Beware, all thee who enter past the threshold of this story: I have taken some pretty gargantuan liberties.
But then again, I do come from the Land of Liberty.
Ach, read on!:

I recognized long ago my compulsive hatred towards James Potter was anything but healthy. I never denied that tacking to my wall a '150 ways I want to torture James before I die' list, with attendant empty boxes to tick beside each instruction after completion, was bordering on insane. In fact, I never said that my obsession with James Potter was normal at all!

But it's there. And it's not going to go away.

For a long while, at least.

You see, it began when he asked me out the first time. I was thirteen and picking bugs out of my hair from a delightful romp on a Snarglehoofenstein hunting expedition with Xenophillius Lovegood down at the lake.

James came up to me, his friends watching on from their reserved corner avidly, as girls from an adjacent corner watched them avidly and simply asked. You see, I was already on edge. Not only did I not like being looked at by James Potter because he had what I have since deemed as 'gooey eyes', but I did not like being looked at (by James), being looked at (by Sirius, Remus, and Peter), being looked at by The Avid Girls (I'm sure they have names, but I've never become properly acquainted with them).

So, when James comes up and lisps (he used to lisp - he pronounciated 's' as 'th'... so I suppose you could say he had a lithp. Ah, whose cruel joke was it to put an 's' in lisp? I want to kiss them), "Hey, Lilly. You're looking right thexy. I like... your... thweater, the colour is... er... um...," by this point he was staring openly at one some would deign 'My Rack', "Anywayth. Would you maybe like to go to Hogthmeade with me thith Thaturday?"

I stared at him beadily and said slowly, "No..."

To which Sirius Black sprang up, incensed, from his corner and pointed at me theatrically, yelling, "You racist! You won't go out with him because he lisps!"

I replied, defensive, "That wasn't it at all, you turd. And people who lisp are not a race, so I'm not a racist!"

Peter jumped up, then, "But you're discriminatory! HEY EVERYONE" - Everyone turned around with a look of polite enquiry etched upon his face - "LILLY'S DISCRIMINATORY."

By this time, the Avid Girls were in a state of hysteria, and were nickering to other people close to them about how racist I was.

And that is how I earnt the golden title of 'Lilly the Discriminator', which although lacking any real imagination or even pizazz (or zork), I kept for three years until I slowly got rid of it under a steady regime of staunch and microscopically-sensitive political correctness.

So, as you can see, James Potter clearly triggered my unhealthy obsession and is therefore...

I don't know, Guilty(...?) of making me spend most of my recreational hours plotting ways to bruise, bleed, stab, mutilate, maim, marr, burn, char, scald, mince, lance, dismember, disembowl, decapitate, stun, amputate, strangle, throttle, bludgeon, beat, cut, gut, flay, skin, aphyxsiate, warp, euphanaize, damage, poison, debase, degrade, batter, castrate, maul, enfeelble, paralyze, mangle, warp, shank and karate chop him.

Now, since we have got that little bump unrumpled in this story of smooth, smooth silk, we can continue: Onwards and Upwards!

-

I am a strange person. I let that be known almost immediately.

For one, I walk differently from everyone else due to a ligament in my right foot being irretriveably damaged when I was four. It is not a very noticable difference, I must point out, but it is still a difference. I mean, this walk will never land me a grant at that Silly Walks office in that Monty Python skit, but it is still abnormal. Since the tear in the ligament, every third step or so... my leg does a slight skip. It is only slight, but still, it is there, and I know it is there, escpecially when I am holding potentially scalding cups of Coffee.

Apart from the walk, though, there are other off-putting mannerisms to me. Well, atleast I find them off-putting, but the fact that I seem to have scrabbled up a good number of friends (and further more, friendly accquaintances), would seem to go to the contrary. My best friend, Ava, assures me they are endearing: I am not convinced. Like the walk, so the talk. I talk differently, with a half-Australian, half-Irish, half-English accent. Yes, that's right, my accent is so different it is actually three halves, or 1.5 for those who past seventh grade fractions. My mother is Australian, my father is Irish (which makes for an interesting homelife, let me tell you), and I was born in England and have grown up there. That, my friends, is very noticable. I also have picked up the dialect of my ancestral countries, so I can be found exclaiming at the skies on a peticularly dismal morning, "God love you, but Strewth, couldn't it be darker outside than a lamb's ear?"

Yes.

Apart from just walking and talking bizarrely, I also just look plain wierd. Not the kind of aggresive wierd where you'd pull your children to your hip and cross the street if you saw me waltzing the opposite way, no, but still just plain wierd. I am of average height (a comfortable five foot eight), with a complexion I actually pride myself on - not a single pimple, even when I eat barrell loads of chocolate. It sounds normal so far, doesn't it? But it gets worse. I have eyes like a fresh pickled toad. That sounds revolting, and I assure you, I think it is (Even though Ava shrills they're beautiful and emerald coloured... The nonsense she comes up with to try and wrestle a morsel of self-confidence into me!). I also have hair. Red hair. Oh, christ, I know! I hate my gingervitis hair. Everyone says it makes me stand out and stand apart but I'm a lazy shit and I don't like standing at all, I'd rather be loitering next to the wall paper, unnoticed.

