Chapter 1: A Storm is Brewing
Harry Potter let out an indulgent sigh of contentment. Finally, after seven or eight years of balls-to-the-wall adventures, he was now able to relax in his soft leather armchair and enjoy a lovely record and a spot of tea.
He removed his antiquated round spectacles and rubbed his weary brow with his thumb and forefinger. His life had reached its inevitable peak and he was now free to ride the soothing waves of respite down the slippery slope of degeneration that heralds the onset of adulthood. It was great. Perhaps too great, it seemed. For what was an aging wizard to do with his magical skills in a world with so few Voldemorts left to engage in combat with?
It was a question for his memoirs.
He cracked open a large, leather-bound book and dipped his ever-present, old fashioned quill pen into a container of ink. The pure, untouched page beckoned to his young imagination, the tales of his derring-do virtually pouring from the vibrant recesses of his powerful brain. Touching the quill to the page, he began to write.
Harry Potter’s Memoirs: An explosive life of action and explosions
Finally, after seven or eight years of balls-to-the-wall adventures, I am no longer burdened with the heavy weight of my fateful destiny. I can laugh and be myself. I can enjoy the company of others. Have you ever tried to laugh at the simple happenings that occur when you enjoy the company of others? I have. Did I tell you about the time I put a live grenade in my good friend Ron’s pants?
It all began in the Stone Age, when dinosaurs roamed the Earth -
Suddenly there was a quick rap on the door, followed by the
hesitant voice of his foster father asking whether he was interested in heading
down to the hardware store to hang out with builders and tradesmen. Ever since
Harry had beaten their retarded son Allan to death with a plank of wood, his
foster parents had become especially timid in their co-interactions, often
leaving the room when he entered and sleeping with a large musket within easy
reach of the bed.
Harry, irritated that he had been interrupted during his writing time, replied
with a stern “no”, and indicated that he was enjoying a good record and a spot
of tea.
The door opened anyway, and who should pop in, but spritely young Ron Weasly. That’s who.
“’allo ‘arry,” said Ron, who was something of an English lad, “What in the bleedin’ jillipers ‘ave you been up to? You tosspot.” He made an obscene gesture.
Harry hated Ron immensely, but was careful not to show it. “Ron. Hello.” He responded, stiffly. “I suppose you could say I’m recovering from our last harebrained adventure,” he gestured around his tiny room, located directly under his foster parent’s stairs, “As you can see, I’m writing my memoirs.”
Ignoring any further interaction with Ron, Harry returned to his writing.
He could be a generous taskmaster. Yet sometimes he made me feel like a
woman; powerless and unproductive. I shook my head as though to relieve myself
of the memory of his large clammy hands and hairy beard. Have you ever danced
with the devil in the pale moonlight?
I have. Once. It was 1962 and the Romans
had recently occupied Japan -
“I’ve come to tell you ‘arry,” Ron interrupted rudely, realising Harry would continue writing indefinitely, “’agrid’s looking for you.”
Harry let his quill fall to the paper. His old friend, Agrid!
“Ah,” he mused, “perhaps a storm is brewing…”
