Damn Car
Viopathartic
He planned on using the portkey to transport him back to the wizardry world. But the fact that he just battled against Nott, the Deatheater, and now has a bloodied leg and blood over his body kind of made him stop. Plus since he wasn't an expert at landing, the image of him landing flat on his face wasn't that appealing. Damn portkey.
He planned on sending a Patronus but the memory of the incident with the flying car exposure made him stop again. Muggle media would have a field day if they saw a humongous glowing stag running across playgrounds to come to an unknown destination. Damn Patronus.
He planned on Apparating, but adding on a splinched left leg plus his already broken one...not a good idea, Potter.
So now, here he was, Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived and the Boy-who-was-really-stressed-out, driving a Volkswagen with an injured right leg.
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Bloody car.
Bloody damn car.
Bloody, bloody damn Volkswagen.
Those were Harry's thought as he hunched over his steering wheel, trying to make out the highway signs.
Yes, Harry Potter never got his driving license, never drove a car, and was now driving illegally.
Why couldn't he whip out his wand and fix his leg in a second? Because, Harry Potter left his wand back at 12
Grimmauld's Place along with his cloak and necessary items. The only thing he had brought was Godric
Gryffindor's sword. Harry looked glumly to the passenger seat. There lay the old artifact with the blood of another
person covering its blade. So, as many could see, there was no other option.
"Shit!" yelled Harry as he swerved the car to the right. The BMW, which he managed to dodge, beeped angrily at him.
"Oh, be quiet," Harry muttered, flicking on his left signal. "I should have listened to 'Mione when she said to get driving lessons."
He painstakingly steered the stolen car to the next lane, cutting off another car. But he didn't really care.
Suddenly, not seeing the car in front, he ignored the excruciating waves of pain coming from his leg and he stepped on the brake with all his might. His body lunged forward but because he was strapped in, his body quickly fell back against the seat. He heard the sound of metal hitting metal and the beeping of horns. A yell was heard from behind. Smoke soon covered his vision, not allowing him to see. With a groan, Harry let his head fall against the steering wheel and waited. Someone knocked on his window. Suppressing the urge to bash his head against the window, Harry lifted his eyes.
"Sir, sir! Are you alright? Sir, can you hear me? SIR!!!"
"Will you bloody shut up? I'm coming." Kicking the door open with his good leg, he climbed his way out. Quickly remembering his other leg, Harry collapsed to his knees.
"D-do you need help?" asked the voice.
"No, I'm just praying. Yes, I need help! Give me a hand here." said Harry, irritably. He blindly reached out and gripped a very soft feeling hand and was pulled up. An arm wrapped itself around his waist and kept him up. Harry blinked away the dust in his eyes and his pupil adjusted to the light shift. He turned his head and saw his helper. The guy was maybe two or three years senior and he looked at Harry with worry. His hair was dirty blonde, cut short to his scalp. His blue eyes surveyed his body for injury like Hermione would have done, and his mouth was in a tight line.
"Oh...damn, my mum's going to kill me!" Harry looked over at what the boy was looking at and saw what used to be a nice car. Now...it wasn't. The back bumper was completely bashed in and wisps of smoke came out of it. Glass lay shattered around the car.
"I wish your mom would kill me." Harry gasped as weight was put on his sliced leg. The blonde looked questionably at Harry and then at his leg. Color drained from his face and he looked like was going to puke.
"Oh-oh God, did the crash do that...did--oh holy..."
"No, it was the crash. I got it from a fight. The crash didn't hurt me."
"You were in a fight?" The guy looked at Harry with five-year-old awe. He resisted the urge to knock him unconscious. Police sirens were heard from afar and people were starting to gather around the crash.
"I'm Jonathan. Jonathan Goliath."
"Harry Potter." "I'm sorry about you're car, mate." Harry gave a backwards glance at "his" car and shrugged.
"Nah, don't worry, it's stolen anyways."
"It's stolen?" Another look of amazement.
One of the police car door opened and a skinny officer appeared. Harry stared. What happened to the donuts?
"Are you two men okay?" The tag on his breast pocket said McGhamee, Johnson. He lifted his hat in greeting and took out a notepad.
"Yeah. Yes, sir we're fine." Jonathan answered, relieved. Harry could tell the kid was polite...too polite perhaps. Johnson let out a low whistle.
"Sorry about your cars." "My mom's going to kill me for my car but Harry's is fine. It's only stolen," he said matter-of-factly. Harry's eyes bulged and he lifted a hand to smack Jonathan.
"Stolen?" The officer reached for his gun. Harry let out a frustrated groan and Jonathan froze at the sight of a gun.
"Put your hands in the air and don't move." The two of them raised their hands.
"No, not you blonde, the one with the glasses."
"Oh, great. Pick the four eyes." Harry said with annoyance.
"DON"T MOVE, I SAID!" yelled the constable.
"I'm not deaf!" Harry yelled back. Another cop went behind him and cuffed his hands. Jonathan looked at him with an apology written all over his face. Harry sighed. This was turning out to be a really bad day.
As the cops walked him to the police car, only one thought remained in his head.
Damn car.
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