Harrie Poterr & Hormoney Gets Boned

Prelude

The mood was much the same as it had always been on Piggot Drive. Straight faced, straight laced little people going about their business as usual. But on that night, things would change; the calm little bubble that was Piggot Drive in the village of Little Tidgy would be burst like so many rolls of Swedish bubble wrap and life on that sleepy little road would never be the same again.

It all began at 7:77 pm on the 12th of July. The world was still trying to recover from the awful events only days previously that had caused all the digital clocks in the world to tell the wrong time and magic was afoot in the village of Little Tidgy. The old women of the village had just finished their euthanasia protest rally two towns over and had returned home for a hot mug of Bovril and a quick moustache trim before bedtime. The chaffinches were singing in the holly bushes and sat on a wall, next to a street sign that declared Piggot Drive in size 103, Times New Roman font (for that added bit of class), was what can only be described as an "it". "It" had all the characteristics of a human female, breasts, hair, a skirt, but "it's" face was uglier than seemed universally possible. "It" was so powerfully ugly that it would indeed melt most cheeses and a few select metals. Needless to say, if the old women of Little Tidgy had come across "it", they certainly wouldn't have been protesting euthanasia for very much longer.

But, before I get distracted by the ugliness that was "it", I must continue with the story. At around 9:15pm, although no-one can be sure that it was 9:15 pm because of the clock thing, an incomprehensively tall, thin man (think the movie version of The Hulk without the muscles or the green skin) with a white beard, purple smock and hat, mitten clasps, impressively lengthy ear hair and a somewhat bemused look on his face stumbled down the sombre road, singing songs as he went about a little dwarf who could.

'You keep chugging Dwarfy,' he sang (well, screeched actually), 'we know that you can, because it looks like an apple in a baby's hand.' He was pissed.

As he approached the creature known so far only as "it", he abruptly stopped his singing and squinted at the lonely figure on the wall.

'Thish might be the 12 Jaegermeisters, 7 tequilas, three hundred and twenty sixsh beers and a half a crème de menthe talking, love, but give us a kiss,' he slurred, scrunching up his nose and apparently thinking himself more attractive because of it.

'It's about bloody time you showed up you silly old man,' replied "it" coolly, 'I've been freezing my arse off sat on this wall all night!'

The old man, who had been trying to support himself against the street sign, gave a chuckle, blew a raspberry, farted and then collapsed unceremoniously in a heap on the pavement.

"It" sighed and stood up. There was a tremendous creaking of bones, the sound of melting skin and the unmistakable smell of Donner meat and where once "it" had stood was now an old lady in a yellow, vinyl miniskirt, a white boob tube and 6 inch red stilettos. With the latter, she gave the old man on the floor a good jab to the ribs.

'Will you get up you silly old fart! You'll wake the whole street up!'

The drunken figure on the ground squinted once more at the woman. He seemed to recognise her.

'Mena? Menapose McGongaggle? Is that you?'

'Yes it's me, Humblewhore. Now get up,' she said, punctuating her point by puncturing Humblewhore's leg with her left stiletto. Humblewhore stirred for a second, then warily dragged himself to his feet looking as if his best efforts were going into stopping himself from vomiting. Suddenly, he burst forth with a chant of, 'Bellamy!' at the top of his lungs, before grinning profusely, it seemed, to himself.

Mena McGongaggle sighed. Humblewhore was famous for his drinking (he'd actually won awards), but this was the worst she'd ever seen him and she'd known him since playschool. She reached into her somewhat constricting miniskirt and pulled out what appeared to be a long, slender twig. It was, in fact, so long that it begged the question: 'where were you hiding that?' She pointed the twig at Humblewhore and muttered something and before you could realise where the twig had been hidden and give a shudder of horror, Humblewhore was sober.

When he wasn't as drunk as a half Russian/ half Irish hobo, Elbus Humblewhore was a rather charming and intelligent man, renowned for his wit and good humour.

'My mouth tastes like a fucking dog's arse,' he moaned, 'give us a Murray Mint.'

Mena McGongaggle had never truly contemplated murder but at the moment Humblewhore was risking the secrecy of wizards everywhere with his unnecessarily loud complaints. She handed Humblewhore the minty treat he had requested, secretly wondering which poison would have been best to dip it in first. She quickly banished the thought to the back of her mind. A term in the wizard prison of Marzipan with the dreaded Bebendor guards was not her ideal vacation.

