Disclaimer: Status remains the same.
A/N: Oh, yay! Thank you so much everyone for reviewing, adding me to your alerts, or favoriting this story. :) It makes me happy! So, thank you for making my week a little bit brighter!
And, hey, look at this. I'm actually updating when I said I would. Darn, I'm proud of this moment. Hopefully, this will continue to happen! As for this chapter, it's extremely long (well, for my standards anyways), and I'm not quite sure if I like how it turned out or not...hopefully, you guys like it, otherwise...well, I guess I'll find out by how the reviews sound.
And, this may be extremely random, but I've been re-reading Deathly Hallows because, I'm already too excited about the movie for my own good, and I still have months to wait. Ahem. Anyways, I came across this hilarious quote that actually made me laugh hysterically out loud (worrying my brothers) that I hadn't really appreciated before. So, for your enjoyment as well as mine, here it is. It takes place in chapter 2, when Harry has just read the article about Rita Skeeter's biography on Dumbledore:
"Lies!" Harry bellowed, and through the window he saw the next-door neighbor, who had paused to restart his lawn mower, look up nervously.
Bwahahahaha! Can you imagine this in your head? Harry screaming LIES! and some old dude jumping in shock and then pretending nothing had happened...LOL! That's pure comedic genius right there. JK rocks. Or, maybe I'm the only one who finds that funny...I do have a very weird sense of humor...
On a more related note, enjoy this chapter!
Chapter 2: What Was I Always Taught as a Child? Oh, Right. What Mum Says Goes.
When my eyes finally fluttered open after a rather strange dream involving Chimeras doing a polka, it took me a while to figure out what was amiss with the situation. I laid there and listened. It was much too quiet. Usually, the sound of Chadna banging on the bathroom door and shouting at Mary that she'd been in the shower far too long, and that she would surely drown if she stayed in much longer was what woke me up in the mornings. And yet all I could hear was the sound of birds chirping obnoxiously joyfully outside. If only I wouldn't feel guilty for blasting the innocent creatures with my wand; they resembled my lovely owl far too much to settle correctly if I hurt them. Grumpily, and still half asleep, I rolled out of bed and stumbled to the window in order to shut it. Bloody birds. Before I'd even taken two steps, I ran into something very solid and extremely out of place. What the—?
How had my wardrobe moved?
Fully awake now due to my throbbing shinbone, I glanced around the much smaller space than I'd expected to see. It took me a few seconds to fully understand the meaning behind my moving furniture. Oh. Right. The first tip off should have been that there were no bed hangings drawn around my bed. That, and the walls here were a pale shade of blue. The answer was easy; I was at home in my incredibly tiny, but albeit comfy room. If my shin wasn't hurting so badly, I would have smacked myself upside my very dense head. Every winter and summer break, I would consistently forget that I wasn't at Hogwarts my first few nights back in my bedroom. Sometimes when this happened, I felt incredibly saddened, like I'd just been woken from a nice dream. However, being home did have its advantages. I closed the window—as good as a Silencio spell against the birds' songs—and crawled back into my bed.
Aw, my bed.
Lying face first into my pillow, breathing in the scent of it, reminded me of childhood, of days when my biggest worries had been how to convince Mum to buy me a package of chewing gum at the store. Usually, she would say no, insisting that I was much too young to not get it stuck in Petunia's hair, and yet somehow a pack would always find its way into our shopping basket. Oh, my first experiences with magic. To be young again…
I snorted into my sheets; I was thinking as if I was about to keel over and die in my walker. I wasn't even out of my teenage years yet. By Wizarding standards, however, I was an adult now…
Oh, how the youth pass us by.
"Good, you're up," came a sharp voice simultaneously with the sound of my door hitting the opposite side of the wall.
I peeked out from under my blankets, surprised that she had even bothered to come greet me at all. I'd been home for five days now, and I'd barely seen my sister, let alone talked to her. "Morning to you too, Tuney."
"You know I hate that name," she responded, throwing open my curtains. Oh, what a sweet, thoughtful sister I had. Really. In response, I threw my arm over my face, groaning.
