A/N: ZOMS! I can't believe it! I finally finished this blooming chappie! It's taken so long, but in the end I have prevaaaaaaiiiled! -grins- Yeah. You see, I was almost halfway through this chappie, when my love (YuzukiHanako, the person writing the other part of this story) decided "Hey, let's make it first person, not third!". I was horrorfied! I had to rewrite. Why not just go through and change all the 'she's to 'I's, you say? Because I am a perfectionist. If I was going to rewrite, dude, Ima rewrite the whole blooming thing aren't I? So here we are; it's still pretty crappy, but shush yah mouth.
Clack clack k-chat, clack clack k-chat.
One of my trolley wheels was broken – I focused on the repetitive sound, allowing the bustle of the station to fade from around me. A breath of wind brushed past and I marvelled at the touch of the crisp September air as it coiled against my cheek before sweeping away, carrying the odd leaf and plastic bag as it went. Wind had always amazed me – it was so boundless, so free. It travelled everywhere, unburdened and unhindered in its infinite journey. Never ceasing, never wavering, always there despite what may be going on around it – completely indifferent to the squabbles of petty mortals. If only life were that simple.
But it wasn't. Isn't. Never will be. Why? Because we are ignorant.
We take, we take, and we give nothing back. Even if we did give, it would never be enough – it would always pale in comparison to what we've done. Why? Because we are human.
We so very much hate, and yet still somehow find it in ourselves to have the nerve to love. We're filled with arrogance and greed, modesty and selflessness; wrath and vanity, serenity and humility; envy and gluttony, kindness and temperance; lust and sloth, rationality and passion. These are what define us, our faults and fortitudes. Things we both try so hard to hide, and yet seem to flaunt at every opportunity.
I took a shuddering breath, closing my eyes briefly as I stilled my errant thoughts. I do that a lot; the whole inner-monological-rant thing. My mind picks up a passing topic at random and ends up going on a weird little philosophical tangent – highly infuriating, if you ask me. Sometimes I wondered if I were too damn smart for my own good, but then again most people would have thought that my intelligence is one of my better qualities. They would instead point towards things like my sharp tongue, my witty comebacks, my habitual tardiness, my tomboyish tendencies, my eternal sarcasm, or perhaps my incessant ability to irritate, annoy, and generally get under peoples skin. But these stated traits are some of the ones I valued and held most dear; just a little something I liked to call individuality.
I allowed my eyes to wander over the battered surface of the trunk I was hauling around; I'd had it for a few years by then – that was in fact the fifth – and its worn surface was marked by many scrapes and scratches; there were even a couple of stains and snatches of writing scrawled across it. I'm not entirely sure how they got there, but they did appear to add to that 'well loved' feel it seemed to exude. A smile tugged at the corners of my pale lips as I reached out a hand to pat the lid before turning back to the laborious task of pushing the trolley.
As my thoughts started to wander – something about windows, peanut butter and socks, I think – they were interrupted by a voice, successful in breaking my reverie due to its insistent calling, even over the bustle of the many scurrying people in the surrounding station.
"Amaia! Ah-my-aaaaah! Over here, you dork!"
I quickly scanned the faces around me, stretching up on my tippy-toes in a vain effort to see over some heads to spot the person I knew to be calling my name. Damn my infernal shortness. Finally my eyes caught on someone frantically waving and jumping, their curly shoulder-length black hair bobbing up and down and every-which way.
Clack clack k-chat, clack clack k-chat.
I carefully readjusted the strap slung over my shoulder, trying to disrupt the weight of the guitar case as little as possible as I wheeled my trolley towards my enthusiastic welcomer. Said welcomer was prevented from bouncing any more by what almost seemed to be an older version of her. The girl leaned with her elbow on the younger's head, vividly dark blue eyes rolling in exasperation; despite this a small grin pulled at her lips to match that of the girl whose head she was currently using as a prop. The girl was tall and almost hopelessly willowy, ash-blonde streaked through her pale auburn hair which still reached mid-back even though it was pull up into a high ponytail. A pair of small rectangular glasses, the pale metallic-blue of their frames contrasting against the dark tan of her skin, sat perched upon her thin nose and merely served to emphasise her pointed chin and high cheekbones. Indeed the glasses, hair and age difference seemed to be the only things that set the two girls apart, and I thought that the younger girl was lucky that she'd end up looking as stunning as her older sister in two years time.
