Hugh Laurie Talks About Comicon Fans.

Hugh Laurie talks about Comicon fans.

Harry couldn’t blame Hagrid. Not really. The ride down to the caverns in Gringotts and back up again, well, it was understandable why the giant would be queasy. A pick-me-up hadn’t seemed all that unreasonable. And though Harry didn’t know much about alcohol, if Uncle Vernon was any indication, it was easy for one drink to multiply. So no, he didn’t blame Hagrid. Still, the newly-turned eleven-year-old couldn’t exactly mask his disappointment.

He stood in the doorway of the Leaky Cauldron, watching the bar creak under the weight of the massive man, whose drool was dripping onto the floor, forming a small pond. Harry took a single step towards him but stopped. Hagrid seemed pleasant enough but, again, if Uncle Vernon was any indication, his mood might foul with every drop of booze. And Hagrid, it seemed, had had many drops. Best let him sleep it off, just to be safe.

A few smiling wizards and witches crowded him, letting him know that they would be honored to help the Boy Who Lived. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He wasn’t used to strangers crowding him so. He was used to the lectures his teachers would give about the importance of not talking to strangers, lest any consequences occur. These people looked all right but, still, Harry didn’t feel comfortable leaving with any unfamiliar face.

And yet, he wasn’t exactly comfortable with the first familiar face he saw, either. Professor Quirrell stepped from the crowd, observing the child as if he was a bacterium beneath a microscope. Harry squirmed as the man offered him a shaky smile and a weak solace: “M-M-Mister P-Potter, I can h-help you find some p-place where we c-can t-t-talk without any int-int-interruptions.”

Harry swallowed before saying, “I think I’ll stay right here, sir.”

“I i-i-insist.”

“And I decline.”

Unfortunately, declining was easier said than done. Something flashed in the professor’s eyes. Something dangerous. Harry backed into the door. He remembered the steps of self-defense that a gym teacher had once discussed. Fight. Flight. Freeze. He didn’t feel much like fighting his professor in front of anyone. He also didn’t think running was his best option. After all, whenever he would run away during Harry Hunting, Dudley would get even more incensed. 

He was just beginning to realize that he had frozen when a man came up behind Quirrell. Hagrid was by far the strangest man Harry had ever seen but this new approacher was definitely a contender. He was dressed in a rather smart uniform, as were the two men who flanked him. Harry could tell that they were some sort of policemen. He just hoped that they weren’t corrupt, like the ones on Aunt Petunia’s favorite programs. The one man’s eyes dug into the back of the professor’s turban, his mouth twisting into a snarl. Quirrell had just enough time to turn before a spell sent him to his knees.

Harry gasped, as did the other pub patrons. Many fled though some stayed to look at the man in wonder, giving him nearly the same looks that they gave Harry. The man paid them no mind, seizing the professor’s wand and binding the spluttering prisoner.

“Dawlish, Shackelbolt, take him to the holding cells,” said the policeman. “Do not take that blasted turban off.”

Harry blinked and Quirrell was gone! The other two men were as well. The strange looking one stayed behind, putting a hand on his shoulder. “All right there, Potter?”

“Fine, Sir.”

“It’s a good thing you didn’t go off with him,” said the man, glaring in the spot where Quirrell had been. “Most students would have blindly followed along. What made you hold back?”

“I—well—I wouldn’t go with anyone, sir,” Harry admitted. “It’s only my first day as a wizard and I didn’t want to end it by being kidnapped. I suppose that’s a bit paranoid of me.”

“On the contrary, Potter, I think you’ve shown a fine case of—” The man’s face broke into a smirk as he boomed the last two words: “Constant vigilance!”

arthur weasley, aka the world’s biggest muggleboo who probably larps as an office worker on the weekends

Can I lick it?

why the fuck does english have a word for

but not for “the day after tomorrow”

???

Mood.