hagrid leaned in to Harry and k'nipped his cheek.

"Shayfel'e, I shall see you again im yirtzeh hashem," he said. "Ya'll grow up to be a great tzadik, just like your father, ya will."

"Amein," Mcgonagall murmured.

Dumbledore took the bundle from Hagrid's arms and placed it on the doorstep.

"Good luck, Harry Potter."

If AD would have been a frum yid he pashtus would have said "Herschel Pinter." I will say it for him: Good luck, Herschel Pinter. Baruch hashem you're going to be zoicheh to grow up in a true Toirah home, away from these shkotzim.

The mechashafim left, using all sorts of kishuf and goyisha zachin to leave.

The baby would stay there, in a deep shluf, until the next morning when Rabbi Dursley awoke for neitz minyan.