"Amaia! Uh-mah-gawsh, what took you so long? I thought you must've missed your bus or something! I'm not entirely sure how you miss the Knight Bus, but that's irrelevant. We were worr-ied! Well, Cait was anyway – don't ask her, she's in denial – but I totally knew you'd make it on time! I mean, you wouldn't miss the train – one; you're awesome. Two; you love warthogs. Three; dude, it's the freaking first day back, which is when you always wake up randomly at some ungodly hour for no apparent reason. Four; you were, of course, missing me! Your darling Gardenia! How could you possibly pass up the chance for us to be re-united?" This excited mini-rant was said all in one breath and at warp-speed as it tumbled from the wide-eyed, black-haired girl's mouth to wash over me in a wave of hyperness and affection.
"Wouldn't dream of it, Garden," I drawled sarcastically, smiling at the still almost-bouncing child. Caitlin, commonly known as Cait, was valiantly attempting to keep her younger sister firmly attached to the ground as she offered me that strained smile often reserved for best friends while you're trying to control annoying younger siblings. The suddenly widening, for I hadn't thought it was possible at this point, of Gardenia's eyes was my only warning as I continued towards them.
Clack clack k-chat, clack cla-
At this point you are required to use your superior mental capabilities in order to imagine the "Oof!" that was heard as all the air was knocked from my lungs, closely followed by a surprised "Gak!" as I stumbled, almost to the ground, at the sudden force that blindsided me.
Slowly I turned my head to look with a raised eyebrow at the life-form now clinging to me. It had a head of sandy blonde hair, the face of which was currently pressed somewhere my shoulder and guitar case, and had its legs spread far apart so as to more easily enfold my thin waist in a suffocating bear-hug. Another smile crept its way onto my face as I reached up to pat their head, much in the same way you would a dog for doing something clever.
"'Ello Bob,"
At my words the head tilted upwards to reveal a smattering of faded freckles and a pair of golden-lashed eyes that were scrunched closed as he gave me a big, cheesy grin. D'Arcy Marley had arrived.
"Merc!" He exclaimed in reply, lifting me bodily and swinging me around like you would a small child. At my screamed insistence he placed me back down, that damnable smile still firmly in place. "Good Merlin, you haven't grown at all, have you?"
I pouted at his friendly laughter, crossing my arms and aiming a glare at the 'great Gryffindor dorkface', as I had so kindly dubbed him. When this had no effect I turned the pout on Cait and Garden, but they were just sniggering quietly – 'discreetly' – behind their hands. It wasn't fair, in my opinion. It wasn't my fault that they were all tall and I was decidedly… not. When I stopped to think about it, D'Arcy really had out-stripped me in the height department. He now stood at a good five-foot eight or so, and was far broader than I remembered. Whatever happened to that clumsy little freckled blonde boy who stood barely over five-feet tall? That's the brattling I knew in my first year at Hogwarts, damn it all!
'I wonder how much the others have changed over the holidays,' I thought to myself, carefully extracting myself from D'Arcy's arms and righting my dangerously tilting luggage. 'They better not be taller than me too, those flat-wits!'
"Uhm… you guys realize we're about to miss the train, right?"
Gardenia's words set us all into scrabbling action as trolleys were seized, bags taken up and a certain guitar case was relieved from my back by a certain teen nicknamed 'Bob' when it was deemed too troublesome to wait for me as I attempted to lug it around myself.
"But it's part of my look!" I exclaimed. D'Arcy raised one of his famously expressive eyebrows, surveying my appearance as we legged it through Platform 9. I could just see myself in his small, simple mind.
