A/N: Well. This is different. A story solely for the purpose of humor. ...I honestly have no idea where this came from. The title just popped into my head and went from there. Hope you all enjoy it! Yes, I do have other stories I should be working on. But my muse is a fickle, fickle thing. It's a curse.
Disclaimer: recites quickly at hyper speed IdonotowntheHarryPotteruniverseorthetrademarkedcharactersthatwilleventuallybefoundwithin. I do own Layla. And her parents, and Randi, and anyone else I make up in this story! Mine! All mine!
Summary: This is basically a journal/thingy of a fifth year vampire. In Harry-Potter-Universe-timeline, it's Harry's fourth year. Yep. Just because I wanted to do the Yule ball thing. Uh-huh.
Anyone reading this journal without explicit permission from the owner will find a dozen and one ancient Egyptian and Arabic curses visited upon their person, including a sudden and viscous growth appearing in most uncomfortable and private areas, much to the dismay of the recipient.
In other words, if I didn't say "Sure, you can read my journal", bugger off.
My name, as you may have already gathered by the above information, is Layla. Layla Chione Sakhmet.
And my life is officially insane.
Allow me to back up a bit. My name is Layla. My best friend is a crazy, hyper, psychopathic, schizophrenic, manic werewolf who answers to the name of Randi. Or "Hey, dumb mutt!" I say she's my best friend, but she's really more like a pet. I mean this in the best possible way.
I'm a vampire. Well, technically I'm only a half-vampire. My mother was a human my father had an affair with. My mom – my dad's wife, I mean, not my birth mom – was okay with this – vampires get a tad restless every century or so. It wasn't a permanent thing, and the unions rarely, if ever, bear fruit.
Anyway, my birth mom felt I was a monster and dumped me on Dad's veranda with a nasty note to do what he would with me. Of course, mom and dad – my real parents, to my way of thinking – raised me as one of their own. It's hard for vampires to breed. So I was like an unexpected miracle.
I have rather Egyptian looks, thanks to my dad. . I'm very tall. And skinny. My mom just says I'm lanky, but there's really no getting around it – I'm skinny. At fifteen, I can still be cast as skinny. Guh. My skin is perpetually tanned. It's a great look for winter. I'm told my eyes look black. Personally, I feel they're grey. But whatever. My hair is long. And black. Hints of red here and there from my birth mother. My dad says I have 'inherited the flawless, passionate beauty of his noble Egyptian vampire line'. He looks so proud when he says that, that I never tell him I don't really care, and just act like I'm really happy and honored instead. I just can't bring myself to hurt his feelings. It's like kicking the biggest puppy in the world. He's just such a big sweetheart.
So. Being a half-vampire, I do drink blood. But not as much as my parents have too, and it isn't exactly vital – kinda like Gatorade or something. According to Randi. If this makes any sense to anyone, please let me know. Anyway, I have to have the blood severely watered down. And I only drink donated cow's blood. It makes me feel queasy to drink human blood, like I'm eating one of my friends.
I don't have any aversion to sunlight, my eyes are just a tad more sensitive than most. All that bull about sunlight shriveling vampires up … hey, if you had owl-like nighttime vision, you wouldn't like to go out in the sun, either! I have superb night-vision, though. And vampire skin tends to be rather sensitive. Not mine, though I never go anywhere without suntan lotion.
I adore garlic. What sane person doesn't? The stuff is heavenly. Have you ever smelled it? Sheer delight. My parents aren't too fond of it; it bothers their hyper-sensitive noses. Crosses don't bother us in the least – I'm actually a part-time Christian. So there.
Well, I've pretty much disproved nearly all of those horrid vampire myths, haven't I?
Anyway. Back to my insane life.
I'm fifteen. I'm starting my fifth year at Hogwarts.
My mom wants to take me clothes shopping.
With Randi.
Oh, Lord.
Allow me to enlighten those of you who don't know either my mom or Randi or, if it be possible, both. Randi plus my mom plus clothes shopping equals … shopaholic explosion! KABOOM!
They both adore shopping for me. My looks give them endless playtime.
Personally, I'd rather have some jeans. Maybe an African or Arabian skirt. T-shirts and sweaters. Thrift shop stuff.
I'm not the sort of person who likes Victorian/Goth or sheeque/classy sort of stuff.
Unfortunately, I seem to have the sort of body that looks perfect in that kind of stuff.
Kill me now, God. Please.
…
So much for the almighty-lightening-bolt-striking-down-the-evilness-known-as-the-mall thing. Oh, well.
Guess I'll just have to struggle through it.
…
Dear Ra, I can't take this. I really can't.
Help.
Me.
…please?