Forever Young

Dear Diary,

Reasons Chris is useless:

1. He shares a room room with HP, and won’t steal back my invisibility cloak. (“He needs it more than we do. All those Treacle Tarts are giving him a muffin top.”) Jury says: Chris is afraid.

2. He won’t pay Sir Cadogan to off the Fat Lady to get me out of my debt. I promised her Horsestra at Christmas, a drug that can only be made from the saliva of a Norwegian Ridgeback dragon—which, tshhhyeah, there’s plenty of those just hangin’ around. Now she’s started appearing in random portraits throughout the school as I pass, making finger guns and miming stabbing. She even pushed the hangman out of the painting of The Execution of Imus the Inappropriate and stood there in his place as I headed to Charms. As I walked by, she wiggled the noose and pointed with her free hand, first at me, then the rope, raising her eyebrows. “Just give Sir Cadogan a couple hundred Galleons and let him run her through with his lance,” I begged Chris. “I don’t have that kind of money,” said Chris. My ass. Chris is in charge of the profits from DOPES, since he’s the founder, and also a man. I get five percent, but I give it all to Squirrel in little envelopes under his office door. Sealed with Lisa Frank stickers.

3. He is OBSESSED with finding some mirror. Apparently he was wandering around one night, drunk and stoned, and he found this mirror which showed him surrounded by liquor. “Omg, Chris, it’s called your reflection,” I said. “You don’t understand,” he said. “This was a whole other world. I was sitting on a fancy bar stool, waving at myself. And the shelves…Jill, you have to see it.” He passed out before we could go look at it. After that, DOPES and our end-of-term paper for Binns took over, and we didn’t have a chance to go back. Then last week I went to a back corridor to practice proposing to Squirrelly. “I know I only just turned twelve, but what’s age, really? If only you could somehow halt your own progression through the vast desert of time—”An idea occurred to me. A really brilliant one, actually. I should get the Sorcerer’s Stone for my Squirrel! That way he can stay forever thirtysomething. Then, when I get to be twenty-eight, I can drink the elixir, too! And if I get him the Stone, he’ll definitely love me more than Harry Potter. I started to make a note on my hand, when the sound of footsteps made me dart behind the statue of Cragar the Crafty. It was Dumbledore, and with him, a burly man in a blue jumpsuit and a toolbelt. 

“In here,” said Dumbledore, shepherding the burly man into a room down the hall. I followed them, peering through the half-open door. They were standing in front of an enormous mirror. Probably the one Chris is so nuts about, I thought.

The burly man scratched his head, looking from the mirror to Dumbledore.

“Didn’t you used to be the most powerful wizard in the world or something?” he asked.

Dumbledore smiled. “At one time. Now I’m afraid it wouldn’t take much to do me in." He laughed. "Why, a student could probably manage it!"

The burly man shrugged and hoisted the mirror onto his shoulders. “Where am I taking it?”

“To the depths of the school,” said Dumbledore.

The man chuckled. “Yeah, I got ridda all my mirrors when I hit forty, too.”

“Actually, I’d leave it here, except that a student recently discovered it. Young Harry Potter. I figure it might be safer elsewhere.”

“Harry Potter? He goes here?”

“Let me tell you more about my duel with Grindelwald. Perhaps once we’re done with this you can show me how those rugged hands of yours handle a bottle of Taylor & Norton. Allow me.” He took the burly man’s arm and they apparated together.

            Long story short, the mirror’s gone, into the bowels of the school, and Chris won’t let it go. “It shows the future! If we can just find a way to unlock it...”

            “Chris, I’ve got more important things to worry about.” I’d decided not to tell him about my plan to get the Sorcerer’s Stone for Quirrell.

            “Like what?” he narrowed his eyes.

            “Like paying the Fat Lady! Like keeping Harry Potter from making a move on Squirrel!”

            “Jill, if we own the bar the mirror showed me, I’ll buy you a hundred squirrels, and you can pay the Fat Lady in pelts.”

           

So that’s that. A big break came for me, though, in the form of Draco Malfoy, who, if I hadn’t already promised myself to Squirrel, I would be on like a Labrador on a poodle. That’s how they make Labradoodles.

            Chris and I were sneaking around the castle at night, as usual, when we saw McGonnagall leading Draco by the ear. There was no time to hide, but that was okay. Teachers usually ignore Chris and me when we’re sneaking around the castle. We’re not worth the effort it would take to discipline us, and they all think it’s a matter of time before we flunk out, anyway.

            “You don’t understand, Professor. Harry Potter’s coming—he’s got a dragon.”

            “What utter rubbish!” said Mackie-G. “How dare you tell such lies! Come on—I shall see Professor Snape about you, Malfoy.”

