A/N: Pointless fic. Not angst though. Aren't you proud that I finally posted in my elel88 account after about 3 months?
Short summary: Lavender and Parvati on some odd girl talk and conflicts until a certain subject saves the day.
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Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in the following piece. They are owned by J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury (sp?) Coke and Pepsi are owned by their own companies. The self help book Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus, does not belong to me in any way, shape or form i.e. I do not own them. I am not making any money.
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My best friend Lavender visited today.
She is a wispy uptight blonde that talks about how laid back she is, how she's the faded, wrinkled blue jeans person. Sometimes she puts them on for effect. Today she is a girly girl, pink mules and skirt.
I pour her a glass of orange juice. She asks for ice. She swirls the pulpy liquid around, listening to the ice cubes clink. I can tell she's preparing for another rant.
I start with the general pleasantries being sure to avoid touchy subjects that might set her off- who should be Minister of Magic? Which is better, Coke or Pepsi? For the life of me, I cannot understand why she enjoys Muggle drinks. I pour her some more orange juice. She doesn't drink it.
"Vati," she says, which I hate. "Blue or violet?" Lavender can never settle for saying purple. She has to say violet. Her mouth is all pressed together and proper, like a teacher getting ready to denounce a student.
She examines her manicure, looking for invisible chips in the polish. The are painted a pale pink color but she calls them frosted rose or something like that. Something like that.
"Coke or Pepsi?" She knows the answer.
"No comment," I say, surprising myself.
She starts off on a long, tiresome rant about Pepsi. Sometimes I think she could talk for hours on one obscure subject, say, the fibers in the paper used for Chocolate Frog trading cards or different shades of white paint. Matte, glossy, cottage white, cream, ivory, pale ivory, snow, frost, rain.
We start getting down to business.
"Seamus is being an ass," she says, making "ass" sound distinctly like a naughty word, the way they were in Muggle grade school when you whispered them in friends' ears and giggled.
I nod, captivated.
She crosses her legs, uncrosses them, and crosses them again the other way. She tucks hair that isn't their behind her ear.
"He complains about how high maintenence I am," she admits. "I can't believe the guy. I show up in my old robes and he calls me high maintenence!" She makes it sound like a capital crime. What Lavender classifies as "old robes" most of us put as "dress up". Enough said.
I wait for, -I think I'll dump him.-
"I think I'll dump him, " she says.
"What do you think of him, Vati P.?" she continues. I glare at her. I'm Parvati! I mentally scream. We obvoiusly have no telepathic qualities. "Hows your love life?"
"Great," I start. "Haven't had a date since fourth year with that loser Harry. The Beaubaxtons guy never followed up. Just fine, actually."
She sucks in her cheeks; it looks like the cheekbones will slice through the skin.
"You should get out more."
"Don't brag."
"Don't be so touchy, Vati."
"Don't call me Vati."
We stare daggers at each other but we don't really see. The cup of orange juice sits there between us, the ice cubes melting.
"So Parvati..." Lavender says, drawing out the name to an almost absurd point. Her lips are going up and down, sort of like a fish. "What do you think of Seamus F.?"
"I think he rather be called just plain Seamus."
She snorts. "So the whole reason we're not getting along is because I'm calling him Seamus F.?"
I shrug, not wanting to fight.
Frosted rose fingernails tap the table. Pinky, ring finger, middle finger, index finger, the side of her thumb. And back again.
"Lets buy some self help books," I say, in a moment of brilliance.
"I heard of that Muggle one, Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus."
"Do you want to go to Flourish and Blotts?"
"Okay."
I smile at her. I think this is why we are best friends.
---
A/N: I didn't want to make you feel cheated so this is another story- I'm just tacking the two together as they are both short. They have nothing to do with each other.
---
Disclaimer- The Academy Awards are owned by the academy. Harry Potter and the gang are owned by J.K. Rowling and Bloombury. Hillary Swank owns herself and her dress. If you would like to own pink champagne and tasteless peeled shrimp, visit your local supermarket.
---
20 people, give or take a few, languished in a room skimpily decorated.
The theme of the party was the Academy Awards. A red carpet was rolled down the middle leading to a platform with a microphone.
A caterer went around offering pink champagne and tasteless peeled shrimp. The hostess hadn't bothered to do any research on the subject; she just wanted everyone to appear in fancy dress.
One woman, an attractive 20 something named Hermione in a slinky red dress moped around the corners, throwing off men that followed her. Everywhere she went, little dots of pink champagne dotted the ground and her dress. She didn't seem to notice.
A man, a beer bellied person named Neville eyed the girl's progress around the room or lack thereof and watched the champagne drop all over the floor. He went over and attempted conversation.
"Hi," he managed.
"Get the fuck away from me," was the moody reply.
"How do you know the hostess?" he continued, ignoring the comment.
"Get the fuck away from me."
"Are you on anti depressants?"
"Get the fuck away from me."
The man gave up and decided to languish after the caterer instead of languishing after the girl.
Another woman, very normal looking though in a gown that resembled the Randolph Duke one Hillary Swank wore to the Oscars, languished after a man in a tuxedo. From the back he looked promising.
