-Only my subconscious cares-
-1-
-Thank-you for flying Thai Airlines-
The potion had failed.
At least- that's what they told everyone when Harry Potter's body disappeared from Hogwarts and reappeared in the possession of Peter Pettigrew three days later at Godric's Hollow.
The potion had failed.
Voldemort is but a bad memory these days. You could compare his memory to that of spilling hot tea all over your trousers and then being left no option but to wear the tea-trousers all day. Both memories seem hideous in their own glorious way. And Voldemort never came back. He was tossed into a potion and eaten alive (Or un-dead) by sulfuric acid. Almost makes you feel sorry for him. Almost. And so the Dark Era was over, for now.
The potion had failed.
You're never quite sure what to do with yourself when your best friend dies. Some would act like nothing had happened- They're just out for the day, they'll be back tomorrow. Some would act like the world decided to do them a personal wrong- lock yourself in your room, the world can't hurt you in there. Some would grieve openly, on everyone's shoulder, in every place possible, as much as possible- 'Oh God, he's gone! The world will never be the same!' they'd cry into shoulder number sixty-five while making loud honking noises to piss off the good-Samaritan stupid enough to care. Though, in my entire fifteen small years, I never once would have suspected that he'd be gone. Damned teenaged immortality. But I didn't pretend it never happened, I didn't lock myself in my room and I didn't cry like flooding rain on everyone around me.
I handled my grief in two manners. Discreetly and quietly. In the privacy of my room, I used egg cartons on my walls to keep the noise in. And only then would the screaming, crying and carrying on commence. Many broken vases still sit on the bedside table, awaiting repair. Many pictures are pinned to my cupboard, our old smiles only keeping me in my black abyss.
Eight weeks of mourning was enough. Not one owl from Ronald, my other supposed best friend. The shock of not caring was bigger than the shock of the news that he'd killed himself. So, all in all, the bossy brainy chick of the trio was reduced to a solo act- one that, apparently, no one cared for.
But that was okay. Everything is fucking peachy. I'm just fine- really! I've a compartment to myself, and I don't have to worry about anyone else falling asleep and snoring like my great Grandma Ursula- and she could snore. Loudly and with a vile stench. With my nose in a book, I'm looking at the words and my subconscious is processing the information, but I'm not actually reading the words. So far, I've learned a lot about Salazar Slytherin's reasoning to want his pureblood inbreds separate from muggleborns.
The book is almost as enjoyable as shoving your head into a blender while singing 'Mary had a little lamb' in opera style. Crookshanks was off snuggling up to Ginny Weasley, that stupid cow. Stealing the attentions of a witch's Familiar- right when she'd love to have a great lump of breathing, malting, purring fur in her own lap.
Sometimes, just when you feel detached from the world- perhaps enough to completely cut ties with it and do the Full Monty, i.e. Kill yourself, you get random little thoughts flitting across your brain like 'Hello, I'm Mr. Clippy, assistant paper clip in Microsoft Word. I can see it looks like you are writing a suicide note, you should realize no one cares anyway, and 'Goodbye cruel world' is much more cliché than it sounds.'
But no, Salazar Slytherin just wanted muggleborns to marry each other and make more inbred families for the purebloods to choose from. No wonder everyone thought he was a prick. He's as bad as Americans. Damn yanks and their Starbucks Coffee. While their all-holy economy is going, perhaps they can massacre English literature. That's excellent, Borders- Stick pulp fiction writers like Jodi Piccoult with Jane Austen, a Goddess of the English language, that's great.
Dressing in the same damn uniforms as I'd done for the past four years and absently staring at the ring around my left little finger, I briefly wondered where on Earth I'd picked up a serpent ring. It was hardly unattractive, and perhaps it would create some controversy that I could cunningly ignore, while remembering how to bottle fame, brew glory and even put a stopper in moronism.
The ride to the castle was much as it always had been- only this year there were giant ugly horses. One would only assume that if you could see these hideous creatures, it meant that you were lucky enough to see the death of a human near you. Enough with the morbid thoughts though, my mind isn't a morgue- yet.
There you have it. While the magical world is falling apart at the seams with Death Eaters just wondering what to do with themselves now, a bunch of hormonal teenagers and old senile faculty members are sitting around, feasting on every known species to man- even a few that aren't. Is there an eye in that soup? Charming. The chatter at the Gryffindor table consisted of food, families and Quidditch. Boy- people certainly know how to add a little variety to their conversation. In the back of my mind, I realize with very little surprise that I am engaging in conversation- it's about Harry and Ron. I think I'm talking to Ginevra, can't be sure though- I'm not actually paying any attention to the participant.
