A Short Story

Wenn die beste Freundin Autorin ist und etwas Gutes geschrieben hat, will man dies mit der ganzen Welt teilen. Deshalb folgt heute einmal ausnahmsweise kein Text von mir, sondern von Eleonore Laubenstein:

Lashes flutter close, and slowly her head falls onto the pages. Just now, she had been sitting on her bed, reading about the great dangers of keeping a Niffler (anyone who has seen one, knows what the fuzz is about), when sleep overcame her and lulled her in.
Or at least tries to. She forces herself awake, blinks a few times, and tries to concentrate once more on the detailed descriptions on how to deal with these vicious little creatures.
It’s not easy. She’s been up past two (again), and even coffee won’t help anymore. In front of her, the drawing of the Niffler scratches itself with its tiny paw. She yawns. The Niffler suddenly looks lively.
‚Why don’t you take a break and sleep?‘, it asks in Stephen Fry’s voice. Strange. She doesn’t remember that Nifflers can talk. As a matter of fact, she is quite sure they can’t. But the Niffler is right. She needs sleep. She blinks again, and the Stephen-Fry-Niffler smiles sympathetically at her.
‚Yeah, maybe I should.‘ She yawns again, this time longer. Then she remembers. ‚But I can’t! I have my OWLs tomorrow and I need to study!‘
The Stephen-Fry-Niffler shrugs its tiny, drawn shoulders. “M not keeping you up, am not‘, the Niffler defends itself. ‚It’s just – I don’t think, this is efficient. Bad for your health and all.‘
She knows the beast is right. She just doesn’t want to accept it, that’s all. She should have started learning months ago, she knows it. Well, that’s too late now.
The light on her wand flickers, and she finally gives in. ‚Yeah, alright‘, she mumbles. ‚Nox.‘
‚Good girl‘, she hears Stephen Fry’s voice whisper in her ear, as darkness envelopes her. She hears the Niffler scuttle around on the pages, before she closes the heavy book and rests her head on the pillows.
Her hands clasp the book tightly, anxiously trying to extract the knowledge from the pages she wasn’t able to learn while still awake.

At the shrill sound of the alarm she jolts, her copy of ‚Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them‘ lands on the floor with a thud.
Cautiously, she picks it up and opens it. The Niffler on the page doesn’t move.
‚Why was I born a muggle?‘, she asks herself in the bathroom mirror, a few moments later.
Almost defiantly, she puts on her Hufflepuff tee and when she leaves her apartment about five minutes later, she doesn’t catch the mirror saying: ‚If I had a dime for every time someone asked me that…‘


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