J.K. Rowling's Failed Attempts to Write an 8th Harry Potter

The Harry Potter Saga ended on the big screen this summer, but HP Fever (H. Peever) is here to stay. Like Star Wars before it, the Harry Potter Universe captured the attention and money of people young and old, for decades, all over the world. Of the top 20 highest-grossing movies of all time, six of them are Harry Potter films. H. Peever will not be cured.

After ending the series with an epilogue that revealed the passage of time and nothing else, J. K. Rowling has mentioned the possibility of an eighth book on more than one occasion. The success of the film franchise practically guarantees they'll make her cough up an extra story or two. Well, lucky you for reading this, because J.K. Rowling is my aunt and prove me wrong. (I bet you won't even bother to take the time.) Anyway, I swiped her hard drive. Here are all of her ideas and MS Paint doodles regarding Harry Potter 8: TBD. And please don't tell Aunt Row-Row I did this.

Thank you.

Harry Potter and The

General Boredom of Life

Chapter 1: Privet Drivel

Privet Drive was having a warmish day. Its cobblestone road never existed, and its paved road glistened in the sun. There was not even a hint of magic in the air, it seemed, and that's it regarding the road and weather of Privet Drive.

Or so the residents of Privet Drive thought. The glisten, we will soon learn, actually came from none other than the current resident of whatever house number is the one where Harry Potter grew up. Whatever number that is, Harry is there. With the Dursleys still in hiding and preferably most of the Dursleys dead, Harry treated his former childhood prison as a home. Ron and Hermione, both pregnant with each other's child, would visit at times. They didn't live too far. Harry would warn them about the dangers of male pregnancy, and Hermione would scoff.

"Oh, pishaw, Harry. The magic is sound and perfectly safe. I invented the spell myself. Ron will be fine. He likes it." Is something Hermione might say. Ron, of course, would avert his eyes from Harry's gaze and shift uncomfortably. His eyes, Harry would sometimes notice, were bruised. To clarify, they were always bruised, but Harry only noticed some of the time.

Ginny would also visit Harry. They would smooch and get into some heavy petting, but eventually Harry would notice that Ginny kind of resembles Ron, and that would lead to confusion and frustration and disappointment. They would awkwardly put away their boners and wetties, and then talk of the incredible boredom that has come from Voldemort being dead, and how neither of them is qualified for any job that's not killing Voldemort or liking each other. Maybe a few more smooches and then she would leave, an overnight bag never even being packed/considered.

Yes, under the stairs of 40-ish Privet Drive wept none other than Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived And Is Starting To Regret It. Without Voldemort, without quests, his life was- well, it was not a life at all. What was he supposed to do now? Collect stamps? With what? Magic? Nice try, whoever suggested that. Harry hated magic now. Now that his scar didn't hurt. Now that he had nothing badass to do. Now that anything.

19 years would eventually pass, and perhaps something interesting would happen then. But for now, all Harry had to look forward to was marriage to a Weasley, home ownership, a couple of kids named after his favorite dead people, and maybe a quick blowie on his birthday. From a Weasley.

Harry read the classifieds every day, hope in his heart, but there was never an ad for "The Chosen One". There was never even an ad for "Pretty Good Wizard When Backed Into a Corner". The logical life plan would be to try to get a job at Hogwarts, his favorite place ever, but 19 years later certainly doesn't indicate that, so it looks like Harry's just going to have to magic himself up a deck of cards for the next two decades.

Anyway, Harry wept like a baby's big stupid baby, his despair apparently manifesting itself in a magical sort of way, causing peculiar rainstorms in and around this particular block of houses, the result of which was a glisteny vibe to the road. Harry began to wish that he had gone into the light with Dumbledore when he had the chance. And now that I think about the road, the present, and Harry, I can't help but wonder what literally anyone else is doing at literally any other time.

The End.

Harry Potter and The

Unrelated Short Stories

Chapter 5: Quibolous Quimp and The Poem of Having

Quibolous Quimp flicked his wand aboard Hogwarts Express a good 48 years before Harry Potter was even born. Lily and James Potter were nowhere to be seen, nor were any magical people whose names you would recognize. Quibolous Quimp, however, was alive and nearby, flicking his wand in the most magical of fashions. The Grippygrouts were in full bloom and the Pumblesnorts were dead for the season. All was fine on Hogwarts Express, and everyone was bored because who gives a s**t about this guy? Where the hell is Harry or, like, anyone that anyone else would recognize? Not near Quibolous Quimp, that's clear.

And so the wizarding world let out an enormous yawn and then napped until Harry had stuff to do again, which would be 19 years after Voldemort's death, which would be 17 years after Harry's birth, which would be 48 years after Quibolous Quimp's flicking about of wands. So, yeah, 84 years after this, Harry gets back in the game and also has kids named after people he already knew, because there's no room for new names when it comes to naming new kids.

The End.

Harry Potter and The

Ember of Swords

Chapter 16: School Again

Harry stepped onto the cool stone floor of this particular hallway of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It did not provide him with any specific memory, but it sure reminded him of home. Even though he was there just a week ago visiting Hagrid's grave, it still felt like too long. This really was his home, despite the fact that he wasn't a professor or headmaster or Quidditch coach or anything that would make sense. But, no, Harry did not feel compelled to contribute to the school that laid down its life for him. He was content with the occasional visit and simply taking his kids to the train station every year, sharing some knowing glances with that puke Draco, and going on about how long it's been since his f***ing scar hurt.