Well, here's what I can vaguely remember the stupid chit saying.
"You must be taking things pretty hard, Mione- I didn't leave my room for a week once I got home." I can now confirm that I am speaking to the Weasley girl- only she would do something so self absorbed.
"I have neither the time or mental capacity to remain in one room for longer than twelve hours at a stretch." I respond, refilling my juice and charming it to intoxicate me.
"Surely you did some major crying, though, right? I mean, you and Ronny got along pretty well. We'd always assume you'd end up together." Ronny? She's gone mental. And what does she mean I'd end up with Ronald? He was an insipid hothead who could play chess and brew potions- badly- while asking for help every fifty-three seconds. Its fact that he did it every fifty-three seconds because I'd timed him. It was one of those days. The kind where you're just running on auto-pilot and the captain has fallen asleep at the controls. 'Attention passengers of flight 20958, this is your captain speaking- I took a nap during the middle of the flight and I believe we are somewhere over the Antarctic Ocean, there will be a short delay of the rest of your lives as we have no fuel and no realistic way for any of you unlucky sods to survive in these conditions. Thank-you for flying Thai Airlines and enjoy the rest of your flight.'
The silly girl took my silence as an agreement and continued. "It must be so hard… Young love nipped in the bud before it was even fully formed…" Ginevra sighed dreamily.
"I apologize for any misconceptions, dear Ginny, but I was in no way romantically inclined towards your brother." There. That ought to shut the hole in the middle of her face for a while.
The headmaster stood- looking at the (Senile and manipulative) old man, I noticed that his eyes were open slightly wider than was usual and his hair had braids through it. Bad attempt at fashion, Albus. Very bad. "Good evening, Hogwarts!"
Oh dear. He's beaming again. What can one possibly do to shield themselves from the blinding fake-cheer of Albus Dumbledore? The school mumbled a 'Good evening professor Dumbledore' in that psychotic sing-song way that makes everyone want to stab their eyes out and then pour vinegar mixed with lemon juice all over the soon-to-be infected gaping eye wounds.
"Very good, very good." Save us all- he's still beaming. "Now, we've had some changes in staff this year as Professor Snape has suddenly disappeared without warning, we have his predecessor, Professor Slughorn!"
Nearly the entire school cheered madly- I didn't. I'm sure I had that deadened look in my eyes as I stared at the fat, ugly, warty (not to mention sluggy) old man wondering where my silky-voiced, well-spoken, fantastically intelligent potions master had gone.
It was something of a crime, although my face gave nothing away. Occlumency 101- control your face first.
"And in place of Imposter Moody, may I present Professor Umbridge who is to take up position of Defense Against The Dark Arts!" she gave a speech that made the entire school feel like five or six year olds, one, if they had half a brain would get a bare message through her prettied up words. Ministry hates Hogwarts. Hm. It will be interesting to see how to get this professor tossed off the post of DADA professor. Indirectly, I've been responsible for three of the four DADA professors leaving Hogwarts.
"What you heard was a lie. Harry Potter simply died from overdose of-" Cruciatus curse, say it, toad face! "Magical mushrooms"
Laughing internally, I could feel my body shake. The hysteria subsided and the negative emotions flowed back. Feeling annoyed at the sudden departure of the snarky bastard, making my way up to the dormitories without incident was difficult. In less than four minutes, Peeves had successfully set off the fire-sprinkler charms, blown up the girl's lavatory on the third floor, dumped pudding all over an unsuspecting first year, rearranged the faces of six sculptures and four paintings, pelted flaming marshmallows at a group of Ravenclaw's and tore the Fat Lady off her hinges, threatening to drop her off the top of the astronomy tower if he wasn't given full rights as a poltergeist. Someone needs to push him through the veil and send him plenty of dung bombs to last him his eternity.
For once, elf slavery is useful- the bed I lay in is warm and comfortable. The satin sheets are nice to fall asleep in.
Authors Note: Anyone reading my other story would notice that this story is -very-very-very- very different from my regular writing style. In fact, I was going to write this story in regular Trelawney-doom-and-gloom style, but kept on ending up with funny bits of opinion to stick in there. Like that thing on American economy? That's because Borders really DOES stick Jane Austen with Jodi Piccoult. Bad move, Borders, very bad. Anyway, if this toss is worth continuing, give me a shout and I'll have fun with more politically incorrect analogies.