Harry Potter GEN Z dialect

Chapter 1- The Boy Who Wasn't Unalive

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, liked flexing that they were very basic, thank u. Tbh they were the last people you'd think would be sus, because they were all fax no printer.

Mr. Dursley was adulting at a firm called Grunnings, which made drills.

He was a dummy thiccc (w/ three Cs) man with hardly any neck, although he had an absolute unit of a mustache. Mrs. Dursley was a total Karen with zero chill and had hella neck, which came in very useful when she was stalking her neighbours and not minding her own.

The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley who they thought was the main character. The Dursleys were mostly thriving, but they also had lowkey tea which didn't pass the vibe check and their greatest fear was to get called out and cancelled. They were girlbossing too close to the sun and didn't think their clout could bounce back if their fam the Potters were revealed. Milf Lily Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sis, but Mrs. D had gone ghost; in fact, Mrs. D pretended she didn't have a sister, because Lil and her deadbeat hubby were straight up cringe. If the neighbors ever caught sight of the Potters, it'd be a big yikes. The Dursleys knew the Potters had a tiny boi, too, but they had never even seen him. This boy was another good reason for keeping the in-laws away; they didn't want Dudley mixing with a gross being like that.

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray (fight me) Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley spilled the tea as she was tryna put a screaming Dudley into his heckin high chair.

None of them noticed a chonky, tawny owl flutter past the window.

At half past eight, the chonklord that is Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley goodbye but missed, because Dudley was losing it and yeeted his cereal at the walls. "Little Lad" chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house. He got into his whip and backed out into the driveway of their basic asf house

It was on that one edge of the street that you feel like you could accidentally hit the elbow of your car on that he noticed something sus --a cat popping off and reading a map. For a sec, Mr. Dursley didn't realize what he'd seen--then he jerked his head around to look again. There was a chonking tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn't a map in sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the chonking cat. It stared back. As Mr. Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the chonkers in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive--no, looking at the sign; cats couldn't read maps or signs. Periodt. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the chonkers out of his thinking-organ. As he drove toward the town he had no thonks, head empty, except for some drills he had to sell. Let's get this L O A F, he thought.

But on the edge of town, drills were yeeted out of his mind by something else. As he sat in the morning traffic jam starterpack, he couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of not-very-shady-at-all people about. People in cloaks. No cap. Mr. Dursley couldn't bear people who dressed in cheugy clothes — the getups you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them weren't young at all; why, that man had to be a boomer, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The audacity of him! But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt (a tiktok probs) — these people were obviously collecting for something... yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills. Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn't, he might have found it harder to concentrate on drills that morning. He didn't see the owls popping off in broad daylight, though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed deceased as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl even at nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He had no chill and yelled at five different people. He made several important telephone calls and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he'd stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the bakery. He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the Starbucks. He took a beeg look at them with unhappy as he passed. He didn't know why, but they seemed kinda sus. This bunch were whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single GoFundMe donation tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying. "The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard —"