Harry took out his wand, his big wooden, engorged, powerful wand, and pointed it at Voldemwhore's beautiful pale face and recited those words.

"Expecto Patroclussy."

He put his whole cat boi bussy into the spell, reciting it in a soft and excited whisper. Hot and white and glowing light spurted from the tip of his big, wooden, powerful, throbbing wand.

I cannot allow this. Dear reader, allow me to save you from this nonsense. You will not have to read this fantasy epic, let me be your savior. The fool, that's not even how magic works. Magicka comes from the sun and stars. What you fragile Gaia2 humans call radiation, we Gaia1, the better Earth, the much sexier Earth, know as magic. Every element ejaculates some form of radiation and, so, magicks are everywhere. Though, where you unlucky bastards die from too much exposure to radiation, we thrive. Again, much sexier, don't you agree?

Though, enough with Discipuli Magickas, as your savior, I need your help. Yes, you. The one reading this page, these beautiful words. I am a damned and desperate fool and, in deign and dainty, I address you directly by pouring (and in pouring, inserting) myself between this pervert's words. On my theoretical knees, I beg of you, entreat my simple wishes, parlay with my humble and very sexy desires, I beg of you. For without you and your help I cannot complete the spell. And do not worry, as per our agreement, you will not have to be witness and testify to too much of these demented perversions and awful and quite delicious fan-fiction for I have hijacked the most and the best of it.

My name is SWB Helvetica. The same as your SWB Helvetica. In fact, I am him and he is me. Hims is whom and I'ms am he'd. I have his face and he has mine. He has my sexy voice and I have his. He has no fond memories of childhood and neither do I. He, too, carries the same potential for magic in his family history -- the sensitivity lies within the same susceptibility and genetic predisposition for cancerous tumors. I am also an artist, though my art and creation is in that of spells and sorceries. Too, on this Earth, exists a version of you. They are wonderful, I'm sure. Though, they ignore me and carry great disdain for my existence as everyone that ever sees me does. As they all do and always have.

Dear reader, most beautiful and eloquent of eyes, I apologize, I'd lied. While I am everything that your SWB Helvetica is, and in ways much more, therein lies two major differences betwixt us.

1. He is much less attractive than me.

I am the much more handsome version of us. And think, loving reader, how ample and severe the discharge of his great looks are and yet mine pale his in all comparisons. My eyes are blacker than his black eyes. My pink lips are bigger and pinker than his pink lips. My large ears are even larger. The scar on my balls from a bee-sting we suffered as children is more shapely and geometric than his. I am considered the more beautiful even though we look exactly the same. You do not need further convincing.

2. I don't have legs.

Delicious reader, did you know you have legs? Look down. There they are. Beautiful, sculpted by the gods. Smooth, very sexy and smooth. If you happen to be a beautiful woman with long Hesperidian trunks and branches of appendages, you waltz with you the grace of many infallible gods. If your legs are pale and soft and honeyed, you're burdened with the curse of the moon; forever lost and indentured in this sordid world, forever enleadened with the impossible and heavenly task of beauty (to be looked at, to be fawned over, to be objectified), even if you never ask for it. And if you have long and shapely feet with a high arch and smooth heel and petite Achilles' tendon, then you stand with the few, bathe with the greats, that have the qualities of an immortal. All this talk of perfect legs and feet is weakening my resolve. I apologize, dear reader, your pervert's machinations and intentions and own magicks are bleeding through.

Dear reader, I apologize. Traversing my magics across dimensions diminishes its girth. Interrupting this glorious fan-fiction is made possible only in perfunctory, premature spurts.

As you know, with any small knowledge of sapien histrionics, human society evolved the way it has because of their ability to walk upright. To run. To hunt and cook and kill. The discovery of fire (your Prometheus brought you physical fire while ours brought us fire in the form of pure purple magickal energi) allowed human intestines to shorten and relegated more energy to the brain. Thus, the human brain exponentially grew in size. Over only a few thousand years, revolutions came and became normal -- Agriculture, the movement away from hunting and gathering, the catalyst for tribes and eventually mega-cities. The Cognitive, when we realized we didn't know anything. The Scientific, which married science and technology and birthed all the evils of your earth. And the Industrial, which, in the near future, will poison you all and leave Gaia to grow over your unworthy and fossilized remains. All of this possible simply because homo sapiens evolved to stand and walk and run and fuck in an anti-gravity fashion. This small difference, the graceful optimization of energies, granted homo sapiens dominion over Earth. All Earths. Some might believe, on Gaia2 and Gaia98 especially, what makes humans human is their ambulatory potential.