When he turned around, she sighed secretly with delight. He was likely to be in his early twenties, about her age. He was exceptionally good looking with definite traces of the singer Kirby McCormack.
His face went into a surprised expression.
"Hi," she choked out.
"Coconuts are not fluffy."
"Har- argh- ha- ha-" she said, hoping it was a joke.
"Coconuts are not fluffy."
"Righ...."
"COCONUTS ARE NOT FLUFFY!" he screamed expressively. Some people turned around to look at him, nonplussed.
"Lovely meeting you Mr-?"
"Mr. Canf."
"Canf?"
He was actually Ernie Williams. "That's right. It stands for Coconuts Are Not Fluffy."
Too bad he's insane, the girl thought. He's quite good looking.
Mr. Canf aka Mr. Williams sighed with relief as he watched the girl in the Hillary Swank dress lookalike walk away. The insane routine always worked. He concentrated his energies on the sexy 20 something in the red dress making trails of pink champagne dots.
"Hullo!" he exclaimed cheerfully. To use the word "said" would not have done justice to the perk he put in his voice.
She looked at him suspiciously and decided to talk.
"Why are you talking to me?"
Delighted with his apparent progress, he lowered his voice to a husky whisper.
"Because everyone is hitting on me and I want to got hit on someone."
"You hitting on me?"
"Of course I'm hitting on you."
All of a sudden, the word "hitting" became obsolete.
"You making a pass at me?"
"Yes I'm making a pass at you."
"You sure?"
"I'm absolutely positive."
"You interested in me so you're making a physical action that shows your romantic interest?"
"Yes, I suppose."
"You suppose? You're not 100% sure about it?"
Discouraged and disgusted, he started to walk away.
"Because I'm interested, you know!" she called after him in a throaty whisper. "You want my name and the name of my owl?"
He gave her his best withering look and went somewhere else.
Insecure witch, he decided and a number of other things.
But by far, the person who languished around the party the most was the hostess who was wearing a black dress that at one time might have been flattering but now had been washed inappropiately one time too many.
Oh god everyone will hate me this is a horrible party no one will ever speak to me again I'm going to die they're all going to hate me, thought the hostess, languishing in a corner.
She went to the kitchen and drank too much alcohol.
She went back into the party, somewhat cheered and weaved drunkenly through the guest, making vague slurrish sounds and laughing somewhat eccentrically at nothing in particular.
The result of the party was that everyone did a good deal of languishing and all got sufficiently depressed.
--finis---
Hm. A few comments in the box? I feel like a begger with a little hat that I pass around hoping for some reviews.
Short summary: Lavender and Parvati on some odd girl talk and conflicts until a certain subject saves the day.
----
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in the following piece. They are owned by J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury (sp?) Coke and Pepsi are owned by their own companies. The self help book Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus, does not belong to me in any way, shape or form i.e. I do not own them. I am not making any money.
----
My best friend Lavender visited today.
She is a wispy uptight blonde that talks about how laid back she is, how she's the faded, wrinkled blue jeans person. Sometimes she puts them on for effect. Today she is a girly girl, pink mules and skirt.
I pour her a glass of orange juice. She asks for ice. She swirls the pulpy liquid around, listening to the ice cubes clink. I can tell she's preparing for another rant.
I start with the general pleasantries being sure to avoid touchy subjects that might set her off- who should be Minister of Magic? Which is better, Coke or Pepsi? For the life of me, I cannot understand why she enjoys Muggle drinks. I pour her some more orange juice. She doesn't drink it.
"Vati," she says, which I hate. "Blue or violet?" Lavender can never settle for saying purple. She has to say violet. Her mouth is all pressed together and proper, like a teacher getting ready to denounce a student.
She examines her manicure, looking for invisible chips in the polish. The are painted a pale pink color but she calls them frosted rose or something like that. Something like that.
"Coke or Pepsi?" She knows the answer.
"No comment," I say, surprising myself.
She starts off on a long, tiresome rant about Pepsi. Sometimes I think she could talk for hours on one obscure subject, say, the fibers in the paper used for Chocolate Frog trading cards or different shades of white paint. Matte, glossy, cottage white, cream, ivory, pale ivory, snow, frost, rain.
We start getting down to business.
"Seamus is being an ass," she says, making "ass" sound distinctly like a naughty word, the way they were in Muggle grade school when you whispered them in friends' ears and giggled.
I nod, captivated.
She crosses her legs, uncrosses them, and crosses them again the other way. She tucks hair that isn't their behind her ear.
"He complains about how high maintenence I am," she admits. "I can't believe the guy. I show up in my old robes and he calls me high maintenence!" She makes it sound like a capital crime. What Lavender classifies as "old robes" most of us put as "dress up". Enough said.
I wait for, -I think I'll dump him.-
"I think I'll dump him, " she says.
"What do you think of him, Vati P.?" she continues. I glare at her. I'm Parvati! I mentally scream. We obvoiusly have no telepathic qualities. "Hows your love life?"
"Great," I start. "Haven't had a date since fourth year with that loser Harry. The Beaubaxtons guy never followed up. Just fine, actually."