"My scar still doesn't hurt," Harry would say to anyone close by. "Ever since Voldemort died."

"Cool story, bro." Some people would say because they're dicks. Others would smile and nod.

Harry arrived home to Hogwarts, having just gotten off a shift at whatever his job was at the time. Wizard mechanic, or something. Parent-Professor conferences were today, and he was eager to hear about all of the wonderful magics accomplished by Albus and James and Lily (his kids, not his former headmaster and parents). Just like every year, he was also only kind of looking forward to seeing Professor MacGonagall, who was still alive somehow. Certainly it was due to some kind of grey magic that most never even attempt. She was more corpsey than human now, her skin oozing pus-dust and covered with ants. Grey magic, indeed.

After a few pleasantries- or whatever you'd call polite small talk if it came from McGonagall's hideous maw (certainly not "pleasant"ries)- McGonagall's animated corpse spoke: "I need to talk to you about Albus, Potter. Earlier, he-

"-Dumbledore is alive?!"

"No, your kid. Albus. He was snooping around- classic Potter- and he stumbled upon something of great importance."

"Albus Dumbledore?"

"No, your youngest son," McGonagall's face leaked. "Albus Severus Potter."

"Severus Snape." Harry corrected her.

"I'm talking about your son, Potter, try to keep up." McGonagall sighed up a lung. "Moving on, have you ever heard of the Ember of Swords?"

"The Ember of Swords?"

"Yes, Potter, the Ember of Swords."

The Headmistress then sighed up another lung. With a wave of her wand, the lung was transformed into a stool upon which she could rest her aching bones. Some of her bones turned to dust as soon as she sat down, but the rest of them were quite appreciative of the time off.

"The Ember of Swords, Potter," McGonagall's skin wheezed, "is one of the most powerful and dangerous wizard relics ever created."

"Like the Deathly Ha-"

"-Yes, much like the Deathly Hallows. But The Ember of Swords, Potter, is special. The Ember of Swords is important for reasons I can't even think of, let alone explain. I mean, sure, the Deathly Hallows were quite good and important, yes, sure, fine, of course, but you must know, Potter, that you are destined to find this other thing, the Ember of Swords, before somebody else finds the Ember of Swords thing."

"Who?"

"I don't know, some guy!" McGonagall's corpse shrieked, shaking her fists toward where she thought he was. "Just find the thing, okay? Find the thing and do the stuff and you'll save wizards."

"Do the stuff?"

"Get the thing and defeat whomever, Potter. Wizards will thank you."

Harry considered this and asked her, "Do you ever wish it were like back in the old days when Voldemort was still around?"

McGonagall answered this by coughing her brain out through her eyeballs.

The End.

Harry Potter and The

Voldemort Again

Chapter 32: Time Keeps On Keepin' On

"Don't do it, Harry!" Hermione shouted, her Christmas cheer at an all-time low.

"It's too late, Hermione! My scar demands it!" Harry shouted back and turned the Time Turner many times. He was still wearing his Invisibility Cloak, so all Hermione saw was a whir of magic-y sparks and whooshes enchanting the air with fancy lights and whirshes. Then nothing.

On the other side of magic, however, Harry appeared in front of a very living Lord Voldemort. It was several days before Harry had originally killed the evil f*** 19 years ago. Harry smiled as the pain returned to his scar. He felt comfort. He felt alive. He felt young again, and he felt Voldemort's hand grab and tighten around his neck.

"What is this trickery?" Voldemort hissed. "You are not Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived. And yet..." Voldemort used his not-choking hand to brush the hair off of Harry's forehead to reveal a very familiar scar.

"Oh, but I am Harry." Harry revealed to the shock of no one at this point. "I came to take you to the future so I could fight you again. A few days from now, I kill you for good in the current timeline. Then I'm bored, Voldy. Bored for years."

"But if you take me to the future for dueling, you will not have killed me in this time and your path will be different, thus you will never travel through time to bring me to the future."

"Yeah, but-"

"And if you leave me here, I now know that you kill me in a few days. My path will be different, thus you may be the one who is killed, making you unable to travel through time to bring me to the future."

"Okay, sure, b-"

"And since when do you call me 'Voldy'?"

"Oh, well, I thought that-"

"You are a fool, Harry. Do not mess with time travel."

"Right, but if-"

"You should have listened to Hermione, who I assume warned you about all of this."

"Yeah, but Hermione's-"

"-always right." Voldemort hissed.

Time and space started to break a bit, and a white light erupted from reality. It reminded Harry of the calming white escape of death that Ghost Dumbledore had presented him 19 years ago.

"You've fucked us all, Harry." Voldemort hissed.

Everything, everywhere, became nothing all over the place.

Had Harry existed past that moment, he would have smiled. If he couldn't fight Voldemort anymore, then death was the next best option for him. Unfortunately, nothing existed past that moment, so death was no longer even a thing.

The End.

Unless...