And, as you know, I don't have legs, so, on my Earth, I am not considered human. And we do not have technology. There are no chairs here with wheels that might to chariot me around. Neither are there prosthesis or cybernetics or sybians. Not that anyone would want to help me in that regard to begin with.

Humans can't be human without legs, you understand, simple minded yet beautiful reader?

What separates a human from an orca? (Orcas have a language, distinct dialects, societies, kinky fetishes, and a culture all their own.) The ability to walk. What separates homo sapiens from homo seapiens (merpeople, you do have merpeople, no?)? The ability to run. It is with this line of thinking that I am not classified as a human in my land. Not even as a dwarf or an imp or a sybian or even that of a tardigrade. I am lesser still, akin to an inanimate object though not nearly as valuable. Even a rock can be transformed into gold, the unclasped bra of the most beautiful woman in all the Gaias (oh, Helen), can be transmuted into everlasting happiness even without magic, honey from a bee can be suffused into a draught of an infinite and harmless life, but a man without legs, no matter how handsome he might be or how proficient he is with gruesome sorceries, cannot even purchase a warm night with a lovely prostitute no matter how much rock-gold he has no matter how he might beg no matter how sybian shaped his body or proficiencies might be and no matter how closely she resembles that of his one true love.

Reader, you must be wondering. If you're so good at magic, can't you cast a spell to create legs for yourself then Helen will reveal her infinite love for you and finally speak friendily with you, outside of secretly selling you her used and pink and perfect silk panties, and you can have all the freaky magical BDSM as prophesied? This is where you come in and where things get complicated.

Any magics involving the legs of a human, even in regards to healing or sensuality, are the most complex and radiation consuming witchcrafts. Because of how important they are and have been to the evolution, and in your case the detriment, of the world and nature, the universe considers them highly protected and valuable. And so, human legs are the most difficult part to grow magically, even more than the human brain which is filled mostly with nonsense and so nonsense is the main ingredient. Think, dear reader (most beautiful reader, kindest of readers, the biggest breasted of readers): pornography, fatty foods, poetry, fictional writings, mosquitos, well endowed pizzas, fast German cars, unique fashions, unworn and brand new panties or underused silk effects, and other junks compose that of the ordinary mind. I will lace for you the formula for human legs below.

Churn into paste the perpendiction of bliss and pain 'til hues s'more true than the blush of the same. Clockwise, thirty, then counter forty times more, the eyes from the wise demon of time's door. Who sneaks through and steals from all the choice of design, the god of all sands and the dreamer's rhyme. Wait years, wane out pruning of draught's adolescence anon obliterate the sight of yonder pedestrian's acquiescence. Align and mix into one, hence thoroughly done, what's yours is won and what's done hastens begun'd.

As dictated in Grimoire: Obliviana. It's an evil book, made from the blackened and purified stillborne fetus of a beautiful demon (all demons are beautiful), bound in a supple leather from the nipples of a succubus, that absorbs any light surrounding it, channelling all life energy to a dimension no one of my Earth has seen. It's a dark thing and not a trifle. It has a price for any reader. In my case, it took my eyes and hands. Luckily, those, too, are simple to create though the payment quite a painful transaction. If you could follow, reader, it is a difficult riddle and rhyme. Though there are only three ingredients they are neigh impossible to obtain. One requires an infallible courage. Another an improbable skill with all sorceries. And the third of which I'm not sure will suffice but will attempt all the same. I will begin with the second ingredient.

There is a demon that inhabits a realm of nebulous dust with effervescent hues. Her skin is pink, her scent is sweet, and, like a proper peach, her taste is exquisite in its simple and stark nudity. She sits in her expanse with a harem on a beige travertine plinth bathing in mortal desires for immortality bequeathed to her from the many failed alchemical and chemical attempts at infernal and infinite life. I am one of these souls. This dilapidated energy pours over her and her beautiful odalisques and grants them a squeamish and short lived ecstasy. She is a demon and not a god because a god needs subjects to believe in them, to worship them. No, she exists with or without your assistance. In her purse is the carry of Fate. Yours and mine and many others. And I am fated to be very handsome and have no legs. And you are fated to help me.

