Harry Potter and the Magic of Puberty
Everything was going swimmingly for Harry Potter while he was at Hogwarts until he hit what would be the equivalent of the 10th-grade for a Muggle. During Harry’s second semester that year, he began to develop what we Muggles refer to as pubic hair. Now, try as Harry might to apparate himself from his freshly born curlies, it was to no avail.
Was everyone experiencing the same transformations Harry wondered? Being a Wizard in training certainly had its perks but one serious knock on Hogwart’s was that children were sent off at such a young age and didn’t have the opportunity to be corrupted by good Muggle television. Hence, Harry and his mates didn’t have the slightest chance to study pornography or the chance to have their imaginations sparked by the melony flesh of Cassandra on “Up All Night.” Sure he could whisk himself away on a broom and make frogs talk and had all sorts of other little magic tricks he could pull but the poor lad was now 16 and had yet to see a Page 3 girl in all her glory. Months passed and Harry couldn’t keep his secret any longer.
“Dumbledore, can we talk?”
“Sure Harry, you know my door is always open.”
Harry stepped into his chambers and dropped his pants. “What’s with the hair? One night I’m casting a homework spell, the next thing I know I’m waking up with… with…. THESE!”
“Harry, perhaps you’d better have a seat. I’ve been through this before.”
Harry pulled up his trousers and took a seat in the massive Hagglestooth chair across from Dumbledore. That’s when Harry began to spill his guts. He told of the time he woke up in a hot sweat in the middle of the night and had to change his sheets and skivvies before his roommate Weasley woke up. Then there was this odd feeling he’d been getting every time he saw Hermione. It was especially strong when Hermione would fly her broomstick or practice casting her Expellarimus.
“It’s at times like that Dumbledore; I want to just blow my Floo Powder and apparate myself into Hermione’s bosom. Is that weird?”
With the patience of guiding thirteen generations of prepubescent wizards into manhood, Dumbledore assuaged Harry’s curiosity and confusion. He appeased his apprehension but there was one thing that he couldn’t cure—that was for Harry to figure out on his own.
“It’s truly the strangest thing. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I’m the best wizard this side of Azkaban but I’ve get this awful sinking feeling lately that I’m just not good enough. It first started happening after Quidditch practice when I would shower with the other lads. But lately, I’ve begun to notice a jealousy thing as well. In class, I just can’t stop looking at Draco Malfoy’s wand. Have you seen how big that thing is? All I’ve got is this ratty old stick.”
This was a tricky one. Dumbledore explained that the size of the stick didn’t matter; it was the magic inside that made the spell. He then reached behind and pulled a book off his shelf and passed it over to Harry.
“Now tuck that in your robe and don’t tell a soul about this one, O.K.? Now scoot.” Dumbledore chuckled to himself and got back to his second semester evaluations.
Harry raced back to his room and locked the door behind him. He quickly disrobed and jumped into bed with book in hand. Weasley was not yet back from his late night study session so he had the place to himself. He opened to page one: