Saturday. 7.03 a.m.

My darling wife’s downstairs, curled up in pyjamas on the sofa with a book. That book. She joined the hoards at the local Waterstone’s at midnight; returned home triumphant; hasn’t been to bed. And she’s still only half way through (page 356, to be precise).

Naturally, when I woke, I too pondered the plot of the final work of the Harry Potter series. Or, at least, the one major outstanding issue… Hermione must surely be caned in this one. Surely? Please?

And then my thoughts turned darker. A daddy, walking sleepily downstairs first thing in the morning. Catching his daughter reading; realising that she’d been up all night. Without permission, of course. Indeed, against his specific instructions.

Tearing the book from her hands. Dragging her upstairs, bending her over the end of the bed. Thrashing her soundly on the bare with his thick leather belt - for staying up late, and for disobeying him.

I mentioned my idea to Haron as I flicked on the machine to make a much-needed coffee. “Don’t touch my book,” was the grumpy refrain. That’d be ‘no’ to playing a scene, then…

PS No, we don’t want anyone posting helpful hints about the ending to save Haron some reading time, thank you very much.

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