Henry H. Pottermore, Vol. II

THE ADVENTURES OF HENRY H. POTTERMORE AS HE IS CURRENTLY AN INMATE AT THE HOGDEATH CORRECTIONAL DUNGEON

It had been nearly five years since that fateful day, when Henry H. Pottermore smote Horrocks against the wall insomuch that he died, and was committed to prison for his crimes against humanity.

Five years in Hogdeath Correctional Dungeon had changed Henry. He was no longer the lovable, quirky, innocent young boy everybody had grown to love. The boy who loved! Yes, that was his title! And all loved him! But five years in this prison, this hellhole, this armpit of humanity, had turned Henry H. Pottermore into a hardened thug.

“POTTERMORE,” yelled the dungeon guard across the cell block. “VISITOR.”

The visitor walked through the dungeon to cell block CC, cell 14, accompanied by the guard. He was dressed in a nice suit and carried a briefcase. His shoes were ridiculously shiny.

Pottermore, as usual, was doing bench presses on a weight bench. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth.

The guard waved his wand, and the cell door slid open.

Pottermore took no notice, continuing his bench presses. “203… 204… 205…” he grunted.

“Henry H. Pottermore?” said the visitor, entering the cell.

Pottermore, at that point, placed the bar in its… bar… holder, and stood up, facing his visitor. He looked him over. Then he spat on the floor. To this strange visitor, he was unrecognizable from the boy who first entered Hogdeath five years ago on an out of control speeding train that crashed through the front lobby, killing hundreds. He was covered in tats. He donned a wife beater. And his muscles, once weak and childlike, now bulged out all over his body. He was also unrecognizable to him because he had never met Pottermore before. That… was the most likely reason.

The man stuck out his hand. “Newt Gingrich, attorney at law,” he said.

Pottermore looked at Newt’s hand with loathing. He took a huff of his cigarette, then blew smoke into Newt Gingrich’s face. Then he spat on his hand. Then he took another huff of his cigarette. Then he spit smoke on his hand. Newt Gingrich retracted his hand in horror.

“The guys here call me SpitSmoke,” Pottermore said gruffly.

“I see,” said Gingrich, wiping off his hand with a tissue. “Well, I’m here to help you Mr. Pottermore.”

“I don’t need any help,” said Pottermore.

“Hear me out,” said Gingrich. “I’m here because you’ve got no one to turn to. You’re rotting in here like a pack of rotting death rot, and I say, no more rotten things! With my help, I can give you a chance to make parole. Get you back out in society, where you can prove you’ve rehabilitated.”

“Rehabilitated?” asked Pottermore sardonically. He sneered. “Rehabilitated… I’ll show you rehabilitated.” He shoved his right arm in Gingrich’s face, pointing to his bulging bicep muscle. There was a tattoo that depicted a grisly scene of a prisoner in front of a parole board, firing the killing curse at each one of the board members, who stared at him with stunned looks on their faces as the curses tore through their heads and exploded their brains.

“Wow,” said Gingrich. “Okay. Well, we’re gonna have to get you a sleeve or something.”

Then they shook hands in a fierce powerful shake.

Later that day, Chuck McChucklin came to visit Henry, as he faithfully did once a week. They were required to visit at the glass partition.

“Well well well,” said McChucklin into the phone. “If it isn’t Mr. Henry H. Pottermore. The boy who lived… in prison.”

Henry threw the phone down and punched the glass. A small crack appeared. He punched it again and again. Two guards were on him in seconds tasering him to the floor. McChucklin just laughed riotously. This kind of thing happened every week.

Newt Gingrich returned the following morning. Henry, shirtless and wearing jeans, was doing pull ups as Gingrich arrived at the cell. The guard waved his wand, and the cell door opened.

“Mr. Pottermore,” said Gingrich, stepping in. “You’re not gonna get outta here if you keep breaking the partition glass.”

“What do you know about glass, huh? 162… 163… 164…” he grunted. “Nothin!” Then he let go and stood upright on the floor.

“Enough to know that you’ve got an anger problem,” said Gingrich. “You’re gonna need to cool it for awhile. These kinds of things don’t look good.”

Pottermore grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat from his face.

“Listen,” said Gingrich. “I’m trying to help you, I am. But with you out of control like this, I’ve got an arm tied behind my back. No more visits from McChucklin for awhile, you got that?”

Pottermore stared at Gingrich, open mouthed.

“But…” stammered Henry. “He’s my friend!”

“I know,” said Gingrich. “Just for awhile, okay?”

