Life can sometimes take a turn for the better, but that doesn't really happen to me. When something happens it usually makes my life that much more fucked up. That's what happened on a hot Summer evening, at the end of my Fifth year. I don't know why I went to London with the Dursleys, but I did. It was not really that far by train, and they weren't prepared for me to be in the house by myself, we were going to visit some family member on Vernon's side and so they dumped me in the nearest restaurant. You'd think they'd have some appreciation for the guy who is surely going to save their arses some day, but no, they're content to let him sit in some shitty restaurant in the East End, I would probably get knifed or something before they got back.
But no, even death was too kind for me, and so when the smell of smoke and body odour got too much for me in the dingy restaurant, and I had finished my meal, which tasted of smoke and body odour, I walked out of 'Linda's' which was obviously trying to be something that it was not. But hey, it's the mid-nineties, and I am an almost sixteen year old in the middle of London with nothing to do until six o'clock. It was surely going to be a disaster. I pulled up my hood and began to walk around, I prayed there were no wizards around who would notice my green eyes or distinctive scar, but the likelihood that they would be around was pretty low anyway.
I didn't really do much, there is not actually that much to do in London, contrary to popular opinion. I milled around, made a general nuisance of myself. Bought a copy of the Daily Mail. I walked into a phone booth and was going to phone one of the girls who are on the cards which are on the inside, but I only had five pounds left, and I didn't want to waste it doing that. So I walked around some more and before I knew it, I had no idea where I was. Concrete and terraced houses begin to look very similar. But all it meant was that I was a fifteen, almost sixteen, year old boy in the middle of London with nothing to do, who happened to be lost.
If I could go by the postcodes on the street signs I still appeared to be in the East End, but whether I could find my way back to the gourmet restaurant I had been in before the Dursleys drove off without me was still up in the air. And so there I was, minding my own business, when a woman, long brown hair, long legs, walks up to me. Cliché, I know, but how was I supposed to know that she wanted to kill me? And I'm only human, even if she was a witch, I would have still been happy to talk to her. Glancing at my watch I could see that the time was about four o'clock, which gave me two hours before I was abandoned and forced to live on the streets by my loving family.
Anyway, so this woman comes up to me and starts talking to me, the conversation went something like this,
"You're Harry Potter?"
"Fine, caught me there."
"Well I'm here to kill you, but maybe before we could have a bit of fun."
Or so I wish.
Nothing of the sort was going to happen to me. I can't even be killed properly for Merlin's sake. Enough people have tried. The woman walked up to me, her eyes blazing with a strange fire, and, I could not really be sure whether her eyes were black or just a really deep brown. When she spoke her tone was almost hungry. Now with hindsight I should have just run there, but that was never going to happen. I'm a fifteen year old boy, do you think I was going to give up a chance to speak with a perfectively attractive woman?
"Hello Mr Potter." She spoke quite slowly, as if she was nervous, and not sure of what words to say to me, I swallowed nervously and challenged her eyes with mine.
"How do you know that?"
"I just know." Again when she spoke it was slowly, and again she seemed nervous. "And," she pushed her hand forwards and lifted one finger out and slowly pushed my hair of my forehead, "you have a scar right there." She tapped it, and I felt a searing pain through it. Although I had not had a vision from Voldemort for a few days, the scar was still sensitive.
"What do you want?"
"Nothing. I just wanted to see you."
"You just contradicted yourself." The woman looked mildly perturbed at my comment, but it did not annoy her as much I wanted it to.
"Fine I do want something," and her eyes glinted with danger, she grabbed my wrist and I realised that she was surprisingly strong and her hand was surprisingly cold.
"What? And could you please get your hand off me?" I tried to wriggle out of her grip, but no matter how hard I struggled I could not get out. I stood there fuming, there was a strange woman holding onto my wrist and freaking me out quite a bit.
"The answer to your second question, no. And the answer to my first, this." And with that she grabbed my full shoulders and pushed me into an alley way, which is really quite strange because there aren't really that many alleyways in London, and sunk a pair of fangs into my neck. And then it all went dark.
And that is the end of the prologue to my new story. Fun stuff. It's darkly humourous, but will probably turn more serious, I don't really know to be honest, I'll see where it takes me. Erm, what else?Tell me about any mistakes and please review if you can be bothered. And no offense to anyone who lives in the East End, I don't actually think that everyone there gets stabbed, Harry does. Oh and tell me what you think about first person writing, I think it's better for writing humour but for the more serious stuff third is easier. I don't know, but tell me what you think and I might change it if I get enough reviews saying "first is shhhit, change to third." Oh, and a word of warning, I can't update often until the Tenth of June because of exams and stuff, but after all that I'll have a lot more time.