Harry Potter: A New Low (Part 1)
Harry was pumped! He had just won the Quidditch cup final! Trying to re-tell that monumental triumph would be too emotional for this humble writer, so I will content myself with relating the aftermath to you.
Professor Dumbledore embraced Harry in a way that can only be described as familiar. There was much back patting and slapping…perhaps too much, but that didn't bother Harry at all because his eyes were drawn past the flapping wizard robes which currently assailed him to a nearby stairwell.
There Hermione Granger waited.
She beckoned in a way that made Harry's teenage hormones uncontrollable.
As the sea of furiously slapping hands parted, Harry found himself compelled, running towards his friend as if life itself depended upon their union. He deftly leapt after Hermione onto the first flight of stairs. Darting this way and that, he avoided being crushed by the enchanted railings which moved of their own accord, simultaneously navigating the myriad of other horrors that festooned this unbelievably dangerous school.
Several ghosts groped at him eagerly with cold, dead, ethereal fingers and for a moment he lost sight of Hermione. The dread memories brought on by their touch was almost too much to bear…Lord Voldemort's noseless visage exploded in his mind, leering grotesquely, looking for lack of a better description, like an ugly Ralph Fiennes.
Harry rubbed the scar on his forehead in an absent-minded fashion, ignoring its warning signal, and disregarding the portentous memories of his nemesis in eagerness to continue the testosterone fuelled pursuit of Hermione.
Blood throbbed in his temples as he dodged a spike trap which had never quite managed to kill any students and rounded a corner…into mystery.
"Hmmm, I don't remember these doors ever being here", he half whispered in a dubious British accent.
True enough, he found himself in a corridor with three doors, one blue, one yellow, one red.
He was familiar with enough Freudian nonsense to know that red was the colour of passion and that his urges drew him uncontrollably towards it. Thus he disregarded the red with a foppish gasp of contempt and grasped the handle of the blue door instead. It had a picture of a duck on it.
The super glue held his hand fast!
"I knew you would pick the blue door", a superior sounding voice remarked.
"Huh? What? Hermione, is that you?" gasped Harry, a shiver of terror slithering down his spinal column.
Slowly he turned around…
To Be Continued……
This story also available on my DeviantART page: http://redbishopinlove.