Hatchimal comes from the Greek “to capitulate.”
The world was delighted– and/or slightly let down– by the new Harry Potter story that debuted on the Pottermore website last week.
We imagine that the reactions would be much different/horrified if they had seen J.K. Rowling’s first version of her epic return to the tale that made her famous.
The Second City, at the protest of our lawyers, is sharing the copy that the author accidentally left on a double-decker bus seat, next to a cup of tea and a Corgi.
Harry Potter and The Living Goddess
By J.K. Rowling
J.K. Rowling stood on the balcony of her grand summer castle.
She shed a single, beautiful tear. The tear trickled down her soft, creamy, alabaster skin with much haste, as there was nary a wrinkle to slow it down. She had not lost her striking looks, but she had lost her passion.
She had more money than she could count or legally claim. She had wined and dined with all of her extravagant-but-less talented peers. Her charities had wiped out Multiple Sclerosis and child povertiness. Using a pseudonym, she had reinvented the detective genre, created Twitter, and helped kill Osama Bin Laden. She had done everything. She wept because she had no more allusions to create.
Suddenly, as if by plot contrivance, a small speck appeared on the horizon. It was an owl. As it approached, J.K. could see with her sparkling eyes that it held a note.
Her gentle hand seized the paper from the owl’s grip. It was a simple message that read:
“R u up?”
The enchanting author entered the abandoned King’s Cross Station. (King’s Cross Station is still active and operates 24 hours a day, but J.K. had helped the station owner discover the magic of reading, so she called in a favor.)
She stood somewhere between platforms 9 and 10. It was well, well after 11 AM, so the portal was closed… but her heart was open.
He appeared from the shadows that he had conquered. He was dressed majestically in crimson and yellow, and he wore spectacular spectacles and a grin that suggested doom to any nearby golden snitches that dare try to avoid him.
The boy who lived had become the man who lived… a bit longer… and had become very handsome.
She wasn’t surprised to see a fictional character staring her down with bewizarding eyes. Her writing was so alive it often jumped off the page. It wasn’t unusual for her to see Moaning Myrtle in her stylish bathroom or Snape in the produce aisle, giving her ominous warnings about the quality of the peaches.
“I see you got my owl,” Harry said shyly, but boldly.
“And your heart,” J.K. responded softly, but intelligently.
The two shared a passion that couldn’t be hidden by the largest invisibility cloak, that couldn’t be undone by the most powerful time turner, that couldn’t be eaten by a big spider or something.
They undressed. They embraced. They fell to the floor. The silent night became punctuated with cries of passion which sounded vaguely Latin.
“We need you to write us again,” Harry Potter said afterglowily. “The current state of children’s literature for all ages is appalling. It’s all dystopian futures and girls having to choose between boys instead of studying diligently.”
Rowling rolled on her side and faced him. “I can’t. I’m out of the game. The last time I did a job… too many beloved characters died.”
“The fantasy genre is different now!” Harry pleaded, “George R. R. Martin uses character deaths instead of page numbers. We need magic again! We need wondrous, quirky lands, and a talking hat that lets us know who’s good and who’s bad right from the start, so we don’t have to figure it out.”
J.K. was familiar with this kind of begging, but this wasn’t coming from fans, children, or Her Majesty. It was coming from the one person she would still listen to, because he spoke with her own brilliance.
“Fine,” she sighed gorgeously, “But I will only write one short story.”
“Perfect,” he declared, “Warner Brothers will be able to make three movies out of that!”
C.J. Tuor is a graduate of The Second City Conservatory and performs every Saturday night at 9 PM in the DeMaat Theatre with Moxie, A Second City Training Center Ensemble. C.J. also performs at The Annoyance Theatre in Hitch*Cocktails.