Harry sat by his owl in his one-bed flat, looking out of the only window, which fortunately had a lovely view of the park. It was dark, and the street lamps had all pinged on, creating pools of light along the road leading up to the old church gates. The church was at the top of a small hill, surrounded by graves and old trees and seemed to be cloaked in an unnatural darkness, setting itself apart from the graveyard. On the street below, cones of light captured petty dramas and activity around the still-open shops, drawing in their usual clientele like lanterns do moths.
He wasn’t paying attention to the evening’s human traffic of dog walkers, couples, children shouting or homeless people filling the landscape. He didn’t see any of this. He was brooding, and his mind was elsewhere. This had become a pastime of his that approached an almost Olympic level of dedication. He stroked the white resin owl mindlessly with his left hand while he nursed a bottle of cheap beer in his right, his third tonight. He took another swig and yawned.
It had been 4 years now since the last Harry Potter book, Hallows something or other, had been published, and a good part of that, he had been living in this flat, or one similar, hoping that an unexpected addition to the series would materialise “as if by magic”, and he’d find his friends and a new place to live. He had joked about that at first, but he no longer found it funny. For the first few months, he had just killed time on the internet, following the fans, joining forums, and chatting, but as the buzz had begun to die, so had his interest. They all seemed to think it was fiction, like Harry Potter was just a character in a book. He thought it was very clever of the Ministry to cover it all up so well, a little too well actually. He’d tried to find Platform 9 ¾ in Euston Station, but with no joy and now had a chipped tooth for his troubles. That’s the last time he’d run at a brick wall. He’d had similar luck trying to find his way to Hogwarts by any other method. To his astonishment and annoyance, he had no idea how to get there. It was the same for the Ministry of Magic, and that alley… what was the name of it… Diagonal, Dogolally, Damitally?? Finally, after weeks of trying to use magic and failing, he had concluded that he was delusional and just an out-of-work actor.
Trying to make a new life for himself, he had attended 45 or more auditions, but at each one, the comments were the same: ‘We’re not after an impersonator or tribute act’, or, “Too type-cast, too old and so last year” and more recently, “sorry, but you’re too toxic to touch, lose the look luv, it’s not helping.” After that came the writing, or the attempt at it. He tried to reinvent himself as an author, but with no success. When it came to it, he found he had little memory of anything beyond the Harry Potter books, no memories of a full life, good or bad, so drawing on experience was difficult. Harry Potter and the Big Scary Monster, Harry Potter and the Leaky Radiator, and Harry Potter and the Temple of Boom, all very generic and all came to nothing. No publisher would touch them, fearing a JKRowling backlash, Harry told himself, but he knew the truth was really… they were crap. At least when he presented his final draft of Harry Potter finds Sex in the City, he had received a phone call from a man laughing so hard he was choking. It turned out to be a publishing agent who had just read the draft and just wanted to find out if this was a serious attempt or a prank. After talking to Harry, he offered him a job in the new admissions and filing department, as it became apparent how much he needed a break, and how desperate he was to earn a living. A tiny act of charity, but Harry took hold of it, and it was ok. It paid for somewhere to live and kept him in Romanian Beer.
So here he sat, on a night like any other, waiting for sleep to come and wondering if this was now his story, or if he needed to find a new trade. Had his time come and gone? Had he been too young to appreciate what a rollercoaster it had been? I mean, he didn’t even remember a childhood. “Youth is wasted on the young”, George Bernard Shaw had never been more right than when he said that, the bastard.
—————————————-
Bang Bang Bang! The noise was somewhere in his head. He just couldn’t tell where, somewhere in the back of his mind. No, it’s stopped. Much better. It seems to have gone away, left him alone to return to a dreamless sleep.
BANG BANG BANG BANG!!
Harry woke up with a start, and it took a moment to get his bearings. The banging had stopped, but there was something else in the background, a chattering. He scrambled for his glasses and, putting them on, sat on the edge of his bed listening. At first, all he could hear was shuffling that sounded like it was in his flat. ‘Who’s there?’ he shouted nervously, and the shuffling stopped. He eased his bedroom door open and looked around the living room area, but couldn’t make out anything in the room. As his eyes began to adjust to the dark, he could see shadows breaking the light coming through the gap under his front door. He moved slowly across the carpet nearer the door and could now hear mumbling from outside, followed by the loud knocking again.
BANG BANG BANG BANG!!
He realised that’s where the banging had been coming from, that it wasn’t in his head. ‘Hold on, who’s there?’ he shouted again while pulling on some jogging bottoms and a t-shirt. He noted the time; it was 4.44 am. Who the hell banged on doors at this time on a Saturday morning?
Crossing the living room, he slipped on his trainers and flipped on the light. He reached for the nearest weapon, which in this case was a vacuum cleaner tube, and opened the door. He was surprised to find what looked like the inside of a wardrobe, complete with shirts, coats, many of them fur, and shoes on racks at the sides. He stood for a moment and finally whispered, “What the fuc….” and almost instantly, a pair of hands appeared from between the coats and pulled him inside, causing him to lose his balance and land wrist-deep and face-first in snow. He looked up, spitting it from his mouth and shaking it from his glasses. He could make out two figures, a little girl and what looked like an, errr, ‘upstanding goat thing,’ he thought.
“Hello Harry, I’m Lucy, and this is Mr Tumnus, welcome to…”
Harry cut short her introduction with a loud yell. “Oh my god, I’m in the wrong fucking book.”