I was walking along wearing a black band t-shirt that advertised somebody who seemed to not know the start of the alphabet very well and were fond of lightning bolts, a pair of red arm-warmers, my trusty canvas messenger bouncing against my hip, red mini-shorts, black tights, some black-and-white-chequered knee-high socks and my seemingly ever-present black Chuck's. After a moments observation he came to the conclusion of; "I'm not seeing it,"
I obligingly stuck my tongue out at him, trying to ignore the annoying noise of the wonky wheel as I leaned forwards, urging the trolley to go faster as we neared our destination. Finally the barrier between platforms 9 and 10 loomed up out of the sea of commuters and I manoeuvred my battleship into position. A cursory glance at the station clock revealed it to be five minutes before eleven, and I found myself jiggling impatiently as first Caitlin, then Gardenia ran forwards and slipped through the magical barrier to Platform 9 ¾. The corner of my lip curved up again as I heaved at my own trolley, aiming it for the dead-centre as I rushed forth towards the seemingly all-too-solid brick, and remembered my first encounter with the mysterious platform.
[Flashback whoosh!]
A younger me, only eleven years old and even shorter than her fifteen-year-old counterpart, stood bemused at the junction of platforms 9 and 10. She bit her pale lip, eyes examining the ticket in her left hand from behind the two thick bangs of hair that hung down to her chin, while the other hand ruffled the rest of her spiky chocolate locks. She was supposed to be getting on the 'Hogwarts Express' at Platform 9 ¾, but she'd never heard of such a platform being at Kings Cross station, and apparently neither had any of the conductors.
The girl sat with a thump - her canvas messenger bag heavy on her shoulder as she did so - on top of her newly acquired school-trunk, filled with brand-spanking-new school-junk, as she pondered her predicament. When she'd received the letter informing her that she'd been accepted into Hogwarts School of 'Witchcraft' and 'Wizardry', delivered by a mildly distressed-looking barn owl, she'd been more than a bit confused.
You see, before that point no-one had ever bothered to tell her that 'Hey, magic is real! And you're a witch! And, for some reason that shall remain unknown to you, you're going to be accepted into some school that apparently teaches magic!'. It just wasn't a situation she'd ever really considered – to her way of thinking she was nothing more than the tomboyish spawn of a negligent and ill-tempered father and a truant mother, the look-alike sister of a rebellious teenager, the scrawny brat that you saw and ignored when out on the street. Imagine her astonishment when a whole other world sprung out at her after nearly eleven years of remiss, claiming her as theirs. Yeah – she was a little surprised.
She had remained more than a little wary even after Professor Longbottom – a blonde, joyful, but slightly nervously-looking man – had arrived, as the letter had stated, to help her gain better understanding of the 'wizarding world' as a 'muggleborn' – an apparently new system pushed through by one Hermione Granger – and to help her find the way to 'Diagon Alley' via the bar 'The Leaky Cauldron'. She'd learnt two things on her odyssey there – one; it seemed as though magical folk enjoyed having pubs with atrocious hygiene as gateways to their shopping-centre's, and two; Diagon Alley was aptly named, as all the stores seemed to be sloping diagonally.
[Flashback un-whoosh!]
A full blown smile was on my face by the time I'd crossed through the illusionary barrier onto the Platform as I recalled the reaction I had upon first encountering that crazy, cluttered alley. For sure I'd given out a lot of strange looks to the dress-like robes that most people wore which now, as I trailed after Gardenia's bouncing form, I paid no heed what-so-ever. Nay, not even to the men in bright pink and orange… okay, maybe I was sniggering internally at that one, but shush your mouth.
The rest of my journey around Diagon remains mostly a blur to me, most likely due to the fact that after receiving my plentiful student fund from Gringotts my first stop had been Florean Forttescue's Ice Cream Parlour. This had resulted in me getting on a major sugar high and racing around the alley without a care in the world. Somehow I'd managed to buy everything I needed for school, but the only part of that I remembered was going and getting my wand…
[Flashback whoosh!]
"Are you alright there, sweetie?"
Her automatic response had been a sarcastic "No, ahm half left," which flew from her mouth before she even laid eyes on the one speaking to her.
She spun around from staring in a lost manner at the warped street-sign-type-thing to see a pale haired, dark skinned woman – who seemed to be in her late thirties – smiling warmly at her. Her long arms were laden with school paraphernalia contained within shopping bags of various descriptions, much like those on the ground by the girl's feet. Said girl had the good grace to look slightly abashed, looking away and scuffing her feet.