"And you know I hate it when my curtains are opened before I'm out of bed," I retorted back, burrowing my head underneath my pillow to escape the brightness that was only intensified as it reflected off of Petunia's blonde head and then glittered around the room as the beams of light hit her engagement ring.
Wait. Brightness? I sat up in bed, looking out the window. Blue sky, burning sun, some cloud coverage, but I could deal. After all, it was nice to know the sun still existed after ten consecutive days of rain. My last few days of my sixth year had been plagued with storms. It hadn't done much to detract from the dreariness of exams. And I was pretty sure the awful weather had followed me home; well, at least our family garden was doing well.
"It's sunny," I exclaimed, throwing my legs off the side of my bed, instantly happier despite my rude awakening.
Instead of reveling in the wonderful day the sun promised to bring, Petunia simply snorted as if I were the daftest person alive. Which, according to her, I was, seeing as I hadn't finished my Muggle education. She liked to gloat about that, talking about politics and national health care with my father during dinners and then continuing to yap at my dad about finances as he tuned her out with the television. It was really quite tedious—her gloating, not her actual spout of knowledge, although trying to sit with her as she gabbed on and on was enough to send even McGonagall to the crazy house. But I supposed that was just what sisters did. Petty arguments.
"Your day's about to darken," she said then, her lips pursing as her forehead scrunched in aggravation. She must have taken a drama class at some point in her school years, because her dramatics were spot on for being over-the-top.
I wondered what I had done now. It wasn't even nine in the morning yet. "What do you mean?"
"Vernon's second cousin—your dance partner for the wedding—kindly informed me last night that he's going on vacation to Majorca for three weeks."
It was hard to sympathize with her disappointment.
After getting engaged just a month earlier, Petunia had already hammered out many of the wedding details, including a dance number the groomsman and bridesmaids had to perform at the reception. Petunia had become somewhat of a dance Nazi and was insisting on practicing nearly every day this summer, due to the fact that most of the wedding party would be back to university come September. Seriously, I had nearly declined the Maid of Honor position my sister had so generously handed to me my first night home just to avoid the awfulness of it all. Unfortunately, my mum's sheer happiness over the fact that her two daughters were going to be standing up at the altar was enough for both of us to cover our respected scowls with tight grins. My scowl, over the fact that I would have to dance with one of Dursely's repulsive relatives in front of hundreds of people; Petunia's, due to the fact that Mum had subtly hinted that one's sister was a best friend for life, and thus should be treated accordingly, hence the whole honor of being Petunia's maid until she left for her honeymoon.
I tried to hide my exultation over the news that the dance lessons would be postponed nearly a month by occupying my time with my dresser. I could tell that Petunia was very close to breaking point; she liked things to be prompt and perfect. This setback was nearly catastrophic in her eyes, as if You-Know-Who himself had accepted a wedding invitation with a Dementor as his plus-one.
"Talk about last minute," I muttered, hiding my grin into my sock drawer.
"No matter," she said curtly, "it's just a minor drawback."
"I'm sure we'll dance just as well in August as in July," I answered, trying to reassure her.
She tutted her tongue at me impatiently. "My wedding does not revolve around Vernon's hideous cousin," she said stiffly. "We're starting tomorrow."
Well, bring in a Thestral and call me a hunk of raw meat. This sucked. "What's your point then?" I asked, my bad mood returning. I tried to focus on my view of the garden.
"You need to find a replacement."
That brought me up short. I swung my head back around to stare at my sister incredulously. "Me? Why is it my job?"
She rolled her dark, blue eyes. "He was your partner."
"Yeah," I retorted, "for your stupid dance routine."
Crap on a Hippogriff hill. I hadn't meant to say that; that was meant to stay strictly in the confinements of my own privatized thoughts that I liked to call my Pensieve. Her eyes narrowed, her mouth tight. "I don't have time to run about trying to find another unfortunate bloke to suffer through practice with you."
