03/10/2019

A Wizarding World Alternate Story: Welcome to the 90s

Inspired by U.N.C.L.E., Dallas Buyers Club, and War Dogs

Prologue: The Arrival - Part1

Synopsis: The Second Wizarding War ended in 1997 after Harry Potter famously rebounded Voldemort's killing curse at Hogwarts. What no one seems to care to relate, however, is how that wasn't the last one. My name is Peter Johnson. In the year 2001, I became the Most Wanted Wizard by both Interpol and the International Confederation of Wizards. This is how the world went to hell:

..90s..

When people have nostalgic thoughts about the 90s, they typically have in mind the times they danced Macarena in discos, seeing their science guy Bill Nye on TV, playing with their Tamagotchi, and wearing baggy and colorful clothing. That is, if you lived away from any areas with armed conflicts. With less luck, were in the Balkans, Algeria, Afghanistan, Somalia or Rwanda, you would have to deal with a civil war. You also had the Gulf War in 1990, in the Middle East, and just 3 years later in 1994, a civil war erupted in Iraq between the government and the Kurdish forces.

Oh, but those places don't really count. The 90s were okay, if you didn't live in a powder keg.

That's where I have to interrupt you. Russia had a constitutional crisis in 1993, as well as both Chechen Wars. Mexico, in Americas, had the Chiapas conflict, as well as the 1994 Zapatista Uprising. Nepal, that place with chill people in mountain temples, which aren't actually very chill, also erupted into a bloody civil war with foreign interventions from China, Indonesia, as well as NATO forces from the US, UK, France, and even fucking Portugal. Let me not forget India took part of the conflict as well. Brazil, a country that hasn't been in any war for more than a century (not counting their small expeditionary forces in WW2), had daily reports of kidnappings even in its biggest urban centers. The US impeached Clinton, and dealt as well with grand scandals such as the Iran-Contra affair.

And if you are a wizard in Europe, you obviously know about Voldemort.

The point is, you must have realized, anywhere can be a powder keg under the right conditions. What might be more difficult to see is that anyone can be a player, because in every continent, in every country, in every city, and in any household, conflict is just waiting to erupt thanks to the constant friction of interests.

Looking back at my life, I say I only really started living after realizing that truth. It's actually really useful once you accept it. You just have to become one of them, one of the players, and suddenly even you can win something out of the chaos. You just gotta play the right cards, at the right time, which is, granted, easier said than done.

I started playing, to be specific, shortly after my 5th year at Hogwarts. Even though I only really started making an impact after the war.

To start, my background is relevant. I'm a muggleborn who grew up in Tottenham, which, were it a country, it would be a failed state on par with Somalia. One of the poorest areas of London, it is plagued with crime, unemployment, welfare dependency, race hustlers, and gang violence. Things got worse once my father left—happened by the time I was 5—and left me, my older brother, and my mother on this shithole. Being accepted into Hogwarts was a chance my mom used to the fullest to protect me. I remember the first time she took me to the Hogwarts Express, in the midst of parents tearing up at seeing their 11 year old children depart, my mom was the only smiling happily.

However, I hadn't wanted to go at first. I didn't want to leave my only sibling, my brother, but he had convinced me. 'You can change things if you learn there', 'it a chance for you to gain power, make a difference', he had tried to inspire me.

I, as the foolish 11 year old, believed him.

When I was 15, we received the Triwizard Tournament at Hogwarts, and the death of Cedric Digory was the first slap I would get that year, a mere starter for the main dish that was still to come. You know why it hurt, even though I was really his friend? Why it bothered me so much, and I know it bothered all others too?

Because Cedric was a good guy. A good Hufflepuff, a prime example of what his house claims to be, and an example of a person with good character. And he was killed. Just like that. You can do everything right, and still lose. That's why only doing the right thing was no guarantee for justice or fairness. The right thing, in fact, didn't even exist most of the times. All you had were methods, and you had to choose those that would take you to your goal.

Problem was, as I learned that summer, being at Hogwarts, no matter how I want to frame it, was a choice, an action I took. And it had consequences. When I arrived at King's Cross in the summer of 1995, there was no one waiting for me. I waved my goodbyes to the people in my carriage, including my two good friends, Katie Bell and Francis Delly. I'm sure you know about the first since she is apparently a constant in the multiverse as a background character, but none of the second.

This guy is a Ravenclaw, the quiet type (which in Ravenclaw, means he is even less talkative than socially acceptable), and he is a smartass. He is the guy who can bullshit you so hard for so long, you wouldn't believe he was lying about who he was or what he was talking if he confessed his wrongdoings to you. He envelops you so hard, he can sell you on any idea. Need to sell bloody sand to an Arab? Francis got you, bro. Need to sell a can of Coke to Pepsi's CEO? Francis is the guy. Need to sell the Quibbler to McGonagall? Again, you need a Francis.

But for that to happen, he also needed to be extra observant, and sometimes that made him a pain in the ass. "Hey, where is your brother?" He asked me, noticing the lack of Johnson family members.

