Harry Potter In Love
by VG Jekyll


Dear readers, welcome to Harry Potter in Love!
This starts as a cheap rip-off of Shakespeare in Love, however it is getting a life on its own. It's AU and non-magical… at least, not in the way we know from the Harry Potter books, and completely written in Present Tense.

Also: go watch the movies:




Scene One


In the glory days of the Dumbledorian theatre two playhouses are fighting it out for writers and audiences. East of the city is the Leaky Cauldron Theatre, home to England's most famous actor, Gilderoy Lockheart. Across the river is the competition; The Three Broomsticks, built by Rubeus Hagrid, a business with a cash flow problem...

The Three Broomsticks is an aged building made of indestructible yellow stones and quite beautiful, might I add. The high walls have a designative flair of charisma and the round room holds place for hundreds of people. The stage is spacey and the rooms backstage are nice and big enough to serve their purpose. However… at the moment they are void of people and cold. The front door is open to the elements and the floor is littered with torn pages. Among the pages lies a light-blue parchment with the short message:

Sept. 7th & 8th at noon
Sirius Black and the Marauder's Men at the Three Broomsticks Theatre.
The lamentable tragedy of the moneylender revenged

In other words, the building is relatively free of any presence… or is it?
No, apparently not, since agonizing screams suddenly fill the air. The screams come from the curtained stage.

A harsh voice thunders through the curtain. "You Mongrel! Why do you howl, when it is I who is bitten?"

The theatre owner, Rubeus Hagrid, is the man who was screaming his lungs out. The reason being his boots are on fire. He is pinioned in a chair, with his feet stuck out over the hot colas of a fire burning in a brazier. He is being held in that position by a certain Mr. Crabbe, who is a thug employed by Tom Riddle, the owner of the voice. The fourth man present, Percy Weasley, is Riddle's bookkeeper.

Tom Riddle stops his stalking around the poor figure of Rubeus Hagrid and turns to the thug. "What am I, Mister Crabbe?"

Crabbe looks up at him. "Bitten, Mr. Riddle," answers he blankly.

"How badly bitten, mister Weasley?" Riddle asks to Percy.

"Twelve pounds, one shilling and four pence, Mr. Riddle, including interest," answers the red-head meekly.

Rubeus Hagrid starts to wiggle to get away, to no avail. "Aaaaaaagh! I can pay you!" he squeaks and eyes the fire under his boots with unhidden fear.

Riddle turns back to face him. "When?" he wishes to know.

"Two weeks, three at the most, Aaaagh! For pity's sake!"

Riddle turns to the thug. "Take his feet out" he orders and then crosses his arms as he stares at the big bearded man, who just had been weeping like a child. "Where will you get-"

Percy, the mathematical genius looks quickly on his notebook. "Sixteen pounds, five shillings and nine pence."

"-including the interest in three weeks?" continues Riddle.

"I have a wonderful new play!" Hagrid tells him with desperation in his eyes.

This doesn't seem to be enough security for Riddle and he waves at the fire. "Put his feet back in," orders he.

"It's a comedy!" yells Hagrid quickly.

"Cut his nose of…" Riddle commands unimpressed.

"A new comedy! By Harry Potter!"

"And his ears…"

"And a share! We will be partners, Mr Riddle!"

Tom Riddle seems to hesitate at hearing these words. "Partners? Hmm… perhaps. What is it about?"

Hagrid quickly rushes to tell him. "It's a crowd-tickler; mistaken identities, a kidnapping, pirates, a bit with a dog, and love triumphant!"

Riddle rubs thoughtfully his chin. "I think I've seen it. I didn't like it," he says.

"This time it is by Harry Potter."

"What's the title?"

"The Prisoner of Conscience."

"Good title," Riddle thinks out loud and snaps his fingers. Crabbe unties Hagrid and Percy starts to write a contract.

"A play takes time. Find actors… rehearsals…let's say open in three weeks. That's five hundred groundlings at two pence each, in addition four hundred groundlings two pence each, in addition four hundred backsides at three pence-a penny extra for a cushion, call it two hundred cushions, say two performance for safety how much is that Mr. Weasley?"

"Twenty pounds to the penny, Mr. Riddle."

"Correct!" nods Riddle.

"But I have to pay the actors and the author," says Hagrid frowning.

"A share of the profits."

"But… there's never any!"

"Of course not!"

Hagrid gulps but pretends to be impressed. "Mr. Riddle I think you may have hit on something."

Riddle slaps a contract down on the table next to an inkpot and quill.

"Sign here," he points at the contract and smirks evilly.

Hagrid takes the quill and signs.

"The Prisoner of Conscience, is it almost finished?" Riddle wishes to know.

Hagrid sighs wishfully. "Without doubt he is completing it at this very moment…"

To Be Continued