(Disclaimer: All places, characters, etcetera are property of J.K. Rowling and her various publishers and distributors. No offense is intended, and this story was written purely for entertainment purposes. Enjoy!)
The End of Summer Train
I'd always wondered what goes on under those hideous orange hats, when they aren't deciding who to hit next with those horrible walking-sticks.
This assignment had really gotten some of them thinking, it seemed. Or at least, one
I remember exactly what I said, last Monday, when I issued the assignment:
"All right. Your composition for this week... I want a fantasy story. But I don't just want something with you on a date with some wonderful supermodel. No, I want real fantasy
. Create yourself a cast of original characters, and have them embark on some sort of otherworldly journey or something. And whoever manages to come up with the best story, I'll read it to the class next Monday, and you'll be exempt from next week's composition. It'll be due on Friday."
A week later, I was wondering just what the class would make of Mr. Dursley's story, which he'd rather obviously titled The End of Summer Train
. And I was wondering exactly what I
made of it, as well. It certainly fit the assignment, but I wondered where Dudley - who'd always struck me as unusually lacking in imagination - would have come up with such an idea...
The End of Summer Train
by Dudley Dursley
It's just past ten on the First of September, and the wizard world braces itself for the return of its hero. He had been expected at King's Cross Station at any moment, emerging from the solitude of his summer holidays with his dreadfully common relatives somewhere in Surrey. The wizards and witches of the land were not disappointed; when the sixteen-year-old wizard prince finally appears, he always pauses at the edge of the platform to polish his glasses, and the newspaper photographers politely wait until he replaces them before taking his picture.
The express train to Hogwarts Academy is one of those old steam-driven models - simply because Harry Potter has always liked them, and thought to mention it his second year - and this year, freshly polished (just like his glasses), it shimmers a brilliant shade of green that matches his eyes. And why shouldn't it?
A valet wearing a tuxedo takes the luggage trolley, bowing as he provides Mr. Potter with a gold-lettered parchment claim ticket that looks like a wedding invitation. It doesn't matter that the valet still looks down his nose at Potter's worn jeans and oversized t-shirts; all the wizard boys are taking to similar clothing, imitating their uncrowned king. Even his unruly black hair and wire-framed glasses have become a fashion statement in the world of wizards. "Take care of my owl," he instructs, pointing at the snow-white owl in her cage, balanced atop his school trunk. "And if you could, a half bottle of iced Evian for her every three hours."
As the valet replies with a submissive, "Yes, Your Majesty," Potter finds his girlfriend's eyes, staring out from the silk-curtained windows of the best compartment, and smiles the first real smile he's allowed himself in a month, ever since his horridly common relatives had held his first birthday party. His common relatives have never managed to understand just who he really is, and his summers are a nightmare scenario of having to act like a common teenager, lest his relatives' common neighbors discover his most uncommon existence. Once again, he finds himself idly wondering how different his life might have been, had his parents lived through the attack on the wizard royal family fifteen years ago, which left only young Harry as the uncrowned King of Wizard Britain.
He approaches the door of the train carriage, and the crowd parts in respect, treating him like the wizard royalty he is. He blushes at the attention, softly thanks the crowd, and climbs aboard. Finding his compartment, he nods to the waiting green-coated conductor, who immediately signals the engineer. The train's full-throated steam whistle sounds, and the crowd on the platform races to huddle into the train before it departs. The train is already rolling away from the station by the time he takes his seat, on the edge of a queen-size four-poster bed. Even without pulling back the green brocade quilt, he knows that the sheets are sheer emerald green satin underneath, just as he likes them.
His girlfriend smiles, swinging her legs off the side of the bed, a flute of chilled champagne in each hand. "Hello, Your Majesty. How was your summer?" She asks, smoothing her green-and-white schoolgirl skirt against her perfectly tanned thighs.
"Dreadful. Yours?" Harry asks, taking one of the champagne flutes from her perfect hands.
"Worse, Your Majesty." Of course it was; who would dare
claim to have enjoyed their summer when he had not?
The conductor returns, a pristine copy of today's newspaper in hand. "Mr. Potter, your complimentary paper," he announces, through the door - his predecessor had been fired for disturbing Mr. Potter and his girlfriend last September.
"Just leave it by the door." Harry calls out, as she climbs onto his lap and drinks down her champagne. "What am
I going to do with you?"
She shrugs, shaking back her long hair as she reaches for the wizard's gift catalog she's brought along. "We could spend the time deciding what you're not
sending your horrid relatives for Christmas. That's always good for a laugh, Your Majesty."
Harry shakes his head. "Later. I'm more interested in shopping for you, dearest. What's your bra size these days?"
An impish grin crosses her face, as he removes his glasses, folding them neatly and setting them safely aside. "I'm sure the famous Harry Potter can read the tag for himself, aren't you?"
"Sure I can." Harry nods, as he begins to unbutton her blouse. "And after that?"
She winks, whispering, "I'm sure your wand could use a polish, Mr. Potter."