            As she dragged Malfoy past us, I leaned over. “What kind of dragon does Twatter have?” I asked.

            “How the fuck should I know?” snarled Malfoy. “I don’t talk to Gryffinwhores.”

            I resisted pointing out that I don’t get paid for what I do. “Is it a Norwegian Ridgeback?” I asked. “If you tell me, I’ll make sure Potter gets caught.”

            “Yes,” said Malfoy through clenched teeth. “They’re taking it up to the roof.”

            Chris and I raced to the roof, where we met a bunch of ninjas on broomsticks. I pointed my wand at them and yelled, “Alohamora,” hoping it would open their guts. Chris pulled some prison moves on them, and we stripped them of their traveling cloaks, then threw the bodies off the tower. We mounted the abandoned broomsticks and waited. A moment later, we heard footsteps. Potter and Beard threw off my invisibility cloak. They carried a dragon.

            “Are you Charlie’s friends?” asked HP.

            “Uh, yeah,” I said in a deep voice. “I’m Char—lyle, and this is—”

            “Peterborn,” said Chris.

            “Charlyle and Peterborn,” said HP. “Nice to meet you. I’m Harry Potter. This is Hermione Granger.”

            “A boy wizard and his talking Beaver,” said Chris. “How Wind in the Willows.”

            Hermione looked ready to kill. I cleared my throat. “So you’ve got a dragon you need taken off your hands?”

            “Yep,” said HP. “This is Norbert.”

            “A Norwegian Ridgeback, if I’m not mistaken.”

            “Er, yeah.” Silence. “So, uh…is that harness for him?”

            “What?” Chris and I looked at the series of straps dangling between our stolen brooms. “Yes,” I said. “Strap him in.”

            HP approached with Norbit. “How do I…?”

            “I’m sorry, aren’t you the one who defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?”

            It took some fiddling, but eventually the Boy Wonder got Nolan strapped into the harness.

            “So, long, Norbert,” Harry said, patting the dragon’s scaly head. Norfolk reached out and gave HP a slobbery kiss.

            “Good bye, Norbert,” said Hermione.

            “Little Nokia’s off to the Great Dragon Farm in the Sky,” I said. “We’ll catch you folks later.” Harry and Beard disappeared into the tower, and Chris and I kicked off. The dragon was alarmingly heavy. “Where would be the best place to mine his saliva?” I asked, as we glided unsteadily away from the school.

            At that moment, we were startled by a loud munching sound. Our brooms jerked and wobbled as Norm MacDonald chewed the straps.

            “Don’t let him go!” I yelled.

            “I can’t hold on,” said Chris, as his broom was pulled upside down.

            Nordic opened his mouth and breathed a stream of flames, which burnt through the remaining straps. With a scream, the young dragon plummeted toward the Forbidden Forest, disappearing among the trees. The broomsticks were on fire. Chris and I zoomed back to the castle, trying to outrace the flames, which only grew as they were exposed to vast amounts of oxygen. At the roof of the tower, we tucked and rolled. The burning brooms raced on, getting smaller and smaller, until they might have been the tails of two shooting stars. Chris and I lay on the roof of the tower, panting. Then we started to laugh.

            “That was totally kick-ass,” said Chris.

            “Yeah, until we dropped the dragon in the FF. Now how am I going to get its spit?”

            “You don’t think—” Chris started.

            “What?”

            “I mean, a dragon loose in the Forest…could probably do a lot of damage.”

            “So what? The forest is dark and creepy. What’s the worst a dragon’s gonna do, eat a werewolf? Ignite zombies? It’d be different if the forest was full of beautiful, innocent creatures. But it’s Forbidden. It’s full of dark shit.”

            “You’re right,” said Chris.

            “The more important issue is the saliva.”

            “We could go into the Forest and try to find the dragon.”

            “Not at night,” I said, shivering.

            “There is one other way.”

            “What?” I asked eagerly.

            “Well, it did lick Harry Potter’s face.”

            “No,” I said. “I am not touching Harry Potter’s face. I’d let the Fat Lady kill me first.”

            “It’s that, or find the dragon.”

            I sighed. “Let’s go get the house elves to fix us a nightcap. Then we’ll come up with a plan.”

            Chris got plastered, and asked for a fifteen minute power nap, so I decided to fill you in, Diary, while I wait for him to wake up. I can’t imagine what lies in store for us these next few days. There’s so much to do: Find the dragon saliva, make Horsestra, finish Binns’ paper, get the Sorcerer’s Stone for my Squirrel, destroy Harry Potter…if life is this complicated when I’m twelve, imagine what it’ll be like when I’m thirteen.

Chris is stirring. Later, Diary.

