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(All characters in this fictional work and in oncoming continuation of said work are at least 18 years of age)

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They can't understand._ Maybe they do not want to understand. Yet you don't deem it much as something you should care about. Sure, you have neither seen nor exchanged anything besides a few 3-words-long text messages with your friends and family in a while. Understandably, though, since you are busy. You are in love, John Doe._

And who could blame you for wanting to embrace that love you have for her? She is divinely gorgeous, after all. Emma Charlotte Duerre Watson. UN peace ambassador, feminist icon and, of course, world-famous actress. After watching her perform so flawlessly in her younger acting days in the "Harry Potter"-movie franchise, you fell in love with her. Sure, you've had your fair share of conquests in the world of romance and sexual fun.

Nevertheless, you always know none of the guys you did it with could match the figure of Emma in your fantasies. And since you crushed on her as she played the role of cute know-it-all Hermione Granger, you've developed something your ex used to call an "unhealthy obsession" over the sexy witch. Bullshit! Sure, you feel sometimes a little fixated on her, looking for new photos for your Pinterest board, scrolling through NSFW fanfictions with one pair of your fingers while the other ones have usually been busy playing with your dick. How much time "wasted" (spent) on massacred family-sized tissue packages, while you try to feel closer to your Goddess, wishing to feel her surely soft thighs between your hands.

But calling said admiration for such a darling magician obsessive? You don't know. You don't want to. You can't, actually, since you are too busy.............being in love.

Unfortunately, all romantic love stories have to come to an end. At least this imagined one.

You will never know how or why this happens. Only that it happens.

On a lonely 7 pm evening, you find yourself sitting on your blue chair, staring at your screen, looking for stuff to fap to on DeviantArt. And you don't feel disappointed by any bit. With one hand on the mouse and another in the pants, you click through adult artwork of the charming cheerleader chased by you in your wildest desires. Time goes by. Not that you would pay attention to it. After a jerky while, you feel the weighted blanket of a sweet summer night's slumber falling down from the ceiling and resting on your benign shoulders.

You yawn as you are tired, and you sigh as you are exhausted. ´A good Saturday night well spent´, you think to yourself and head towards your bedroom.

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The next day approaches. The sun seems to work an extra shift today as you feel its rays on your skin with a larger amount of heat than usual. In fact, even the weather plays along in this charade. You feel cold, slightly humid winds pressing against your clothes and nose. The matrice also feels wet. Hold on..... What the hell is going on here?!

Eyes opened, the head stares at a large, grey-ish sky, but empty of rain to share for the moment. In the corners of your terrified, confused gaze, you make out the naked limbs of a tree. A huge tree. A big-ass tree. With big-ass limbs. And maybe it was the bathed grass under your skin that may have given you a hallucinating cold or the badly cooked (microwaved) lasagna you've had on Tuesday, but.....but......why the hell are they moving? My fucking Lord, why are these fat branches moving?! Annnnddd....they're coming closer, aren't they?

Yes, they-

*BAMM*

Like thunderous applause meeting the sound of a shot-out cannonball is the noise your body makes when one of the arms of this monstrous plant pushes and shoves, rather crushes, you, right in the stomach. You don't get much time to respirate. The second this thing throws you in the air (where there is actually plenty to breathe, paradoxically), another one of them catches and grabs your meat costume by your left leg. Upside down, and you still try to realize what food you ordered that makes happen this fucked-up nightmare. A few seconds pass, the tree waits until your head becomes red. Now it shakes you. It shakes you like that one bratty, braced kid shook the water sack with Nemo in it. Why can't you just die already? Naturally, the fact of your blatant fear of altitude doesn't put a smile on your tomatoed face.

