My Name’s Harry Potter and I Love Horses

I can’t stop dreaming that I am Harry Potter. Seriously, take a look: Not only was I Harry Potter in this post, but I was also Jesus (a puzzle I don’t even want to begin to solve); and I never told you this, readers, but in Dream #3 of this DreamBomb series, I was actually Harry again. I blame J.K. Rowling for being such a good writer of relateable characters. Her, and the fact that I probably secretly wish that I was a wizard and the only time I can say that out loud is when I’m dreaming. When I was younger it was harder to keep it quiet.

In fifth grade I had written a short book called Billy’s Weird Life (which I must admit is quite the literary zenith of a title), about a boy who learns that he is a wizard and goes on an adventure while traveling to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I would totally post the story here like I did The Fraidy-Cat Lion but trust me, folks, Billy’s Weird Life is nowhere near as endearing or funny as that one. It’s really just a poorly formed, copyright-infringing story with “I WISH WIZARDS WERE REAL AND THAT I WAS ONE OF THEM!” screaming between every line.  So I won’t post it. (You know I probably will.)

 [That's all I'll give you for now. Click to embiggen.]

And once again I have dreamt that I am Harry Potter. Here it is.

My friends and I (you know, Ron and Hermione) were in hiding because, obviously, Voldemort was trying to chase us down. So for those of you who are keeping count, I was the “Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows” Harry Potter, the one who’s all dark and cynical now because he just wants to be a normal famous wizard. Dinner that night was canned pasta alfredo, as in the whole meal was in one can. Noodles, chicken, white sauce. It was even bland in my mind.  I choked it down, wishing for some Sriracha sauce to squeeze on top. 

But something better than Sriracha arrived. A freaking horse, people. It was light brown and kind of looked like a tall Airedale terrier with a mane. I knew immediately that Dumbledore had sent it.

[Let me stop right here to say that I KNOW that at least one of you Harry Potter nerds reading would interrupt and say, “Wait wait wait wait…By The Deathly Hallows, Dumbledore is DEAD, Brian. He was killed in The Half-Blood Prince and you know it!” I DO know it, my friends. Frankly, I’m a little embarrassed that my unconscious mind didn’t pick up on this when I was dreaming it. I promise it will never happen again.]

I quickly slung myself onto the horse and went on an adventure. It was quite a long adventure and I didn’t know where I was going, but I remember a Rocky workout-like scene, where they cover days and days worth of activity in a short segment, during which the horse and I bonded. It was heartwarming.

 [No, not like that.]

Soon enough, in the middle of the night, we arrived a stable owned by a crotchety old man. He let us in, begrudgingly, but I would have to stay in the stable with the horse. I was okay with that, since apparently in my dreams I’m okay with sleeping on a floor strewn with horse poo.

The next night I was introduced to the petulant old man’s wife, who kept dropping hints about my horse being special, which confused me. And then she told me that the reason her husband was mad at me was because he wanted the magical clarinet I had with me.

ME: What?

HER: A magical clarinet.

ME: Why would I have a magical clarinet?

HER: You just do. In your bag.

ME: No way.

HER: Yes way. Look in your bag. See that box? What’s inside?

ME: Woah. A clarinet. And you say it’s magical?

HER: Sort of. It can play like a bunch of magical songs.

ME: Who gives a crap about that?

HER: My husband.

ME: Well he can have it if you want.

HER: Oh, that would be great. Maybe he’ll stop griping now.

It was the strangest conversation. Then my horse, whose name turned out to be Midnight (I know, right?), came out of the stable. He was skinny, but not gaunt skinny; it was more as if a picture of him had been stretched vertically, so he was all disproportionate and lanky. I turned to the stable owner’s wife.

ME: What the heck happened to my horse?

HER: Oh, that. His body reacts to the conditions of storms. See how there’s a small storm forming in the distance? That’s why his body is like that; the storm is small, so he’s small. That’s why he’s called Midnight. 

 

ME: That makes no sense whatsoever.

HER: It does in this state of your brain.

ME: What?

HER: Nevermind.

ME: Can I still ride him?

HER: Sure! Just jump on.

So I jumped on top of Midnight, even though it felt like I was riding a wooden sawhorse (get it? SawHORSE?), and we rode off into the woods. The stable owner’s wife yelled after me, “Oh! And he understands everything that you say!”

This new realization was so exciting for me. No wonder we had bonded so well! I said “Go left!” without moving Midnight’s reins, and he went left. I said “Slow down just a bit,” and he did just that. And then I told him all of my personal secrets because I knew he would listen.

Then I woke up. 

I texted Christie right away when I woke up, to share the story with a fellow Harry Potter nerd, and also so I could remember as many details as I could. She replied, saying, “That’s a good one! You should blog about it today.” I told her I couldn’t because I didn’t want to cheapen my relationship with Midnight by joking about it. I’m sure she didn’t know if she should laugh or not.