Love,

Jill

           

Chalk One Up for the Little Guys

Dear Diary,

Since Christmas, Jill and I have been spending all of our spare time trailing Harry Potter. Or at least, we've been trying to tail him whenever he's not under the invisibility cloak that he stole. Jill is taking it very seriously and frankly, it's been slightly terrifying. Even the slightest mention of HP's name sparks a Dresden-strong fire in her eyes. She can't focus on her school work, leaving me to finish our research project on Nicholas Flammel for Professor Binns.

On one late night in the library, I was sitting over my scroll of parchment and stack of books when who but Hermoine Granger should approach me.

'Excuse me,' she said through her gigantic buckteeth.

'Sup, Beav?' I replied, not looking up. 'I can't find your dam anywhere around school. Do you keep ALL those sticks up your ass?'

'I was wondering when you were going to be done with that?'

'This table? Not for a while. Can't you gnaw the legs of a different one?'

'I meant your copy of Magicke Olde as Fucke.'

'Ahhh, nope. I need to finish my report on Nicholas Flammel for Binns' class. '

Her eyebrows flailed wildly. 'What do you mean Nicholas Flammel? Why are you interested in him?'

'Look, bitch. I'm keeping the book. And the odds of me ever giving it to you are about as good as the odds you can run a brush through that rat trap on top of your head. Not likely. Now get your webbed-footed, paddle-tailed, Chiclet incisored face out of here.'

She harumphed out of the library, and I finished filling my bibliography with books I never consulted. It had been a stressful evening and I decided to stop by the mirror. I've been visiting the mirror almost every night, each night more hopeful its secrets will reveal themselves. Tucked into my four-poster, my dreams offer suggestions of how to unlock the liquor I see alongside my reflection.

I threw open the door of the room, and before I could unshoulder my bookbag, I noticed the mirror was gone! I 180'd and ran up to the common room to find Jill.

'Where the hell is the mirror?!' My voice did that annoying thing where it goes up too high at the end of a question.

'Dumbledore moved it after he found Harry Potter looking at it. I followed him to the room. It just happened tonight,' Jill explained.

'Oh great. I was this close to figuring out how to make it work and now it's gone.' I was sulkier than a Soviet hockey player at the 1980 Olympics. 'The Miracle on Ice will pay for this.'

'You mean Harry?'

'What? Oh, right. Harry.'

I showed Jill our project but she seemed distracted. 'The Sorcerer's Stone gives the user eternal life and an autographed headshot of Henry Winkler...'

'Good, it sounds good,' Jill said.

'You're not even listening! I just said...'

'I'm going to bed.' And with that, Jill ascended the stairs into the girls' dormitory. I shoved our report back into my bag and went off to bed, sober and furious.

The next morning I awoke early and dashed off to the Forbidden Forest for some last minute handfuls of Evanesca. The Fat Lady called after me, 'I haven't forgotten about that Horsestra!' which Jill had stupidly promised her. I had no time for the fat lady, however, because it was the day of Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff and DOPES orders were coming in left and right.

Sales went steadily through the game and, knowing I couldn't unlock the relocated mirror, I went into the forest to find myself a hefty clump of belladonna. I spotted some slightly off the path and hunched over to pick it up. That's when I heard voices.

'... d-don't know why you wanted t-t-to meet here of all places, Severus...'

'Oh, I thought we'd keep this private. Students aren't supposed to know about the Sorcerer's Stone, after all.'

It was Quirrell and Snape!

'Have you found out how to get past that beast of Hagrid's yet?'

'B-b-but, Severus, I - '

'You don't want me as your enemy, Quirrell.'

'I - I don't know what you - '

'You know perfectly well what I mean.'

I heard a crash from a nearby tree. I was not the only eavesdropper here. Quietly, I tip-toed toward the sound and saw him. Harry Potter! He must have pulled his invisibility cloak over him because he was gone in a flash. Behind me, the voices had disappeared. I doubled back and saw Quirrell standing in silence. He looked hurt and confused. Was he supposed to be helping Snape get to the Stone? Of course! That's why Harry followed them here: he hates Snape and is trying to get to the stone before they do!

'Professor?' He jumped nearly a foot in the air. 'I know how to get past the three headed dog.'

'TELL ME!' He spoke without turning around. The turban around his head fell in and out, gently, as if his head was throbbing with excitement.

'Erm, just play it some music. It'll fall right asleep.'

A maniacal laugh emitted from the back of the rather pale Arab. 'THE DARK LORD WILL RISE AGAIN! YOU WILL BE REWARDED FOR THIS, BOY. I MUST GO NOW. I AM HUNGRY.'

