Disclaimer: I in no way own Harry Potter. Harry Potter is property of J.K.
Rowling for all those people who have been living in the dark ages. Also, I
like HP and this story is in no way meant to bash it. Please read and
review! : ) Thanks to George is hot-MrsMoony, dolphingirl79,
WriterzCramp, SweetSorrow1, Bless U- I'm flattered! and Yup- thanks!, but I
don't know, I wrote it in like fifteen minutes, lol. I corrected the story
btw: the fourth book was Goblet of Fire- lol
Chapter two is up.
Summary: This is a story about what waiting for the sixth book to come out could do to you.
I sat in my rocker, looking aimlessly ahead of me at my overweight cat. It had been fifty years since the fifth Harry Potter book had come out, and I had been waiting for the sixth, let alone the seventh, to come out for that long. The story was that J.K. Rowling had gotten entangled in a web of fanfiction over the internet, and all of it tainted her view of how to write the last two books in the series.
Over the years, Rowling set aside Harry Potter to take more of a role in charity events and act in a few movies. In her late 80s now, Rowling finally decided to finish the series she had started. The sixth book, not surprisingly called Harry Potter and the Green Flame Torch, just arrived in bookstores today.
Now about me, and the world, really: a strangle illness had plagued the planet, no doubt the work of terrorists, and all the elderly age fifty and over were affected. Affected people were given a life expectancy of about a year. I myself had been infected for twelve months, and was due to die at any moment.
I got married in my late twenties, had two kids who were now in college, and three husbands. I guess they couldn't understand how important Harry Potter was to me. My third and final husband, a portly man who was the same age as me and loved me more than anything despite my Harry Potter craze, was at the bookstore purchasing a copy of the sixth Harry Potter book for me, as I myself could barely walk. He had caught the worldly plague from me, but he was only three months into the disease.
As for my career, well let's just say that I never really decided on what I was going to do. I went to college for four years and got an English degree as I was planning on being a writer, but never finished any books I began writing because I spent most of my free time writing fanfiction over the internet. J.K. Rowling inspired me so much that whenever I tried to write an original piece of literature, I ended up plagiarizing. I eventually got a job as a secretary for about twenty years, but when my boss found out I was writing fanfiction when I was supposed to be writing business letters, he gave me the sack. I spent the rest of my healthy days working as a cashier at McDonald's, which wasn't the worst job, but didn't pay well either.
So here I am, fifty years after I had every opportunity of a lifetime at my feet. I could have written a great novel, I could have become an English teacher; all of these opportunities were gone now, and all because of my anticipation for a book.
I heard the door of our tiny apartment creak open: my husband was home. In his arm was the thing that had held me back in life: Harry Potter and the Green Flame Torch, but in truth it was I that held me back in life. This truth was so unbearable that I blamed the book. He set the book down on the old, moth-eaten coffee table that was a wedding present from my mother, and hung his coat on the antique coat rack.
"Honey, here it is, the book you've been waiting for!" he said as he ran over to me still staring blankly ahead.
"Sweetheart, the book, your book, the one you've been waiting for for fifty years! Look!" He waved the book in front of my frail and sickly face. I finally snapped out of my stupor.
"Yes," I said, my voice cracking as I looked at the book. "That it is." But I neither took the book, nor looked the least bit overjoyed.
"What's the matter?" asked my husband concernedly.
"Nothing," I said. But the truth was, nothing was ok. I finally realized that I had spent my entire life waiting for a book, never taking any risks, never leaving my mark. My entire trail of thought never exceeded the theories in my head over who was going to date whom in Harry Potter, or if Voldemort would be killed. I gasped and clutched my chest.
"No...no don't do this! You'll be ok, I'll call the hospital! Everything is going to be ok!" But as he ran to the phone to call 911 both he and I knew that it was no hope. When the illness hit you with its fatal blow, that was the end of you and your life. If I had done anything meaningful in life, I may have not minded dying right there and then, but I did. I wanted to give a warning to my husband and my children not to make the same mistake as I. My husband finally abandoned the phone and came over to me, as I had fallen from my rocker and was now sprawled askew on the floor. I still stared blankly ahead.
"Please say something!," pleaded my husband, as a single tear fell from his face and onto mine. "Please, don't leave me now!" I made a slight jerk and looked at him, my face also filled with tears. Slowly and with much difficulty, I uttered my last words, "Don't...mess up your life. It's...too...short. Tell....th-the children that. I...love you." He nodded slightly, bent over me and kissed my cheek. I rolled over to the side, my eyes closed for all of eternity, my arm over the book that destroyed all opportunities that were open to me in my life. Suddenly, my eyes were open. It was sunny. I got out of my bed and looked out my window. There were kids playing outside, birds chirping pleasantly in the maple trees, and me, alive and fifteen years old. I breathed a sigh of relief and wiped the sweat off my face. "It was only a dream," I said with a sigh. "And thank God." I logged onto fanfiction.net and wrote this story: not to scare you, or taint your view of Harry Potter, of which I am a fan myself, but to remind you: you have your whole life ahead of you, don't ruin it waiting for a book to come out, don't let a book spoil your fun in life, don't be the old woman in my dream.
