Hi! I am a book that was written by J.K. Rowling, you know the famous author who created the famous Harry Potter series and became a billionaire.

My name is Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. I am a really exciting book about wizards and witches, magic and spells, and of course He Who Must Not Be Named. After J.K. Rowling wrote me, I was sent to Bloomsbury Publishers. Editors there read me, loved me and I was sent for publication.

After they made millions of copies of me, I was shipped to bookshops around the world. I was a hardcover edition with a glistening cover and beautiful illustrations. There I stood on the shelves, gleaming under the spotlights waiting, for book lovers to come and buy me.

One day, a very rude, boisterous boy visited a bookshop and that, my friends, was the end of my good days. He flipped through my pages with dirty, gummy fingers and ripped few of my pages. I was horrified at his callous attitude. The shop keeper forced the boy’s mother to buy me, because no one would now buy a torn book.

To my relief, I was left alone for some time until someone roller skated over me. Wizz! Ouch! I whimpered. It was that wretched boy again who zigzagged around me without a care in the world.

At bedtime, he decided to read me… while eating a chocolate cake. Now I was done for. He read a few pages, and used his fat, podgy finger to wipe chocolate cream off my pages. He got bored after reading just a few pages (imagine that) and flung me across the room. To my utter dismay, I landed in the laundry basket overflowing with his dirty, smelly clothes.

Next morning, the maid carried me off to somewhere. I couldn’t see anything because I was smothered by clothes. She tipped the whole basket over and I was in the washing machine, I was whirled and got tumbled about for an eternity. When the boy’s mother saw my tattered remains, she fished me out of soapy water and threw me aside in disgust. A crow sat on me and well… I never smelt the same again.

After I dried out, I was put alongside old newspapers and other books that seem to have gone through the same torture as myself. Clearly this was a household that had no love for books… not that I can be called a book any longer. In just under two days, I had been torn, ripped, drooled on, smeared with cake, flung about mercilessly and washed in a washing machine. Now I will be sold with old rubbish and maybe recycled.