As I saw Professor Quirrel walk back to the castle, shoving a cheeseburger in the back of his turban, I couldn't help but smile. He was a simple man, a few quirks, but deep down we were the same - just a couple of skinny guys who were tired of being pushed around.

xoxo

Chris

The Package

Dear Diary,

I’m seven years old. My father reads aloud to me. The Horse Whisperer, by Nicholas Evans:

Wayne smashed his fist and forearm against the windshield and when it shattered he saw the horse was still there on the hood. Its right foreleg was stuck in the V-shaped struts of the wing mirror and the animal was screaming at him, covered in fragments of glass, its mouth foaming and bloody. Beyond it, Wayne could see the other horse at the side of the road, trying to limp away, its rider still hanging by her leg from the stirrup.

I lean over the side of the bed and vomit. As my father reaches over to hold my hair, his sleeve slips down, revealing a tattoo of a skull and a serpent on his forearm. I sit up and wipe my mouth.

“What’s that, Daddy?” I ask.

“It’s the Grateful Dead crest,” he replies.

“Why is it on your arm?”

“Sometimes, when someone really likes a certain band, they’ll show their support by getting a tattoo of the band’s crest.”

“Can I touch it?”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea. It still kind of stings.”

My mom enters. She gasps when she sees my father’s tattoo. “Donald! Where did you get that.”

“Pain & Pleasure. On the corner of Milan and Bogart.”

“Why?”

“All the Deadheads have them.”

My mother is shocked, then a look of understanding crosses her face. “Don, may I see you for a minute. Over here.”

My dad pats my arm and assures me he’ll be right back, then follows my mom across the room.

“Don,” my mother whispers loudly. “That is not the mark of the Deadheads – that’s the Dark Mark.”

“The what-Mark?”

“Death Eaters! He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s supporters.”

“But I thought-”

“I know what you thought. But now your obsession with the Grateful Dead has made you a servant of Voldemort.”

“Voldemort’s dead!”

“He disappeared, but a wizard that powerful doesn’t die. He’ll be back, and when he does…”

“Oh god.” My father runs a hand over his comb-over. “What have I done?”

My father died today. Rather, he died three weeks ago, but the owl carrying the message got eaten by a falcon. The falcon gave the message to his mate for their nest. When the babies hatched, one of them ate the scroll of paper, shit it out, and a dog ate the falcon droppings. The dog brought the message to my dorm, transformed into a human, and apologized for the soggy paper.

“You look strangely familiar,” I said to the dog-man. “Who are you?”

“No one you know,” he said gruffly. “I’d best be getting back to the clink.”

I assumed he meant Clink, the S&M club just outside Glasgow.

“Why were you a dog?”

He gave me a small smile. “Something I do every now and then, just to enjoy a bit of freedom. While the Dementors are sleeping. One day, I’ll be free for good.”

I didn’t know what he meant, so I invited him into my bed, and when he declined, I said I wished him a good time at Clink and reminded him to always use a safeword.

I suppose I should be sad, but the truth is, Diary, I don’t know how to feel. I loved my father, but he was distant. At least, that’s what my mother always said.

My mother said in her message that my father had left me something. She said she’d send it along as a Christmas present.

On Christmas Eve, when everyone else was in bed, Chris and I snuck up to the seventh floor to see if we could get the Room of Requirement to turn into a poker den. Imagine my thrill, Diary, when I saw an owl fly through a corridor window, carrying a parcel wrapped in Shindig paper. Only one person on Earth has wrapped so few gifts that she still has a roll of wrapping paper from 1965, and that’s my mother. I raced toward the owl, waving my arms.

“Here, right here! Me, me, me! That’s my present.”

The owl’s yellow eyes widened, and it took off through the corridor. Chris and I followed. I hurtled down the moving staircase. As I reached terra firma, the owl disappeared around a corner. Behind me, Chris ralphed. He never does well with the moving staircases.

I didn’t even see Snape until I crashed into him. “What on earth—” he began.

“Fuck off, mate,” I said, continuing after the owl.

The owl flew to the entrance of Gryffindor tower. At the portrait of the Fat Lady, it screeched, and the portrait swung open. As I approached, the portrait shut in my face. I couldn’t remember the password. Where’s the Beard when you need her?

“I’m a member of DOPES,” I told the fat lady. “I can get you anything you want. Evanesca, belladonna, habeas corpus…You name it.”

“Horsestra,” she said.

“Done,” I promised. I was halfway up the stairs when I realized that Horsestra is made from the saliva of the Norwegian Ridgeback dragon. Fuck. Where was I going to find one of those? I’ve heard what happens to students who don’t pay the Fat Lady.

I dove through the portrait hall just in time to see the owl glide up the stairs toward the boys dormitory. What the…I followed. It lit on Hairy Twatter’s bed, and placed the package among his other presents.

