Today is fanfic day, and in true fanfic fashion, it's time to see how JK Rowling feels about all of this.
The J. K. Rowling Sessions
J. K. Rowling, aged 44, considered mentally and physically sound until not too long ago, laid sprawled across a burgundy leather sofa, or lounge chair, sofa chair. She felt bits of thought prattle around inside of her head, her blue eyes darting across the off white ceiling, side to side. Sofair, chafa, sofalette...that son of a bitch knows exactly what this thing is called and he's keeping it from me, all smug behind that little pipe of his.
J. R. R. Tolkien sat in a wheeling chair, rocking slightly while puffing on his well worn pipe, unaware of Rowling's furrowing brow urging rocks to fall upon his very spot as he wrote a series of squiggles onto a yellow paper pad. "Tell me, Jo," he began, extracting the pipe from his mouth as he flicked his pen, finishing the last of the line, "May I call you 'Jo?'"
"I suppose so since we've seen so much of each other lately," she replied flatly shifting her body towards him.
"Very good, very good," he mumbled, making another mark on his paper, "Tell me, Jo..."
"Why do you find your predicament so troubling?"
"Well, wouldn't YOU find it troubling?"
"I suppose if it were me, we wouldn't be discussing you," he answered looking pointedly down at her as he changed his crossing leg.
She responded with a polite snort. I'll just call them "mental lounger madoos" in the wizarding world, take that you elf loving man.
"Can you verbalize that, please?"
"Look, John; may I call you 'John?'" He nodded, placing his pipe back in his mouth, already scribbling away. "So, John, my precious baby boy, Harry, as you know him, was recently instigated in a number of lewd acts involving leather pants and other unmentionable leather things."
"Is there an issue with leather?"
"Now that you mention it, yes," Rowling replied, immediately sitting up, "Because wizards do not wear leather. It's just not fashionable, and for Slytherins it's just unthinkable."
"Bikers and little emo kids wear leather pants, and last I heard a group waging a war of mass genocide aren't revving their Harleys or bartending in the dark," she grimaced, flopping back down onto the couch. "And that's not the end of it, you know."
"Oh? What else?"
"Hermione, my Hermione, my precious, smart, sweet, and slightly fashion challenged Hermione is watching the procession of it all, like a dark queen atop a gilded hippogriff throne."
"A hippogriff throne?"
"They're symbolic, you know," Rowling answered matter of factly.
"Interesting. Go on."
"That's the gist of it," she replied, watching his wrinkled hands move down the paper and onto the next page. "Well? Wouldn't you find that troubling?"
Tolkien stopped writing, resting his pen against the paper and leaned back in his chair, removing his pipe yet again. "All my characters were written to have one big gay orgy in Minas Tirith, then proceeded to install a vibration device in the ring upon reaching the fires of Mordor."
"But most of your characters are elves," Rowling pointed out.
"Point taken," Tolkien relented before returning back to his scribbles. Rowling drifted her attention back to the ceiling. Now what is this blasted leather thing called?