Taking a moment, he looked around, ignoring both of them. He realised his hands weren’t cold. “Is this even snow?” He pinched the ‘snow’ between his fingers, lifted one to his mouth, tasting it. “Marshmallows!” He stood up and looked at the goat-human. “Marshmallows?” He said again.
“God, you’re so rude,” said Lucy. Harry looked down. “You could at least let me finish my fucking introduction before you start eating the scenery. Now listen, you’re…”
“How the hell did I get here? Where is here? What’s going on?…” came the panic-driven response from Harry. Lucy was not impressed.
“Will you shut the fuck up? It’s bad enough being 8 for 60 years, never any taller than 4 bloody feet without being upstaged, and ignored by some young fictional upstart, I mean you’re hardly royalty, are you, I mean really.”
Harry had shut up but was still ignoring Lucy. He was looking around, trying to work out where the door had gone, why it wasn’t snow and how this could be happening. Lucy wasn’t enjoying being ignored.
“Hit him,” said Lucy, turning to Mr Tumnus.
“Hmm, but Miss Lucy… That’s not very friendly, is it?” the fawn replied.
“Don’t fuck with me on this, Tumnus. You know you don’t want to do that.” She took a swig from a small silver bottle hanging around her neck. Mr Tumnus gingerly kneaded his crotch. The teeth marks were still visible in a certain light, but were nowhere nearly as vivid as the memories in his head.
“Are you larpers or cosplayers? I’m not a cosplayer! I’m an actor.” Harry had suddenly become quite vocal and was speaking directly to Lucy. “Are you trying to kidnap me? You need to let me out of this thing.”
Lucy poked Tumnus in the leg with her elbow and nodded towards Harry, making a punching gesture. Taking clarity from his memories, he tapped Harry on the shoulder and, as Harry turned to face him, said, “Well met, Mr Potter,” and punched him clean across the jaw.
—————————————-
“Oh my oh my oh my”, Mr Tumnus was pacing back and forth across the stone floor. In the middle of the room.
On a large wooden table, Harry lay very still. He had started waking up some time ago, but thought it was best to stay quiet and not draw attention to himself until he knew what was going on, though his cracking headache had much to do with that decision.
Mr Tumnus continued his muttering while pacing back and forth, now and then stopping, letting loose a sigh, then going back to pacing.
The door slammed back on its hinges, banging against the stone wall, and in walked Lucy with a long-bearded old man, a short fellow who looked a little drunk. With them was a beautiful fair-skinned lady, who seemed to glide. “He’s still sleeping?” came the question from Lucy.
“He’s still unconscious,” Mr Tumnus spoke quietly, as if speaking would get him in trouble.
“Well, he won’t be in a minute,” she replied, striding over to a wash basin and filling a glass with cold water, ‘we need him awake.’
“He is awake,” it was a calm, aged voice, “and I do think it would be best for you, Mr Potter, to sit up so you can take a drink from Lucy rather than a soaking.”
Harry sat up, a little too quickly, a mistake he realised as pain shot down his neck.
“Careful,” came the voice again. It was the old bearded man who was now sitting on one of the chairs around the table Harry was lying on. Lucy passed Harry the water and sat down opposite the old man, crossing her arms.
Rubbing his neck, Harry drank down the water, cool but not cold and with a lemony after-taste. Immediately his headache seemed to disappear. Easing off the table, he accepted a silent invitation from the old man to sit next to him. He leant in to whisper into Harry’s ear, “I know this is a bit confusing, but it will become clear, I assure you. However, it’s better if you don’t stay silent… better for everyone.”
“But I have no idea what’s going on,” Harry responded.
“Well,” said the old man, stoking a long clay pipe as he spoke, “Then you have your first question.” He sat back on his chair and smiled.
“Hello, Harry,” said the short, stocky man. He was grinning insanely. “Have a marshmallow.” He produced a handful from his pocket. “This place is full of them.” His voice reminded Harry of old black-and-white movie actors, filled with exaggeration and power. Harry took a few marshmallows, and the man stuffed the remaining ones in his own mouth, followed by a swig from his belt flask, wiping the surplus on his sleeve.
“Can I ask your names, please?” Harry ventured.
“No, not time for formal introductions yet,” the woman spoke, her voice a complexity of sounds from around the world, “names are powerful things, Harry.” Harry was mesmerised by the tone and fixed by her eyes, which seemed to be bottomless, deep like sinkholes.
“Enough of that, Lady.” The old man spoke with authority. “Things are confusing enough without you confusing them more.” She laughed, and a thousand icicles flew out of hell into Harry’s heart. He shivered.
The short one offered Harry a drink from his Flask. “I think you could do with warming up.”
Harry took the flask and sniffed it. “Smells like Whisky?” he enquired.
“It is, lad, if that’s what suits ya.” Harry took a swing, and it warmed him through, making him cough a little, and for the first time since he fell asleep last night he began to relax. He smiled, and so did the short man, reaching forward to rescue his flask. “Well,” he began, “that’s Gandalf. The lady is the Lady of the Lake, Vivienne if you prefer not to call her Lady, but I advise you do, and I’m Gimli.” He took a shot from the flask again and laughed. He gestured to Harry’s bruise and said, “I take it you’ve met Lucy and the gentleman thug Tumnus.” Harry’s face blanked over, and his jaw dropped.
Gandalf smiled, “Ahhh, now you may have a few more questions, I expect.”