“What are you doing?” I shouted. I leapt onto HP’s bed. The owl tried to claw my face. “That’s mine!” I screamed. “Mine! My father left it to me.” I slapped the owl across the face and its head spun completely around. It flew out the window. I was just about to grab the package when The Boy Wizard stirred. I froze. This would all go a lot better if he remained asleep and I quietly took what’s mine.

“Shhh,” I whispered tenderly. “Go back to sleep.”

“Quirrell,” he murmured. My eyes widened. “Not strong enough…to resist…”

Not strong enough to resist what?

“Wear him down…” HP continued.

I gasped. Was Harry Potter after my Squirrel? Did he believe that his charms were impossible for our Defense Against the Dark Arts professor to resist?

I raised my fist to punch him, then slowly lowered it. This wouldn’t do. I needed to find out more. I waited for him to speak again, but all he said after that was, “Mum…no! Don’t kill her! Please!” What a douche.

I slipped off the bed, and hurried back down the stairs to the common room. My insides were like glass--breathe too hard and the whole system would shatter. Harry Potter was trying to claim Quirrell’s heart. And, given how famous he was, he would probably succeed. What did I have to offer my Squirrel, besides the fact that I’m on birth control?

I had to find Chris. I hurried out the portrait hole and—

--crashed into Snape. “Detention,” he said, looking at me with glittering black eyes.

“I have to find my—”

“Fuck off, mate,” he said. It was the first time I'd seen him grin.

An hour later, Chris and I sat in the common room. I relayed what I'd heard Harry Potter sleepbitch.

“I thought I was the token gay of Gryffindor,” Chris said.

“You were. He’s stolen everything from us. Your identity, my present.”

Shit, my package was still on HP’s bed. The sole item left for me by my dead father, and it was in the possession of my least favorite person of all time. 

“From now on,” I said, staring into the fire. “I’m not letting him out of my sight. Everywhere Harry Potter goes, I go. From the highest cliff, to the darkest dungeon. I won’t let him take what’s mine. Again,” I amended.

Chris sighed. “I can’t believe we have detention next term.”

I rolled my eyes. Detention in the Forbidden Forest was the least of my problems. Really, though, I thought. What could my dad have bequeathed to me that I would really want? His Peabo Bryson collection?

An idea dawned on me. There was a way to connect with my dead father that would be more permanent than wearing his bathrobe or listening to his music. I could get his tattoo on my arm. The Deadheads mark or whatever. I’m no Grateful Dead fan, but I’ll do it for Dad. Of course, in the U.K. you can’t get a tattoo without parental permission until you’re fourteen. But I swear on my love for Professor Squirrel that as soon as I’m a fourth year, I’ll go to Hogsmeade and get that skull and serpent tattooed on my arm. I hope it doesn’t hurt too much.

“Did you hear what I just said?” Chris asked.

I shook my head. “Sorry.”

“Merry Christmas.”

I looked at the clock. It was midnight. “Merry Christmas, Chris.”

Love,

Jill

Green and Gold: The First Quidditch Match

Dear Diary,

Yesterday was the big Quidditch match and the debut of Harry Potter as Gryffindor seeker and boy, oh boy, was that stadium packed. The celebration began early in the common room, students enchanting signs to glow and display messages of support and enthusiasm. Girls swarmed in packs, primping each other and assuring their fellow vixens that their matching gloves, hat, and scarf combo was totally hott. The guys wagered over the breakfast table - 'Five Galleons that Slytherin loses!' 'Seven Sickles that Harry catches the Snitch before they score!' - as they shoveled bacon and black pudding. I, however, sat nervously at the edge of my four-poster, wondering where in the hell Jill and Neville were.

After the failed first meeting of DOPES, I had given up on teaching my fellow students to appreciate the natural beauty of the scientific world and had instead focused on selling them herbal delights in exchange for some serious bank. The problem was that I had no idea where to acquire such things at this school for the deaf, dumb, and magical. Had I been on my home lot, in the back of the Y, I could have sat on the broken down wooden bench with white knee socks, and an old Seville with a driver wearing sunglasses would fix me up with whatever I needed for a wad of twenties. But now I was on different turf, and I had to play by its rules. Who would know the psychedelic properties of this realm's flora and fauna?

Neville Longbottom.

