Chapter 1
“That’s a nasty scar you’ve got there!”
Harry smiled and said nothing. He’d been collecting his pension at the same counter in the same post office every fortnight for the past eight and a half years and every single time, Mrs Wainsprite had said the exact same thing.
For anyone struggling through this pre-Xmas week, I’ve written a little poem (thread). Hope you like it…
(illustration by the brilliant @itsnotaboutwork)
The Christmas Lurgy
‘Tis the night before Christmas
And all through the town
Everyone’s yawning
And snuggling down…
.
“We’d better get to sleep,” said Ron, “Or Santa won’t come!”
“Seriously?” said Harry. “A magical old man with a long white beard? Who would ever believe in that?”
“Do you remember that lady who made millions of children around the world happy with her stories about our lives?” asked Ron.
“Oh, I think she was cancelled,” said Hermione.
“So do we still exist?” asked Ron.
“Of course!” smiled Harry. “After all, she’s only the writer . .”
“Do you think He Who Shall Not Be Named will be at the reunion?” asked Ron, nervously.
“You mean . . . Lord Voldemort?” said Harry, shaking slightly.
“No,” said Ron. “Jeff from accounts...”
“But Santa still needs our help!” cried Ron.
“Really?” said Harry. “What does he need our help for exactly? To deliver a load of ridiculously overpriced games consoles to undeserving brats on Christmas Eve or to eradicate global hunger?”
“Er…the first one?” said Ron, sheepishly.
Harry Potters: An Old Wizard’s Christmas Tale
Harry leant hard against the door. Although he’d been trapped in there for weeks without food, he knew that somehow he had to summon up the strength to escape.
“Alright?” said Ron, opening the door. “Got stuck in your shed again?”
Harry gazed sadly through the frosty window pane. Hugwigs Retirement Home was nice enough but he missed his allotment - sewing his seeds, tending his newborn plants and sitting in his shed with a bottle of Butterwhisky, leafing through the latest issue of Wizards’ Wives.
Chapter 1
“That’s a nasty scar you’ve got there!”
Harry smiled and said nothing. He’d been collecting his pension at the same counter in the same post office every fortnight for the past eight and a half years and every single time, Mrs Wainsprite had said the exact same thing.