text: Fan Fiction “Can you believe this shit?!?”, Stan says to his friend Ryan who's standing awkwardly behind him, looking for any place to sit that isn't covered with dirty laundry, books or potato chip wrappers. “I mean, what idiot wrote this crap! Did they even read the books?” “Why are you bothering to read it, then, Stan? If it's so stupid, why are you even getting worked up over it?” Ryan taps on the glass of the terrarium, trying to no avail to get the corn snake to move. “Have you decided what you're going to do with Marceau?” The snake, originally named Fang, was purchased by Stan in the hope that he was a parseltongue. Much to his disappointment, though, the snake never said anything Stan could understand. Actually, as far as he could tell, he never really said anything at all - hence the name change. “I figure I'll give him to Johnny but I haven't told him yet. He's been such a dick lately.” Ryan cracks open a shade to let some light into the room, squinting from the flash of sunlight splashing across the room. “Hey, shut that. I can't read the screen.” Stan shifts his heavy torso around to position himself between the window and the computer. “Until Rowling gets off her ass, FF is all there is. Some of it isn't half bad, but then there's this butthead trying to make a 'ship out of Harry and Myrtle.” “Moaning Myrtle? The ghost?” Ryan edges past the foot of the bed to get a better view of the screen. “Exactly. I mean, a poltergeist could at least push a pillow against his junk or something, but ghosts can't interact with the physical world at all. Everyone knows that. Except obviously for this butthole.” 'Myrtle hovers over Harry's bed, slowly untying her bodice. Though there's not a breath of wind in the room, her shirt billows open as she loosens the laces...' “Give me a fucking break. THEY CAN'T TAKE OFF THE CLOTHES THEY DIED IN! ” Stan turns toward Ryan and waves his hands at the screen. “This is the shit I have to deal with.” “Do they actually have sex? Move over.” Ryan squeezes his lean frame onto the edge of the chair and reaches for the mouse, his hand brushing Stan's out of the way as he tries to find his place in the story. 'Her blouse slowly dissolves as it wafts to the floor, exposing her tight bosom. Harry's breath catches as the bed sheet he's clutching to his throat peels back against his will. His lean, alabaster frame is glistening in sweat as Myrtle starts to moan.' “I swear to God I'm going to flag this as a TOS violation” Stan's mumbles as he watches Ryan's eyes softly shifting back and forth across the text. He's holding still, lest he break the spell and Ryan realizes their legs are pressed against each other. “Oh shit. Is that clock right?” Ryan jumps out of the chair and rummages around the room looking for his jacket. “Amy's going to kill me.” “Dude, you are so whipped!” “At least I'm getting some. You should try it, nerd...with an actual muggle.” He pats Stan's shoulder once and checks his reflection in the computer screen, running his hand through his dark hair. “Gotta run. See you later.” Stan gets up and walks to the window, watching until he sees Ryan leaving the house and jogging down the street. He starts to pull the shade down but stops. The light has softened, bathing the room in a warm, shadowy glow. He and looks around, wondering how much of this he can take with him when he goes off to college next fall. He walks over and opens the small drawer of his bedside table. Inside is one of his most cherished possessions - an 'authentic' Harry Potter wand made of exotic hard wood and reputed to have an actual feather inside, though he'd never cut it open to check. He doesn't think he'll take that with him, though. He was so excited when he got it for his 15 th birthday, but then was instantly ashamed when he saw on the packaging that it said for ages 7 and up. He knows it's a child's toy, but he still takes it out when no one's around and points at things, willing them to move. Past the bed is his book case, the one tidy space in the whole room. On the top shelves are his well-worn paperbacks arranged by author with each series in chronological order - Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, the Chronicles of Narnia. On the lower shelves are mostly hard-backed versions of the same books, with a few random titles thrown in. On the very bottom, pressed into the corner are four books wrapped in heavily doodled brown paper. He and Ryan were embarrassed at first to be reading the Twilight series so they papered over the covers and added drawings of robots and race cars and swords as they traded them back and forth. Stan's not so embarrassed about having read them anymore, especially after the movies came out, but he likes the covers too much to take off. He bends down and picks one up, turning it over. He's looking for the drawing Ryan made of a pick up truck, with eyeballs for headlights and fangs hanging from the bumper. MONSTER TRUCK is written underneath in Ryan's familiar block lettering. He runs his thumb over it gently, then puts it back on the shelf. He doesn't think he'll have room to take those either. He goes back to his computer, plops down and Alt Escs through his apps until he gets to Word. He starts to type: 'Crabbe is clearly nervous having Harry in his room. If any of the other Slytherin walked in he'd be dead meat but he can't back down now. Not after dreaming about this moment since their first year. The painting propped on Crabbe's desk is of two shirtless wizards grappling in a glade. Crabbe points his wand at the picture and the characters start to move, their laughter carrying dimly off the canvas. Harry says “Move over” as he squeezes into the chair next to him. He reaches for Crabbe's wand and their hands touch.'