Let’s say I went to Hogwarts the same time as Harry Potter’s final year…
One would have to be a complete idiot NOT to know that there’d be some final throwdown between the Lord of all Evil (who, incidentally, was president for a few hours while I slept in this morning) and that Harry Potter kid. Not a Quidditch battle…but some big world-shattering fight with balls of fire and snakes and Nazis and Boba Fett. And I’m not the best student, nor the most athletic nor the most popular. Nobody’d ask me to the Yule Ball. I’d probably be in one of the houses that wasn’t Slytherin or Gryffindor.
I’d be the equivalent of the Star Trek redshirt. Doomed to die a violent-but-meaningless death and have my body trampled on during Harry’s victory lap (or funeral procession, depending on what happens) around the Banquet Hall.
Given all of that, I’d probably take the school year off. Study abroad, maybe. Go intern at a Muggle vacation resort.
I quit reading the books during the World Quidditch Cup tournament back in book 4(??) when I realized I had read 1/4 of a very large book and the kids hadn’t made it to the darn school yet. Before the Wandering Minstrel read his copy today, I managed to read the last chapter and a half. I won’t spoil it yet, but after all of the whining and dramaqueening Rowling had done lately about finishing the series in tears and someone Not! Making! It! Out! Alive! I was completely puzzled by the last chapter.