hr

A/N: I tried to name this chapter Loathing, but it didn't work out for some reason. At any rate, it's fixed now, I found out why Maybell sounded like a Mary-Sue and made it all better … go me! … Hopefully :crosses fingers: Thanks to Lia Tween for pointing it out to me!

When you're done, there's this convient little box at the bottom that asks you to submit a review, that would be great.

Thanks! I'll let you read now …

/hr

i b center u Loathing /i /b /center /u

I despise Sirius Black with a deep fiery passion that smolders fiercely within the pit of my black, uncaring soul. Not that I'm horrible, oh no. I'm not horrible at all; he's merely twisted and skewed my soul from its original purity and loveliness into a steaming mass of disgusting loathing and hatred towards him and only him. Well, perhaps a few of his lowly mates, rodents really, that he refers to as friends as well. My life was perfect, absolutely perfect until that jerk waltzed into my life and decided to make it a living hell.

He did this simply by making me hate him. Before him I didn't fit in because I was different. I'm different because I stand out. I stand out because in a world full of opinions I just don't care. Mismatching plaid and spots doesn't bother me. I'm totally fine with wearing white after Labor Day, and I frankly could care less who becomes Prime Minister and the same philosophy goes towards who wins the Quidditch world cup.

At least, that was my tried and true philosophy on life until the infamous Sirius Black walked into my life with a torrent of emotions whirling behind him like thick, dark, black, gross, dirty smog.

He doesn't deserve this much emotion from me. Not at all. He deserves nothing but the bugs in the dirt on the bottom of someone's shoe who just stepped in dog poop. And even that is far too good for his dismal, low down, good for nothing self.

I met Black on the train to Hogwarts first year. I had just moved to England from America and wasn't really all that torn up about it. True to my nature, I didn't really care all that much. My parents wanted to move, so we moved. Whatever. I guess I'll start the story from there and move along.

My mom moved us from sunny San Diego to gloomy, rainy London this week. It was actually kind of a fun move. My friends were a little upset to see me leaving them, but I didn't mind. Peter and Michelle will miss me a lot, and I guess I'll miss them, but new adventures await me over the horizon!

A lot of the reason we moved had to do with the fact that I was accepted to Hogwarts and they sent the letter i especially /i for me overseas to America. She has this theory in her head that I'm so incredibly talented that they have to have me at Hogwarts. She disregards the fact that I couldn't perform a spell to save my life, and that my magic only comes out at the most inconvenient of times.

Like this time, I went to a muggle elementary school because my parents thought I needed to know about the muggle world for some weird reason. I was forbidden to tell anyone of my magical ancestry.

Well, this one time, we were at school and all the kinds were playing this awful game called "tag." I, of course, not being raised as a muggle, had no idea what in the world was going on around me.

This boy in my class, Maxwell, came up behind me, sneaky like a snake. He poked me with that infamous poke. I whipped around in a fury, ready to pound him within two inches of his life. Mind you, I was eight at the time.

Well, instead of connecting with his face, my fist richoched off of a wall of a large purple bubble that suddenly surrounded me. Was the end? Of course not, oh no my friend, that was not the end. How could it be?

The purple bubble, with me in it, began to float away. Since I was surrounded by muggles, none of them knew how to react or what to do. I sat down in my little express bubble and watched as my old life in muggle school got farther and farther away, and smaller and smaller.

My parents had a difficult time explaining all these happenings to my old principal, and eventually we had to move away from that county because of all the "witch hunters," out to get me. You'd think those kinds of people would be gone by now, but I guess not.

Anyways, I eventually passed out from lack of oxygen as the bubble got really, really high, and I have no conscious memory of how I was saved. I am told though, by those who know, that my parents were called to school and my father came to get me on a broomstick. How he managed not to pass out is a mystery to me to this day, and he sees no reason to explain this peculiar event to me.

My mother sees this event, and a few others like it, as evidence that I am "The greatest witch of our time!" My father just thinks I'm a freak. I'm not so sure.

Oh well, my mother always was a little crazy. I figure there was this bird that was completely set upon flying a long way, for the same reason exercise freaks run marathons, and figured since there was a witch in America; it was a perfect opportunity for it to fulfill its exercising dreams.

