Reason #287 why Book 5 is so slow

Joanne Kathleen Rowling lounged in her leather sofa, martini in one hand and browsed through the absurdly myriad number of channels she had on the wall-television. Set into the centre of the wall directly opposite the couch was a roaring fire, and tartan banners hung from the rafters and along the walls. It was surprising exactly how much one could fit into a small Scottish castle, she mused, taking a sip of her drink.

Shutting the bloody TV off with the remote -- which she then casually threw it somewhere, probably at the TV -- and settled down in the sofa, kicking off her heels. The fire reflected across her face, highlighting the sculptured beauty of her face. I have cheekbones to die for, she mused, thank God, and took another sip.

It had been a good day for her. The television ratings for the 'Order of the Phoenix' mini-series had just been released, and it was officially the most watched programme in the history of the world. In addition, the sales figures for the seventh book (just released) were going through the roof. At this rate she would beat Tolkien. Have him in a half-bloody nelson and shove his nose into the ground, she thought to herself, eyes sparkling. "Who's the biggest children's author of all time, Tolky? Who's yer Lord of the Rings now?"

Oh yes.

Putting away such thoughts for the moment, she concentrated rather on her obvious world domination. The mini-series had actually been kick-arse, especially since she'd gotten rid of that horrid Chris Columbus chap after the second film and paid Peter Jackson exorbitant amounts of money to come in and make it look good.

Not only was poor Chris a rather pedestrian director, but he did seemed to spend an...unusual amount of interest in Sean Biggerstaff. Not that there was anything wrong with that, of course. She herself had visited the set several times, and attempted to set up a rapprochement with the talented Mr. Biggerstaff.

After all, just look at him. Just listen to him. She was a woman. She had needs. And a nice, strapping young man like that....

A shame he was far too busy hanging out with the lad who played Percy.

She was there the day when Tom Felton and Dan Radcliffe played out their growing testosterone levels and bumped chests for the cameras. She was also there when a P.A. found them doing something slightly more...advanced during the Goblet of Fire shoot.

Unfortunately, she couldn't get the pissy Radcliffe fired (and she must have been drinking some serious booze that time she said he was the perfect Harry), but at least she'd been able to convince him to take some acting lessons. And being with Tom, it seemed, had helped him (and his performance) grow a spine.

All this thinking -- which was admittedly a little hazy; this was not her first martini for the night -- made her shamble through the stony warren of a place to her writing study (she had three different studies, of course). Turning on the light -- and nearly falling over in the process, she slumped at her desk. Blinking in a vain attempt to bring her brain into gear, she rifled through piles of papers and folders that covered the embedded leather top, finally finding three dusty manila folders.

Brushing off the dust -- which sent her into a coughing fit, which of course she had to soothe with a glass of wine, or five -- and laid them out in front of her.

There they were. The only copies in the world. She'd worked on them in secret, of course, starting the moment she'd handed in the manuscript for book seven. It was surprisingly easy how much she remembered of the way things were supposed to go.

Taking them in her hand back to the main hall, she sat in front of the fire and perused them, chuckling over lost scenes. Harry and Draco's first kiss. Ron's reaction to his mother's news that Percy was about to marry Oliver Wood. Remus and Sirius in the morning, all curled up together in bed. It had been a quick job, writing the correct versions, , and one that allowed her to reflect. She'd done it for herself, just to show that she could, and to solve her curiosities sake: there had been large plot differences between the two universes; without Draco onside as a lover the sixth and seventh years were completely different.

The ending as well.

Ah, such is the fickleness of the publishing world.

An evil glint came to her eyes -- or maybe it was just the alcohol fogging her gaze -- and she considered the possibilities. Her contract with Bloomsbury was over, and the manuscripts were hers. She could find some edgy, new independent publisher -- some little hole in Soho perhaps, with a printing press and staff with too much piercing and too little clothing. It could set the literary world alight again, especially if she blamed Warner Brothers, and made long speeches about how her artistic integrity demanded she publish the original versions.

She took a swig of her drink, and thought about it some more. Draco and Harry. Percy and Oliver. Moony and Padfoot. Artistic integrity.

"Oh f*** it," she swore, tossing the manuscripts into the fire. "They'll never believe me."