p style="margin: 0px; font-size: 11px; font-family: Helvetica; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"It was an emulsified day in Surrey. The sky was grimy like a back alley, or a speakeasy. Harry Potter lounged in his Cupboard under the stairs as if it was a velvet davenport in a french soiree, doubtlessly hosted by an aristocrat with grand opinions and an even grander debt. There was a way in which the boy held himself, both with the poise and grace of a celebrated gymnast, but, with a thin undercurrent of primal instinct that one could sense enclosing them, ensnaring the senses, evoking the most primal instinct held by man. Fear. No doubt you wonder, "What is a boy, obviously a holder of great promise and conjecture, doing in a Cupboard?" The answer, you see, is thus: his relatives, his foolish flesh and blood could not understand greatness. Could not feel the almost palpable danger in the air. You see complacency, gluttony, greed and moronic impulses had dulled their senses to the point that a half-dumb sloth could observe what these tomfools couldn't. That their was power in that Cupboard under the stairs. A power not seen since the days of prohibition, honor and The Family. In that Cupboard under the stairs there was the power… the power to resurrect what was once the single greatest syndicate this world has ever seen. The power to resurrect Cosa Nostra. This is the story of how Harry Potter would surpass the likes of Al Capone and Lucky Luciano to become the most revered Godfather in history./p