Harry Cotter and the Philosopher’s Brothel.
The Warted Foot
By the end of the day, both Harry and Haggis were grouchy. The dwarf/giant had stabbed several people in the ankle, while Harry had developed, very fully, the swearing habit.
“Fuck this, I’m going home”
“Don’t ya dare ‘arry” the dwarf/giant pulled at his jeans “I’m putting ya on the train”
“But I thought it wasn’t until tomorrow”
“Midnight it leaves”
“But…”
“EVERYTHING IS DAMN WELL SORTED JUST DO ME A FUCKING FAVOUR AND SHUT THE HELL UP!”
Haggis had issues, he had a rare wizard disease called ‘Anger Irruptus’ where occasionally he got a bit mad, and had violent outbursts, like now for instance, and also when they got to platform 12 and 2 eighteens, except instead of instructing Harry to go between platforms 12 and 13, he threw the young wizard at the platform 7 barrier, smashing his glasses, and a considerate portion of his face, which was fixed a moment later as the anger went away.
Platform 12 and 2 eighteenths was nothing special at a first glance, except that it had an old train docked within it. The “Warted Foot” was a purple colour, paint chipping off to reveal a harsh metal grey colour. The windows were scratched heavily, and someone had written “Jeeves is a wanker”
Harry made his way onto the furthest carriage from Haggis, who was loading his stuff somewhere else; everywhere was full. Skimming his eyes through the rooms, he saw no spaces except for in the very last one, where a red haired boy was sat. On his face he wore lipstick of a jet black colour and dark thick eyeliner; the ginger version of Marilyn Manson.
Cautiously, Harry pulled open the door, sitting in the seat furthest away from the boy who had now begun to stare at him. The gothic character checked out the familiar boy, looking for someone to instantly recognise him with; it didn’t come, so shrugging he went back to the “Kerrang!” magazine, pausing then frantically looking around, before his eyes settled on Harry’s backside.
The boys hand twitched slightly, making contact with the wand in his pocket, contemplating what to say; or do. Harry gulped; he wasn’t use to people not mocking his scar, he wasn’t used to the people recognising him on the platform, or not being called a freak.
“My name’s Ron” he made eye contact “and you’re…”
“Harry cotter I know”
“No, ya’re sitting on my rat”
“Fuck this, I’m going home”
“Don’t ya dare ‘arry” the dwarf/giant pulled at his jeans “I’m putting ya on the train”
“But I thought it wasn’t until tomorrow”
“Midnight it leaves”
“But…”
“EVERYTHING IS DAMN WELL SORTED JUST DO ME A FUCKING FAVOUR AND SHUT THE HELL UP!”
Haggis had issues, he had a rare wizard disease called ‘Anger Irruptus’ where occasionally he got a bit mad, and had violent outbursts, like now for instance, and also when they got to platform 12 and 2 eighteens, except instead of instructing Harry to go between platforms 12 and 13, he threw the young wizard at the platform 7 barrier, smashing his glasses, and a considerate portion of his face, which was fixed a moment later as the anger went away.
Platform 12 and 2 eighteenths was nothing special at a first glance, except that it had an old train docked within it. The “Warted Foot” was a purple colour, paint chipping off to reveal a harsh metal grey colour. The windows were scratched heavily, and someone had written “Jeeves is a wanker”
Harry made his way onto the furthest carriage from Haggis, who was loading his stuff somewhere else; everywhere was full. Skimming his eyes through the rooms, he saw no spaces except for in the very last one, where a red haired boy was sat. On his face he wore lipstick of a jet black colour and dark thick eyeliner; the ginger version of Marilyn Manson.
Cautiously, Harry pulled open the door, sitting in the seat furthest away from the boy who had now begun to stare at him. The gothic character checked out the familiar boy, looking for someone to instantly recognise him with; it didn’t come, so shrugging he went back to the “Kerrang!” magazine, pausing then frantically looking around, before his eyes settled on Harry’s backside.
The boys hand twitched slightly, making contact with the wand in his pocket, contemplating what to say; or do. Harry gulped; he wasn’t use to people not mocking his scar, he wasn’t used to the people recognising him on the platform, or not being called a freak.
“My name’s Ron” he made eye contact “and you’re…”
“Harry cotter I know”
“No, ya’re sitting on my rat”