Iona was leaned over all the musty books piled around her, her chin resting on her hand, her gaze taken by the old stone walls, her eyes taking in the age and indentures. She looked down at her volumes and sighed. There was no more productivity to be had here, she realized. She decided to take the work back to her student dorm and try again after a meal and a game of pool if anyone was at the pub.
Iona never dreamed she would become so lethargic while researching Harry Potter and the tradition of English mythology. She loved Harry Potter! Harry Potter was a charm from her childhood that left magical traces in her adulthood, that made her feel warm and welcome when she thought of those thick, colorful books, and she had been thrilled to be able to take a college course in the subject. She was disappointed in herself for feeling so unmotivated and somewhat bored. She blamed it on the weather, and the culture shock of weaning off coffee. She had taken to drinking tea in an effort to acclimate to her host country, but found that she was a bit too American to go on without coffee as a fuel source.
Iona stacked all the books onto the table quickly, now eager to get out into the fresh Scottish air. More and more books she thumped on top of the others, until the pile was near under her chin. Slinging her schoolbag over her arm, she slid the corners of her books off the table, pulled the heavy load onto her arms and balanced it precariously under her chin, and made quickly for the narrow winding staircase to the front desk.
The librarian was a strict-looking man without much of a chin, wearing an argyle sweater vest and half-moon spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose, secure by a gold chain wrapping around his neck. From behind the glow of his green bankers lamp, he looked at Iona with his eyes slitted, as though she were taking his own valuables by checking out the pile of books. He only grunted at her to take her library card, and stamped due dates hard in wet, red ink, and then pushed her pile back toward her to signal she was done, watching her struggle with the wobbly pile of books as she made out into the dark evening.
Iona walked quickly under the crushing weight of her load, wondering what sort of a caricature picture she made right now, running across the damp grass to her cottage room with half the library stacked in a leaning tower ready to topple at any moment. She near ran to her cottage door, just a short walk across the small school grounds, leaned back enough to let the books rest against her face as she used a free hand to fumble into her bag and find her key, wrestled it into the lock, turned, and pushed the door open just as the books crashed forward and went scattering about the hardwood floor of her small studio. She gasped with relief and let her tired arms hang to her sides as the muscles tightened and she allowed the bloodflow to return.
She stepped in and shut the door behind her, and after a minute, bent down on hands and knees to begin picking up her check-outs and place them on her small wooden table.
As Iona reached for a thin, emerald-green tome, she noticed that the cover was blank. There were no pictures or inscriptions. She turned it over to the back, with still nothing. The spine was also blank. She lifted the heavy cover and was surprised to find it filled with typical lined paper she used for schoolwork, and not at all the blank paper for publishing. She ran the pages through her fingers, and noticed that the pages were hand-written. She went back to the first page and leafed through one at a time. At around the third page, there was a small "Joanne" written in black cursive at the top.
"Is this someone's diary?" Iona wondered aloud. She did not remember pulling this book from any of the shelves, or sifting through it during her hours in researching this afternoon either. She continued to turn blank pages, until she opened to a page bursting full with thick, spilling ink, scrawled on from top to bottom, with ink stains and splotches filling some of the free area.
22 July 2007
It's finally done. It's all out there and slowly more and more people will finish the story and now this part of my life will be ending. It's weird to think that I have to leave this behind, on their orders. They were so clever, those wizards, to have me tell their story to such glory... and know that I would sound like a mad woman were I to admit that it was all real.
Iona looked up.
"What?" she yelped. She couldn't believe it. She went back to the first page, the one with Joanne written on it in black ink. She looked closer, and saw that next to Joanne, but lightly in pencil, was written Rowling in delicate, deliberate letters. Hurriedly she tore back to the first page.
...like a mad woman were I to admit that it was all real.
Oh, how I'll miss them. It feels so cruel to let me into the world, just to take it all away from me again. It makes me feel as though they've left a dementor hanging over my shoulder, always reminding me of what I've lost, reminding me how happy I had been, and how I can't have that back.
And to think! To think that it came from the mouth of Astoria Greengrass, and no one will ever know her story because she was too humble, and forbids me from publishing it. But what am I supposed to do? What do I do when that is the story that inspires me? What do I do when that is the story that really calls to me, and seems worthwhile?
Iona collapsed on the couch. She couldn't believe that she held the diary of J.K. Rowling in her hands, the very personal diary of Joanne Kathleen Rowling herself... and was she implying that the wizarding world was real, that it existed? That it made itself known to her for her to tell her story, but took themselves away again? How was this even possible? She knew the author's office was not far from her university here in Edinburgh, but it still made no sense that she brought it into her home from the university library.
