Harry Potter fanfiction - "Why I Am An Astronaut" - Chapter Two
A Brief Introduction
As it seems more and more likely with each passing day that I will die a horribly early (and boring!) death, I've decided to write down my life story. There are several reasons for this, and I will list them.
1) I am very self-involved, and self-reflection appeals to me.
2) I am very depressed, and re-visiting the happy times seems like a good idea; you know, if I ever wish to conjure a Patronus or change my hair again. (It's a long story, and I will recount it soon enough, so please keep your knickers on.)
3) I'm stuck in this hospital bed, and what else am I supposed to do?
4) If I don't write down all the amazing things that happened to me last year, I'm afraid I'll forget them, or even worse, dismiss some of the juicier bits as nothing more than products of my over-active imagination, and maybe, seeing the aforementioned juicy bits in ink will help keep them real to me. (As you know, it's very wise to believe everything you read.)
I'm sure there are more reasons for me doing this, but I can't really remember them right now, and my hand's starting to cramp. I'm lucky that I got this ink bottle for my birthday, as it spouts color-changing ink on its own and I love it, though I wish the person who gave to me was not the person who gave it to me. Now whenever I use it, I'll think of him, and I'm completely torn between loving the hell out of this ink and hating the hell out of him.
This is an autobiography and it does not double as a last will and testament, as I'm sure Dedalus Diggle will testify to. However, if my mother is reading this, I leave her all the awful furniture she gave me when I first moved into my flat. Daddy, to you I leave my Comet Two-Sixty and assorted Quidditch memorabilia. To Harry Potter, I leave all my Auror books and knickknacks and whatnot. (Those are the technical terms.) To the Person Who Gave Me This Ink for My Birthday, I leave you this ink. And this life story, so that when you read it, you'll cry over it and realize what you're missing out on.
Maybe I should scratch out that last bit.
The Healer just came to check on me. She told me that I'm not good to leave yet. I even begged. I tried to change my hair (AGAIN!), but I think I just ended up making it mad. Me and my hair used to be on such good terms, but now I'm afraid there's a mutiny going on. I'm tempted to put it up, though at the rate it's going, it may very well be immune to the threat that is the elastic hair band.
Well, I suppose I've rambled enough. Reading over this, I'm terribly afraid that if this were to get into anyone's hands I'd sound like a loon. Or maybe not a loon, but it reminds me of what Kingsley used to say when I'd show him the drawings I'd do during Auror training – my favorite thing to do was combine animals; for example, I'd draw a squid body with spider legs – and, anyway, what Kingsley said was, "We've got to get you something to do."
Kingsley was always so wonderful to me. I would like to rectify my earlier statement; I'd like to add an addendum to my will. Kingsley, to you I leave my record collection. I know you hate punk, for some unfathomable reason, and I'd like for you to be able to burn all my Weird Sisters LPs. That's right. I love you that much. I can picture the smile on your smarmy face now.
I think I'm pretty sure at this point that no one else is ever going to get to read this, and I would be terribly embarrassing if I did die and somehow this was the only thing people had to remember me by. But oh, well!
As my Dad used to (does) say, "Let's get this Kneazle and Puffskein show on the road!"
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