Introduction: The worst day of the week

I hate Mondays.

I mean, I've never been much of a Garfield type of guy, but the hatred of Mondays is a feeling that's probably mutual between us.

Mondays is probably the worst day of the week because it always cut off my normal 6 hours of sleep whenever my dad (well he's adoptive, but the same thought applies) wakes me up to get to school. I hate Mondays because once I get back from a long day of sleepin... I mean studying in class, it takes another 1 hour trip through a Way (a quick shortcut through the Nevernever that lets someone travel great distances in a matter of a few steps) to get to my next lesson at Edinburgh with the -still recovering- Warden Morgan.

I guess we can now add being kidnapped/teleported in front of a medieval castle filled with a bunch of cosplayers to the list of why I hate Mondays.

…oOo…

There wasn't many things that could really shock Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. He had been at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for nearly as long as anyone could remember. Albus Dumbledore was a man that had lived through the raise of two Dark Lords, served as Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot for decades, and was the current wielder of a wand that has been said to have been forged by the hands of Death itself for nearly half a century.

Albus Dumbledore was a man that lived through hell and back, and was the holder of great strength in both the art of magic and manipulation. But never, in his life, could he consider that he would pull a certain name out from the Goblet of Fire. However, more unexpected was seeing the face of the child that he had long since given up hope in finding, just suddenly pop up in front of the Goblet itself.

The Boy by his calculations was around the age of 14 years old. He stood frozen eye widened at the large audience gasping at what had just transpired moments ago. There was a short pause that rushed across the room like a gust of wind. No one moved a muscle, no one said a word, and they just watched, waiting to see what would come next.

He wore a tatted dark baseball cap, a medical eyepatch that covered his left eye, and old fashioned duster two size too large. His feet stood with a stance that signified that he was expecting a fight any moment. In one hand the young man carried a staff carved in a dozen different Celtic runes, and in the other was a muggle weapon (44. Magnum) that carried a dozen more crudely scratched runes that resembled ancient more Egyptian roots.

In a quick and fluid motion, the boy lifted his staff towards the staff's table where the most of the present professors had raised their wands in alarm towards the armed child. In the other hand the muggle weapon instantly fixated on the head of one Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.

The young man in question was none other than The-Boy-Who-Lived, Harry James Potter.

For a moment there was a brief sigh that escaped from the mouth of the unexpected guest.

"Garfield, you smartass son of a bitch."

Just a quick introduction to what this story might become. I'm not entirely sure if I should continue this idea so tell me you thoughts. Good, Bad? It doesn't really matter, I'm just interested in what you might have to say. This is mainly a test run to see how you might like a story like this.

So hopefully you enjoyed it, and if you didn't explain where I went wrong. I wish you have a nice day wherever you are in the world, and may Bob be with us all!