The woman's tinkling laughter caused her eyes to snap back front and centre, observing the woman's lean face as it was split by a raucous grin and fine crows-foot lines crinkled the corners of her keen eyes. All in all, it was a rather pleasant reaction to her snappy response, which normally would have left her with a harsh rebuttal from her father. A shy smile found its way to her own lips and she took a little bow.
"Eh, sorry," She said, scratching the back of her head sheepishly. "Amaia Nieves, pleased'ah metcha," She added by way of introduction, holding out small and slightly callused hand to the woman.
"Krystelle Thomas," The woman return as her laughter died down, juggling packages around until she had a hand free with which to accept the girl's. "But you call me Elle if you want, yeah?"
"A'right," she replied, pumping her own arm up and down vigorously along with, by way of her hand enclosed in a the woman own larger one, Elle's.
They each stepped back at the same moment, hands dropping to their sides, and Elle continued from where she'd started earlier.
"You're not here by yourself, are you? It's pretty easy to get lost – is there someone you're supposed to be meeting up with or anything like that?"
"Uhm…" the girl said slightly guardedly, kicking absent-mindedly at the ground. "Do yeh know where…" At this she pulled a small piece of paper from her pocket, checking the advice Professor Longbottom had given her. "… 'Olay-vahrn-dirs' is?" It didn't sound quite the same with her accent, but the point got across.
Elle struck a dramatic thinking pose – well, as much as she could with the amount of baggage she was carrying – as she seemingly contemplated the question. After a few moments she snapped her fingers as she seemingly had an epiphany of some sort. This was confirmed as she let out an enthusiastic "Ah-ha!" and beamed proudly at the girl.
"Yes yes, Ollivanders! That's the wand store, hmm? I know where that is, no problems! Just went there earlier, you lucky sprog!" The woman was grinning again; it was in fact a little disconcerting. Some people are just too damn happy.
As Elle explained how to get to the store a skinny, auburn-hair girl appeared from behind her, dragging a smaller, black-haired clone along behind her.
"Mu-um! NeeNee's being annoying! She won't let go!" The taller girl shook her arm for emphasis, displaying that the dark-haired girl was indeed attached.
Placing down her bags the woman pulled the girls, who the younger me took to be her daughters, apart and looked at her apologetically. At this point the older girl, who she would come to know as Caitlin, noticed her standing there with a startled look on her face. Caitlin peered over her purple-rimmed glasses, deep blue eyes surveying the scrawny 'boy' her mother had been talking to. They had a pretty, heart-shaped face with a cute button nose, quirked pale lips, eyes of unreal burnished silver, and were amusingly petite. They had thick, spiky bangs and the rest of their chocolate-coloured hair was short, displaying the fact that they had not one but both ears pierced.
'Strange little fellah,' she'd thought.
The younger me felt rather the odd-one-out, wearing a pair of scruffy cargo-shorts and an oversized t-shirt while these auburn- and black-haired girls wore the elegant, dress-like garments that seemed to be the fashion in the magical alley. The two older girls stared at each other, mentally assessing as far as their young brains could. The chocolate haired one thought that the other was too pretty, and too smartly looking, and too tall, and too skinny, and too nicely dressed, and too elegant, and too… everything. The auburn haired girl thought that the other was too cute, and too fit, and too short, and too scraggy, and too shabbily clad, and too grungy, and too… everything!
Little did they know that they would one day become the best of friends. The next time they would meet would be at the Hogwarts Express, stuck in a compartment together as knew each other at least in passing. That's the sort of thing you'd hang onto in this world of eternal insecurities; although the shorter girl was a little irritated when she learned Caitlin had at first mistaken her for a boy.
"So you've got all of that?"
Elle's voice cut through the girls' silent warring, jolting their gazes from their previously locked position to float casually away.
"Yeah ah 'ave, thank yeh Elle," she caught Caitlin staring at her again. What could that little chit want?
After a moments silence from the two sisters, 'NeeNee' voiced what was apparently on her older sibling's mind.