She sucks in her cheeks; it looks like the cheekbones will slice through the skin.
"You should get out more."
"Don't brag."
"Don't be so touchy, Vati."
"Don't call me Vati."
We stare daggers at each other but we don't really see. The cup of orange juice sits there between us, the ice cubes melting.
"So Parvati..." Lavender says, drawing out the name to an almost absurd point. Her lips are going up and down, sort of like a fish. "What do you think of Seamus F.?"
"I think he rather be called just plain Seamus."
She snorts. "So the whole reason we're not getting along is because I'm calling him Seamus F.?"
I shrug, not wanting to fight.
Frosted rose fingernails tap the table. Pinky, ring finger, middle finger, index finger, the side of her thumb. And back again.
"Lets buy some self help books," I say, in a moment of brilliance.
"I heard of that Muggle one, Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus."
"Do you want to go to Flourish and Blotts?"
"Okay."
I smile at her. I think this is why we are best friends.
---
A/N: I didn't want to make you feel cheated so this is another story- I'm just tacking the two together as they are both short. They have nothing to do with each other.
---
Disclaimer- The Academy Awards are owned by the academy. Harry Potter and the gang are owned by J.K. Rowling and Bloombury. Hillary Swank owns herself and her dress. If you would like to own pink champagne and tasteless peeled shrimp, visit your local supermarket.
---
20 people, give or take a few, languished in a room skimpily decorated.
The theme of the party was the Academy Awards. A red carpet was rolled down the middle leading to a platform with a microphone.
A caterer went around offering pink champagne and tasteless peeled shrimp. The hostess hadn't bothered to do any research on the subject; she just wanted everyone to appear in fancy dress.
One woman, an attractive 20 something named Hermione in a slinky red dress moped around the corners, throwing off men that followed her. Everywhere she went, little dots of pink champagne dotted the ground and her dress. She didn't seem to notice.
A man, a beer bellied person named Neville eyed the girl's progress around the room or lack thereof and watched the champagne drop all over the floor. He went over and attempted conversation.
"Hi," he managed.
"Get the fuck away from me," was the moody reply.
"How do you know the hostess?" he continued, ignoring the comment.
"Get the fuck away from me."
"Are you on anti depressants?"
"Get the fuck away from me."
The man gave up and decided to languish after the caterer instead of languishing after the girl.
Another woman, very normal looking though in a gown that resembled the Randolph Duke one Hillary Swank wore to the Oscars, languished after a man in a tuxedo. From the back he looked promising.
When he turned around, she sighed secretly with delight. He was likely to be in his early twenties, about her age. He was exceptionally good looking with definite traces of the singer Kirby McCormack.
His face went into a surprised expression.
"Hi," she choked out.
"Coconuts are not fluffy."
"Har- argh- ha- ha-" she said, hoping it was a joke.
"Coconuts are not fluffy."
"Righ...."
"COCONUTS ARE NOT FLUFFY!" he screamed expressively. Some people turned around to look at him, nonplussed.
"Lovely meeting you Mr-?"
"Mr. Canf."
"Canf?"
He was actually Ernie Williams. "That's right. It stands for Coconuts Are Not Fluffy."
Too bad he's insane, the girl thought. He's quite good looking.
Mr. Canf aka Mr. Williams sighed with relief as he watched the girl in the Hillary Swank dress lookalike walk away. The insane routine always worked. He concentrated his energies on the sexy 20 something in the red dress making trails of pink champagne dots.
"Hullo!" he exclaimed cheerfully. To use the word "said" would not have done justice to the perk he put in his voice.
She looked at him suspiciously and decided to talk.
"Why are you talking to me?"
Delighted with his apparent progress, he lowered his voice to a husky whisper.
"Because everyone is hitting on me and I want to got hit on someone."
"You hitting on me?"
"Of course I'm hitting on you."
All of a sudden, the word "hitting" became obsolete.
"You making a pass at me?"
"Yes I'm making a pass at you."
"You sure?"
"I'm absolutely positive."
"You interested in me so you're making a physical action that shows your romantic interest?"
"Yes, I suppose."
"You suppose? You're not 100% sure about it?"
Discouraged and disgusted, he started to walk away.
"Because I'm interested, you know!" she called after him in a throaty whisper. "You want my name and the name of my owl?"
He gave her his best withering look and went somewhere else.
Insecure witch, he decided and a number of other things.
But by far, the person who languished around the party the most was the hostess who was wearing a black dress that at one time might have been flattering but now had been washed inappropiately one time too many.
Oh god everyone will hate me this is a horrible party no one will ever speak to me again I'm going to die they're all going to hate me, thought the hostess, languishing in a corner.
She went to the kitchen and drank too much alcohol.
She went back into the party, somewhat cheered and weaved drunkenly through the guest, making vague slurrish sounds and laughing somewhat eccentrically at nothing in particular.
The result of the party was that everyone did a good deal of languishing and all got sufficiently depressed.
--finis---
Hm. A few comments in the box? I feel like a begger with a little hat that I pass around hoping for some reviews.