Disclaimer: I own nothing except for the plot. (There's a plot?)
Cat and Mouse: The Chase
By Ela-chan
Exactly who's the cat, and who's the mouse?
Chapter One
Pinching and King Jackass
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If tomorrow was Judgement Day instead of my dancing lessons, and I was standing at the front line with none of my pillows, and a tall guy with a gold halo thing over his head asked me what I did with my Life, I'd say 'Ask Mother'.
Well, of course, Saint Peter would probably scoff at me and say: 'I'm sorry; you're the Devil's spawn. Go to hell. Next.'
Bah. What do they know? Nothing. Yeah, that's right. A bunch of dunderheads, they are. No good people bundled up in blindingly white feathered costumes and such, possessing no intellectual capabilities and having the luxury of getting whatever it is they want, when they want it and how they want it. But still, they have no knowledge residing within their empty heads. Yep, it's true.
I'm sorry; your IQ test came back negative. We recommend you re-do years Kindergarten and up. Thank you.
Well, that applies mostly for Saint Peter, but God, well, he's another story, isn't he? He'd know a hell of a lot, wouldn't he? Yeah, I mean – with creating the world and all, the first man and woman, every animal and that. Knowing everything we're going to do, what we're thinking; he'd know a fair bit, I guess. Wouldn't he?
Yeah. Sure he would. But never Saint Peter. Nah. He'd send me to hell without a glance, he would. Not a moment to lose. Not a thought to it. He'll probably wave his little feathered quill in my face and push me off a cloud. Or whack me with his everlasting, glowing parchment and slap me around the head with his lifetime guaranteed slipper or something. Nasty wicked bugger, he is.
Anyway, I had a point somewhere in this.
Mother always nagged at me that talking to someone without a proper introduction was, and I quote, 'Insolent little heathen! Have you no shame?', end quote. Yeah, she — Oh. The wrong thing came from my mouth again. Sigh, grumble, sigh. If you laugh, I will kill you.
Let me try again.
Mother always nags at me for talking to people without them knowing who I am. She'd pinch me under the arm; you know where it always hurts? Yeah, she knows that place. I'm forever doomed for the rest of my abnormal human life. She'd grab skin, pull and twist. Then I'd grind my teeth, force a friendly grin and introduce myself while she hissed 'Don't just stand there! Introduce yourself!' It was always the same. Let Mother chat them up first, let her haul you out of your unnoticed, very comfortable seat by the fire, then let her talk about you with them, then be pinched and forced to say your name. It didn't help that we meet with new people practically every day, either. Yeah, it sucks. Most of the time, anyway.
Especially when that Potter kid and his oh-so-classy parents came by the mansion that day. God, I wanted to strangle him again. The lamp I used as a substitute to his neck finally snapped yesterday. I laughed. That would be him the next time he got on my nerves. In tiny little pieces of china, with a dead light bulb amidst its jagged pieces of elaborately painted rock.
Even though it's physically impossible for him to become those little pieces of clay, a girl can dream, can't she? Sure, she can. Sure she — wait. I'm making the mistake that started all this rambling. Gah. All those years Mother's nagged at me isn't doing its job. I'm conversing with someone who knows my name not. It's a different situation this time, though. No pain from Mother's pinches while you introduced yourself to someone who you've never met or even seen in your measly fifteen years you've existed. No pressure upon your fragile shoulders. No blah blah blah, yada yada yada from her immaculately scarlet lips.
Anyway, I'm Lily. Lillian to be exact. In my mother's opinion, Lillian J. was the filthiest and most disgraceful name anyone could ever have the misfortune to hear. That it was a shame to have it attached to the honourable name of Evans, that it was a pity to be related to the owner of that name, and the rest I'm not to be bothered to state.
And you know what?