"… You talk strange,"
"Uhm, yeah, ah s'pose," She replied hesitantly, a frown marring her usually smooth brow. "Bu' only ter yeh – pers'n'ly ah think ah talk perf'c'ly normal,"
Caitlin had an almost identical frown set on her narrow face as she tilted her head in an almost condescending manner before enquiring; "You're not a Llewellyn, are you? You sound Welsh,"
The brown-haired lass didn't really know how to reply to that; as far as she knew she was a Nieves through and through. Granted she couldn't really remember her mother, who had promptly disappeared after dumping her very young self and her elder brother Zeru on her unsuspecting father, but she had somehow kept her mother's accent rather strongly – most likely picking it up more from Zeru than anywhere else – mixed a bit with her father's near-lost Spanish one and the streetwise accent of where she grew up.
The only way she could come up with to answer an intelligent "Uhm..?" and a nervous head-scratch.
At that point the silver-eyed girl had raced off to Ollivander's, about ready to get away from those strange people thank-you-very-much. Unfortunately for her, in doing so she was headed towards someone even weirder.
The door jingled eerily as she cleft it a sliver from its frame, just wide enough to allow orbs of shimmering mercury to peer into the dimly lit store within. Seeing nothing overly suspicious she slunk head-first through the progressively emergent opening until she'd edged all the way in. Oppressive towers of brickish boxes loomed up on either side as she strode inelegantly forth, making a nervous beeline for what appeared to be the counter – behind which yet more boxes stacked high in cramped isles stood gathering dust.
She was abruptly startled from her curious observations as a voice even creepier than the magical door-jingle echoed out from all about her;
"Ms. Nieves, if I'm not mistaken?"
She wheeled around, searching for whoever had said that. How the blooming heck did they know who she was? Freaking stalker.
Movement out of the corner of her eye warned her to turn back towards the counter, and she saw a scraggly-looking old man appear from somewhere between the mountains of boxes. He had fly-away white hair, an aged face and was wearing some form of rather old-fashioned clothing; his most striking feature, however, was his eyes. They were pale and piercing, with a cold yet wickedly intelligent edge to them. Eyes like that made her nervous.
"Yeah, ah ahm; Mr Olayvahrndir, if ahm not mistak'n?" She wasn't trying to be rude, but there was just something about this man. The feeling that he gave off was that he was once a nice man, but something terrible had happened which had changed him.
He chuckled – in a decidedly dark manner, in her opinion – and nodded before hobbling awkwardly up to the dusty counter. Seemingly out of nowhere a floating tape-measure appeared, hovering next to her head expectantly.
"Which is you wand-arm?" Ollivander's rusty voice enquired, distracting the girl from staring uncertainly at the magical measuring utensil.
"Uhm… me right?" She stated unsurely, guessing that he was implying the one she wrote with. A small nod seemed to confirm this and she was once again shocked to silence as the tape started to take her measurements, some of them which seemed completely random – why would the height of her ear be relevant to finding the right wand?
When it was done the flying strip of material zoomed over to Ollivander and appeared to whisper something into his ear. He nodded once more and wandered off towards the back of the store. The girl waited for a few agonizing minutes before the mysterious man re-appeared. Clutched in one gnarled hand, she noticed, was a box just like all those packed within the small store. As he reached her he leaned forward and placed the box on the counter before looking at her expectantly.
Hesitantly she extended her own hand, fingers curling around the box and pulling it towards her. Its surface was rough and had a waxy texture to it, which became even more apparent once the fine film of dust had been brushed from it. It was old, she realized, as most of the boxes were; Very old. Only a scattered handful looked as though they'd been new less than a few years ago. How could they be so old and still be up-to-date? One had to wonder.
An exasperated sigh broke through her pondering, causing her to look back up at Mr Ollivander.
"You are allowed to open it, my dear," He stated in his low, scratchy voice. His tone was slightly softer than before, and she blushed whilst cautiously lifting the lid to reveal…
A stick.
It was silly of her to expect something more, really. Seriously; you hear the word 'wand' and you think 'wooden stick', right? Well, that was exactly it.
Granted, it was a rather nice stick. The pale wood was highly polished, gleaming dully in the low light, and its length would've spanned her palm nearly three times. With only a hint of trepidation her fingertips dug into the heavy material that housed it as she plucked the wand out and placed the box back on the dusty counter.
"Willow, eight inches, dragon heartstring core, nice and pliable," Ollivander listed off, gazing down at her with those wide and unblinking eyes.