The first entry was dated July 22nd, 2007. That was the day after Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows was released. She remembered it distinctly because it was her sister's birthday, and she could hardly stay awake during the birthday breakfast because she had been up all night reading the last book that she had picked up the day before, when it was released in bookstores.
But Astoria Greengrass? Iona couldn't remember who that was. Was she related? She flipped through the journal a little further in.
29 July 2007
I can't stop thinking about it. I miss them, I do. They moved away from me once they saw that the story was completed and on it's way to release. Poor Astoria, in love with Harry all those years, forced to debase him because of her family and her position in House Slytherin. Marrying Draco because she thought it might bring her closer to Harry in some way, that he would notice her if she just told his story. And she wanted nothing in return. Nothing, save for his affection, or his acknowledgement. And don't I know those hurts of unrequited love? What is one to do? From one heartsick woman to another, I'm not sure what to do about it now.
That's why I have to tell the story, somehow. But she won't let me. I have to get it out. From here on out, I will tell the story of Astoria Greengrass's heartache, her life that is completely devoid in the novels, her love that is completely unacknowledged, and now her turmoil, married to a man because he shared something with the man that she loved.
She remembered now. Astoria Greengrass was Draco's wife. They were seen at King's Cross Station to say goodbye to their son Scorpius the same time Harry and Ron were there with their families, as they boarded the Hogwarts Express.
The diary was thicker than Iona realized, and brimming with smaller script than she thought possible. Iona found the last entry.
31 December 2007
I will find a way to put this somewhere, where someone can find it. Where hopefully someone with some semblance of writing abilities can read it, and tell the story themselves. I swore I would not publish it myself, but I didn't say anything about anyone else. If you have read this, you must send this story off far and wide. It is a story to bring one to tears, one that can save Eurydice through story as Orpheus did through song. You must read the story of Astoria Greengrass, and then send it off yourself.
And I will find you and I will thank you. And you will not know that it was me and first, but you will know it after I am gone, and we will know that we did the world a favor.
For Wizards, Witches, and Muggles Alike
Joanne Rowling
Iona's heart was beating fast. An untold story. The untold story? Wasn't it always said that those who were first would be last, and those who were last would be first? She had in her hands, a story J.K. Rowling said would shake the world. A story of Astoria Greengrass and she was the one to do it. She could do it. And she would do it.
Iona shut the journal and locked it up in her bedroom. She grabbed her coin purse and went deliberately out into the damp, dark evening, off to buy a large amount of tea and scones, and a bigger amount of coffee.
She came back, arranged it all on the table, put the water onto boil, then got her computer and the journal. And she opened the journal up, prepared to type it out and be the next J.K. Rowling herself.
30 July 2007
Here is what needs to be retold.
There once was an English witch named Astoria Greengrass. And she didn't know that she would grow to have this life, one that could move us and shake the world if only she would let us share it, but here it is. This is the untold story of Astoria Greengrass...
Iona stacked all the books onto the table quickly, now eager to get out into the fresh Scottish air. More and more books she thumped on top of the others, until the pile was near under her chin. Slinging her schoolbag over her arm, she slid the corners of her books off the table, pulled the heavy load onto her arms and balanced it precariously under her chin, and made quickly for the narrow winding staircase to the front desk.
The librarian was a strict-looking man without much of a chin, wearing an argyle sweater vest and half-moon spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose, secure by a gold chain wrapping around his neck. From behind the glow of his green bankers lamp, he looked at Iona with his eyes slitted, as though she were taking his own valuables by checking out the pile of books. He only grunted at her to take her library card, and stamped due dates hard in wet, red ink, and then pushed her pile back toward her to signal she was done, watching her struggle with the wobbly pile of books as she made out into the dark evening.
Iona walked quickly under the crushing weight of her load, wondering what sort of a caricature picture she made right now, running across the damp grass to her cottage room with half the library stacked in a leaning tower ready to topple at any moment. She near ran to her cottage door, just a short walk across the small school grounds, leaned back enough to let the books rest against her face as she used a free hand to fumble into her bag and find her key, wrestled it into the lock, turned, and pushed the door open just as the books crashed forward and went scattering about the hardwood floor of her small studio. She gasped with relief and let her tired arms hang to her sides as the muscles tightened and she allowed the bloodflow to return.
She stepped in and shut the door behind her, and after a minute, bent down on hands and knees to begin picking up her check-outs and place them on her small wooden table.
As Iona reached for a thin, emerald-green tome, she noticed that the cover was blank. There were no pictures or inscriptions. She turned it over to the back, with still nothing. The spine was also blank. She lifted the heavy cover and was surprised to find it filled with typical lined paper she used for schoolwork, and not at all the blank paper for publishing. She ran the pages through her fingers, and noticed that the pages were hand-written. She went back to the first page and leafed through one at a time. At around the third page, there was a small "Joanne" written in black cursive at the top.