Henry turned his back on Gingrich and stared up at his Napalm Death poster, the only thing that gave him comfort in these difficult times. Gingrich left, and the cell door closed behind him. “Oh Napalm Death,” Henry said to himself. “What would you guys do in this situation?”

They did not answer him.

Not yet.

Two weeks later, Henry H. Pottermore was seated in front of the Hogdeath Correctional Dungeon Parole Board. He wore a bright orange jumpsuit, with long sleeves for his arms. Newt Gingrich was seated next to him.

“We don’t really know how these things work,” said Tweezy McDumbleman, a gentle-mannered gentleman, seated behind a long table with five other people. “But we hope you’ll bear with us Mr. Pottermore.” The other board members laughed. Henry didn’t even crack a grin.

“Now Mr. Pottermore,” continued Tweezy. “No one has ever been let out on parole before for murder in the first degree. Frankly, it’s silly to fathom the thought, hmm?” And he looked around at his fellow board members, who nodded and mumbled in agreement.

“But here’s what we can do,” said Tweezy. “We can grant you a temporary release, on one condition… you can’t murder anybody ever again. Got it?”

“Isn’t that parole?” asked a confused Newt Gingrich, who had a very good understanding of how these things worked, being himself informed of the law.

“Yes and no,” replied Boris Faddenhorms, the man seated next to Tweezy McDumbleman. “Or… wait, maybe yes. I’m not entirely sure.”

“It’s a deal!” cried Newt Gingrich, and he slapped Pottermore on the back, good-naturedly, like all good things do in nature. McDumbleman stamped something authoritatively on a document in front of him.

“Now,” continued McDumbleman. “Some housekeeping is in order.”

Gingrich sat back down.

“First of all, meet your parole officer, Mr. Pottermore.”

A man stepped out of a door on the side of the room. Everything about him screamed “pure evil,” from the lack of a nose on his pale face to his dead sunken eyes to a wicked and cruel smile that spread across his face as his eyes met Henry H. Pottermore’s.

“This is Officer Hans Voldemortmanstein, one of our finest and most decorated,” said McDumbleman, motioning towards Hans Voldemortmanstein in case no one knew who he was referring to.

“Hello Henry!” said Voldemortmanstein.

Pottermore couldn’t believe what was happening. His own nemesis, the Dark Lord, the Prince of Evil, the world’s most powerful dark wizard… his parole officer?

“Whoa whoa, hold on,” said Gingrich. “This deal is off! Everyone knows Hans Voldemortmanstein has had it out for my client since The Incident of 1995.”

Memories burst forth into Henry H. Pottermore’s mind. Terrible tragic memories of that time, long ago…

“Oh pish posh!” said Voldemortmanstein, chuckling. “Let bygones be bygones and begones by begones, I’ve always said!”

“Voldemortmanstein, like I said, is a valued member of the police force in this community,” said McDumbleman. “You’ll be required to check in with him… every day!”

Henry H. Pottermore stood up and looked Hans Voldemortmanstein right in his cold dead eyes. Voldemortmanstein smiled and licked his lips with his snake tongue.

“How much you bench?” asked Pottermore, flexing his pectoralis major muscles.

“Oh I don’t know,” said Voldemortmanstein in his charming  manner. “It’s not important really. My, you really have changed since you’ve been in prison, Pottermore.”

“I’ve learned a few things,” said Pottermore. “Like, ten different ways to work my lats.”

Fury flashed in Voldemortmanstein’s eyes and he reached for his wand.

“All right, all right, break it up,” said Newt Gingrich, stepping between them. “Let’s just calm down guys.”

But Henry H. Pottermore had hit Voldemortmanstein where it really hurt. You see, Hans Voldemortmanstein had been born with a congenital condition where he had really weak lats. In fact, the Incident of 1995 referred to a bodybuilding competition between Pottermore and Voldemortmanstein that ended in Voldemortmanstein, in a very humiliating fashion, fatally injuring himself when he attempted to to do a 1000-pound Reverse Grip Lat Pulldown. His body destroyed, Voldemortmanstein was thought to be gone forever. But as these things always go, his evil Extreme Powerlifting Cult of Voldemortmanstein had found a way to bring him back to life, which is a pretty long and actually uninteresting story. From there, he got a job at Burger King to make a few bucks. Then he worked at a lumber supply store. Then he decided to get into the police force, and eventually, realized that Parole Officering was his calling, because he just loved being in charge of throwing little twerps back into the slammer where they belonged.

