Is That Your Wand?
The latest installment of the Harry Potter series, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, was decidedly darker and more sinister than the three previous books, as author J.K. Rowling depicted violence and death more graphically. Like any good writer, she wanted her characters to grow. But her subjects are now fifteen year olds, and sexuality is bound to come up in the forthcoming fifth book. Yet the publication date has been repeatedly pushed back. Rumor has it that Rowling's publisher is fighting the inclusion of one particularly racy chapter, which the company fears will traumatize younger readers and thoroughly piss off parents. The following is allegedly one draft of the chapter in question; its authenticity has yet to be confirmed. — Lorelei Sharkey
a taste:
He had conjured spells that had worked even on Lord Voldemort; why could he not make this disappear?
When Harry finally reached the blackboard and turned around to face the entire class, the fatal blow was delivered: Pansy Parkinson, sitting with a gaggle of giggling Slytherin girls, shouted out, "Is that a wand in your pocket, or are you just glad to see us?" Uproarious laughter bounced off the damp stone walls of the dungeon.
You'll find the rest here:
Update the link is now broken. I've copied the original story from the google cache. If any one knows if Lorelei has a new address please let me know.
The latest installment of the Harry Potter series, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, was decidedly darker and more sinister than the three previous books, as author J.K. Rowling depicted violence and death more graphically. Like any good writer, she wanted her characters to grow. But her subjects are now fifteen year olds, and sexuality is bound to come up in the forthcoming fifth book. Yet the publication date has been repeatedly pushed back. Rumor has it that Rowling's publisher is fighting the inclusion of one particularly racy chapter, which the company fears will traumatize younger readers and thoroughly piss off parents. The following is allegedly one draft of the chapter in question; its authenticity has yet to be confirmed. — Lorelei Sharkey
Harry awoke with a start. Gasping for breath and sweating profusely, he tried to listen for any movement in the pitch black dormitory room over the pounding of the heartbeat in his ears. Had another nightmare awoken him? He couldn't remember what he had been dreaming about. "But," Harry thought as he felt his forehead, "at least my scar isn't hurting."
Then he felt that other pain, the one a bit farther south.
"Oh no, not again," Harry whispered to himself. It was as if someone had used the Imperius Curse on him, though on just one part of his body — for that part seemed to have a mind of its own lately.
Harry began to replay the most humiliating incidents of the last few months over in his mind: the "accident" he had riding atop his Firebolt at Quidditch practice, Professor Trelawney's prediction that he'd soon be climbing a snow-covered volcano when it erupted, and that horrible scene in Professor Snape's potions class.
On that fateful day, Harry had sunk into his stool, avoided eye contact with Snape, and he did everything to become invisible short of donning his Invisibility Cloak. But the Professor's beady black eyes focused on him with the precision of a champion Quidditch Seeker. Snape insisted Harry be the first to present his project on the versatility of newt eyes and called him to the front of the class. Harry pretended to accidentally drop his papers in an effort to stall, then fluffed up his robes to obscure any incriminating visual evidence. As he dragged his reluctant feet to the front of the dungeon, Harry wished his misfortune away with all his might. He had conjured spells that had worked even on Lord Voldemort; why could he not make this disappear?
When Harry finally reached the blackboard and turned around to face the entire class, the fatal blow was delivered: Pansy Parkinson, sitting with a gaggle of giggling Slytherin girls, shouted out, "Is that a wand in your pocket, or are you just glad to see us?" Uproarious laughter bounced off the damp stone walls of the dungeon.
Reliving the memory sent a chill throughout Harry's body, but even that had no effect on the persistent throbbing in his pajama pants. Harry tried to push the dungeon scene from his mind as he poked his head outside the crimson curtains of his four-poster bed. Ron, Seamus and Dean all seemed to be sleeping soundly; Neville was snoring loudly, as usual. He could risk getting rid of his problematic protrusion as quickly and quietly as possible. But what if someone woke up before he had finished? He'd be worse off than he was now. That was one of the only drawbacks of living at Hogwarts: no privacy.
Suddenly, Harry thought of a solution. Within seconds, he had put on his slippers, tucked the magic Maurader's Map of Hogwarts under his arm, thrown the Invisibility Cloak over his head and crept down the spiral staircase to the Gryffindor common room, past a sleeping Crookshanks, who was curled up by the fireplace. Out in the hallway, Harry tiptoed up the moonlit stairs to the fifth floor and crept along the quiet corridor past the statue of Boris the Bewildered to the fourth door on the left: the male prefects' private bathroom.