"Is this someone's diary?" Iona wondered aloud. She did not remember pulling this book from any of the shelves, or sifting through it during her hours in researching this afternoon either. She continued to turn blank pages, until she opened to a page bursting full with thick, spilling ink, scrawled on from top to bottom, with ink stains and splotches filling some of the free area.
22 July 2007
It's finally done. It's all out there and slowly more and more people will finish the story and now this part of my life will be ending. It's weird to think that I have to leave this behind, on their orders. They were so clever, those wizards, to have me tell their story to such glory... and know that I would sound like a mad woman were I to admit that it was all real.
Iona looked up.
"What?" she yelped. She couldn't believe it. She went back to the first page, the one with Joanne written on it in black ink. She looked closer, and saw that next to Joanne, but lightly in pencil, was written Rowling in delicate, deliberate letters. Hurriedly she tore back to the first page.
...like a mad woman were I to admit that it was all real.
Oh, how I'll miss them. It feels so cruel to let me into the world, just to take it all away from me again. It makes me feel as though they've left a dementor hanging over my shoulder, always reminding me of what I've lost, reminding me how happy I had been, and how I can't have that back.
And to think! To think that it came from the mouth of Astoria Greengrass, and no one will ever know her story because she was too humble, and forbids me from publishing it. But what am I supposed to do? What do I do when that is the story that inspires me? What do I do when that is the story that really calls to me, and seems worthwhile?
Iona collapsed on the couch. She couldn't believe that she held the diary of J.K. Rowling in her hands, the very personal diary of Joanne Kathleen Rowling herself... and was she implying that the wizarding world was real, that it existed? That it made itself known to her for her to tell her story, but took themselves away again? How was this even possible? She knew the author's office was not far from her university here in Edinburgh, but it still made no sense that she brought it into her home from the university library.
The first entry was dated July 22nd, 2007. That was the day after Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows was released. She remembered it distinctly because it was her sister's birthday, and she could hardly stay awake during the birthday breakfast because she had been up all night reading the last book that she had picked up the day before, when it was released in bookstores.
But Astoria Greengrass? Iona couldn't remember who that was. Was she related? She flipped through the journal a little further in.
29 July 2007
I can't stop thinking about it. I miss them, I do. They moved away from me once they saw that the story was completed and on it's way to release. Poor Astoria, in love with Harry all those years, forced to debase him because of her family and her position in House Slytherin. Marrying Draco because she thought it might bring her closer to Harry in some way, that he would notice her if she just told his story. And she wanted nothing in return. Nothing, save for his affection, or his acknowledgement. And don't I know those hurts of unrequited love? What is one to do? From one heartsick woman to another, I'm not sure what to do about it now.
That's why I have to tell the story, somehow. But she won't let me. I have to get it out. From here on out, I will tell the story of Astoria Greengrass's heartache, her life that is completely devoid in the novels, her love that is completely unacknowledged, and now her turmoil, married to a man because he shared something with the man that she loved.
She remembered now. Astoria Greengrass was Draco's wife. They were seen at King's Cross Station to say goodbye to their son Scorpius the same time Harry and Ron were there with their families, as they boarded the Hogwarts Express.
The diary was thicker than Iona realized, and brimming with smaller script than she thought possible. Iona found the last entry.
31 December 2007
I will find a way to put this somewhere, where someone can find it. Where hopefully someone with some semblance of writing abilities can read it, and tell the story themselves. I swore I would not publish it myself, but I didn't say anything about anyone else. If you have read this, you must send this story off far and wide. It is a story to bring one to tears, one that can save Eurydice through story as Orpheus did through song. You must read the story of Astoria Greengrass, and then send it off yourself.
And I will find you and I will thank you. And you will not know that it was me and first, but you will know it after I am gone, and we will know that we did the world a favor.
For Wizards, Witches, and Muggles Alike
Joanne Rowling
Iona's heart was beating fast. An untold story. The untold story? Wasn't it always said that those who were first would be last, and those who were last would be first? She had in her hands, a story J.K. Rowling said would shake the world. A story of Astoria Greengrass and she was the one to do it. She could do it. And she would do it.
Iona shut the journal and locked it up in her bedroom. She grabbed her coin purse and went deliberately out into the damp, dark evening, off to buy a large amount of tea and scones, and a bigger amount of coffee.
She came back, arranged it all on the table, put the water onto boil, then got her computer and the journal. And she opened the journal up, prepared to type it out and be the next J.K. Rowling herself.
30 July 2007
Here is what needs to be retold.
There once was an English witch named Astoria Greengrass. And she didn't know that she would grow to have this life, one that could move us and shake the world if only she would let us share it, but here it is. This is the untold story of Astoria Greengrass...
FIN
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