I hated sharing my problems, hated feeling like a burden, and most of all, I didn't like pity. So, I looked at him, and the thought of having him thinking my family had forgotten to come pick me up crushed my heart.

"John told me he wouldn't making it." I lied.

Francis cocked his head, "Really, when was that?" At first, he may seem nosy, but I knew he was trying to piece things together. He always did that among friends, asking importunate questions in an effort to both get reactions out of us, as well as to keep an eye.

"We exchanged letters. I had to tell him about Diggory." I explained, using a real event to pin the lie in. That's usually the safest method to cover yourself.

He seemed satisfied with that, nodding along. Afterwards, we made a couple of plans for the summer. He wanted me to visit his summer house in Algarve, and I wasn't one to reject good-hearted invitations to spend a good time. After he left though, I looked around for Katie and realize she was gone already. I couldn't see Alicia either, so they had probably left together and their parents. I silently mumbled my disappointment. Well, I would need to make sure Francis included Katie in his plans.

Hogwarts, however, didn't stay in my mind for much longer. My brother wasn't here as he had promised me, and I started to wonder. I put myself walking and reached the tube, planning my trip. Since I had my baggage, I didn't want to walk in the open in Tottenham. I would probably leave the underground by Finsbury Park, and then grab a taxi to take me to my door. Paranoid, maybe, but it would work.

The trip was almost uneventful, since my brain kept me alert. I started wondering why John hadn't come, and afterwards, realizing I hadn't exchanged letters with mom in a while, I started fearing something had happened in my absence. The fact my neighborhood had changed at all, that is, was still shite, somewhat calmed me a bit. Ironic, I know, but familiarity always had this strange effect on me. I made sure to cross the street quickly, enter the building in fast pace, reaching the fourth floor soon after.

My heart rate was high. My imagination running wild at the worst scenarios possible. Was my mom okay? Was john fine? Had there been problems? Thieving? Murder?

I forcefully closed my eyes for a moment. Breathing, I opened them again. The building was old, part of a series of construction projects in the area to take people of the streets. I knocked on the door of my own apartment, and stood there for a few seconds on that smelly corridor.

I didn't recognize whoever had opened my door.

"I apologize, who are you—" I asked in confusion, my voice growing dimmer by the syllable.

The man was bald, in his 40s, wearing adidas clothing like those Russian gangsters you saw in tv series and movies. I wondered for a moment if I was about to have problems. Did my mom know him? A boyfriend? Friend?

He squinted at me, and I think he was trying to puzzle who I was, just like I was trying with him. He snapped his fingers and said in a thick Slavic accent. "You're Johnson's kids, right? The youngest?"

I nodded, relieved he seemed to know my mom, but cautious, nevertheless. "You know my mom? Is she home?"

"Home?" He asked me confused, "Kid, your mom has moved. Hasn't she told you?"

I raised my hands over my head. "What?!"

He kept staring at me perplexed. "You didn't know? She's now across the street, at the 131st. First floor, apartment A."

"Why?" he probably wasn't the right person to ask, but it came out completely out of my control.

The man shrugged. "I don't think she was paying her bills."

I was shocked. How had no one thought important to share this with me? What else was I missing on? What else was there to discover?

In a perplexed state, I looked around. I was trying to find some reason, some rope to hold on, for the thinnest string if necessary. I needed to cross the street and check for my mom. I needed to know if she was alright.

What does he mean, 'she can't pay her bills'?

Now I was running, trunk jumping behind me as it barely kept up. I didn't even wait for the elevator, instead using the stairs. My baggage was noisy as it landed successive times over the steps as I went down. When I reached the street, I realized it had started to rain. I barely looked for any incoming cars when crossing the street. In exchange, cars honked furiously, and one almost hit my trunk as I skittered past them. Reaching the other side, I entered the apartment complex, and this one was even less taken care of then our previous.

I went to where mister adidas told me to, both knocking on the door, as well as insistently pressing the bell. When I saw my mother on the other side, my eyes teared up. I jumped over her, and we barely managed to stay standing. It was then that I realized her stench of alcohol and the pitiful state of the apartment.

"My boy, my little boy." She whispered in my ear, and I felt her lack of control over her own balance, her legs shaky.

"Mom, what happened? Why are you in this apartment?" I had so many questions, and these were the first my brain managed to spill out. I would've asked more if she didn't feel so weak to the touch. I felt like I could use my pinky finger to push her to the ground if I wanted.

She shushed me like a child, but not violently or in any aggressive way. She did it just like before when I was a kid scared of thunderstorms, her fingers sank in my hair. "It's okay, mom is here."

I immediately eyed the sofa and helped her reach it, but she was walking so slow. Almost in an inverted position, I took her in my arms and dropped her along the couch, her head over a stained pillow. Her skin was pale and her eyes had a certain yellow tinge to it.

She had clearly sank in a terrible state thanks to a good amount of alcohol, and by consequence, she couldn't even speak coherently. I looked at my mom again, taking into account her whole figure. She had lost weight too, her veins and arteries seemed greener too, or maybe that was her skin. She seemed overall discolored.