My mom always claimed that I was a little crazy. What did she know? She was old anyway.

At any rate, we both agreed upon the fact that that bird would die within a week from sheer exhaustion. That's why we locked it in a cage with a bunch of food and toys for it to spend its final hours in.

Boy were we wrong, that bird was far from dead when we came back later that day. It was up and eating quite merrily, or so it seemed. We watched closely, examining every inch of the small cage, enthralled with the non-dead and not-dying bird, and slowly it looked me square in the eye. Its beady eye was ever so close to mine, I dared not blink because I was afraid that in the second I blinked, it would peck my eye out with its formidable beak. Slowly, that bird began to push around a little ball with a bell in it. As the bell chirped a bit, the owl looked at us. At this point, I swear to you on my honor, that bird cooed indignantly, as thought it were a human. It was insulted that we would dare provide it with youthful entertainment while confining it to such limited lodging.

My mother and I did the only logical thing we could do at that point. We opened the cage and sent the bird upon its way. I do hope it made it back to Hogwarts alright, little buggard. My mother and I nicknamed him Lazarus, because in our minds he had come back from the dead, miraculously none the less.

That was a wonderful start to my new life. Well, what I'm assuming is a new life. I guess it might not be if Hogwarts turns out to be a joke and doesn't actually exist. Both of my parents are rather eccentric. They insist that Hogwarts does in fact exist, and that they in fact went there as students and met there. They also, however, refuse to deny the existence of dragons and trolls, and constantly assert that Dumbledore is still alive. Anyone who knows anything is all too aware that someone as old as Dumbledore would have to be dead by now. For him to live this long is not only impossible, it is a sin. If he were alive, which I'm sure he is not, he would be adding a rather large contribution to the problem of over-population and blatantly denying the laws of natural selection, and he would also be ignoring the greatest possible years it is acceptable for a creature of the male sex to live. If he is in fact alive, which I highly doubt, it would be better for him to just die and get it over with because he is doing more harm than good.

I told my mother this and she looked at me, clearly stating with her bewildered glare that Dumbledore wasn't going to die anytime soon, and to suggest it was plainly blasphemy and ludicrous. She clarified the meaning I had already read from her obvious facial expressions with an unnecessary and unwieldy statement, "Dumbledore, I'll have you know, is the greatest wizard of our time! He is far greater than any one, no one challenges Dumbledore." She tumbled over her words in her usual fashion of clumsy wordplay.

I must admit that I have no real advantage over my mother in the vocabulary and the evading gift of elegant speaking. I do however possess a sly talent that only makes itself apparent when I am angry. When fury rages in me, words become meaningless and nothing but my intended words filled with intended vulgar vocabulary make themselves known through non verbal communication.

Oh, I guess I forgot to mention. My name is Maybell Shorter. Should I describe the way I look? Quite possibly it will affect your image of me, and is that what I want? Do I want you to be influenced by the physical aspect of me, or shall I twist and turn your views of me with my meaningless words, which when stringed together in a certain manner produce a startling production of metaphoric meaning. I shall spin the truth any way I like, flex my rhetorical muscles I'll make your heads spin, filling them up with dizzy thoughts because of my dazzling intellect. Or perhaps I'll baffle you with my bullshit. I guess it all depends upon your perception and how you wish to view life.

I'm rather short, family trait I'm sad to say. That's how we got stuck with the name Shorter. We are in fact, shorter than everyone else. But what we lack in mere vertical altitude, we make up for with pure Irish spunk. My eyes are bright green, and my hair is vibrant red. It's usually hidden behind a rather large blue hat I'm unusually fond of. My hair is unruly and sticks out of all corners of my hat and resembles a torrid firestorm. I like to think of my hat as a spat of water to put the fire out, it's blue like the ocean anyway.

In the end, it was all words anyway. I assure you, on my honor, that I did nothing to dissuade you from the actual viewing of me and me, and that if you take those words literally you will get a pretty good view of how I look.

All these things I've been discussing have been examples of my warped view on reality; my catawampus view on a serpentine world. That certainly was not the point of this exercise, but unfortunately I seemed to have uncharacteristically misplaced my purpose among all these tangents.

When I find it, I'll be sure to write it down so we'll both stop being confused, confounded by my cleverness, and ultimately baffled by my bullshit.