The terrifying screech of brakes echoed across the quiet road on the outskirts of Oxford, before the luxury limousine crashed straight into a lamppost and exploded into a fireball. Before people around could recover, a giant column of black smoke rose high, illuminating the night. The victim’s identity was quickly confirmed: J.K. Rowling – the “mother” of Harry Potter – was trapped in the burning car. This news shocked the world.
The scene was suffocatingly chaotic. Glass shards flew everywhere, and red flames billowed, engulfing the front of the car. A horrified witness recounted: “I heard a scream from inside the car, then everything was engulfed in an explosion. We watched helplessly as the fire engulfed the car.” Paparazzi, who had followed the car to take photos, now became reluctant witnesses. Flashes flashed repeatedly in the hazy smoke, capturing the scene of fans bursting into tears, while police rushed to block off the area, stopping the crowd from jostling.
Firefighters quickly deployed hoses, but the high temperatures made it nearly impossible to reach the limousine. It took more than 15 minutes for them to break down the door and get J.K. Rowling out. She was motionless on the stretcher, her oxygen mask covering her, her chest being pumped continuously. The ambulance siren tore through the night, taking her to John Radcliffe Hospital amid the desperate prayers of hundreds of people.
In the ICU, a cold white light enveloped her. Monitors flashed red alarms continuously, electric shocks rang out, nurses pumped resuscitation drugs nonstop. The head of the department gritted his teeth as he tried to maintain each beat. But the novelist’s heart stopped responding. After nearly an hour of trying, the doctor silently declared: “We did everything… but we couldn’t save her.” The bad news was officially confirmed, plunging the hospital into an atmosphere of mourning.
The news of her death spread, and social media exploded in shock. The hashtag #PrayForRowling quickly turned into #GoodbyeRowling, covering Twitter and Instagram. Millions of fans around the world shed tears. Daniel Radcliffe choked up: “Without her, there would be no Harry Potter, nor would there be me today.” Emma Watson sobbed: “She is not only an author, she is the mother of our generation.” The British Prime Minister said: “Rowling is a national pride, an immortal monument of modern literature.”
In Edinburgh – where she wrote the first pages of Harry Potter – thousands of people gathered at the old cafe. A sea of white candles stretched out, her photos were placed among the wreaths. The singing of “Hedwig’s Theme” echoed through tears, the flickering candlelight mixed with the flashbulbs of the press. Many people hugged each other and cried, as if they had lost a part of their childhood.
The grief did not stop: during the memorial service, when the crowd was overwhelmed and jostled, an iron fence suddenly collapsed, dozens of fans fell. The screams resounded, and the ambulance sirens rushed in. The double incident deepened the tragic atmosphere.
J.K. Rowling – the woman who overcame poverty to write the legendary Harry Potter, now passed away in a raging sea of fire. The world of literature, cinema, and millions of hearts fell into an unfillable void. The day of the funeral was declared a “cultural national mourning,” with flags flying at half-mast across the UK. In a choked sob, fans left an immortal promise: “Her books will shine forever, like a miracle that never goes out.”