I'm also unnervingly thin. Not anorexically so, but still bony. There have been numerous rumours about me and eating disorder, to varying degrees (some ones have been so fierce McGonagall herself has called me into her office and tried to get me to eat her peanut brittle... and that's not a metaphor, you sickos). When I lie down, you can see my ribs, and hip bones. And my ass? Ahahahah. I laugh with bitterness, with irony. The last time I had a butt was when I was a baby. - Oh, I just caught myself in a near blunder. I was going to suggest that prehaps it just 'dissappeared up my arse'.

And apart from just the superficial things, inside my mind if you could not already tell, I am insane in the membrane. I have been since I was little. I think magic warped me - well, it certainly didn't help. I have a certain rabidosity to me which makes me slightly noticable in a crowd. When in a fight, I will never back down or tear up. I will obliterate (oh, I love that word! and I so rarely get to use it in a sentence) my opponent with fierce valour. They will rue the day they tried to hurt my feelings! Yeah.. And besides that, there's other things, too. 'Quirks', as some might say. My brain, my mind and my mouth never seem to connect properly. When I tell my brain 'don't say that she has frizzy hair', my mouth will announce it to the entire room. Quite accidentally. I take no responsibility for my thoughts.

I also get shrill when I'm enraged, red-faced when I'm scared (which is very rarely), my voice squeaks when I'm upset or lonely or under any time of social-related anguish. When I'm in the company of someone I am 'crushing' on, I can keep my cool, but as soon as they leave, my forearms will erupt in goosebumps.

Which segues nicely to my next point: my love interest. The boy who, right now, lights up the universe and sears the stars into the sky (here's an appropriate warning: I can get poetic, and not always well). I say 'right now' because I very rarely keep a crush once I have figured them out or have started dating them. I am the female equivalent of a male 'playaaaa'. Of course, I don't go as far as a playa. That is to say, no, I haven't slept with any one of those boys which means, yes, I am a virgin. My love interest, at the moment, is... (drum roll, maiestro!)... Angus Neely.

Ooooh! He is a dish and a half (Oh, God, I think I just reverted to old age). He's a Hufflepuffle, and let's just say he could Huffle my Puffle anyday. He could ride my broomstick, he could claw my raven, he could Slytherin to my bedroom, he could meet me at my four poster bed and we could make sparks fly out of his wand... Yeaaah. Sorry about that. Anywho, he is gorgeous. He's got a face like a young Johnny Depp, and the brains of a bunny rabbit. His pavlovian response to any question is a curt and panicked, "I DUNNO!" So, yes, he's not going to win any Os any time soon, but... he's gorgeous, so it doesn't matter if he's a bit of a Himbo.

My friend Ava does not approve of my new crush, but then again, that's Ava for you. Ava is a prude. A pruny prude, as I have been calling her since I first discovered boys in second year. She's never had a boyfriend and shows not the slightest inclination of ever wanting one. Now, don't go getting any fancy ideas, Ava is not gay. Although there's nothing wrong with that, I'm sure I would notice if my bestfriend was a lesbian. Ava's just not interested in boys, because, as she puts it, "They're vile and icky and have more testosterone in their veins than blood." She's holding out for something better, and she won't settle for less. And, anyways, it's not like Ava would have any trouble getting a boyfriend. The boys at this school are infatuated with her. Ava is absoloutely stunning, which begs the question why she hangs out with me. She's thin like me, but a bit more curved and rounded, which saves her from the trouble of rumours. She has dark brown hair down to her shoulders, dark brown eyes, and a penchant for purple which really suits her.

Ava does not approve of Angus because she believes I would be abusing my intelligence to go out with him. And my cries of, "But he's so prettttttttttyyyyyy!" always fall on deaf ears.

My other bestfriend who rates a mention above all my other friends would have to be Xenophillius Lovegood. Wierd name, wierd man. He's a year older than me, hypermaniacal, and spends most of his time working on weapons. Which works out nicely for me, considering I have a vendetta with James which is yet to be resolved. And probably won't be until we both leave Hogwarts... But, oh Christ, we both want to be Aurors too. So I suppose it'll end when we... Die. When one of us dies, anyways. And it won't be me. I believe I will still be spry, even in old age.