Once locked inside, Harry found himself in one of the most exquisite rooms in Hogwarts — especially considering that it was just a boys' bathroom. He was delighted to find that nothing had changed since the last time he had snuck in here: the floor-to-ceiling white linen curtains still hung over the windows, the bathtub was still the size of a swimming pool and the gold framed picture of the mermaid with the long blonde hair down to her belly button still hung on the wall. She was sound asleep on her rock, just as she had been during his last secret midnight visit.
Harry checked all the stalls and looked behind the curtains for Moaning Myrtle, one of the teenage ghosts who haunted the toilets of Hogwarts. He didn't want her spying on him, as she had done last year. Then again, he was sure a minute's worth of her usual whining would make his problem go away.
Harry turned on a few of the sparkling gold taps lining the lip of the pool, and, within minutes, the oversized tub was full of water and thick white foam. Big transparent bubbles — the size of Professor Trelawney's crystal balls and tinted the various colors of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans — floated above the surface.
Harry took off his pajamas, flipped off his slippers and slid in. The warm water swirling around his every nook and cranny instantly relaxed him. He floated over to the other side of the pool as a sort of trance washed over him. With his ears just beneath the surface of the water, the muted swishing sounds made him feel like he was in his own world.
"Finally," Harry sighed. He rested the back of his head on the edge of the pool so he could enlist the help of both hands underwater. Harry had wanted nothing more than to get rid of this feeling as quickly as possible; now he wanted it to last forever. He closed his eyes and touched himself slowly. He let his imagination wander to a place where there were no herbology exams, no dementors, no Dark Lords — just this one feeling. And right when he thought his mind was empty, when he thought his senses had taken over completely, he was struck with the perfect memory of a face he had come to know so well. The face of . . .
"What's going on, Harry?"
Harry's short scream echoed throughout the bathroom. With much splashing, he recoiled against the side of the pool, accidentally swallowing some foam in the process. There was Moaning Myrtle facing him in the water, not two feet away.
"Myrtle!" coughed Harry. "Don't do that. Haven't you heard of knocking?"
Myrtle shrugged coyly. She looked different: the thick spectacles she usually wore were missing, and her wet hair was slicked back, out of her face for once.
"Anyway," said Harry, and then in a whisper, "I'm naked."
"Oh please, Harry. It's nothing I haven't seen before," Myrtle pouted as she treaded water effortlessly. "When you're confined to bathrooms for all eternity, you're bound to see some skin every now and again, aren't you?"
"Please leave," Harry urged as he began to swim away to the other side of the pool. Suddenly, Myrtle's head emerged from the water in front of him again. He tried to breaststroke past her, but she glided beside him without moving her arms or kicking her legs.
"Why aren't you nice to me, Harry?" Myrtle moaned. "Why don't you ever come visit me?"
"I don't know," said Harry. He was trying to figure out how he could get his clothes back on without giving Myrtle a free show. His pajama pants were just out of reach, and without his wand there was no way of closing that gap. He didn't want to get out of the pool, because he knew Myrtle would refuse to close her eyes until he had spent at least half an hour hanging out with her. He was trapped.
"Harry, you're not answering my questions," said Myrtle, her whine taking on a low pitch Harry had never heard before. "What were you just doing?"
He held onto the side, pressing the front of his body up against the pool wall to keep as much hidden as possible. Unfortunately, several jets were slowly pumping fresh warm water right there — and they weren't exactly helping Harry's flushed state. He looked at Myrtle over his shoulder and said as innocently as possible, "Nothing . . . Nothing. Just taking a bath."
"I think you were doing more than that, Harry." Myrtle inched closer through the white suds. "Tell me, Harry."
Harry turned to keep her at arm's length, but before he could say, "No!" she was upon him. He couldn't feel her body (because she didn't have one, really), just a sort of cool nebulous force pressing up against him, pinning him against the wall, making it extremely hard to move.
"Why are you here, Harry? And why haven't you come to visit me before?" Myrtle moaned softly in his ear. She moved to look him in the eye and repeated in a slow whisper devoid of any whine, "Why haven't you come?"
Thanks Lorelei that was fun.
