I grab him by the back of the robes and drag him backwards off the bench, forcing him to stand. "Alright Malfoy, you've had your fun, leave me alone, you stupid-"
He jerks himself away and glares at me. "What the HELL are you talking-"
"Stop TOUCHING MY BAG, stop SLIPPING BOOKS INTO IT, stop MESSING WITH ME, stop REMINDING ME that IDIOTIC GITS LIKE YOU LIVE while GOOD AND NOBLE PEOPLE DIE-"
Despite the curious looks given by others sitting in the Great Hall, Malfoy continues to feed the argument. "I didn't DO anything, Potter, you idiot!" His hand reaches into his robes for his wand, and I instinctively reach into my own robes for mine.
Completely past the point of what people thought of me, I pull my wand out and point it at his chest. "Just recently surviving a war not good enough for you, Malfoy? Thought you might as well spread more misery while you're temporarily staying here before heading home with your mum and dad?"
He grows more furious with every word, and having had enough I lift my wand and am a second away from wielding the worst hex I can think of directly at Malfoy's face, before someone grabs me by the back of the robes and forces my wand hand down.
"Harry, this isn't the time," Hermione pants as she struggles to keep me barred. "I know you've had tons of stress very recently-"
"Oh, YES," I snarl, trying to jerk my arm free. "YES, fighting Voldemort, the DARKEST WIZARD OF ALL TIME, was certainly VERY STRESSFUL."
"-but you can't just start a fight in the middle of the Great Hall! The people staying here are recuperating from a WAR, Harry! They've seen much too many losses and I DOUBT they would be pleased to witness some more violence!"
I struggle against Hermione's surprisingly strong grip. "Getting rid of scum isn't violent. It's just a public service!"
Malfoy doesn't lower his wand as he glares at me. "What is this about, Potter? Feeling vengeful? Picking on random people now? Has the hero descended to a bully?"
"THE BOOKS, Malfoy! You know you put them there in my bag! One after the other after the other, every single day! So how do you do it, Malfoy? I know you went to a printer, but how did you find out every thought that was running through my head throughout all the scenes in the books?"
Hermione's hold slackens a little as she asks, "What are you talking about, Harry?"
"I'll tell you for the LAST TIME, Potter, I didn't make them! That's the same thing that happened to me! All last week, another book in the seven-part saga of Harry Potter" -he spits my name out- "would magically appear in my room! I tell you, we're all fic-"
After struggling for a second, he seems unable to say the word, and he compromises by finishing, "You know what you are, Potter." A tense moment passes, and then he sits down again at the table to finish his lunch.
Hermione follows me out of the Hall, relentlessly asking questions until I pointedly jog away from her.
At night, laying on the bed set aside for me at the window, I raise my hand. I wave it in front of my face. I pinch myself.
Over the past few days, another book just like the first would appear in my bag, until I had a grand collection of seven. Each one perfectly describing one year of my life, from my point-of-view.
Even though I never wrote anything or even told anyone about what happened in the past seven years.
And on the back, each book has a brief summary and a few blurbs remarking upon the wonder of "J.K. Rowling's writing". With references to the "awards her novels have received".
I turn my head from side to side. I roll over onto my stomach.
I wonder if these movements have been planned.
I wonder if every thought I ever had was planned.
What if they were? What could I do? Moreover, could I even do anything? Is my life already mapped out, my choices already made?
Then what does that mean? All the hardships I'd struggled through, all the battles I barely escaped, all the life-tearing decisions that faced me around every turn- do they not matter anymore? Was I always meant to win in the end? Did I just survive through a wizarding war not because of quick wit and sheer luck, but because someone had already planned it out that way?
The questions pile one on top of the other until I almost suffocate, and I sit up straight in bed, gasping.
No.
Malfoy's lying.
But.
His explanation makes sense- how else could I have been so fortunate as to survive through so many obstacles without the aid of someone more…omniscient?
I reach up to my forehead and touch the lightning bolt-shaped scar. Was it always meant to be there, from the very moment "J.K. Rowling" put quill to parchment? Could my story even possibly go any other way?
I stay sitting and listening to my breathing in the darkness, trying to concentrate. After the war I thought that Malfoy of all people would be more humble, but he still remains acid as ever. Could he be...upset about something?
Perhaps his own non-existence?
This is absurd. It is such a far-fetched story, and yet I feel myself being carried away by it. A few moments after mulling over all this, I suddenly find myself angry with whoever this "J.K. Rowling" bloke is. How dare he force me through years of adversity and difficulty, only in the end to reveal that I'm not even real, that what I had gone through didn't even really matter? Why did he have to kill off people I was close to, squeeze pain after pain after pain into my life when it all could've gone so differently? I could've had both parents living, I could've lived a normal life as a normal wizard boy, Voldemort would never even have had to exist!
I grow feverish imagining alternate lives for myself and feeding my hatred of J.K. Rowling. It's only after I grow so weary that I'm forced to close my eyes and drift off to a restless sleep that I realize how Draco Malfoy must feel at the moment.
Alone.
Invalidated.
Cheated.
And not mattering in the least.