I approached him one night after dinner, catching him on the second floor and pulled him behind a statue of Sir Germantoly, Slayer of Wereponies and Dodo Birds. 'I need a favor,' I said to his blank, freckled face. He looked at me with the indifference of a grazing cow. 'Aren't you that kid that drugged Oliver Wood?' 'Yes,' I conceited, 'and if you don't help me I'll do much, much worse to you.' What Neville needed to understand was that I was brought up not to feel shame. My mother would drag me with her, bi-monthly, to the local Sam's Club where I would perform a series of monologues from soap operas, Christmas carols and dramatic reenactments of Calvin and Hobbes comic strips, wearing a sign that said 'Not allowed home til the groceries are paid for' and a empty coffee can at my feet. She would stand nearby, yelling notes that I was expected to incorporate into the act immediately, until enough shoppers would feel sorry for me and drop enough money into the can to pay for the cart full of Lucky Charms, frozen chicken wings and Baileys. 'Fine,' he said begrudgingly, 'what do you need?'

I explained the operation to Neville and Jill over a table in the Restricted Section. Neville was in charge of the research, Jill the acquisition, and I would take control of moving the product. An hour later, Neville handed us a small scrap of parchment with plant names and their ideal habitats. Soon enough, Jill was off to the Forbidden Forest and returned with an armful of Arbuscula Evanesca, a plant whose stalk is filled with a hallucinogenic liquid and whose leaves can be smoked, causing the user to feel a state of mental and physical euphoria. The next morning, we would head off to the Quidditch stadium to sell small bags for Ten Galleons under the Slytherin bleachers. Jill and Neville would work the crowd, informing others of my location and I would be in charge of distribution.

It was thirty minutes before the game started before Jill burst into my dormitory, breathlessly. 'Sorry!' she apologized. 'I was at breakfast and Squirrel was eating a croissant. He takes such little bites! It's so adorable.' I asked where Neville was and Jill informed me he had already taken off for the game and would meet us there.

When we arrived at the stadium, it was already packed. We could see the Gryffindor team take the field. 'I'll be suprised if Harry can still ride his broom today,' Jill snickered. If all had gone according to plan, Harry had found himself at Hagrid's disposal the night before and the salty sea captain had given him the biznazz after knocking him out with some Arbuscula Evanesca. I took my place under the bleachers and soon enough, students from all houses were in line to snag some shwag.

'Oy! You lot! What's going on here?' It was Percy Weasley, the Gryffindor prefect. Everyone scattered, the way we used to do in prison when Big Jamal starting looking for participants for the Christmas pageant. I took advantage of the chaos and ducked under the heavy tapestry behind me, climbed my way into a section of Ravenclaw students and immediately swallowed the two remaining bags I had on me. For a brief moment, I felt the wind on my face, my eyes squinted to stare at a parcel of sunlight tearing through cloud. Upwards, fourteen dazzling players soared and swerved on broomsticks. It truly was an amazing sight, something I would have never seen had I not been accepted into Hogwarts. I thought about my parents. Had they ever seen a Quidditch game before the Carnival cruise disaster? I did not pursue the sentimentality long, the liquid core of the plants was beginning to kick in. Sky met earth in trippy folds, and the crowd began to scream. Harry Potter was spinning erratically, jerking uncontrollably, a chaotic dance with the ever-changing scenery. It may have been the drugs, but in my mind, his movement was perfectly choreographed to Jamal's rendition of 'Good King Wenceslas'.

My instinct told me to get the hell out of a public setting and I set off discretely for the castle. It was empty inside, save for the Headless Hunt, who barreled through the wall of the Great Hall, sending me on a tear up the nearest flight of stairs. Pursuing me at a steady canter, I raced up flight after flight, pleading with every portrait I could see to open and reveal a safe passage. Without knowing why, I barricaded myself into a room I had never visited before. My ear to the door, I determined the Hunt had passed as was ready to leave when I saw a mirror out of the corner of my eye. I determined I should check to see if my eyes were red in case I ran into Filch. And that's when, Diary, I peered into the mirror and saw myself, not standing as I was, but sitting on a posh stool in front of a well-stocked bar. There was bottle after bottle of Patron, Bombay, Seagrams, and fifty different beers on tap! O, what a splendid heaven! I reached for the glass, thinking that perhaps I could reach in and make myself a whiskey sour. The mirror did not give way, however. My dream still unattainable, I left in a huff. 'Piece of garbage,' I thought to myself, kicking the door open.

I'm going to show the mirror to Jill and hope that maybe she can figure out how to unlock the liquor within. And in the meantime, there's a stash of coins in my pocket that I can't wait to spend.

xoxo

Chris.

Punking Potter

Dear Diary,

Chris could not be more right about the assbackwardness of the magical world.

My mom owled last night to tell me that All the Right Moves was on TBS. That’s when I made the horrible discovery that there are no TVs at Hogwarts. Now I understand why Chris complains about not being able to watch Designing Women. I thought he meant he couldn’t watch it because Jean Smart left.

