It was a pretty awesome day, you know, when I got sucked into the series.
Clouds clung to the gleaming, fiery sun that rested in the pale blue sky. My head was rested into Safta's lap as I stretched my legs out on the porch, and the fretful, little old lady was knitting a dark purple sweater.
"Back in Israel," She glared at two passing boys who were on their iPads, "we didn't have any of these fancy electronics. Lo! We spent our time outside, playing ball and hide-and-seek. Not any of zees electronics or birds that are angry!"
I made a cough to hide my snort. I loved my grandma so fucking much, but sometimes she made me want to go into a dark, silent room and scream my head off. She moved in about 4 years ago from Israel, her hometown (and the place where my dad was born), when I was about 11, to try to help my dad get out of his darkness, doom-and-gloom phase. My mom had left us a few months before, and for a while Dad couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't do anything but sulk like an idiot all day long. As for me, I called him a coward and tried to track my mom down. No luck, though. It was like she was wiped off the face of the earth.
"And there you're off again, girl, daydreaming about some stupid boy who doesn't return your affections."
"Sirius Black does love me!" I pouted, and, scrambling off her lap, I smoothed out my shirt. It had a picture of a Chinese woman scolding a very photoshopped Neville Longbottom, with a small word bubble above her head that said, Y U NO MARRY LUNA LOVEGOOD, NEVILLE?
…I loved being a hipster. And that was only one advantage of it, anyways.
I mean, trendy black glasses were mainstream because people thought hipsters wore it, right? Well, the mainstream peeps took over and tried to control it. Like, Arthur Weasley over bathroom ducks.
"Who is thees Sirius Black? Is he your secret boyfriend?!"
"A girl can dream, Safta, a girl can dream." Then I walked back inside of the house and put my head against the cool glass sliding door. The days always seemed longer, the nights seemed too short, and I was in desperate need of an iced pumpkin Frappuccino from Starbucks.
And then something weird happened.
Not good-weird, like me, but bad-weird, like, OMFG-WHAT-THE-HELL-IS-HAPPENING!? The ground shook underneath my blue Converses, and I lunged away and onto the hard, wooden floor as the glass sliding door just as it broke into a thousand pieces. Oh, god- an earthquake? Right when I was about to force icy coffee down my throat? Life just wasn't fair.
Somewhere nearby, I could hear Safta cursing like a drunken sailor as she held for dear life onto her thread and needle.
For the first time since Mom left, I decided to pray. Dear- oh, fuck, was that a vase?- God, I'm praying to you because I really don't want to die and I just want to get a Frap from Starbucks. Is that too much to ask?
Apparently, it was.
A huge bookshelf right next to the sliding door stumbled, and I watched in horror as it slammed into my body. Then, darkness. Like my soul.
***. . .*** . . .*** . . .*** . . .*** . . .
When I woke up, my head was pounding and my heart was throbbing. Or is it the other way around? I was too tired to care, and for now I had more pressing concerns: I was sucked into the Hangover, Harry-Potter style.
I was in a white cot in a hospital wing that scarily resembled the one from the films of HP, and blinding sunlight rushed out the windows. A woman- Madame Pomfrey, the fan-girl inside of me was able to squeal- was fussing over my wounds as she spilled some burning liquid onto my arm.
"Shit!" I said. Let's just say that subtlety isn't my middle name. On the contrary, it's my last-last-last-last-last-last name. And don't give me that crap that humans don't have last-last-last-last-last-last names. I'm not human. I'm a goddess in disguise, but Hera from the PJO series wiped my memories away in the Lethe and now I'm forced to wander Earth as a mere human.
The woman glared at me.
"No vulgar language, if you will!"
"Jeez, Pomfrey, I'm sorry. I'm a freaking teenager. It's my job to be moody and cynical. And a fan-girl. And a writer of numerous fan-fictions. I can't help it!"
The lady stared at me like I just spoke in Japanese. God, that's a hard language. Five years of Neon Genesis Evangelion and I still didn't understand what chan meant.
"You're not a Muggle, are you?" She asked, narrowing her eyes. I squealed.
"O-M-FUCKING-G, you ARE real and not just a figment of my entirely too-huge imagination! FAN-GIRLS, UNITE!" I laughed, putting up my hand so she could slap it and we could go and cry over Severus Snape's death and make fun of Filch and all that good stuff.
She ignored me and put something that looked like a glass of water in my hands. At my questioning look, she said,
"It's a sleeping potion. For a dreamless sleep."
"What I really want is an iced Frappuccino from Starbucks, but that's good, too."
Last thing I heard was her saying, "Oh, there you are, Dumbledore! She's doing well, but she's demanding iced coffee from what I believe is a Muggle coffee-house called Starbucks and swearing like a deranged sailor."
Hey, guys! I'm guessing you're wondering where all the randomness came from, ha-ha!
Well, I've been looking through my old favorite stories and found the first fan-fiction I ever read, which was slightly similar to this. But I made sure it isn't copywright, since my character is a total hipster. And she isn't particularly pretty. Or bad-ass.
So, yeah, this chapter was pretty self-explanatory in my eyes. Hoped you like it, and please review!
-Sarcastic Clapping, A.K.A. Queen Awesome of Epic Proportions, A.K.A. Lyricalyrics A.K.A. Potterhead Enthusiast, A.K.A. Proud RavenPuff (Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, study on your Potterhead facts, people!), A.K.A. Mayor of Wackspurts and Head Chief of S.P.E.W., A.K.A. pure brilliance reincarnated into one divine form, A.K.A. President of the Sirius Black Fan Club, A.K.A. The girl with a thousand names but usually known as the way someone puts their hands together repeatedly in a snarky way