"Oh, like I do?" I shot back, ignoring the fact that it was summer, and I really didn't have anything to do…besides my homework, but who really did it this early into the holidays? However, it would make for a nice excuse.
In an act that was so Petunia, her hands jumped to her hips, and she placed her weight onto her right leg; her stance of annoyance for having to deal with her little sister. "If you actually knew some boys, perhaps it wouldn't be so difficult."
Her words stung slightly. I'd seen Petunia go through her fair share of boyfriends throughout the years, and though it had perplexed me—due to our sisterly rivalry—that some had genuinely liked her, most of all I'd been jealous. I mean, I was Witch, after all. Shouldn't I be able to charm my way into a bloke's heart? The one boyfriend I'd had didn't' even stack up to the pile that Petunia had collected. Was my sister really more likeable than me? I instantly felt awful for even asking myself that question, because not only was I talking to my own brain, but it wasn't Petunia's fault she'd received dad's bad genetics that seemed to have skipped over him to my sister like a rabid flea.
Oh, that was mean and untrue; although, she did have Granny Evans' slightly elongated neck. Petunia wasn't ugly, but sometimes I liked to pretend she was when we argued and I imagined her as a stub-legged troll with two teeth and a bad toupee. Be nice, Lily.
But one look back at her smug face and I had balled my hands into fists, strangling the life out of my poor pair of socks. "Fine," I said, "let me just owl afriend."
Inwardly, I grinned at the spasm of fear that shot across her face. Usually, I tried as hard as I could not to resort to magical threats in fights against my sister; after all, that was what had driven us apart in the first place. Magic. But sometimes…well, it did feel good for a few seconds until the guilt settled into the very depths of my stomach.
She inhaled sharply, regaining her composure. "You have until tonight to find somebody normal."
"Fine," I humphed, turning my head away from her.
"Or I'll find one for you," she threatened.
I shuddered, thinking of all of the horrifying possibilities Petunia could come up with. All of Vernon Dursley's relatives were bigger than him. Not to mention scarier and more obnoxious. Petunia grinned at my obvious discomfort, and I could tell that suddenly, she wouldn't mind finding time in her oh so busy schedule which, I was almost positive, only consisted of polishing the rock on her finger for the fourth time this morning and tasting wedding cake, to call up a few more of Vernon's friends.
"Fine," I repeated myself.
Turning on her heel, she placed one of her feet over the threshold before turning her long neck—bless, Granny Evans—to glance back at me with a smirk worthy of James Potter. "Really, Lily, you should find a better vocabulary."
And then she was gone.
The rest of the day was, obviously, spent in a haze of left over bitterness. I grumbled nonsense words about ungrateful sisters with bridezilla OCD as I poured myself some cereal into a bowl. Agitatedly, I ripped through the pages of the newspaper my dad had left on the table, and when I was done with that my mutterings to myself continued as I lathered shampoo into my hair. And though the minty smell of it was strong enough to clear my nostrils, it wasn't enough to clean out my mood, and my unheard insults continued as I dressed. Normally, it didn't take me this long to get over spats with Tuney. It was just that usually I had someone to vent out all of the venom to. Unfortunately, today, I was left to my own devices, as my dad was at work, Petunia was who knows where with her one-and-only, and my mum had gone out with Dursely's mother for a pre-marital bonding session.
Poor Mum. I felt rather sorry for her.
It wasn't that I disliked Vernon, exactly. It had more to do with the fact that he wasn't too fond of me. Like Petunia, I thought that he often felt that I stole too much of the glory from my sister—not that I tried, but having a daughter that attends a magic school could play quite a trump card. And I supposed that was sweet, that he cared so much for his fiancée and all. But it didn't do much to put him into my good graces. Not to mention he could be a tad prejudice against people whom he found to be beneath him, like the poor, the unemployed. Me. The freaks of society.
He really was a lovely man.