No television. No video games. There isn’t even a Meijer in the U.K. I wanted to finish out public school in the U.S. and then go to Alabama University of Magic, or even Lorain Community Necromancy College, but oh no, my dad had to get himself transferred to Tallyhoville, and I got an owl inviting me to join the cast of Brideshead Revisited. I’ve never been to an American institute of magic, but I’d bet my future left tit there are vending machines and a forgiving attendance policy.

Halloween was kind of a bust, but I had fun. Chris and I looked completely bomb-ass, even if we did get made fun of. Aaaaaaaaaaaaand I had my mouth on Squirrely’s! Although, I think I might have breathed into him a little too hard, because he burped right on my tongue and it tasted like daal. McGonners gave me a glare that would wither Devil’s Snare. I think she has a problem with me loving a brown man.

Also, Chris doesn’t know this yet, but HP is about to get served. How, you ask? Well, not half an hour ago, I was heading back from the Forbidden Forest with some stuff Chris asked me to pick for DOPES. As I passed the gamekeeper's cottage, I heard Hagrid yell, “Ahoy! Where ye be goin’, matie?”

“Oh, just out for a walk,” I replied pleasantly.

Then the oaf wanted to know why I was covered in dog hair. Not, “What are you doing with all those hallucinogenic plants in your arms?” but, “Why are you covered in dog hair?” I didn’t want to tell him that I’d been playing on the third floor and come across a three-headed Rottie mix that was throwing coat like crazy.

“Transfiguration,” I replied.

He beckoned me to sit beside him on the stoop.

That’s when he started spilling his guts like a thirteen-year-old girl at a sleepover. He told me all about his love for HP. “Aaaarg, I know he be young, but this is the real thing, the stuff the Greeks spoke of.” I tried not to vom, and patted his shoulder. “I jus’ don’t know how ter tell ‘im. Wha’ would a hero like ‘im want with a shaggy ‘alf giant like meself? Why, I got ‘airs thick enough ter strangle a leopard on me—”

“Don’t worry,” I cut him off. “There are ways to get what you want.”

“Like ‘ow?”

“Why don’t you start by inviting him over some evening for dinner?”

“I never thought of that.”

“Then, you’re going to want to gain his confidence. Share a secret with him. Something you know you probably shouldn’t tell him.”

“Like what?”

“It has to be something that will really rock his world. When my dad told me he didn’t love my mom anymore, I was like, oh, hold on while I put on my ‘surprised’ face. But when he told me he sort of liked Jewel, we grew closer than ever.”

“Maybe I could tell ‘im about the Sorcerer’s Stone I got out of the vault at Gringott’s when I took ‘im therrrre to pick up ‘is gold.”

“Good idea,” I said.

“An’ how it’s guarded by a three-headed dog!”

“That’s just getting—wait a minute. That dog’s guarding the Sorcerer’s Stone?”

“Ye know about the dog?”

I was too surprised to tell anything but the truth. “I found it this afternoon. I named it Edelweiss, because it sleeps like my mother after two Flexoril when I sing selections from The Sound of Music.”

“’is name’s Fluffy,” said Hagrid. “And ye shouldn’t be playin’ with him. But go on.”

“Okay, once Harry trusts you, try slipping a couple crushed leaves of this into his pumpkin juice.” I handed Hagrid one of the plants I carried.

“Will it make ‘im love me?”

“No, it will make him pass out.”

“And then I—?”

“Then he’s yours. And if you dab a little of this around his nostrils before he wakes up—” I snapped a stalk off another plant and showed Hagrid the clear liquid inside. “—he should have no memory of the event whatsoever.”

“Shiver me timbers! Jill, ye’ve saved me sanity.”

“I don’t know about that,” I said. “But good luck.”

I hurried back to the common room to tell Chris, but Chris was passed out next to an empty bottle of gin wrapped in an unconvincing SmartWater label. I’m just waiting for him to wake up so I can tell him about playing the prank of the century on HP.

Quidditch match tomorrow. Ooha-ooha!

Love,

Jill

Laugh it up, Fuzzball

Dear Diary,

Can this place get any crazier? I'm adapting to the talking portraits, moving stairwells, and Scottish accents but the medieval mindsets of these people is infuriating. I consider myself a Renaissance man and the education here is fantastically lacking. First of all, why is Astrology the only real subject these kids study? Of all the branches of science to offer, stargazing is clearly the least important. Want to know why there's no cure for AIDS? Because the people in this world who are fucking magical have decided that virology is no match for Divination. I wrote Dumbledore a letter asking him to consider stopping global warming with a no-melting spell. He wrote back saying I should stop troubling the house elves for gin and tonics.

Therefore, in an effort to preserve the works of Darwin, Einstein, Avogadro, and Tesla in the world of Merlin, Morgana, Agrippa, and Wendelin the Weird, I have created the Demanding of Practical Educations Society. I posted fliers asking my colleagues to try out DOPES one Saturday afternoon outside Greenhouse 5. Several Slytherins showed up, asking where they could buy a dime bag, and left angrily after I explained the meaning of an acronym. I've suspended all further activity until new members can be found.

