It is ridiculously annoying to not be able to apparate. And it's not because of wizarding law that I am so irritable, no. It is because of the rule of my father.

A rule, which, might I add, is ridiculous. Ridiculous, and insufferable.

After all, I'm seventeen. I'm now legally allowed to use magic whenever I want. Unfortunately, though, my Par seems to think that his rules trump those of the more legal variety, and as such, I am prohibited from pulling out or using my wand for anything during this summer holiday, even if- and I quote Par here- I am "using it as a toothpick."

Which, by the way, I would never actually do.

Anyway. Let me just say: Driving, yes, in an automobile, (not magically enhanced in any way) 10 hours from Suffolk to northern Scotland is a bore.

A stupid, boring BORE.

And Scottish blokes?

Not attractive.

Almost always raving about haggis and the like. And if they're not raving about haggis, they're raving about Scottish tarts, never looking twice at a girl who isn't wearing tartan, the apes.

Honestly, ridiculous. And insufferable.

I snort at my father's interesting driving tactics- quite obviously English- and he gives me a look, fed up with the long journey just as much as I am. And just as frustrated with the destination as well.

"Don't be snooty, Marley. Your new dad doesn't know about the whole 'magic' thing, and I suppose Jilly plans on keeping it that way."

"Then why'm I even going, Par? She doesn't want anything to do with me, she's made that QUITE obvious."

"We're both going, because your Mar's gettin' married, and we're, unfortunately, important party guests. Your Mar's attempt at 'making peace with both halves of her life' and whatnot."

"RUBBISH."

The banter continues for a while and then dies out after I pretend to sob and my dad threatens to disown me if I "keep up with that blasted ruckus".

Well, can't have that, now, can I?

So I mope in quiet.

The endless A9 (that's a road), after what seems like an eternity, finally makes the transition into back roads and country lanes, dotted with small villages and occasionally a larger town. The gloomy, frigid weather, despite it being the end of JULY, and sloping hills cloaked in purple heather signifies that we are indeed in Scotland.

FINALLY.

The sea soon peeks into view behind the mountainous landscape to my right, and the somewhat gloomy, but beautiful landscape calms my irritation (and the urge to apparate out of a moving car. Besides, if I splinched-OW.) and my nerves, the ones which have been working steadily on an ulcer in my stomach region since my (estranged) mother announced her engagement to a ruddy SCOTSMAN, kilt and bagpipes included.

Not that I'm particularly sad that she's deserting her only (real, blood-related) daughter for a man with a beard, a Scottish tart, and two idiot farm boys, no doubt bearded as well. She's never exactly been there for me. In fact, even when she was home, back when she and Par were still married, she never was home, always out with her girlfriends drinking at a pub or shopping or flirting with teenage boys, sometimes my friends' older brothers.

Um, GROSS.

And, most of the time, she wore (and wears!) clothes that are smaller than mine.

I am, I admit, quite ashamed to say that... my mother is a tart.

After an exhausting 10 HOURS of doing ABSOLUTELY NOTHING in the car, we finally arrive at Mar's house. Or, rather, my soon-to-be-step-dad's farmhouse, (with actual sheep and cows and horses. Fantastic.) seeing as soon as she deserted me and Par, she went and moved in with him.

That idiot homewrecker of a man.

We pull into the drive, and immediately, I'm positively disgusted with the total Scottishness of it. Wild gardens, acres of hilly green meadows, sheep pastures, naturally all dotted with all kinds of wildflowers- all sickeningly picturesque. I find myself missing the noise and cramped spaces and smell of London; this fresh air has a way of making someone completely ill.

After glaring at the horrid cuteness of the mansion of a farmhouse for a moment, I grab my bags from the boot of the car and follow Par into the house, grumbling under my breath.

As soon as I step into the room, a supremely tall and well (VERY well) endowed woman with curly brown hair and apparently wearing traditional Scottish garb rushes to me and pulls my head to her chest in (what she assumes to be) an embrace.

"Oh, Marley, DARLING! I'm SO happy you're here! I've missed you an ASTONISHING AMOUNT, pearl!" For the record, Mar speaks in capital letters even more than I do.

I roll my eyes and respond, rather unenthusiastically, with a "hello," "happy to be here too," "missed you as well" and then a "where's the loo, Mar?" She releases me from her uncomfortable hug and throws her head back in obnoxious pealing laughter.

I roll my eyes again (quite usual for me around this woman) and shift to my other foot.

"Really, about to wet my trousers here, Mar."

"Yes, yes, dear. You always were quite to the point." She smiles at me condescendingly and then strokes the top of my head.

"MAR. LOO."

"Right, of course. Down that hall, first on the left."

She points to a hall on the right and I mutter a "thanks" and take off.

I grab the door handle and rattle it, to no avail. The door is locked. I bang on it quite rudely, because, despite my desperate need to be away from my mother, I actually have to use the loo, and badly.

A voice echoes from inside. "Oi! Quit that!"

Ruddy Scotsman.

I hate him.

I hate him so much.

I hate his country and his stupid-

"Ya know, I can 'ear you."

... Did I say that out loud?

"Yes, well, I have to use the toilet, and you're stopping me. I have to PEE curse MERLIN."

I realize what I just said and turn pale.

CRAP.

"I mean, I mean curse-"

The door opens and I'm facing a tall red-haired bloke about my age. He's quite a few inches taller than ME, and I swear I'm related to giants. He is, dare I say it... attractive.

VERY attractive.

I'm sort of knocked speechless.

Scots aren't attractive! Never, are they attractive!

"Curse Merlin, hm? That's quite a strange phrase, innit?"

I even find his voice attractive. This is very bad.

Cor blimey, I'm in for it.

"Merlin is- I only said- it's just- " I fumble. He's ATTRACTIVE, and SCOTTISH, and I BROKE THE STATUTE FOR WIZARDING SECRECY AND- "Merlin is the name of my dog. And I don't believe in God, so I curse my dog instead, see? Very complex. I'm sure you don't understand and need time to think on it while I use the loo."

I try to sidle past him, but he leans against the doorframe, blocking me. I squeeze around him the other way, but the next thing I know, he's standing closely behind me (very VERY close) and whispering "A simple Alohamora would've worked if you needed to get in that badly" and then he's gone.

I turn to catch him before he disappears around the corner of the hall, but a group of about five or six guys, all scruffy with unappealing Scottish accents and wearing football jerseys, come and scoop him up saying things like " ACCCH, you took a long time in the rrrrrestrrrrroom, laddie" and " Yeah, girrrrrrly McKinnon, lookin' at yourrrrrself in the mirrrrorrrrr again, eh?" and "Oi! Fuutball game, lets goooo!" in their ridiculous accents.

Really.

I hate Scotland.

The excruciating- nay, CRIPPLING- pain in my bladder hits me again and I rush into the bathroom.