After what feels like a cruel eternity, buuuuuuuut right before you need to puke your soul out, a distant sound makes its way to your ears. Something.....someone is sanding beneath you, in front of the tree. It looks like a man, you're not sure. Judging by his large figurine, long hair and beard and deep voice--he seems to be shouting something, like a command--he must be a man. He keeps on yelling and hurling orders, and you just want him to shut up. You don't feel so well. Suddenly, the branch that's been holding you strongly starts to widen its grip. Slowly, slowly, slowly. The feeling of uncertainty and fear arrives and disappears. The tree lets go while still at height. Eyes start to cl-....close......you fall....you fall unconsc-

****

You have dreamt of nothing. So, you have nothing to think about when, shrieking a bit, you wake up, breathing in and out in sheer panic, like your average movie protagonist. You're looking down. It's a bed with white sheets and white cushions. Sterile. Not your bed though. Hold on......where are your clothes? Shit! You're only in your underwear! Why.....

You try to sit up. Not working. Yout let out a tiny expression of pain. "The tree branch....right", you're recalling. Alright, so that part has really happened. You lay down, reeking your head left and right. There are several other white beds with white furniture pieces next to them, you observe. A hospital room? Could be. But....hospital room don't look so....antique. The floor seems to bed made out of marble. So do the walls and the ceiling. While your inner clock tells you it's still midday, hardly any daylight is absorbed by the fitted in windows of which all of them are arched. Rather, the room receives its light source from the few dozens of candles sprinkled around. Overall, everything demonstrates to possess the appearance of a medieval construction style. Therefore, it looks like you're in a castle? Maybe? Who cares? You're still groaning about the feeling of what's left of your rib bones. Fortunately, you don't see anyone else lying on a bed, so you're alone with your pain. Time to rest and heal for now. As if you could walk away, after all...

Hours pass, you're unaware of their amount. You start to feel better gradually. OK now. Time to think. Where could you possibly be? What exactly happened? And why are you in your panties? Too many questions, so let's start with the first one. Where are you? You look around again. And again. And again. Something in the back of the head seems to run to the front. It hits you. Oh shit. But....no. Or yes? You have seen this room before, just out of a different perspective. And the memory reveals also where you have seen it before. In a movie you know all too well. The whole room looks perfectly like the one in-

Finishing stuff is where you're usually very good at. This time, you can't, As the door to the room open with an odd sound. You look up and see who enters. You know that guy. It's Albus Dumbledore.

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Wide-eyed and with an open mouth, you stare at the wise old man you use to adore whenever you watch him act on the screen. Now, that......the fucking headmaster of Hogwarts stands 6 feet away from you, eyeing you as if you were what's not fitting into the scene.

Finally, you get to close your mouth, but keep staring. Dumbledore--or at least the guy who looks exactly like him--cracks a little smile. He seems to be amused by the attention you're giving him. Maybe he is used to that. The room remains dead silent, even though there are four other people, two on each side of Dumbledore. On the left, a woman who looks just like school nurse Madame Pomfrey. Right next tp her.....holy fuck, it can't be......Severus Snape, the teacher for magic potions? No....no.....but....Alan Rickman is dead! How can he be here? How?!

Shake that thought away. No time for too much wondering. Trying to ignore his penetrating, icy gaze, you look to the other side. McGonagall, deputy headmistress and Transfiguration professor. Your eyes cross. You make out a weird combination of worry and animosity in her look. And, finally, the big, hairy man from before. Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts....or Professor for Care of Magical Creatures. Depends on which movie you're in. Hold on....what? Did you just.....sooo.....we're really in the world of.....ok, not now.

Out of all people, Hagrid seems to be the most harmless one, as he is watching you with nothing but pure curiosity. The aura of power you've been feeling for a while now must be coming from the Headmaster, then. You look back at him. His grey eyes look so welcoming, yet also closed. In the sense that they are hiding things. Probably stuff you shouldn't think about.

Finally, he is also the one to speak: "Well, lets us hope the Whomping Willow made you feel a little more welcome here, young child. Please forgive my foolishly harsh words, but....you shouldn't be here, not at all. You've quite surprised us with your appearance here, dear...?"