I could just go up to her and hit her over the head with the excuse of her being a mindless bug right now. If she thinks my name's all dirty and woe-begotten or whatever she thinks, which, might I add, are all complete lies, then why did the woman let my father bestow upon their youngest daughter the name Lillian J.? My family is dysfunctional, I admit. My family is stupid and completely loony, yes. My family is a nuisance and there is many a time that I'd love to kick them around their shins and watch them hop around in pain to my amusement, that's true. But it's my mother who has the three of us rolling our eyes and grinding our teeth all the time.
In this sentence, 'us', possesses the definitive of my Father, my batty, her-face-is-inhuman-makeup sister and my abnormal self, of course. We're the semi-normal part of the family. Mother's the non-semi-normal division of this group of blood relations. She's the blabber, nagger, glarer, I-can-order-you-around-because-I-have-control-over-you-and-just-because mother Mother, the fussy cleaner, the pincher. She's the person who takes over your life when you receive your first phone call from a boy she doesn't know of. She's the mindless, or so I like to think, old lady who pinches you in various parts of your body to force you to do something.
She's a nightmare, but hey, she's my mother and I love her to death.
Anyway, I'll tell you about the day when James I'm-so-far-up-my-arse Potter came prancing into our house with his parents that perfect, crisp Winter's day. The 'perfect' part was shattered and kicked in the arse so many times that it ran away from Potter when he put the first step onto our perfect marble floor.
Doesn't seem fair to the rest of us, does it?
Hell no.
'Ah, Elizabeth,' breathed Mrs Potter herself, the selfish woman who bore that poor excuse for a son of hers for a whole nine months. I almost feel sorry for her. She was looking around with her delicate hand on the small of James's back, a look of awe on her face, but we all know fakery is as thick as iron.
'Your home looks simply divine. How ever do you do it?'
She didn't, lady. I did.
I was sitting at the dining table at the time, happily munching on a toffee apple and watching Mother soak the flattery up like yellow sponge. I could barf. But this was too good to pass up. There's bound to be some violence somewhere in the few hours the Potters would be staying for. I wouldn't miss this for the world.
With the wives talking contently on the sofa, their legs crossed and tea cups raised yet not being drank and the men laughing loudly about things I'd rather not know about, James was left to wander around to his pleasure and amusement. That was my cue to move as fast as I could to the nearest hiding place. But before I could lunge behind the refrigerator, James spotted me and made his way down, in my opinion, the longest dining table in the world.
I'll kill Petunia.
Mrs. Dursley invited me for dinner the other day, Mother. It would be quite rude to decline, wouldn't you say so?
Yep. She's definitely going to cross that line between the dead and alive. As soon as she comes home, I'll trip her over and disfigure her face with a poke. Insert endless sinister cackling here.
'Well, hello there, Lillian J,' came the suave voice of the Potter heir.
I hate that tone. I hate that name. I hate this guy.
Glaring at the elaborate design of the centre flower piece as to refrain from looking at him, I ground my teeth. If I did look at him, I guess I'd whack him around the head for even existing with what's left of my toffee apple; but this toffee apple's too good to waste on a gesture of violence on such a worthless worm.
'It's Lily,' I snapped, taking a bite out of the apple and chewing it bitterly. 'And if you call me Lillian J. ever again, I'll disfigure your face and everything else I can reach with a very blunt butter knife.'
He stared at me fully for a few moments after I threw that at him. It took a lot of moral fibre for me not to snort like man right there and then. If it wasn't for my very ladylike manners, I'd laugh outright and slap my knee and whatever.
'I – err …' he tried, putting a hand at the nape of his neck uncomfortably. He pulled out the chair closest to me and sat himself down. 'Well, Lily. How are you?'
If this guy would be as civil to me as he is now at Hogwarts, I'd actually think twice about throwing my goblet at him every time he popped that question. On second thought, if he changed his name, face, voice, attitude, style and everything else about him, I'd think twice about the answer I'd give him.