But I refused to prance around a cheesy dance floor with a man he associated himself with, especially since they were all ex-university boxers or last year's beef eating marathon champions. Not that I had a choice to back out of the wedding party now, but since I had a way to postpone the dancing torture for a few weeks I had to take it. At least it would save my toes from fractures for a while. Imagine, being stepped on by one of Dursley's heavy-weight boxing mates. I could only imagine it would be equivalent to being mowed over by the Knight Bus.
So, I tried to come up with people that I knew Petunia would deem as un-freakish; in other words, people who were completely boring. Most of my friends that I had known from primary school had all recently left to attend colleges or universities in different parts around the country. Not that I'd kept in contact with them much. After all, it was sort of difficult to keep up pretenses—when I'd left school at age eleven, the story had been that my parents had decided to place me into a private, boarding school further north (although, how anyone could get further north than Liverpool was beyond my comprehension). And, technically speaking, that was all true, but it left a few things to be desired. And how well could a friendship really grow when it revolved around lies that covered up the only interesting thing about me?
I mean, what would we talk about? The weather?
I wondered how angry Petunia would be if I simply owled Chadna.
Alright, wrong gender, Lily.
I got on pretty well with Remus Lupin, but seeing as he was a Wizard and a werewolf, somehow I doubted he would fit Petunia's normalcy quota.
As if it would give me some sort of answer, I glanced around my room. My lovely barn owl, Ringo—yes, Petunia and I had been quite obsessed with the Beatles when I had gotten my owl on my first trip to Diagon Alley, and my crush on the drummer had reached its peak—was sleeping in his cage. I stroked his white chest softly, observing him. He really was beautiful, with his heart-shaped light face framed by the reddish-brown of his body. The first time I'd seen him, I remembered thinking he was the most gorgeous thing I'd ever laid eyes upon. Love at first sight. Badda bing, badda boom. Alas, if only Ringo were human.
Now you've got the wrong species, Evans.
Watching my beloved, personal mail-bird as he snoozed away oddly inspired me, so I pulled out a piece of parchment from my school trunk and began to scribble a note to Chadna, letting out all of my emotions onto the blank page. Aw, writing; it really was therapeutic. Slowly, I began to feel better, and by the time I'd ended the letter with a plea for Chadna to take some Polyjuice potion in order to turn herself into a boy, I'd thought of some other prospects.
I had cousins. Surely one of them would come here for three weeks to help me out. Granted, I didn't have many, seeing as neither one of my parents had more than two siblings each. For some reason, the Evans and Gallagher (Mum's maiden name) members didn't have large families; perhaps it had something to do with the fact that some sort of family-tearing row always occurred that frightened us into extending our family any larger than it already was. My dad called it the Evans' Curse.
Mum called it a low-conceiving rate.
Just as I was debating over which cousin of mine to ring up out of the two male ones that I had, someone pushed my doorbell, the short musical note echoing around the walls.
Maybe it was our milkman. Or a Death Eater. Nah, it was probably just the milkman.
Suddenly, I was ravenous for a cold glass of milk. And a cinnamon roll.
But when I opened our front door, my hello got lost somewhere between my lungs and throat, and I spluttered wordlessly as I chocked on it. Splah! Maybe it was because I was becoming slightly delirious from the lack of oxygen, but I was almost positive my eyes were bugging out of my head like some Muggle cartoon character who'd just been hit by a mallet. Exaggeration really was a lovely thing to play with.
Needless to say, it wasn't the milkman.
My Death Eater guess had been closer.
There was a boy standing in the milkman's place who was far too young and far too cute to be old Harvey. In regular circumstances, opening my front door to see a good-looking teenager rather than my grumpy, graying utter-squeezer would have been a welcome change to my otherwise bitter day. Today, however, the surprise sent my brain plummeting to my toes. The dark haired boy had stepped back from the doorstep and seemed to be contemplating the first story windows as if he were thinking about jumping up to them. In the split second that it took for him to realize that I'd opened the door, everything came rushing back.
Well, this was a hot mess.