I looked around for the home phone, finding it in a lonely table at the corner of the living room. I did the only thing I thought was responsible and called an ambulance. They asked me for details, and I tried to describe my mother's state, but what did I know? She had the stench of alcohol, looked half-dead, and couldn't speak a sensible sentence. I had no idea how she had gotten to this state.

And they kept asking me questions. I tried to answer, tried to come up with something, but even I started failing. I was looking at my mom the whole time, sometimes repeating the question to her. She nodded a few times, but seemed so out of it. Eventually, I just yelled at the phone. I knew that was wrong. The lady on the other side had done nothing to me, but I felt so lonely, so out of it, that I lost control. I had arrived home to find it wasn't where I expected. I arrived only to find my mom barely alive, and I had no idea where my brother was.

"Look, you know the address, so please, just come, I beg you!" I turned off the phone afterwards while the lady asked who I was. 'I'm her son' suddenly became so difficult to say. I'm the son of the woman that almost killed herself.

I shook my head, grabbing my mom's shoulders and making sure she was paying attention to me. "Mom, where's John? Where's my brother?"

Her eyes became so glassy at the sound of my brother's name. She looked around after, as if he was just about to show up. "John?" She asked to one.

"Mom, where is John?" I asked again, the answer creeping on my chest.

Mother couldn't speak, holding a hand to her throat as if she had the world stuck in it. Tears started streaming down her cheeks.

"Where's John, mom?" I asked again, and this time I noticed how closed my throat felt.

She started shaking her head, her eyes stuck in a sight only she could see. I tried to keep up with her eyes, try to catch her attention, but she was lost in a myriad of memories.

"Where is John, mom?" I asked again, for what felt the tenth time.

She sank her hand on the pillow, and murmured words I couldn't make out.

"I can't hear you, mom." I stated the obvious.

She spoke again, and again I couldn't understand. I lost it and lifted her head, begging her to tell me once and for all where my brother was.

Finally, for the first time since I had returned, her eyes were on mine. "They took him, his own gang took him."

She had barely finished when stood up, but I couldn't move away from the couch since she had grabbed my clothing. "You can't go, I can't lose both of you!"

I fought against her, my chest pressed by an immeasurable pain, and at the same time, by a burning anger. Eventually, I managed to get myself free of her, but her nails had left marks on my forearms, including a sizable cut that bled well. Hard to believe her nails had done it.

I ripped part of my Hogwarts robe, tied it around the cut, and opened my trunk. I could be expelled for this.

I would probably get expelled for this.

I would probably lose my wand too.

Closing my eyes, I took in the sobering of my mom. I grasped my wand, an 11 inch made of Beech and Unicorn hair, and placed in the inside of a muggle jacket I had on my trunk. Putting the jacket on, I put the hoodie over my head since it was raining.

I stopped myself at the front door. "The doctors are coming," I said out loud, and hopefully my mom would stay put. Yeah, I should've gone back and reassured her, told her in a better way as to make sure she understood. But I couldn't look at her, either by shame, or by frustration. Now shame and frustration from who, I wasn't sure.

Did it bother me the fairy tale I was living in every year while my family lived in this shithole? Did it bother me that they weren't wizards? Did it bother me that I was a wizard? I couldn't answer none of those questions right now. I could only start walking, and my pace increased by the step.

I ran along the streets, my jeans and snickers getting soaked by each and every puddle I stepped in. It's not that I didn't see them. It's just… I couldn't care. And I also ran for a good while too, keeping my breathing controlled and my sprint directed. I knew where I had to go, how far I had to go to find my brother's old gang.

I went north along the water. There was a system of reservoirs east of Tottenham, and I just had to follow them up, until I reached the right abandoned factory building. I circled around, keeping my distance, until I found a way in that wasn't the front. A hole on the brick wall, big enough for me to crouch through.

Despite the rain pouring, the skies were only becoming increasingly greyer. The light was getting dimmer, and the rain was the perfect muffler for any sound I made.

I raised my wand.

Was I really going to do this? I was away from home, at the outskirts of Tottenham, or maybe not even in Tottenham anymore. And nevertheless, I was in a suburb of London. A huge city, so it couldn't be so easy to attribute to me any case of magic usage around these parts. I couldn't be the only wizard around. Could I?

Was I risking it?

I would've have to be quick, speed through the probable maze that awaited me, find John, and bring both of us out. I would have to be devastatingly fast and efficient.

I breathed in. Assuring myself I had a good hold of my wand, I crossed through the wall into the property.

..90s..

A/N: Burst of Inspiration. I've always wanted to see a take on the Wizarding World through someone who has it hard on the Muggle World. Magic makes living much easier to poor families, but when you family doesn't really have magic, things get much more complicated. I liked when JK explored that aspect through Tom Riddle, as to how the worlds collided when you had a character that wasn't afraid of breaking the rules. That is pretty much the driving force of this story. Peter, after the prologue, will supposedly lose a lot of breaks you would expect of a fully functional member of society, and will delve into the underworld that I feel JK never knew how to approach from a kid's book perspective.

This story is theoretically much smaller than any of my other ones. There will definitely be another chapter, which will then introduce the true premise of the story. From then on, I have no idea if I will keep writing it.