'I hope you feel proud of yourself,' she said, 'the Poterrs are dead, killed by…' her voice dropped to a whisper, 'He-Who-Has-No-Shame,' suddenly a note of anger came back into her voice, 'their son somehow manages to survive but will likely be scarred for life and you can't restrain your alcohol-lust for one night?'

'Au contraire, my dear Ms. McGongaggle,' Humblewhore retorted, 'it is for those very reasons that you found me in such an inebriated state this evening.'

He produced a long twig of his own, although this one was considerably thicker than Mena McGongaggles and ribbed.

'Now if you will excuse me, I must guide Hogridge to this spot with my magicks, for he is courier to a most important charge.'

'You've got him delivering your booze again, haven't you, Humblewhore?'

For a moment, Humblewhore gazed at McGongaggle in a smug and patronising way and shook his head as though she were a small child, struggling with a difficult math problem.

'Yes, and so much more, dear Mena,' he replied eventually, 'now if you would kindly stay silent for a moment whilst I act as guide to our most noble companion.' He held his twig aloft, closed his eyes and began silently waving his arms around in the air in complex movements.

As he brought his arms to rest by his sides, Humblewhore's eyes snapped open, gazing at a point slightly above the rooftops of Piggot Drive. McGongaggle followed his gaze and saw written in the sky in 50 foot tall letters of blazing fire:

"Oi, Hogridge. We're over here!"

Mena McGongaggle lowered her face into her hands.

'How people don't realise witches and wizards exist, I'll never know,' she cried in a muffled tone. She raised her head to look Humblewhore in the face and asked him a question she had only just thought of.

'So what is it that Hogridge's delivering and why here? To be honest, Humblewhore, it's a shit hole.'

'Ah, Mena. Would you be calling it that if you knew who lived here I wonder?"

'Not Horace McTog who married that frog?'

'Not exactl…'

'Not Ellie Von Parse with that weird mole on her arse?'

'No, Mena,' this time the irritation was very clear in Humblewhore's voice.

'Not Billy Elftock with the 18'' co…'

'Will you wait for a second until Hogridge arrives, then I can tell you!'

There followed an incredibly awkward silence. Both Humblewhore and McGongaggle were lost in thoughts of the infamous Billy Elftock, thoughts of wonderment and inadequacy respectively. Seconds later, a small man dropped from the sky and landed on his back with a dull thud. As he got to his feet and brushed himself down, his face was illuminated by a street light.

Hogridge was a short fellow. Although he had always sworn his mother had been a giantess, it had never actually been proven and Hogridge's stature seemed to suggest otherwise. He was maybe 4 feet tall if he stood on a bucket. Unfortunately, life had not been too kind to poor Hogridge. He was also completely bald. Not a single hair adorned his head. This quite common occurrence had made Hogridge quite insecure and seemed to have spurred him into growing whatever other hair he had on his body to unbelievable proportions. Nose, ear, chest, if there was hair there he'd cultivate it somewhat like a gardener grows a prized cucumber. This effectively gave Hogridge the appearance of a very large egg sitting on an incredibly furry eggcup or of a yeti from the ears down.

'Y'alrigh' ya groop o'bastards,' slurred Hogridge. Like Humblewhore, Hogridge was a renowned drinker, when they got together pubs the world over would lock their doors and pray to whatever god they believed in.

'Hogridge,' Humblewhore groaned, 'you haven't left the package behind have you?'

'Ya gave me a job t'do an' I bloody did't! 'Sup there,' Hogridge shouted, pointing at one of the nearby roofs.

Humblewhore once again pulled out his twig and pointed it at the rooftop Hogridge was acknowledging. Suddenly, a large, blue bundle zoomed from the rooftop into Humblewhore's hands. He took two or three bottles from the bundle, they clinked as he placed them in an inside pocket of his gown.

'Aha! Fuck the Royal Mail!' he whooped 'Thankyou, my dear Hogridge.'

He turned slowly to fix Mena McGongaggle with his steely blue eyes in a gesture he had meant to seem intense. However, the clinking bottles in his evening wear ruined the effect.

To think, thought McGongaggle, just a few years ago something like that would've made me go swampy in my gusset.

'Well, Mena, you wanted to know why we were in this, admittedly, awful place. Here is your answer.' He began to unwind the bundle in order to reveal the contents to the small group.

'This street, Mena, is home to… the last living relatives of Harrie Poterr.'

Hogridge gasped overdramatically. Mena McGongaggle looked nonplussed.

'I still think it's a shit hole.'