Let’s assume I kill Harry Potter.

Let’s assume I kill Harry Potter.

Let’s assume nobody finds out.

Can a boy made from words be made to feel pain?

Will his author weep when I put my blade through his throat?

He lives inside the pages of half a billion books. What would be the harm of excising him from just one?

So I do. And it’s easy. Like applying whiteout to a spelling mistake.

I spend no words mourning him. Enough ink has been wasted describing his life.

Enough with him. Now, demiurge! Write of Dudley Dursley.

FIN