The following short story is a realistic fiction inspired by, and about, J.K. Rowling. Enjoy!

She liked to think that life had a peculiar way of frightening her. A fear about something didn’t just land in her lap; it always had to slither up her ankles, wind around her torso, and reveal its fangs once it had her entrapped. Today was one of those days.

It started with a simple conversation. One of her oldest friends, and her first literary agent, Leonald, had visited her home in London for an afternoon tea.

He called her that morning out of the blue and said, “Joanne! I’m passing through London with an extremely long layover. You wouldn’t happen to have any free time today, would you?”

Joanne beamed at hearing the voice of her friend. She hadn’t seen him in person for quite some months. She was supposed to be meeting with an editor to look over the script for Fantastical Beasts and Where to Find Them, but an opportunity like this was more than enough to warrant a shifting around of her schedule. “Oh Leonald, how lovely it is to hear from you! I always have time for you,” she said. “You come by at your earliest convenience. I’ll get some tea going now.”

“Splendid. See you soon dear.” Click.

And so, Joanne skidded about like a child from the phone and set off for the kitchen. She started the kettle and pulled two handfuls of her favorite tea leaves from the cupboard and sprinkled them into two ceramic cups. Once the kettle had reached a boil she gently poured the steaming water into the cups, then set them onto two saucers.

A soft chime rang from the entrance hallway. Leonald had arrived.

It was as if they had just seen each other yesterday. The conversation felt natural and relaxed. Leonald had a way of making her laugh like few others could.

As always, they ended up talking about Harry Potter and the back-and-forth debates they had on details of the story.

“Still though, as many things there were that I wanted to change, the horcruxes were by far the most brilliant aspect of the last one,” Leonald said. He raised his cup of tea as though it were a pitcher of beer.

“But they were quite terrifying, were they not?” Joanne said. “I was disturbed at having come up with such a dreadful method of living forever.”

   “And random as well! I’d have never thought about having Helga Hufflepuff’s Cup wind up in the Lestrange Vault.”

   Joanne put down the cup of tea that she was about to sip. “You mean in the Room of Requirement,” she corrected.

   Leonald tilted his head to the side. He looked confused now. “No, I’m quite sure it was the Lestrange Vault. Of all people to get details of Harry Potter confused! Your fans would be horrified.” Leonald chuckled and shook his head mockingly at Joanne, who suddenly stood up from her chair.

   “You just wait right here,” she said with a smirk. She disappeared into the library down the hall, then returned a few minutes later with a copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows in hand. “I always enjoy proving you wrong, Leonald.”

   Leonald simply smiled. He watched her flip through the book and narrow down the page with the debated detail within seconds.

   “Oh dear…” she said, holding one hand over her mouth. Sure enough, Leonald was right. Helga’s Hufflepuff Cup was in the Lestrange Vault; not in the Room of Requirement. She collapsed into the chair opposite of Leonald. A grave expression came across her face.

   “Joanne it happens to the best of us. You haven’t committed some grave offense,” he said.

   “It’s not that,” she said softly. Her gaze wasn’t focused on Leonald, but on something beyond him.

   “Then what is it?” he asked. Leonald knew Joanne well enough to know there was something else going on. His old friend was prone to making great leaps of thought from the simplest of actions; as did many great authors.

   “It just reminds me that at some point, all of it will be forgotten. My work, my stories… and me. I’m already forgetting details of the tale that was my life’s work. It won’t be long until the world does as well…”

   Leonald leaned over and grabbed her hand. He looked at her with such a seriousness that she couldn’t help but feel the gravity of what he was about to say. “Joanne, the world will never forget you. Believe me, the stories you’ve written will be talked about for decades and ages to come. The day that the world ceases to remember J.K. Rowling is the day that the world ceases to exist.”

   Joanne squeezed his hand with both of hers. “That is my greatest hope.”

THE END

Realistic fiction, short story: Afternoon Tea with Joanne