Perry Hotter and the Prisoner of Reality

Chapter Ten

Perry felt the refreshing air conditioning wash over him as he padded into a Primark department store on one of Westminster's main streets for his parents' errands. The store was stacked with shoppers and tourists, rushing to buy more than they needed, more than they could afford. A light jingle played over the store's announcement system.

Hand in hand with his tense parents, Perry ascended the escalator to the second floor. Despite Dr Robinson's persistent warnings, it was settled that Perry be brought with Mr and Mrs Hotter to central London for Perry to sightsee; under safe conditions, of course.

After all, it was Perry's thirteenth birthday.

Meanwhile, Harry Potter trudged along the damp lawns of Hogwarts as the dreaded Quidditch pitch loomed larger and larger, its shadow steadily obscuring more and more of this bright day. Clenching his Firebolt broom, Harry straightened his slouch, looking to Ron and Hermione to flash encouraging, supportive smiles, but Harry spotted perspiration dotting their brows.

Harry's stomach tied itself into a knot. Malfoy, still with his goons by his side, three tiny dots in the distance, strolled along the sprawling lawns, the wind carrying laughter and indiscernible snatches of conversation into Harry's ears.

Harry found himself rooted to the ground in the Gryffindor changing room as Wood gave his pep talk. 

The whistle blew, the shrill noise silencing chatter among the spectators lining the sides of the pitch.

Gryffindors and Slytherins alike kicked off the cold rock ground, wet from a drizzle of rain that had hindered the sunny weather, and their brooms sailed into the air smoothly. The flutter of macchiato broomsticks plunged as Harry rose above the pitch. As he ascended, he noticed Malfoy circling the perimeter of the pitch, searching for the tiniest glimmer of gold.

Harry stayed still suddenly and began determinedly looking for the golden Snitch that would help Gryffindor win yet another Quidditch match.

Perry jolted to a halt, nearly tripping over the metal ridge that governed the pinnacle of the whirring escalator. A few disapproving frowns turned to face him, a few concerned expressions contorted across their faces, Perry's parents included. Perry's face flushed with crimson indicators of embarrassment, and he scurried to a nearby shirt rack, pretending to browse some ugly checkered button-up shirts.

He took some quick breaths to guide a stabilised sense of reality as Dr Robinson had taught him. Right. He was still in the Westminster Primark, not zooming up some gloomy sky on some gleaming new broom. 

Perry recalled his psychiatrist's advice against his Westminster visit. He was rather pestered by something he had said about "a strong emotion anchoring him to reality". Despite this, Perry snorted. Who had to listen to that insane old fart anyway? Like that idiotic Ms Hobbins, Dr Robinson wouldn't have any experience with emotions, with that impartial look of his.

Unexpectedly, Perry felt a spike of pain in his head. He stumbled backwards and flailed his arms around frenziedly, only clenching the shirt rack, panting, just in time. He looked around wildly and heaved a sigh of relief; nobody saw his little mishap. He couldn't afford to worry anyone on his birthday, especially Mr and Mrs Hotter. His stupid schizophrenia wasn't going to ruin everything. 

A throbbing flash of colours, more erratic than before, flared across his vision, and suddenly, Perry was Harry again, flying through the howling wind and roaring storm.

But distantly, strangely, Perry could still hear the Primark jingle, and his palm was still pressed tightly against the cold metal of the shirt rack instead of the oak handle of his broom. Perry recoiled, alarmed, as thunder clapped yet again near Harry's Firebolt broom.

Then, it hit Perry. He was trapped between his two dimensions, fantasy and reality.

"Shit," he whispered, as his legs in Primark started moving of their own accord, jerking an imagined broom forward and thrusting Perry forward. Perry shrieked in terror, and finally, shoppers started to notice him. Mr and Mrs Hotter pivoted from the payment counter, and Mrs Hotter froze in terror. Mr Hotter risked a glimpse at his wife and rushed to stop Perry's weird tap-dance routine. 

But Mr Hotter was too late. Harry's legs kicked Perry forward one final time, and his foot inserted itself into the metal ridge on the top of the descending Primark escalator. Perry swung his arms around, hit the glass side of the escalator, which rang and quivered, and he tumbled down the fortunately empty escalator to the first floor, his head crashing against the black plastic railings every few seconds.

Perry's screams for help were ominously muted when he slammed into the store directory and landed in a mangled, bloody mess on Primark's pristine tiled floor.