Fiction, Dreams, Writing Life

Harry Murders J.K. Rowling

She stole his intellectual property

The moon’s silver shaft spears the bed, waking Harry Hogg from one of his weirder dreams. Well, that’s what he thought until he read in the morning newspaper that J.K. Rowling has been murdered.

Holy Mackerel, did you read this, Jenny?

I did, love. They said you did it.

What!

Read down the column…

The police are looking for Harry Hogg in connection with this heinous act, Harry read aloud.

Why would I murder J.K. Rowling.

Eat your toast honey, I’m sure the police will be knocking on the door anytime now.

I’m not feeling hungry.

That’s your favorite jam, you should eat because you don’t know when you’ll eat again.

Rubbish, I’m going to wake up in a start… poke me with that fork, honey. Ouch, fuck, that hurt.

You’re not in a dream Harry. You are sweating, though.

I am?

You’ll probably be gone by the time I get back from hunting mink stoles, and after lunch I have another potions exam.

Wait…

Nightmares, it seemed, mostly came in summer, not just the one about Steve, Harry’s friend, dying at the end of a lance while attending a jousting tournament at Castle Hogg, but knowing he should never have let Sir Cedrick challenge Steve, knowing the fearful Cedrik would ultimately deliver his friend into the aisles of Walmart at Christmas.

Whenever Harry has this dream, his stomach turns over and a feeling of guilt settles inside him.

Just then, Harry hears a tapping at the kitchen window. He gets up expecting to see a police dragon.

It’s Hermione and Ron.

We got to get you out of here, Harry. Look at you, sweating and shaking. Sir Cedrik just got news that J.K. is dead, and that you murdered her.

That’s ridiculous. Why would I kill J.K. Rowling? You seem to forget what happened last year, at the Triwizard tournament. You proclaimed she couldn’t write a damned fantasy if her life depended on it, that her mind was as cold as a flagged stone floor. You swore to murder her and take out her imagination. When the police found her, it had gone, every last one of her creations, every corner of her mind, empty.

Hermione, you don’t believe I’d do such a thing, right?

I don’t know, Harry. You’ve been pretty fucked up lately. I mean look at you, wearing that wig of long silver hair, telling people your name is Fumblesomemore? Seriously, the red robes and gold trim, embroidered with the crest of a seagull! That’s pretty weird, Harry. We don’t do seagulls.

She’s right, Harry. It’s pretty fucked up, says Ron.

You believe it, too. You think I killed J.K. Rowling, Ron?

You’ve got to admit, Harry, it’s your style. Death Eaters! It was grizzly, Harry. Sirius Black would have been proud.

Do you think, Ron? Harry questions, forgetting the gravity of the moment.

Here’s the thing, Harry. You wrote to J.K. and welcomed her to the order of the Seagull, a secret society of the most powerful witches and wizards of our time. This select community is centuries old and enlists the most powerful forces of evil. Since Steve’s death on the end of Sir Cedrick’s lance, you have put forward suggestions how to fill his place. Don Weasel, really, Harry? J.K. told you that Don was one of the most forgettable heroes she ever read about.

Harry’s eyes are downcast. Not because he is sad, he is finishing his toast and jam.

Hold on a minute, you two, I’m innocent here.

Why do you think, Harry? Jenny says, returned. Hi, Hermione, love your hair. Do you want some tea, Ron?

We’re good, Jenny. We both just had our flu powder.

Jenny turns back to Harry, having thrown a dozen mink stoles on the back of the door.

It’s clearly a mistake, honey, there’s no way you can achieve what J.K. achieved. Rowland has intelligence. There’s nothing in my crystal ball that tells me you can carry a story beyond the breakfast table, love.

Cool, thanks, sweetie. How did the potions class go?

I need more than spells if I’m to protect you from the Toast Spirit, and if I’m not mistaken, I think the police are here. Jenny says, straining to look out the window. Might be best if they don’t see Hermione and Ron here. They’ll think you kidnapped them.

Good thought, clear off guys.

Hermione’s and Ron’s faces are changing, becoming blurry, then gone.

That’s so neat, honey. If you can do it for them, why not yourself. It would save a fortune on starlight, Phoenix’s, and Fig Newton Transport. I’ll get the door, sweetie.

Flickers of gold and red flashed around the kitchen. Harry can smell burning and hears the crackling of flames, but then the police dragons lay down.

Good morning officer, what can I do for you? Jenny asks.

Good morning, Detective Sirius Black, and this is my partner, Seargent Voldemort. We’d like a word with Harry Hogg, if he’s home.

Yes, he’s home. But can I ask you to move the police dragons, the neighbors get weird with us when they cannot get out of the drive without getting scorched.

Of course, see to it, Voldemort.

Please come in. Harry is alone in the kitchen. I must send some owls and notify friends of what has happened.

Harry is scarfing down his last piece of toast, imagining what his family will do when he is gone. Rowling has stolen every character he’s ever dreamed up. God knows he wanted to kill her. He thought it would all be alright in the end, but now he didn’t know if it would.

A hundred miles outside the dream, Jenny creeps down the stairs, and sits by the fire in Harry’s large chair. She huddles into it, arms around her knees.

Why do things like this always happen to my Harry? He gets up in the night, leaving me in bed, and comes to his study to battle the forces of evil, telling me he has to prove himself a brave wizard in front of some Secret Society.

I swear I prefer his bloody Martian adventures. Why couldn’t he go and resurrect Ray Bradbury and have fun with him?

Jenny sighs and draws the heavy blanket up and under her chin.

Good morning, Mr. Hogg. How are you? Asks Detective Iam Sirius Black.

I was just admiring your amazing transportation; Harry says looking out the window. Lovely creatures, fiercely loyal and extremely loving, I should imagine.

Yes, well, whatever, Mr. Hogg. I’m here to discuss with you the urgent matter of a murder case. That of J.K. Rowling.

Do they have a need for sugar, Jenny could feed them if that’s okay. Or we have salad if they prefer?

Your wife is busy sending owls to alert your friends to these recent events.

Ah, yes, the owls.

The thing is, we have put a few things together. The reason why J.K. Rowling was murdered by the Death Eaters in the Rattery, and concluded that you are responsible, Mr. Hogg, bringing death and destruction to all who have more creativity. And you know, deep down, her death is your fault.

Harry feels sick with guilt. There he was, the other night wishing he was J.K. Rowling, moaning about how uncreative his life is.

You know she stole my characters, right?

You cannot steal imagination, sir.

Yes, yes you can. Harry insisted. Look here, and he pulls a large leather-bound book from the Welsh dresser. See this, Harry says pointing at an open page. This is my yearbook. I attended Hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry in 1978, Harry says, flipping through its pages. Each page held a picture of a different witch or wizard, The Gryffindor’s, the Slytherin’s green, Hufflepuff’s yellow, and Ravenclaw’s blue. It’s all there. Intellectual Property, Harry says.

Voldemort enters.

Don’t let him wake up, sir. Let the bastard panic, sweat, let’s ruin his fucking sleep, let him relive the worst moments of his life, this night, then every night.

Harry is suddenly overcome with a feeling he’s falling out of bed.

The End…

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