New (new) take on HP

Harry’s wrinkly old funbags flopped around like the literal tits in the breeze that they were. The polyjuice potion that Malfoy had snuck onto his crumpets still hadn’t worn off, so for the foreseeable future he was trapped inside the sagging visage of the homeless lady that lived under Snape’s desk. Worse still, he smelled like milk. Harry HATED milk. Voldemort smelled like milk, and he was a real git.
“Ruddy, bloody, ruddy Malfoy.” Harry calmly screamed, “Dobby, attend to me, you useless sack of shit.”
Dobby’s disgusting face (and shortly after, the rest of his revolting head) emerged from the bin, an old condom hanging limply from one of his vile ears. “What?” He grunted, in his usual verbose manner.
“We’re going hunting.” Harry said, as he fished his silenced Glock 19 with extended mag out of the sock draw, “fetch me the lube.”