A blonde, middle aged, bespectacled woman sat at her desk, her pen scratching on a sheet amidst a pile of similar written ones, a laptop and a glass of water. She cast an uneasy look at the young man sitting on a chair a few feet from her, before returning to her writing.
“Careful there, you’re writing about my son,” he said, breaking the silence.
She put her spectacles on her table and gave him a disapproving look. “You know, I’m still not comfortable with this arrangement. This is just crazy.” They stared at each other for a moment before she continued. “I mean, you aren’t telling me how you could just jump out of a book. I know for sure I’m not hallucinating, my checkup tuned out fine yesterday. How do I know you aren’t some mad fan here to fool me?”
“My dear Joanne, you’ve got a lot to answer for too. And I thought my little demonstration was proof enough. I did use my signature spell,” he said, running a finger on the black wooden stick he was holding. She cast a look at the paper cutter she had picked up to defend herself, lying in a corner of the room and her face turned pale. She could not bring herself to reach out for it, but as if he had just sensed her thoughts, he briskly pointed his wand at the cutter and whispered, “Accio!” She watched it as she flew across the room and landed gently onto his outstretched palm. “You were never much of an Occlumens,” she said softly. “Well, nineteen years is a long time. Plus, I’m an Auror at the Ministry. That helped,” he sneered.
She put her pen down, turned towards him and asked, “Why are you here Harry?” He was a middle aged man wearing round glasses, his hair was jet black and untidy and a lightning bolt shaped scar lay across his forehead. He looked weary but there was purpose in his eyes. “I came to talk. I had to vent. Ginny wouldn’t understand. Ron and Hermione will, but they’ve got enough to worry about. Neville is at St. Mungo’s, working on a new cure he’s developing for his parents. And the others – well, they’re not the ones who’d get it.” “How did you come here?” She asked again. “Magic in the Wizarding World isn’t just about dying to save people. Surely you know that, Ms. Rowling?” he said.
“Right, what do you want to talk about?”
“It’s – well, not easy to explain. These past years have, well, been – weird, incomplete, hard. I mean, it’s not like we’re not happy or anything, but something is troubling me. I – I can’t sleep at night.. I have nightmares – I’ve had them all my life, a new kind in each phase, the only difference now is that my scar doesn’t hurt.” He adjusted his collar, and she could see the indication of a tattoo on his chest. She immediately blurted out, “What’s that?” He unbuttoned his shirt to reveal the rest of the dragon tattoo.
“But-but, I wrote that you didn’t have one. Ginny was lying about it,” she cried. Harry interrupted, saying, “Yes, she did – but that was just before I turned seventeen. I got this tattoo of a Hungarian Horntail much later. In fact, Ginny wanted me to get it.” Rowling was getting impatient. “So everything about you conforms to my creation. Didn’t I end the series saying that all was well? If that’s the case, I don’t see what’s troubling you,” she interjected.
“Oh my life is more than well. It’s great. It’s the past that I haven’t got over. Don’t you get it? You wiped out my childhood before you wrote that I settled. Every single person I loved – save a few, were murdered. I united the Hallows for no reason at all. Do you think I care that I have mastered death? What was the point of me dying for people after Fred passed away? Or Remus? Or Tonks? Why did I have to watch Sirius die? Or Dumbledore? Or even Cedric? All these people died saving me, Rowling, me! What for? To get married, raise children? Do you think I wanted any of this?”
Rowling’s face was white and her eyes, red. She took a sip of water before talking. “Harry, I cared about you. I couldn’t let you die. Too many people would be hurt. And most of all, you needed to live, I had always wanted you to-“
“Look who’s talking about not wanting to hurt people. You’re lying woman!” he snapped. “Do you think people wanted anyone to die in this story? Making it a tragic story put several people off reading it – and you knew that better than anyone else. Each book left readers thinking that the previous one was better. It was all tragedy – Riddle’s life, mine, Neville’s – and you ruined countless others’ – why did Hermione have to lose her parents? Are you the one who Disapparates to Australia with her every weekend? Are you the one who sees Ron look vacant every time he sees Fred’s face in George’s?”
“I’ll tell you why you kept me alive. I know it wasn’t about finishing off Voldemort. It was your filthy ego. You wanted to prove a point. The whole series was your way of saying, that the one who welcomes death is the one who masters it. I know, Rowling, you wanted me to walk into death - and I did that, but why did you let me return unscathed?”
He paused, leaned forward and took a sip of water from Rowling’ glass. “It took me years to figure out how to get out of the Wizarding World you had imprisoned me in. Funny, hearing that from a guy raised by Muggles, isn’t it? Anyway, I’ll answer your question now. I’ll tell you why I came here. I died the nght Tom Riddle did. Long before that, in fact. I’m a lifeless corpse, breathing and walking around for no reason. I came here to tell you that you should’ve let me die. I want it to end. I want out. You’ve always done it your way. That’s not going to work this time. This time, we do it my way. Oh, I’ve looked forward to this. Never thought it’d happen, though. Never thought you’d decide to write another book in the series. A play, whatever.”
Rowling opened her mouth to speak, but couldn’t. After a few minutes of silence, she spoke slowly, “Harry, I cared about you. You are the only character into whom I poured a little of myself. I shied away from it at first, but over the years, particularly towards the end of your fourth year at Hogwarts, I realised that you were a mirror of my own self. I added my own weaknesses to you, hoping that people all over the world would understand you, and in turn, me- and they did, Harry. It hurts me that while the whole world understood and accepted me, you didn’t. I always wanted the best for you. You’re a good soul, Harry, a much better soul than me. I want you to be happy. If you still think this will make you happy, I am ready to do it. Sit with me, dictate my story – your story, we’ll do this together, we can fix this-” she broke away.
They looked into each other’s eyes for what seemed an eternity, until both pairs of eyes ceased to look green, since they were filled with tears.
Harry croaked, “There was something else I hated you for. My parents – you never did let me get to know them, did you? You wrote about them, though – my mother, particularly. You spoke of Lily as Severus’s friend, as James’s wife, as Remus and Sirius’s friend, as even Petunia’s sister – what was she to me? Just an image who smiled back at me from a secret mirror.. A woman whose face I couldn’t remember.. Why did you have to be so hard on me?”
A tear trickled down Rowling’s face.
He continued, “They say she died to save me, that she taught me to love – but she never existed, did she? She didn’t give me these eyes – you did, right? Oh Joanne, I’m more like you than I can ever be like James or Lily – it’s you – you’re my mother, aren’t you? (she nods and breaks down) All these days I thought I didn’t have a mother, but I was wrong, wasn’t I? All the pain, why did you let me wait so long?”
“I’m really sorry, Harry.”
They hug.
“It’s alright. It’s alright, mom.”
I wrote this ages ago as a submission for a competition at IIT Bombay based on an idea given by Asmita Goswami.
I am posting it on my blog upon the beckoning of Swati Hegde.
