MANY YEARS LATER
The doorbell rang. I finished wiping my ass, got into some old clothes and went to the door.
There was a young guy out there with red hair hanging down around his face and a frizzy-hair girl who just kept smiling as if she were crazy.
“Yeh. Who you two guys?”
“She is a woman. Don’t you remember us? From that first train into Hogwarts? That time we defeated Quirinus Quirrell? That other time you saved my younger sister from the Basilisk? That time when we saved your uncle from going back to Azkaban? Remember? That time we helped you figure out the riddles for the TriWizard Tournament? And Dumbledore’s Army? And the time Dumbledore got killed? Then there was that time we all quit school and went searching around the country for Horcruxes? Then we fought against Voldemort and he thought he killed you but he didn’t? Then we grew up and had families and boring jobs and lived happily for ever and ever Amen?”
“Oh, balls, come on in.”
They brought in a flower, some kind of red-orange thing on a green stem. It made a lot more sense than many things, except that it had been murdered. I found a bowl, put the flower in, brought out a jug of wine and put it on the coffeetable.
“You don’t remember Hermione?” Ron asked. “You said you wanted to fuck her.”
“Very nice, but not now.”
“Potski, how are you going to make it without Hogwarts?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll fuck you. Or let you fuck me. Hell, I don’t know.”
“You can sleep on our floor anytime.”
“Can I watch while you fuck?”
When the wine was done, we went down and saw a nude floor show, drinking and hollering and laughing. I don’t know who had the money but I think Ron had most of it, which was nice for a change, and I kept laughing and squeezing Hermione’s ass and her thighs and kissing her, but nobody cared. As long as the money lasted, you lasted.
They drove me back and Ron left with Hermione. I got into the door, said goodbye, turned on the radio, found a half-pint of scotch, drank that, laughing, feeling good, finally relaxed, free, burning my fingers with short cigar butts, then made it to the bed, made it to the edge, tripped, fell down, fell down across the mattress, slept, slept, slept…
In the morning it was morning and I was still alive.
Maybe I’ll write a novel, I thought. Maybe I’ll write seven, then make them into movies.
And then I did.