'I've been better,' I muttered, tucking a stray lock of my cursed red hair behind my ear. I so sorely wanted to add ''til you came along'. But the fact that he'd blab to Mother about it stopped me.
'Listen, Lily,' he said so suddenly that I choked on a small piece of sweet apple. 'Have you reconsidered your answer?'
No goblet for me to hurl. Damn it.
'Lillian, dearest,' cooed Mother from the distance. I saw her dainty hand wave at me to come to her. It was time to be pinched and forced to say your name to the Potters. And, I must say, the timing could not be more than perfect.
'Hold that thought,' I said to James, giving him a triumphant smile. I stood up to my full five foot ten height and smoothed back my tresses. I could feel James's eyes lingering on the lower part of my body as I walked towards Mother.
Bloody arse. And I do mean that literally.
'James, dear,' called Mrs Potter in same tone my mother used. I bit my tongue as James trotted to catch up with me, the same triumphant grin now on his face. How ironic. I refused to look at him.
'Yes, Mother?' I inquired politely, thankful that James was now beside his own mother. She stood and walked behind me, a forced yet perfect grin on her face. I closed my eyes as the pain of her pinch stung me. The same 'Introduce yourself like a lady, Lillian' plagued my ear.
'This is my youngest daughter,' she said as Mr. Potter put an arm around his wife and gave me a fond look. That was my cue.
'Lillian J. Evans, Mr. and Mrs. Potter,' I said, my voice trained, smooth and harmonious as I gave each adult a flawless curtsy and inclination of the head. As soon as this is over, I'm going to raid the refrigerator of everything that Mother fancies. Yoghurt, fruits, that funny looking camembert cheese with the green spots, and all those ungodly things she eats to keep her shape.
Psh, yeah, whatever.
'This is James,' came Mrs. Potter's sickly sweet voice. The voice of an upper-class woman. Damn that voice. I grimaced as she prodded James in the back, making him come closer to me. I took a voluntary step back and collided with Mother. I was trapped. Didn't these people know I know James from school? Didn't they know we know each other? Didn't they know I hate his very guts? Didn't they know I was hungry and wanting a hot pot of Spaghetti right now? Didn't they know I wanted to step on James's foot and make him hop around so I can laugh? Didn't they know I didn't want to curtsy and keep up the act so I can be in Mother's good books?
'We know each other,' came James's awkward quip, making a confused gesture with his finger by pointing at me then to his head then to a painting.
A painting? Yeah, the guy's bloody mental. That's the only thing I think that's decent about him. His oddity is in my good books. Everything else he possesses belongs in my waiting-to-be-killed-at-the-dead-of-night books.
'From school,' I added, nodding and rolling my lips around. I bit my bottom lip as I felt the pinch of Mother tighten.
'But that doesn't mean we can't properly introduce ourselves, does it?' I broke out hastily. Giving one of my perfect curtsies and inclinations, I felt the pinch loosen and I sighed inwardly. I don't know why I put up with this woman. I don't know why dad married her. I don't know why the hell I'm curtsying to the one guy I hate the most in the whole of Hogwarts. I don't know why I'm here and not out with my friends in Diagon Alley or something. I don't know why I'm still curtsying. But, hey, Mother said the longer you stay in the process of the curtsy, the politer you come out to be.
Whatever.
I straightened and gave Mrs. Potter a flattering grin. I inherited Mother's grin. A perfect, white gleam with my lips pouted flawlessly and blah blah blah. Mother's told me this. Why, you ask? It's an excuse to flatter herself. Duh.
'Well, now that the introductions have been made,' Mother said in an airy tone, 'I'll see to dinner.'
She set a twitching eye on Father. I almost snorted.
'Dear, will you set the table?' she said to him.
It wasn't a request. It was an order.
Father and I know that. Mother only raises the last tone of the last word to make it sound like a question. She only does that so she'll come out polite and well-mannered.
What a fruitcake.
I'm glad she let go of me, though. That pinch was a little worse off than I thought.
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