She stared stupidly for a moment before Ollivander's voice, once again harsher, broke out; "Well, give it a wave!"
Without so much as a startled squeak she hurriedly waved the wand, jerking it out to the side with a strong flick, all the while feeling a tad foolish. All thoughts of foolishness were promptly cast from an eighteenth story window as an entire row of boxes off behind Ollivander's head flung themselves with a satisfying BANG in the same direction that she'd moved her wand.
"No, not that one, then," Mr Ollivander said, seemingly to himself, as he gently snatched the wand from her hand before returning it and its box to wherever he'd gotten them and shambling off down the aisles. The younger me simply stood where she was, hand still raised and mouth slightly agape as she stared after the old man.
'What… the heck… was THAT?' she thought to herself, hand falling slowly to land with a muted thunk on the countertop. She didn't have much time to ponder this further as Ollivander had returned, another box in-hand. This one was dark blue, she observed, whereas the other had been a plain matte black. It didn't seem quite as grimy as the last either, and as she extracted the wand she listened slightly more intently when Ollivander listed off its attributes.
This pattern continued for three more boxes, the last of which made Ollivander pause more than the mild destruction of various items within his shop had. The wand was ash this time, ten and a quarter inches long with a core of unicorn hair, flexible.
"Try this one, my dear," He said, tone once again softening as a small frown gouged deep lines across his weathered forehead. "Yew, eleven inches, powdered boomslang scale core, very flexible,"
The moment the wand touched her hand she felt something; it was a weak something, but even that weak something was more than the strong almost-nothing she'd gotten when she held the other wands. Without prompting she waved the wand, and got a god-awful fright. You see, unlike the small devastations that all its predecessors had caused, when she moved the wand a simple streak of energy followed the tip's motion like a pale afterimage, fading again almost immediately but still indelibly occurring.
Ollivander's eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he slowly took the wand back, his movement slightly more strained than before.
"It was mainly the core, then," he muttered, almost to himself. "It was close, but those other cores were all wrong." He glanced back at the girl as he once again quested through the aisles, eyes studying her in silent appraisal. "Hmm… I wonder. Maybe, maybe…?"
'Maybe what?' she wanted to shout, nearly to the point of jiggling in frustration. She hated when people talked about her like she wasn't there, and moreover she hated not knowing things!
After a short space of time Ollivander returned, though this time there was no box – only a small bolt of dark purple velvet was clasped in his worn hands. He seemed almost reluctant to place it before her, gaze flickering between her and the thin bundle held stiffly in his grasp.
"Try… this one," He said, placing the bundle in her hands and taking a step back.
Biting her lip, the girl carefully readjusted the small bolt of material, her other hand moving to unwrap the cloth that apparently bound a wand. The nearly violet fabric was surprisingly warm, as though it had been left to sit in the sun, which seemed rather odd considering the amount of light evident around her at that moment. As the rain-soft velvet fell back the girl's breath seemed to catch in her throat. The wand… it was beautiful.
So pale it was almost bone white, it was smooth and damn near dead-straight; it's slender length subtlety and progressively narrowed as it neared the tip, whereas the handle was intricately carved - inlaid for grip with more of the same wood which was slightly red-tinted yet seemed just as pale. Even in the dingy greyness of the shop it gleamed softly, calling for her to reach for it.
In sharp contrast to the dark amethyst cloth the wand was incredibly cool, radiating a freezing heat from her hand all the way up her arm. When the sensation reached her chest it spread quickly to envelope her whole body, gentle and caressing as a stream of crystalline water. The iciness wasn't unpleasant in the least; in fact, it was invigorating! She felt energy swell within her, merging with that emanating from the wand and swirling sedately about her body. Unbeknownst to her the temperature inside the store had also dropped, Ollivander's eyes bright with curiosity as he watched tiny icicles spread across the floor from beneath the girl's feet whilst magical surged in the air around her. It was a damn good thing that the store was warded to prevent magic transferring from inside the store to the street outside and vice versa, as it proved invaluable in cases such as this.
As the magical surge died down he found himself confronted with the girl's questioning gaze.
"Wood of a flying rowan, core of powdered Basilisk fang, nine inches… quite flexible,"
[Flashback unwhoosh!]
