Ok hello everyone. Well…I can't honestly tell you I have any idea where this story is going.
In fact it didn't even start out as a Harry Potter story but I kinda later converted it into one
and it fit. And I like it. Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter; if I did I sure as hell wouldn't
be broke.
The Persistence of Memory
StarStruckLoser
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I live in the slum of London, undoubtedly the most dangerous and filthy part of town.
The part of town where the police fear to go after sunset and where classy people don't
even stray during the day lest they want to come out missing their wallets or not come
out at all.
My father died of drug overdose, heroine I think…hardly uncommon around here.
And my mother, well…I don't know what happened to her.
I can't even remember their faces or their names. I'm not even sure that they existed.
Maybe I imagined them in my desperate struggle to feel loved and wanted, a stage
everyone gives up after reality hits them.
I, like many, have long surpassed such hopes for love or compassion.
In this part of town you always watch your back. Always.
And you never make new friends unless you know where your allegiance lies.
It's a pity but I've stuck to this code and it's kept me alive. I can't say the same for
the foolish ones. But now they've disappeared, for good I imagine.
The city is split up into four territories ruled over by two dominating gangs:
The Serpents and The Lions.
Naturally, living in this part of the city and fending for myself, I was recruited
by a gang. I owe my allegiance to the Lions. Proudly or not, it doesn't matter.
Here it's all about survival.
I've been in the gang shortly over a year; I joined when I was fourteen.
I've learned hand to hand combat, knavery, and how to aim and shoot a
gun. It's an edgy life, always wondering if the person you pass by on the
sidewalk will be the next predator seeking out your pathetic excuse for a life,
waiting to take it from you in a moment's notice with the simple pull of a
trigger.
One dreams, more often that not, of a normal life.
One where you can walk free in the streets, one where laughter is not
stolen or forced, a life where you can walk through a park without getting shot at.
But there is only one way to escape this wretched life, as I have come to realize.
A body bag.
My sole possessions consist of one pair of tennis shoes (old converses I pulled from a trash bin),
one pair of raggedy blue jeans, and two shirts, both of which a fellow gang member
lifted from a store. I carry a small handgun in my waistband, but I've never used it and I hope
I never have to. I carry it so I can look tough, getting mugged by your own gang is hardly
uncommon.
My name is Harry Potter and the only reason I know that is because it said so on a crumpled
piece of paper the doctors found in the pocket of my coat. I had a weird scar of my forehead,
shaped like a bolt of lightning which occasionally twinges painfully if I try to think to hard about
my past.
Oh yea, and to top it all off I can't remember the first fourteen years of my life.
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Harry stared glumly at the worn and watermarked piece of paper that lay on the small
table before his eyes. Sighing in frustration, he rubbed his eyes tiredly and out of habit,
tried to smooth down his amazingly untidy black hair. The bartender clunked a frosty
tankard of beer in front of him and gave him a toothy grin.
"Still at that Harry?"
Harry grimaced and nodded. He took a long sip of the drink before replying,
"Yea. How long's it been anyways?"
"About three or four hours," the bartender replied.
Harry was a usual here at the broken down old pub on the outskirts of London and
he knew the old bartender fairly well. "How are the kids," Harry asked politely.
"Eh…not bad. Young Geoffrey's got the flu, bless the poor lad. But Henrietta's just
fine. I think she's got a secret boyfriend and she's sneaking behind my back.
When I find out who he is, well I'll--"
"Beat him black and blue." Harry finished for him. He knew old Solomon's
speeches well. "What happened to the last one?" Harry inquired to Solomon's
chuckle. The daily comings and goings of this bartender piqued his interest. Harry
presumed it was because of the love the old bartender had for his family and his
own subconscious craving to feel the same love in return.
Harry shook his head. Amy was right, he was thinking way too much.
"Aww, the last one was bloody fast. Couldn't get out of my chair quick enough
to whip his scrawny hide." Harry laughed till he had tears in his eyes before wishing
Solomon his family the best and bidding him goodbye as she exited the pub and
stepped out into the sultry night air.
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Yawning Harry strolled down the street. To any other normal human being strolling
through the streets, Harry appeared to be a young man, enjoying the quietness of the
night. But underneath the mask was a boy, tense and cautious, warily walking the
streets of enemy territory. He appeared unarmed and vulnerable but the trained eye
could see that occasionally his dagger sheaths would be visible under his shirt sleeves
when he shifted his body a certain way or the outline of his gun would show if he
took extra large steps.
Every week as he walked back from Solomon's old pub, Harry questioned himself
about why he risked the cross into enemy territory just to spend an afternoon in one pub
when there were far more sanitary and respectable pubs in his territory of town.
And every week he would get the same answer.
It's because a part of Solomon reminds you of someone said a tiny voice inside
his head snidely. Someone you can't remember.
Harry tried to shrug this off but he knew it was true. Something about Solomon
stirred a feeling of deep friendship and companionship deep inside him. Harry simply
couldn't figure it out. Solomon looked anything but friendly because of his beastly
appearance though deep down he was as gentle as a lamb. He was one of the tallest
men Harry had ever seen (though he had a nagging feeling in his mind that he had
seen much taller), towering a whopping seven foot one inch. His face was always
hidden beneath a large prickly black beard. He kept his black hair short though and
it didn't seem to suit him. It seemed to Harry that he should have a thick mane of black
hair, just like his beard. And for the oddest reason, Harry found himself wondering why
he didn't see Solomon in the company of some enormous yet friendly slobbering dog.
Harry recalled asking Solomon once if he owned a dog. But it turned out Solomon
was allergic to them, an answer that left Harry feeling more confused than before
he'd asked the question.
Just another thing that makes me even weirder than I already am Harry thought
darkly to himself.
And for the millionth time in the last year, Harry Potter felt as if he were a jigsaw puzzle
short more than a few pieces.
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An hour or so later Harry slipped down a dark alley which dead-ended in a rotting
wooden fence laced with barbed wire. Harry approached the fence and knocked
twice. From behind the fence Harry heard the scrape of a trashcan and a clicking noise
Harry knew to be the loading of guns. "Password," mumbled a harsh voice.
"Caput Draconis," he responded without much thought. Harry frowned as what
he had just said dawned on him. Where the hell did that come from?
Caput Draconis…
"Stop screwing around Potter and give me the god damn password."
"If you know it's me then why the hell do you need the password?" Harry replied
impatiently. He needed to get to his room and write this down.
Caput Draconis…Caput Draconis…Caput Draconis…
"Oh fuck it all, get in here. This password stuff is bullshit anyways. But don't tell
anyone or my ass is gonna get fried." The guard slid aside two of the wooden boards
of the fence revealing a gap just large enough for Harry to get through.
Mumbling his thanks Harry took off at a sprint towards his current residence: the
abandoned opera house. The opera house was empty as he sprinted through and
Harry belatedly wondered where everyone was. Shrugging off the thought, Harry leapt
up onto the main stage and descended down through the trap door to the basement
below. He hopped the steps three at a time, skipping the middle step out of an
unexplained habit, and landed with a thud.
A few large strides brought him to his bed. Reaching under the mattress, he
pulled out a worn spiral notebook and fountain pen. Flipping open to the most
recent page he scribbled Caput Draconis in capital letters.He smiled widely and
clutched the book to his chest.
"Caput Draconis…" he mumbled to himself, his mind already getting to work
on what it could possibly mean.
Well that's it for chapter one. Hopefully I can get chapter two up to you soon.
Enjoy. REVIEW PLEASE!
-StarStruckLoser