Arry Otter wasn't the brightest otter in his family: Ary Otter (his little brother), Mrs Otter (his mother), and Mr Otter (his father). Arry's family was of the Otter Community's lowest working class, henceforth, they lived on the Ottermore Marshes. To be fair, in a raw earthen den among scraggly clumps of reeds that looked like an old otter's patchy fur. At the age of four months, which to you and me is four years in human age, Arry Otter's father told him a big fib. The biggest fib ever to be told in that dusty den. A fib to be remembered. "Come over 'ere sonny," said Mr Otter gesturing for Arry to come over, which was doing something with some blades of grass and a small rock, "I need to teach ya somethin' very important." Clumsily getting to his two hind feet, Arry waddled over to his father. "Wot is ya holdin' a twig for, dad?" questioned Arry, curiosity coating his every coarse word unfit for a posh otter's small, black ears, when he saw the small reed twig grasped in his father's brown paw. Ignoring his son's question, Mr Otter carried on and proclaimed, "Deer Arry, do ya know how ya spell yer godforsaken name?" "No dad, I knows not," came Arry's puzzled reply. "Then come closer sonny, and don't fret cos I'm 'ere to 'elp," responded Mr Otter with a little waggle of his twig-free hand. "When a gentleotter or a fine otteress asks ya for yer godforsaken name, ya'll say this;" with a look of defiance and his little fist clenched tight, Mr Otter said, "My name be Arry Otter, with an H before the A and a P before the O," hastily adding on, he said, "And if any otter is to ask, the H and the P are silent." Arry's head followed along the reed twig as Mr Otter scratched this out on the earthen floor : H A R R Y P O T T E R A month had passed since the Big Fib; Arry was now five months old and ready to go to the School for Working Class Critters. As Mrs Otter handed over a small meal wrapped in a reed leaf over to Arry, she said, "Be careful Arry, there's a bunch a nasty folk out there. Don't mingle with their kids." "How do I know wot and who's dodgy then, mum?" asked Arry as he laced up his papery reed sandals. "Now, remember, the nasty folk are the badger, skunk and snake. The badger is grey with stripes and they waddle on all fours, unlike us civilized folk. The skunk is black with two white stripes down their godforsaken back and have a tail like a posh folks' feather duster. Oh, mark me words but the snake is the criminal of all them, they are long and green and like a long reed and hiss. Be sure to walk away and don't look back if you see one of them folks!" Glancing up at the dreary grey sky, Arry said, "Well then, mark me words with yers mum, but I should be going," and with that and a waggle of his stubby, growing tail, he set off into the marshes - a patchwork of slimy greens and browns against the pale grey blanket of filthy clouds. Arry easily found the School for Working Class Critters - a big reed had been bent to form an arched doorway which had a curtain of thin ivy draped over. As he stepped inside with the package of food tightly clutched against his chest, Arry marvelled at the other animal pups and kits seated on clumps of moss behind small slabs of stone. As he sat down on one of the clumps of moss near the front, he looked up and saw a slab of slanted stone at the very front of the room, behind which was a slate board with several fragments of chalk scattered around it. As he set down his reed-leaf-wrapped meal beside the slab of stone he was seated at, Arry noticed a strange adult animal he had never seen before holding a reed rod queerly hobble behind the slanted slab: she had and arched back and mud-brown fur, interrupted by a dash of a white underside. "Attention!" the sharp command silenced all the chatter in the cramped room. "I am Miss Weasel, class, and you have to listen to everything I say, and do everything I tell you to," pausing, she added, "Any silliness will be dealt with the cane." Miss Weasel hung onto the last word, cane. "Right," she announced, "You over there, come up here," she jabbed at Arry with her cane, beady black eyes glaring at him. Arry got up and confidently strided towards the board. "Here," Miss Weasel tossed a piece of chalk at him and Arry barely managed to catch it, "Tell us your name," Reminding himself of his father's lesson, Arry boldly dictated, "My name be Arry Otter, with an H before the A and a P before the O, Miss." "Write it on the board, Arry," Miss Weasel cut in. Arry wrote his name on the board with the powdery chalk, at least, it was the fibbed version of his name - Harry Potter. Arry Otter barely made it home alive.
DISCLAIMER: INSPIRED BY JK ROWLING'S HARRY POTTER. THE WORDS ARE MISSPELLED ON PURPOSE AND THERE IS RUDE HUMOR APPROPRIATE FOR ALL AGES. ALL COPYRIGHT IS MINE ©basilhythe_2021