Xenophillius, or Xena, as I like to call him (mainly because he doesn't get the reference, which makes me chortle), is in his seventh year. He's a year older than me, and in that extra year has become more crazed than I could ever aspire to. Xena and I go back a long way (a whole five years), when he became my first accomplice in a prank against my then-enemy, Narcissa Black. Oh, how I hated that Narcissa Black. I wanted to maim her like she would never have the pleasure of being maimed again. Just her mention would make my fists clench into little balls, and my muscles tighten into pouncing-mode. I collaborated with Xena after hearing that he was working on some home-made dung bombs. They worked like a treat. As I watched my nemisis hustling about blindly in the fray of manure-smoke, shrieking, I was filled with a welling of joy (the same I would later get when I first assaulted James), and turned around in that moment of glee and kissed Xena on the lips. It was my first kiss, his too. He promptly broke us apart and exclaimed, "What the bejesus do you think you're doing!?" Seeing him so livid, I lied to protect our friendship, "I accidentally tripped... I was doing a spin... thing. And... I tripped and grabbed on to you... And you... We... Our lips met, or something."

Which, suprisingly, he bought, even though my lying-prowess was yet to be honed.

-

James lost his lisp shortly after asking me out, and promptly gained charm in its place.

Girls, they flock to James!

Haha. Girls can also be known as Birds.

Birds flock to James.

.. That wasn't that funny, actually.

I kind of wish I hadn't pointed it out.

James spent a good part of two years (Third year to Fifth, even when he was betrothed to certain girls) asking me out in increasingly outlandish guesticulations, which I would later find out was because Xena had told him I wanted a grand romantic guesture before I was to ever fall in love. That was true, I did say that, but it was certainly not anything to do with James. I was talking about my various crushes. One way James asked me out was punching my then-boyfriend in the stomach in front of everyone and saying, with a Neandrathal timbre to his voice, "Lilly is now mine! I have claimed her!"

To which I replied by charming his arms to punch at random moments, which meant no one could get too close to him for the rest of the day. Sirius did, believing it was safe, and acquired a black eye.

Haha. Sirius Black. Got a black eye.

I swear to God I'll stop.

Now, as I stare at him in all his glorified, big-headed, quidditch-boy and prefect appropriation, a girl clinging to his arm, which prevents him full use of it, which means eating has become somewhat of a trying expirience for him, I can only think: you are so dead. dead, my friend. deader than dead. deader than death himself would ever guestimate the degree of your death. you, my spiky haired imbecile, are so very, very, very dead.

He looked up from his eating-arm-with-a-girl-on-it pursuit and raised an eyebrow at me, saying, "Is that so, Lily?"

I started, then, and tried to rack my brain for which parts I could have possibly have said aloud. When that failed, I simply replied, "Yes. Yes it is."

"So, I'm now your spiky-haired imbecile, am I? I don't remember me agreeing to this," he said flirtatiously.

My eyes slid to the girl on his arm (Cookie? Cupcake?... I forget after awhile. Something pastry-related, though) to see if she cared at all that the boy she was currently clutching onto like he was a buoy in a vast Ocean was flirting openly with another girl right in front of her: It appeared the answer would be no. She continued staring up at James adoringly.

"It's only mine in the same sense that your dead ass is mine."

"Do with it what you please," James said, supposedly in a suave manner.

"Ew, James," I said, wrinkling my nose, "I'm so not into Necrophilia."

James flushed, and this is when Sirius jumped into the conversation, "Great, because I'll necro feel ya!... if you are."

I stared at him blandly, "It was a valiant effort, Sirius, but overall, I give it a B plus."

"Wait, wait, give me another try!" Sirius said, as we both now ignored James, who was steadily becoming more agitated. He began singing in the tune of 'Summer Lovin'' from the musical, Grease, "Winter lovin', had me a blast! Winter lovin', Necromance! We made out, under the lid, ohhh right on a wintry night! Wella, wella, wella, ugh, Tell me more, tell me more, was it stink at first sight? Tell me more, tell me more, he couldn't put up a fight!"

Snickering in spite of myself, I said, "Okay, that's worth a definite A."

Sirius lunged at me like he was about to kiss me on the cheek, so I picked up a fork quickly and said, "Hold the buck up, buster. I laughed and gave you an A for a song about Necrophilia, which is not an invitation for you to touch me."

"I'd say you were frigid," Sirius said, "But you're not, with all the boys you hang out with."

"Oh, I can see where this is going," I replied, rolling my eyes, "And then you're going to say: and I mean really hang out Lily and high five your prospective cronies and think you're the smartest come-backer in the world. And don't even touch 'come-backer', because that'd just be really... gross."

Sirius blinked at me, his head kind of tilted to the side like a dog who didn't understand what I was saying, "Actually... I wasn't. I was going to go back to eating my eggs."

"Oh. That's okay then."

-

here's how this cray-zay thang works
0 - 5 reviews: this story is going to be flushed down the proverbial toilet of FanFiction like a deceased goldfish
5 - 10 reviews: holy shanks, i'm suprised and abashed.
11 reviews and plussed: give me three days, at the most, to post the next chapter.

now, aside from that. I am aware how bizarre this story is, but I have no idea whether it is likeable odd or detestable odd. i suppose only time will tell, and reviews.

adios from the host with the most,
screaming monkey labrat