His wand was up in Newt Gingrich’s face, and then he unleashed one of his most horrific spells: the one where killer bees spew forth out of his wand. Unfortunately, he messed something up in the incantation, and only regular honey bees came out of his wand. A couple stung Gingrich in the face, but mostly they just flew around looking for beautiful flowers. Another embarrassing moment for Hans Voldemortmanstein, and he had really peeved off Newt Gingrich in the process, the last guy he wanted to peeve off. In fact, Voldemortmanstein had a list of five people he did not want to peeve off, with Gingrich being the last one on the list. He took the list out of his pocket, and put an “X” next to Gingrich’s name, indicating a failure to not peeve him off. Pottermore scoffed. “Pathetic,” he said, and he lit up a cigarette.

“I’ll say,” said Gingrich, rubbing his bee stings.

And thus it came to pass that Henry H. Pottermore was released from Hogdeath Correctional Dungeon on parole, with Hans Voldemortmanstein suspended for one month without pay for his honeybee outburst. His replacement, Officer Frank Crachowski, was even more of a jerk. Henry H. Pottermore never thought anyone could be a bigger jerk than the Dark Lord Hans Voldemortmanstein, but Officer Crachowski won it by a long shot. Fortunately, he was not The Dark Lord, so his jerkishness was limited to yelling, insults, and beating you with his truncheon, which Pottermore would take any day of the week over getting blasted with a Cruciatus curse or, worse, a Wingardium Leviosa curse.

Upon his release, Henry ran into his old friends Ron Schadenfreude and Hortense, who were five years older but looking better than ever! They were impressed with Henry’s various tats, and he regaled them with stories of dungeon life, like the day he had a dungeon-yard fight with Big Joe and just wiped the floor with him. Or the day he had a dungeon-yard fight with Eddie “The Demon” Lascarelli and just wiped the floor with him. Or how he ran into his old nemesis Hans Voldemortmanstein at his parole hearing and just wiped the floor with him.

“So basically, you just wiped the floor with everybody,” said Ron.

“What did I just say, huh?” asked Henry, getting defensive. “You see this?” He pointed to his abs. “You see this?” He pointed to his lats. “You see this?” He pointed to his fist, where he had a spiked ring with a skull on it.

“Yeah yeah, I see it,” said Ron. “Well, good to have you back old buddy.”

“Yeah whatever,” replied Henry. Then Ron and Hortense started making out right in front of him, so… apparently they’re dating now? Henry immediately dropped to the ground and started doing some one-armed push ups to win his ex-girlfriend back, but it was in vain, as she wasn’t even looking. The only thing she was looking at was the inside of Ron’s fungus-shrouded mouth.

Just then, Chuck McChucklin strode onto the scene.

“Well well well,” he said, with that signature sneer. “If it isn’t Henry H. Pottermore… been getting out of Hogdeath Correctional Dungeon on parole again?”

“Yes,” replied Pottermore.

“Good,” replied McChucklin, nodding his approval. And he left.

Just then, Headmaster Donny Trump also strode onto the scene, wielding the House Cup. “Come children!” he called to all within the sound of his voice. The many wizardy folk of Hogdeath gathered around him, like suckling wizard piglets gathered at the feet of their Father Wizard Pig.

“It is time to announce the winner of the House Cup!” he called. And all the children cheered.

“First of all, let me express how grateful I am to each of you, for all your hard work this year. For the good times that have been had. For watching out for each other and keeping each other safe from the clutches of the Dark Lord Hans Voldemortmanstein. You all so much deserve to wield this cup.”

Hortense and Ron looked at Henry and smiled. They knew. Henry smiled back, smiled for the first time in over five years. He knew.

“But the winner,” he continued. “The winner of the House Cup is… NEWT GINGRICH!”

And Newt Gingrich came out of nowhere, waving, nodding, shaking a few hands, and mumbling many thanks as he approached Headmaster Donny Trump.

“Thank you Newt, for your bravery, your courage, your lawyer skills, and for showing us all the true meaning of love,” said Headmaster Donny Trump, handing over the cup and shaking Newt’s hand in a fierce handshake. “Give it up for Newt, children,” said Headmaster Donny Trump, applauding. Then Newt went back out the way he came, shaking hands, waving, and mumbling many thanks. He was never seen again.

“Weird,” said Ron Schadenfreude when it was all over. “Who was that guy?”

“I’ve never seen him before. Have you, Henry?” asked Hortense.

Henry tried to suppress a smile. Oh boy, what a story he had for them!

THE END