Title: Every day A Little Death
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling owns these characters. I am writing this for fun and not profit.
Chapter One~ As If You Could.
His chemise still layered in the bohemian smell of coriander, the man passed the automatic gates, his old motor car crushing the pebbles of the lane-way as he drove up to the built-in garage of the bungalow.
The house was empty but for a fat ginger cat prowling about the hallway. As the man switched his converses for slippers it trotted towards him, meowing for food, its eyes shining greedily in its ugly flat face.
Wordlessly, the massive figure grabbed a can from under the kitchen sink and poured two spoonfuls of whiskas into a plastic bowl. Leaving the animal ravish through its food the master opened the birch cabinet to retrieve a bottle of 'Old Gristmill' and put it on the coffee table of the foreroom. The man produced a lighter from his jean's pocket and moments later a fire crackled to life. The clock showed a quarter past ten, Harry wouldn't come home tonight. A frown creased the cook's pale forehead as he sought to recollect a conversation he had had two weeks ago.
'You're saying you don't know when he'll come back?'
Richard Thompson, redactor in chief of "The Free Thinker" had sniffed disdainfully.
'It depends on the importance of the subject being covered, sir.'
'And what's that?'
To his knowledge, the journal focused on the lives of the most vapid celebrities, sprinkled ad nauseam with health tips from a second class nutritionist.
'It'll be on the paper, sir.' snapped his interlocutor, 'You'll know when it comes out. Or maybe you could just call Potter.'
'Harry never takes his calls.'
'Then I suggest you wait for the delivery boy. Have a nice day, sir.'
The nozzle of the bellows glinted dully against the rosewood façade of the mantelpiece as the moon spread in through the glass-panelled door. The dark-haired man produced a cell from his jean's pocket, debating whether or not to try reaching Harry when a ripping noise caught his ear.
'Oi!' the cat had scratched the foot of the rattan sofa opposite him and was now attacking the cushions ,'stop that!' he cried.
'I think we should sell it,' came a voice from the doorway, 'I only took it because Hermione begged me. She said Ron tried to drown it.'
Harry Potter stepped into the room, and there was a mighty scent drifting from the plastic bag dangling from his relaxed hand.
'You brought cheese?' asked the other, grabbing the cat and putting it in its cage, slapping it on the head when it tried to bite him.
'I thought you might like it. I'm not a big fan of french snails or even frogs legs for that matter, but french cheese's fine by me.' said Harry, putting a camembert on the dinning table. 'Thomas Dumerchez, he's the one I interviewed. Nice bloke. Told me where to find some good cheese. Very good actor, too. Don't know what old Thompson was thinking, a celebrity that's not a local and worth talking to... Would've sent me to Paris Hilton if he knew what Dumerchez was like.'
A grunt.
Harry rolled his eyes, and went to threw the disfigured cushions in the trash bin. After all, one could not hope for a more articulate answer when one was talking to Gregory Goyle.