Harry Cotter and the Philosopher’s Brothel.
The Boy Who Lived [In A Kennel]
Harry Cotter woke up on the morning on his 11th birthday, already placing makeup on his forehead to cover the scar. Normally boys of his age chose to boast about scars, but as he got older, his scar became no longer a cute little mark, which he’d had there for as long as he could remember.
His clothes were old and tatty to accompany his ragged black hair. His parents would have cared enough to make sure his clothes were at least satisfactory and that his hair was well kept, but he had none. Instead, he lived with his Aunt Pansy and Uncle Vermin, and their son, Doodles. In fact Doodles was a poodle, but might as well have been their son by the way they looked after him.
“Har-he!” Uncle Vermin’s call of Harry broke down into a loud cough, which he blamed Harry for, saying he was allergic to his sister’s nephew. Harry never bothered to mention that Doodles came at the same time as him, and the asthma problem.
The light overlooking the kennel in the garden was heavy, and at 6am most mornings Harry woke up to the sun. It was a grand kennel, but after Doodles decided that he wanted Harry’s room, they switched, and the kennel was promptly moved into the garden, not to disrupt their ‘darling baby’s’ sleep.
“Harry!” Vermin’s call repeated, from the soft seat of the breakfast table “Get the door”. Pansy was sat beside her husband, Doodle sitting in the third seat, being spoon fed by his adorning ‘parents’.
Harry made his way through the house, avoiding the kitchen, from which he was banned. Truth be told, he was short for his age, maybe only a couple of inches, but this was expected from his diet. Pansy had decided he could have the patch of scrub land, tucked away far behind the shed, where his kennel lay, to grow his own vegetables-all that he lived off. He’d tried to eaten a mole once; not pretty.
Harry reached the door, peering out, trying to get a glance of who it might be on the other side, on seeing no one; he shrugged and began to unlock the door, pulling it back to see no one at first, before he gazed down, and saw a short hairy man in front of him. He raised an eyebrow, at the smiling face, trying not to grin, or chuckle at the appearance of the grubby visitor, who was obviously looking for him, no one who looked like that came for his aunt and uncle, they chose not to know any ‘freaks’.
The man began to smirk slightly, gazing up at Harry’s forehead, where the makeup hadn’t been applied thick enough, revealing the awkward marking beneath.
“Damn, Harry” the midget laughed “Never knew you had THAT for a scar!”
His clothes were old and tatty to accompany his ragged black hair. His parents would have cared enough to make sure his clothes were at least satisfactory and that his hair was well kept, but he had none. Instead, he lived with his Aunt Pansy and Uncle Vermin, and their son, Doodles. In fact Doodles was a poodle, but might as well have been their son by the way they looked after him.
“Har-he!” Uncle Vermin’s call of Harry broke down into a loud cough, which he blamed Harry for, saying he was allergic to his sister’s nephew. Harry never bothered to mention that Doodles came at the same time as him, and the asthma problem.
The light overlooking the kennel in the garden was heavy, and at 6am most mornings Harry woke up to the sun. It was a grand kennel, but after Doodles decided that he wanted Harry’s room, they switched, and the kennel was promptly moved into the garden, not to disrupt their ‘darling baby’s’ sleep.
“Harry!” Vermin’s call repeated, from the soft seat of the breakfast table “Get the door”. Pansy was sat beside her husband, Doodle sitting in the third seat, being spoon fed by his adorning ‘parents’.
Harry made his way through the house, avoiding the kitchen, from which he was banned. Truth be told, he was short for his age, maybe only a couple of inches, but this was expected from his diet. Pansy had decided he could have the patch of scrub land, tucked away far behind the shed, where his kennel lay, to grow his own vegetables-all that he lived off. He’d tried to eaten a mole once; not pretty.
Harry reached the door, peering out, trying to get a glance of who it might be on the other side, on seeing no one; he shrugged and began to unlock the door, pulling it back to see no one at first, before he gazed down, and saw a short hairy man in front of him. He raised an eyebrow, at the smiling face, trying not to grin, or chuckle at the appearance of the grubby visitor, who was obviously looking for him, no one who looked like that came for his aunt and uncle, they chose not to know any ‘freaks’.
The man began to smirk slightly, gazing up at Harry’s forehead, where the makeup hadn’t been applied thick enough, revealing the awkward marking beneath.
“Damn, Harry” the midget laughed “Never knew you had THAT for a scar!”