I lounged back in my seat and sighed luxuriously. It was the weekend, I had completed every iota of homework - except from my art but that didn't have to be in for another two weeks so I really couldn't be bothered with that - and my acutely annoying five-year-old sister, Sally, would be out of the house for the next two hours. The future looked bright.
I stretched my fingers, one by one, and tied my mousy-brown hair up in a messily-done ponytail. I couldn't have it getting in my way while I was typing - if it distracted me while in the middle of an important plot point then it would most likely result in utmost disaster. For me, fan-fiction was a serious business and not to be taken lightly. I wasn't one of those writers who updated when and if it pleased them; nor did I fail to plan out my story in advance. And Heaven forbid that I should write a Mary Sue! I've had nightmares about it, ghastly visions about would happen to my reputation should I create some repulsively beautiful over-powered girl with a name like Lilac-Maria Sphinxia Anastasia Melusine Maelstrom.
No, I was the best and had even been compared to Rowling herself by a few easily impressed reviewers. I smiled inwardly; they had no idea what they were talking about. Despite my dedication to fan-fiction I knew I would never amount to anything as much as JKR had. But imagine! Me, Emily Anne Stephens, a world famous author!
I shook my head free of these dreams and turned my thoughts to the laptop in front of me. I was currently working on a George Weasley story, 'Paper Aeroplanes and Golden Roses', the idea for which I'd been mulling over for the last few months. I hated to publish anything online before finishing off the final chapter; it had always seemed like a betrayal of some kind.
My fingers danced over the keys, describing in vivid detail Sophie's awkwardness, George's outrageous flirting and Fred's way of teasing the two. I'd always had a liking for plain names on my characters - names that fitted in neatly with canon. I'd rather have written about Lord Voldemort's daughter than have a girl called Sapphira or Janiastia; unusual names were one of my pet peeves.
Another would be unbelievable beauty. As a small scrawny fourteen-year-old with eyes that were dark brown and judgemental instead of sparkling blue and skin that was milk-white and decorated with a multitude of freckles rather than smooth and golden-brown, I instinctively felt that anyone gorgeous enough to have the whole male population of the school drooling after them should be Avada Kedavra-ed on the spot. Sophie was tall and gawky, with long permanently-tangled fair hair and a blotchy red-purple birthmark on her cheek that nobody could help but stare at. She wasn't very pretty but she was sweet, kind and loyal - which, in my opinion, mattered more.
Just as I had started to induce a conflict between Angelina and Sophie, I froze. There was an undeniable tickling in my fingers and although this had happened before - I suffered from poor blood circulation which meant that in winter my fingers and toes would often become frighteningly cold and numb - it was rare enough for it to be alarming. I ran over to the other side of the room and threw myself into bed, pulling the covers tightly around me - the sooner I warmed up, the sooner I could get back to Paper Aeroplanes and Golden Roses. I was in the middle of a sentence and I didn't want my flow of inspiration to be blocked in anyway.
But I wasn't warming up. Not in the least - in fact, the tingling feeling was moving through my fingers, past my hands and up my arms. It spread down to my waist and along my legs before hurrying back up my chest where it rested just at the nape of my neck. I tried in vain to wriggle my fingers - but as if there was nothing there at all. I could feel that horrible tickling feeling everywhere except my head and throat and wondered with a sort of absent-minded horror if I was dying. I glanced down at myself in morbid fascination, thinking that perhaps my body would have turned a shade of green or grey, and gasped in amazement at what I saw. I was gone. There was nothing below me except the bed and the duvet lying upon it. For a few short seconds I pondered how it was possible for my head to be there in midair with no body below it before realising that the tingling was slowly but surely advancing up my throat and on to my face. If it hadn't already taken over my mouth I would have screamed - but, being alone in the house, it really wouldn't have mattered if I had.
I squeezed my eyes tightly shut as it passed my nose and wished fervently that I hadn't yelled at Sally before she had left with Mum and Dad.
When I next opened my eyes I was somewhere else entirely.