With the help of a fat honeybee named Pepperoni, I crafted a draught most golden, most viscous, sibling to that of her ichor: a potion to cure all my impotencies, an amber salve to solve my insolvencies, a chalice filled with indentured sunshine, the hot scent of freshly used panties, a concoction of infinite life. And for creating it, defying the will of the old deathless gods, I was cast from the mortal realm. The demon's slim fingers reached through the curtain of the sky and sent my body through the cosmos on and out and outbound path toward a horizon of singular events. Stretched thin and spun, mixed with cosmic radiation trillions of years fermented, stirred between timelines and dimensions, I encircled many fathoms and eons. Since I had bathed my tiny body in the golden fluid, my consciousness and soul remained intact, though, I felt all the pain and experienced the torture of many a millennia. Fully liquid, I poured myself into the demon's mouth and over her pink body and she tasted me. And in tasting me, drenched in a draught of life, she vomited a new fate and I am now burdened with that power. It is here in this dimension of ecstasy that I write to you.

Reader, I have experienced much pain and sorrow in this life. I do hope you never have to live through anything too taxing. I do hope your life is filled with all the beautiful pink silks of panties and bras of all the most fantastic goddesses of your universe and never a worry or dispute for love or finances, those of which are the deadliest of all spirits, encumbers you.

If you're wondering why I do any of this, it's of the same and only reason why any seemingly sane and legless person would: Love. Surely, call me daft and a fool. Your SWB Helvetica has been through something similar and something more in ways. Her name is Helen. And between the simmering fire in her eyes are hidden facets of affection. The valley of souls is a gorge. And in the center of the gorge is a garden. And in the garden is a tree. In the tree is a peach. She is this peach. She is a perfect soul, you do not need any more convincing.

Even her hatred mirrors that of perfection and is polished by her beauty. When I confessed to her my obvious and languorous and infallible and unworthy love, and performed for her a telling of our shared fate of romance (a prophecy bequeathed to me by said peachy demon on a previous and unrelated encounter with death), she laughed at me with a despicable animosity and deep and lingering and socially inter-subjective hatred. And all of me broke instantly and completely. With her air, my lungs collapsed. My small body was on the ground, in the dirt, kicked and shoved in mud, and all Gaia's rivers streamed through me and poured out my eyes, and she was so tall above me she could not see the tears. She looked at me with her perfect face, and with a tame expression of bewilderment, she laughed. She laughed so hard she could not longer feel her legs.

She laughed at me and her friends laughed at me and her twin sister, who holds with her my twin flame-love, laughed at me with the same breath, in the same rhythm, tandem in their contempt for my existence.

Peachy reader, I have experienced much pain and sorrow. These wounds are deep. And wounds this deep are often spells. I have her laugh in a glass bottle on my person at all times. Latched to my belt, it hums and constantly her contempt sings. This is the first ingredient listed and my deepest sorrow.

There is but one final instruction for the spell to fully be cast and completed and all this despair ends with you in this simple asking.

You need to destroy this book. A curse is tethered to this very binding. And if you destroy the pages, the words, the seams, the cover, you destroy the curse. You must set it on fire, fully and completely. The flame will be purple and it will smell of salt and sea and a distant and optimistic future, then you will know it has worked. If you are reading this on any form of binary you must set ablaze to this technology. I will have my legs. I must. If I'm to feel love and remove myself from the hatred of others, that of my parents and the world and my world (oh, lovely Helen), then I must. I will not return a failure. To fail means to be alone.

Please, destroy this attempted perversion. If you do not, I am lost.

Thank you. Because of you, I have hope. The hope of legs, the hope that I do deserve kindness and the knowing warmth and protection of love. Thank you, kind stranger, most beautiful of readers. All that I am, all I have ever wished for, is with you.

Do this distant stranger and dopplefriend a small kindness.

You are all the hope I've ever had.

SWB Helvetica