Halloween has come and gone. Jill and I decided to go as Princess Leia and Han Solo. I had to wake up at 4 in the morning to braid Jill's hair into buns and sure enough, we were the only ones dressed up. "Don't feel too bad," a snide Harry Potter whispered to us at the breakfast table. "I almost dressed up as the Pope but Ron warned me last night. I like your blaster." And then that pompous prick sauntered away, slapping fives with Lee Jordan and Katie Bell.

You can imagine how crushed I was, Diary, when later that evening Harry Potter escaped from the clutches of a mountain troll in the second floor girls' bathoom. Professor Quirrel burst into the Great Hall, shouted it was in the dungeon, and collapsed. Jill leapt to her feet and started mouth-to-mouth until McGonagall pulled her off of him and sent us to our Common Room. I sat by the fire for what seemed like hours, rocking back and forth on the couch, imagining that any moment Professor Dumbledore would enter the common room, carrying his limp body. We would burn him on a pyre. I would watch his glasses smolder and melt, smoke rising, scar disappearing into scar tissue. His soul would rise to heaven where God himself would deny it and send it to Satan himself. The Boy Who Lived... ETERNALLY IN HELL!

The portrait swung open and in he walked, ginger and beard alongside him. Not only had they survived, they had conquered the troll and earned five points a piece. The common room swelled with cheers and applause. My stomach turned violently. One day, I promised myself, he would not be so lucky.

Anyway, Diary, I'm off to the library to help Jill in the Restricted Section. After she took up her job, I decided I could use some cash on the side. DOPES may have failed but now that I know there's a market for shwag, these dolts have given me a seven-year plan.

xo

Chris

P.S. Why does the third floor corridor always smell like dog shit?

But then my homework was never quite like this...

Dear Diary,

Ow! Got it bad,

Got it bad,

Got it bad,

I'm hot for teacher!

Dean Thomas, take your scarf and your eyes the color of butterbeer and go wank in the Room of Requirement (Did I tell you about this, Diary? It's a room on the third floor that you can only get into if you're in dire need, or really bored. The room transforms into the perfect setting for whatever mission you hope to accomplish. I use it to scratch hard-to-reach itches.)

There's a new man in my life. A man whose stutter is like the clumsy legs of a Great Dane puppy racing for the food bowl. Whose turban is always securely wrapped, unlike my post-shower terry cloth that falls off when I bend down to drink from the sinks. I'm talking about Professor Quirrell, the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Or as I like to call him, Professor Squirrel, because he refuses to get out of the road of my heart, and because he continues to hide his nuts from me.

I love his weak-tea skin, his trembling hands, his inability to get anything more out than a simple greeting to the class before the period ends. I don't care that he's a terrorist. Or that he does wandless magic. I've hinted to him that I'd like to see more of his wand, but he doesn't seem to get the double meaning. I am only eleven - maybe I just need a couple years to fine tune my delivery. The other day he wrote the following on the board: NVLN RATS BITED YOUR MOM, a mnemonic device to help wizards and witches remember the 20 simple steps to defending oneself against a Dark Art. I realized you could rearrange the letters to spell VOLDEMORTS IN MY TURBAN, which I thought was hilarious. I'm really good at word jumbles.

In other exciting news, my mom filled out my FAFSA wrong, so I'm not eligible for financial aid. To afford my magical education, I've been forced to take on a work-study job in the Library, shelving books in the Restricted section. At least it's not the cafeteria.

Harry Potter is enjoying his status as a vat of twat cream. Sorry, did I say "vat of twat cream?" I meant "member of the Gryfindor Quidditch Team." Yes, he was accepted on sight, no tryout necessary, all because I was on a magnetizing spell kick the day we learned to fly (I'd magnetized a grasshopper, an eagle, Chris's shoes, and a low-flying commercial jet that may or may not have gone down as a direct result of my efforts), and saw Neville's Remembrall go into the air. I didn't think, I just magnetized. And shit if HP didn't take off on his broom, and if that Remembrall didn't make straight for his glasses frames. Down he came, like Glinda in her bubble, and alighted with the Remembrall in his hand. McGonners took him away - I hoped to a remote dungeon, but actually it was to meet up with Chris's ex-flame O. Wood and be heralded as Gryffindor's new seeker. Seeker of what? A less repulsive personality?

If Harry Potter was half the magician I am, he'd've gotten 25% on that Transfig exam.

I'm off to the lib, and then to walk by Professor Squirrely's office several times and wave.

Looooooove,

Jill