With a little help from Hagrid, the Insider reveals some wizarding secrets
Harry sat on his four-poster bed in the turreted dorm at Hogwarts, polishing his broomstick. Ron had said he was going to do the same, although why he needed a copy of FHM magazine and his bed curtains drawn to do it was beyond Harry.
He pushed such thoughts from his mind to concentrate on the forthcoming Quidditch match against Slytherin house. Looking out of the window to check the weather conditions, Harry noticed a shambling, slender figure in a tweed coat, hair full of autumn leaves, large dog at his heels. “Is that Gordon Brown?” he mused, before deciding Brown wouldn’t be photographed in public with a dog. That was Blunkett’s gimmick. Could it be…it couldn’t be…
“Hagrid!” shouted The Boy Who Lived (And Never Stopped Going On About it). The Hogwarts groundkeeper looked up at the turret window and waved. Harry shouted “Accio broomstick!” There was an agonised cry from Ron Weasley’s bed curtains. “Accio MY broomstick!” shouted Harry, blushing furiously. He flew down to Hagrid’s side.
“Hagrid, how thin you look! Have you been ill?” “Nah!” growled Hagrid, now no longer simply too big to be allowed, just big-boned, really. “Ah’ve been oan the Gorbals diet. Fish an’ chips fer breakfast, deep-fried Mars Bars fer dinner, an’ then a brisk hauf-mile run frae the polis efterwards tae work aff a’ thae calories.”
Harry was puzzled. “Why have you been running from the police, Hagrid?” he asked. Hagrid looked around furtively, before answering, “It’s thon JK Rowling, Harry. She’s tryin’ tae stop me frae tellin’ everybody the endin’ o’ the last book. Ah had a wee holiday job stackin’ pallets at thon big bargain book warehouse oan the Hogsmeade bypass an’ ah saw a copy. Ah couldnae help mahsel’, ah had tae have a wee keek.”
Harry bit his lip. JK Rowling, the shadowy figure even more frightening than Voldemort; with power of life and death over him and all his wizard pals. If she was after Hagrid, it was bad news, but still…the chance to know what happened in the last book. If he could get down to William Hill before publication date this could be payday. Hagrid twinkled at him conspiratorially. “Dae ye want tae know, Harry?” he whispered.
Harry found himself transported, as if by a portkey, to the cemetery at Godric’s Hollow. Mr and Mrs Weasley, Ginny, Percy…all the Weasleys were there except Ron, who Harry could not see. Then, the hairs starting to rise on the back of his neck, he looked closer at the coffin, and on the brass plate screwed to its lid he could just make out the words, “Ronald Weasley. Died Smiling, 2007” Harry gasped. “How…how did he die?” he asked. Mrs Weasley sniffled into an oversized hanky. “It was JK Rowling,” she said, between sobs. “She went on Jonathan Ross and said two characters would die in this book, so she had to write him out.” Harry looked across the open grave at Hermione, who was, rather incongruously, eating a bag of Planters peanuts. “Two characters dying, Hermione. I wonder who will be the second?” he said. “Dunno” shrugged Hermione, “I shouldn’t even be eating these, I’m highly allergic.” Then, turning an odd shade of green, she keeled over.
Two characters dead, Harry thought, his mind racing; what other secrets would the final book hold. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked around to see Snape, smiling down at him. “Are you a goodie or a baddie?” asked Harry. Snape continued smiling. “Harry,” he whispered, “Your copy of the Half-Blood Prince’s spell-book was 50 years old, even though your dad only died about 15 years ago and he was only about 30 then: Rowling never learned to do a decent chronology. But your dad and I knew each other as young men more than 40 years ago…we were…very close. But things were different then; Pete Tatchell was still a whining baby throwing his toys out of the pram.” Harry thought privately that some things hadn’t changed that much; he decided to head Snape off. “But I saw you kill Dumbledore!” he said. Snape shook his head ruefully; “He asked me to, Harry. His last word was ‘Please’—it wasn’t a plea for mercy, it was a cry for release. And when you tried to hit me with an Unforgivable Curse, I stopped you. I have always protected you.”
Harry felt better knowing that Snape was a goodie although he obviously still had issues. But what about You-Know-Who? Suddenly, he felt a sharp twinge in his scar, and realised he’d forgotten his Anadin Extra.
A high, cold voice said, sneeringly, “So, Potter, it’s down to the two of us; one must die so that the other might live.” Harry looked at Voldemort’s red eyes and snake-like nose and said, “You’re not going to do a George Lucas on me and say you are my father, are you?” Voldemort sniggered; “Pleasing a conceit as that would be, after building Lily Potter up as a cross between Beyoncé Knowles and Saint Bernadette, it would take some fantastic writing to get that one through. I don’t think old JK’s got it in her.”
Harry looked down, gathering his thoughts. Page 996! Even allowing for sub-editing, they must be on the last page. “Am I the final horcrux?” he asked Voldemort, whose face twisted into a snarl, “You little git! How did you guess?” Harry breathed deeply—Voldemort creating a horcrux at the moment he murdered Lily Potter made excellent sense, but using Harry, who he then also tried to slay? Reading his mind, Voldemort sneered, “I wasn’t trying to kill you, oaf; I was trying to make you into a horcrux but I had a stinking hangover and I stuffed it up.”
Suddenly, Harry found himself back on the Quidditch pitch, looking up at Hagrid. “How does it end? Who wins? Do I survive?” he asked Hagrid, who shook his head ruefully and held up an injunction. “Ye’ll just hae tae buy the book like a’body else, Harry!”
Jennifer James is the Insider