I carefully slowed my trolley to a stop behind Gardenia, that damn wheel making a great fuss over the newly relieved strain, and got out of the way quick-smart as D'Arcy attempted to stick me with his own luggage.
"Mind the pedestrians, you bloody lunatic!" I exclaimed, shaking my fist at his laughing form. Over the years my accent had softened moderately, losing its street edge and becoming somewhat lilted. I didn't mind that too much, as it saved the looks I'd get for coming across as an utter waif which would instead be given when I was discovered to be plain weird. Despite this the decidedly Welsh tone had remained – Caitlin maintained that it was cute, whereas D'Arcy had insisted it was damn sexy. Not sure which I prefer, to be honest – which is the lesser of two evils?
"Hurry up, woman!" Gardenia shouted, beckoning me frantically from the door of the great crimson locomotive.
As ordered I rushed – although languidly – over, leaving my trunk to be loaded onto the train and only dismissively aware of D'Arcy bumbling along behind me.
"And what am I then?" He demanded as we pushed our way through the crowd gathered on the other side of the door, waving frantically to those left on the platform as the warning whistle sounded.
"Blonde," I supplied, grabbing each of their hands in order to tug them to a less claustrophobic part of the corridor.
"Annoying," Gardenia added, turning to beam at him.
"Gryffindork,"
"Inpatient,"
"Block-headed,"
"Suicidal,"
"Incompetent,"
"Foolish,"
"Huggable,"
"Comfortable,"
"Squishy!" I proclaimed, punctuating this point in Gardenia and I's list by releasing their hands and poking D'Arcy in the stomach.
"Oi!" He cried out, wrapping his arms about his middle in a possessive manner. "Don't poke it!"
"Poke it!"
"Don't poke it!"
"Poke it!"
"Don't poke it!"
"Poke it!"
"Don't poke it!"
"Poke it!"
"Don't poke it!"
"Poke iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!" I was surprised how long the girl could draw out a simple one-syllable word as the two of them continued to banter back and forth, oblivious that I had been forced to take it upon myself to lead us forth.
"Hey, where'd Cait go?" I question when they paused to take a breath. Gardenia looked at me again; slightly startled as though she'd forgotten my very presence.
"Oh, she's finding a compartment!" she replied happily, a spring in her step as she shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans. Since Caitlin and I had become friends I'd educated the sisters in the joys of muggle clothing – five years later, and they still couldn't get enough. Apparently they found it 'delightful'. How would they react should I introduce them to pleather? Perish the thought.
"… You mean like we are?" I sighed, shaking my head.
Gardenia stopped to think about that for half a second, pulling a thinking pose reminiscent of her mother, before giving a dismissive shrug and continuing to bob along behind me. Great; so we lost her.
We wandered down the train like the little lost souls we were, staring forlornly into every compartment we passed in search of our beloved brainiac. On our mystical journey we encountered absolutely none of our friends – I would've sworn they were avoiding us. I can't see why they would; we're such lovely people! Our long and tiresome odyssey lasted a whole three compartments, and by this stage we were fatigued and despaired. Fortunately we were saved as Caitlin leant out a door not five compartments down.
"Over here, fool!" She said exasperatedly as she caught sight of our 'troublesome' expressions.
Together the three of us scrambled hand-in-hand – so we wouldn't get lost, of course – over to the tall girl. When I reach her I promptly clung to her like a drowned rat, letting out great fake sobs and allowing my head to be clasped to her bosom.
"Hush, my child," She sighed, patting my back with tolerant rolling of the eyes. Apparently by now she'd grown used to my strange ways. Damn.
"Looks like someone took their Drama Potion today," someone stated in a smooth drawl, tone cold and sarcastic. The voice was emanating from behind Caitlin, within the compartment that Gardenia and D'Arcy had already edged around the two of us to enter.
Slowly I lifted my head, staring in morbid fascination at the figure sprawled across the seat, and let out a high-pitched scream…
A/N: Yes, it's sort of a cliff-hanger. Guess I'd better go write the next chappie, ne?
Has anyone else noticed that Amaia has flashbacks in third person? What a freak. -shifty-eyes-
Until we meet again! Please review, people!
-Kazuko Out-
...
... PROZAC!