NOTE: I love eggs. From my head down to my legs. In fact, I just had a plate of them. Scrambled, in case you were wondering. So, in no way is this story bashing eggs or the wonderful hens who lay them.
Harry Potter looked down rather dejectedly at his plate. The day had begun with such promise. Such hope. But--in less than the time it took for him to decide whether to part his unruly hair to the side or just go for the messy look that worked so well for his father--the day went sour, and all it took was one simple word. Eggs.
It wasn't as though he had anything against eggs. He just didn't . . . like them. They had a funny consistency, all mushy and kind of solid at the same time. And it never seemed to matter how you cooked them: hard-boiled, scrambled, fried, poached, soft-boiled. They all had that strange flavor that could only be described as . . . eggy.
The first question was: Why? Why now? Why him? He looked around at the plates of his housemates. Some contained sausage. Others had fluffy stacks of pancakes all covered in sticky sweet syrups in every flavor imaginable. So, why was it that he, the great Harry Potter he who defeated He Who Shall Not Be Named, ended up at the one plate containing eggs. Was it Fate? Could it be that somewhere out there, some old gods were sitting at a card table in the sky and laughing down at him right now? They were saying: "Look at that little boy. We saved him from a horrible death at the hands of Voldemort, only to send him eggs now! Look at him squirm!" He shivered. No, he didn't believe that any one thing could control a man's destiny, even a god.
So, what then? What was it that conspired against him? Perhaps the house elves. Yes. They had had it out for him for years.
"Damn house elves," He thought.
He had never really known why Hermione had such a soft spot for them. They were small and slightly ugly. Yes, it took something small and slightly ugly to think of something as conniving and sinister as this. But how had they known about his distaste for the vile things?
"They must be watching me. Secretly, and for years they have. And from their observations they must have noted that I never eat the eggs and then concluded that I must hate them above all else."
But house elves weren't that intelligent. No, they could never have done this all by themselves. Something bigger than just a friendly feud was taking place here. Much bigger. There was only one person in the world that knew all of his deepest fears and loathing's and had the gall to use them against him. And that one person was Voldemort.
"Of course, what have I been thinking this entire time? It must be him! He's always hated me and this is the ultimate act of hate. And he must have known that now I would have to hate him even more than I already did. And he would thus have all the more reason to launch another attack at me. It'll look like it was my fault. I'll get the blame. I hate to be blamed." He slammed his fist against the table in his anger and quickly glanced around. "They're all looking at me. Maybe they work for him. I won't let them have the satisfaction of knowing that they've won. I'll pretend to not care at all."
But all the same he gave the loathsome yellow pile a look of disgust and poked at them with his fork. What was really weird was that he loved chicken. Chicken salad, chicken broth, sweet and sour chicken, chicken and rice soup, chicken flavored ramen. He loved them all. So, how could an egg—something that was essentially an under-developed chicken—taste so horribly? It baffled him and he slipped into a daze as he pondered the possibilities. An egg came out of a chicken, so one would think that some of the chicken's flavor would have been imparted upon the egg. It had had time to marinate in the wholesome chickeny goodness. And then more time, because the chicken sat on it at least a little while, right?
He heard the clank and clatter of his classmates getting up from their seats in the great hall and departing for their respective classes, but he ignored them. Harry Potter was too wrapped up in his thoughts to even spare a little of his brainpower for class. He would play hooky for this egg, but he had to find the answer.
But perhaps it wasn't the chicken's fault at all. Perhaps it was the egg's fault. Of course! Only an egg could be behind the original egginess of eggs. It was just that fowl. Ha ha! He made a pun. But he couldn't stop to laugh at it now. No, he had to keep going. He was on a roll.
It all came down to the question: Which came first? The chicken or the egg? The answer to this would be the key to unlocking all of his questions. And with his prize in sight, he quickly bent to the task of figuring this out. But soon he realized the folly in this quest. It would have been logical for the chicken to come first, but that would derail his entire hypothesis. Besides, if the chicken did come first, where did it come from? And, without a rooster, where could the egg that would breed a whole race of chickens have come from? But if the egg came first, where did it come from? And, more importantly, who hatched it? Did a friendly goose take it under its wing and raise the poor, motherless chick? Was this chick continuously discriminated against because it was different and couldn't swim? Did the mother goose have to discipline it because it because a troubled teen? And, if so, where did this goose come from?
There was no straight answer. To get a chicken, one needed an egg, and apparently a goose. But to get an egg, one needed not only a chicken but also a rooster. And if someone were to eat that first fateful egg, there would never be any chickens or roosters or eggs! The possibilities were endless! And, just as Harry was about to give in to this oblivion of thought and go completely insane, a voice broke through his musings.
Ginny skipped up to the table where he was seated and looked in the direction of his gaze with mild interest and then back at Mr. Potter. Sometimes Harry was so strange. But strange in a cute way. "Hey, Harry. You gonna eat those? No? Thanks."
And just like that, they were gone. Not only his eggs, but also his plate. And irony upon ironies, he was hungry. Hungry enough to eat an egg.
So, left alone with his thoughts and an empty stomach, something inside of Harry's left temple snapped. Most likely it was something important, like the nerve that withheld long, drawn-out cries of fury and frustration. But he was beyond such thoughts now. He just threw back his head and let out a loud, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"