Summary: This is a story about what waiting for the sixth book to come out could do to you.
I sat in my rocker, looking aimlessly ahead of me at my overweight cat. It had been fifty years since the fifth Harry Potter book had come out, and I had been waiting for the sixth, let alone the seventh, to come out for that long. The story was that J.K. Rowling had gotten entangled in a web of fanfiction over the internet, and all of it tainted her view of how to write the last two books in the series.
Over the years, Rowling set aside Harry Potter to take more of a role in charity events and act in a few movies. In her late 80s now, Rowling finally decided to finish the series she had started. The sixth book, not surprisingly called Harry Potter and the Green Flame Torch, just arrived in bookstores today.
Now about me, and the world, really: a strangle illness had plagued the planet, no doubt the work of terrorists, and all the elderly age fifty and over were affected. Affected people were given a life expectancy of about a year. I myself had been infected for twelve months, and was due to die at any moment.
I got married in my late twenties, had two kids who were now in college, and three husbands. I guess they couldn't understand how important Harry Potter was to me. My third and final husband, a portly man who was the same age as me and loved me more than anything despite my Harry Potter craze, was at the bookstore purchasing a copy of the sixth Harry Potter book for me, as I myself could barely walk. He had caught the worldly plague from me, but he was only three months into the disease.
As for my career, well let's just say that I never really decided on what I was going to do. I went to college for four years and got an English degree as I was planning on being a writer, but never finished any books I began writing because I spent most of my free time writing fanfiction over the internet. J.K. Rowling inspired me so much that whenever I tried to write an original piece of literature, I ended up plagiarizing. I eventually got a job as a secretary for about twenty years, but when my boss found out I was writing fanfiction when I was supposed to be writing business letters, he gave me the sack. I spent the rest of my healthy days working as a cashier at McDonald's, which wasn't the worst job, but didn't pay well either.
So here I am, fifty years after I had every opportunity of a lifetime at my feet. I could have written a great novel, I could have become an English teacher; all of these opportunities were gone now, and all because of my anticipation for a book.
I heard the door of our tiny apartment creak open: my husband was home. In his arm was the thing that had held me back in life: Harry Potter and the Green Flame Torch, but in truth it was I that held me back in life. This truth was so unbearable that I blamed the book. He set the book down on the old, moth-eaten coffee table that was a wedding present from my mother, and hung his coat on the antique coat rack.
"Honey, here it is, the book you've been waiting for!" he said as he ran over to me still staring blankly ahead.
"Sweetheart, the book, your book, the one you've been waiting for for fifty years! Look!" He waved the book in front of my frail and sickly face. I finally snapped out of my stupor.
"Yes," I said, my voice cracking as I looked at the book. "That it is." But I neither took the book, nor looked the least bit overjoyed.
"What's the matter?" asked my husband concernedly.
"Nothing," I said. But the truth was, nothing was ok. I finally realized that I had spent my entire life waiting for a book, never taking any risks, never leaving my mark. My entire trail of thought never exceeded the theories in my head over who was going to date whom in Harry Potter, or if Voldemort would be killed. I gasped and clutched my chest.
"No...no don't do this! You'll be ok, I'll call the hospital! Everything is going to be ok!" But as he ran to the phone to call 911 both he and I knew that it was no hope. When the illness hit you with its fatal blow, that was the end of you and your life. If I had done anything meaningful in life, I may have not minded dying right there and then, but I did. I wanted to give a warning to my husband and my children not to make the same mistake as I. My husband finally abandoned the phone and came over to me, as I had fallen from my rocker and was now sprawled askew on the floor. I still stared blankly ahead.
"Please say something!," pleaded my husband, as a single tear fell from his face and onto mine. "Please, don't leave me now!" I made a slight jerk and looked at him, my face also filled with tears. Slowly and with much difficulty, I uttered my last words, "Don't...mess up your life. It's...too...short. Tell....th-the children that. I...love you." He nodded slightly, bent over me and kissed my cheek. I rolled over to the side, my eyes closed for all of eternity, my arm over the book that destroyed all opportunities that were open to me in my life. Suddenly, my eyes were open. It was sunny. I got out of my bed and looked out my window. There were kids playing outside, birds chirping pleasantly in the maple trees, and me, alive and fifteen years old. I breathed a sigh of relief and wiped the sweat off my face. "It was only a dream," I said with a sigh. "And thank God." I logged onto fanfiction.net and wrote this story: not to scare you, or taint your view of Harry Potter, of which I am a fan myself, but to remind you: you have your whole life ahead of you, don't ruin it waiting for a book to come out, don't let a book spoil your fun in life, don't be the old woman in my dream.