I hadn't thought about that ridiculous challenge since the day it'd been set. With exams arriving and my busy study schedule, every thought of this moment happening had Apparated clear from my mind without any splinching of a figment. Besides, I'd never actually thought it to be a possibility, had never given a moment's thought about what I would do if he was to show up at my house, casually clad in a pair of jeans and a red t-shirt like he was now. But now my stupidity had just floo powdered right back into my stunned face.
Oh, holy Merlin.
Those dangerously familiar hazel eyes met mine, and his mouth clipped upwards into the smile he wore after every Quidditch match Gryffindor won. "Aw, so the button worked then?" He glanced at the doorbell quizzically, as if it were the brain of Merlin, and then back to my blank face. "I thought it would be rude to Apparate into your bedroom."
The sound of his cheekily suggestive voice snapped me out of my daze, as if it had been a pinching hex that he had aimed at my bum. I'd been gaping at him stupidly, so I hastily clamped my mouth shut before I started drooling or something. I took a deep breath. "I wasn't aware that you had passed your Apparition test, Potter," I quipped.
I felt slightly better after the success of my wit. His failure was a fact that I liked to hold over his head, because I—the Muggle-born Witch—had received my license before Mr. I-Believe-the-World-Is-My-Wand. He'd left all of his toes on his right foot behind, floating around Hogsmeade without their other five companions. Seeing Potter hopping on the spot, cussing out someone's mother in order to keep back his tears had been incredibly amusing. And slightly nauseating, but I tried to only remember the hilarity of it all.
"All the best Wizards succeed on the second try," he amended as he nodded his head confidently, as if coming to my house was something he did every day, "Just ask Dumbledore."
Well played, Potter.
I crossed my arms, studying him. He looked so out of place on my doorstep—I mean, where were his robes? His school books? His eleven inch mahogany wand, that now, come to think of it, I had no idea how I knew the size of it?— that it was almost comical enough to send me into an insane round of giggles. Thankfully, I had some self-control to speak of, and instead I observed him critically. He'd gotten a haircut, I noticed. It was shorter, more controlled, as if he'd put hair gel in it, giving it an organized messy look that took away from his boyish appeal. This was an older James Potter, and I wasn't sure I liked it. It made me feel like a volatile school girl. As if I was younger than him and, by consequence, beneath his playing level. I had to pull myself together. Because James-Freaking-Potter was on my stoop, and worst of all, I had been the one who had—in a very moronic and meandering way—invited him here.
Blast it all to Azkaban.
So, I asked the only conceivable question I could think of given the circumstances. "What are you doing here?"
His lips curled upwards effortlessly. "You know, it would be polite to invite your date inside."
It wasn't until that moment that I realized I'd been standing with one hand on the door knob, my body concealing the small gap I'd left in the doorway as if by hiding the inside of my house, it would be as if we were simply at Hogwarts. This setting was too personal, like he'd invaded my Muggle life as well.
Hold the owl.
Date?
"I don't recall inviting you here," I told him pointlessly. My case was already lost, because somehow he'd gotten here, and for some reason I felt special that he'd persevered. Wow, that was pathetic. Was I really that lonely here? I needed friends. Perhaps that explained why I was acting so calmly.
He took a step forward, his grin contagious, almost dangerously so. "I've always been unconventional," he seemed to purr as my innards played patty cake with the lining of my stomach. I was going to be sick. He must have seen the green tinge to my complexion, because he backed away laughing, already leaping ahead to the next obstacle. "So, what's the plan?"
I shook my head. "It involves you leaving," I retorted, waving my hands at him as if to push him from my doorstep with the wind I was generating from my crazy arm movements. Honestly, he'd turned me into a windmill. "How'd you get here anyways, stalker?" I asked.
"Remus passed Muggle Studies with flying colors—those number books Muggles have are genius."
Stupid, idiotic me for not counting Remus Lupin's brains into all of this. Why couldn't all of his mates be as dense as Pettigrew? "You mean a phone book?" I asked somewhat amused by his amazement of the simplest of things—a book.
"Yeah, and thank Godric Sirius has a knack for collecting Muggle things—" he pointed to something behind him, and I leaned around him to look. For the love of unicorns…I turned back and stared at him, shock clearly present all over my face as if John Constable had painted me himself. There was a gleaming, black, hunk of beautiful metal parked on the curb of my house.
James Potter really was the Wizard equivalent of a Muggle badass.
"A broom wouldn't have made a big enough entrance, eh?" I teased sarcastically, eyeing the motorbike.
"It flies too," Potter added excitedly. There was a look to his eyes that made me feel as if he knew just how to lure me into his clever trap. "Want to have a go?"
Sure enough… Just as I was about to say yes to his smirking grin—curse his ability to make things sound so thrilling that my curiosity overrode my rationality—the sound of a decrepit car dragging down our street caused us both to turn towards the road. Ah, I would know that sound of scraping exhaust pipe anywhere. Mum was home.
Holy hippogriff.
Mum was home.
My eyes darted from the seventeen year old boy in front of me, to our family car that held my mother behind the wheel and Petunia beside her. As they pulled into our near to non-existent driveway, I could see Petunia eyeing Potter with narrowed eyes. And then, quite suddenly that it even took me by surprise—which was hard to do seeing as I'd lived with my spontaneity that I liked to refer to as my deathbed for seventeen years—I gripped Potter's wrist and pulled him closer to me. He stooped a bit so that we were eye-to-eye.
"How well do you know Muggles, Potter?"
He didn't even seem confused by my behavior. Props to him. "They're like Wizards but without wands," he replied instantly with a shrug.
Fail.
From over his shoulder, I saw my mum shove the heavy door to the car close with some difficulty. My brain was working fast; I wouldn't be surprised if steam was billowing from my ears. "Too late," I told him, "follow my lead."
His eyes glinted back. "You're on."
I shoved him away, so that he was standing upright once again; he shoved his hands into his pockets, subtly pushing the tip of his wand further into his jeans. Smooth, Potter. He was pleasantly surprising me. It was a good thing Potter had a tendency to just go with the flow; it was a bad thing that I didn't think before I opened my mouth.
"Back so soon?" I called to my mum who was currently looking from Potter to the motorcycle with a doubtful look to her face. Petunia was lagging behind, a slight frown dragging her mouth downwards to the sidewalk. I knew that she was just dying inside that I was here talking to a rather attractive bloke. It was written all over her skeptical face. And she'd been so sure that she would have to pick a repulsive character for me to waltz with.
Ha. I win.
"Marcy felt a little nauseous after eating the salmon," my mother answered. She was having difficulty focusing on me; her blue eyes kept darting to Potter. She clearly wanted to pounce. "After your fourth glass of wine at eleven in the morning, well, I'm sure anyone would feel ill."
I chuckled to myself as Petunia humphed loudly, hearing the accusation in my mum's voice about Vernon's mother. Tuney mumbled something about Marcy's alcohol intake being strictly for medical purposes before her attention, too, was caught by Mr. Suave who was currently rustling his hair beside me. How he was able to direct all of the attention while in a room was beyond me. Perhaps his head was so big that it has its own gravitational pull.
Merlin, he would be the death of me.
Too late now to back out, I stepped forwards. All I could keep repeating to myself was that my insanity would be a win-win for both me and Potter. He would get his date—in the hell house I liked to call the dance recital room—and I would get a way out of having to somehow figure out how to make my arms fit around a three hundred pound man. As much as I hated to admit it, Potter would be easier to be around.
"This is James P—" I paused. I'd sent home way too many letters about Potter the Pothead (I'd had to reassure my parents that Hogwarts wasn't a hub house for illegal drugs after that one) to have either of them not recognize the name. Smiling to myself, I continued, "Rotter. James Rotter."
I could sense the playfulness in his eyes as he shuffled closer to me, placing his arm around my back, the tips of his fingers drumming onto my spine. He poked me hard once: revenge. Would it be too obvious if I elbowed him in the spleen? "Awful last name, I know," he joked, holding out his free hand towards my mum. "Must be French," he continued; my mum laughed, the traitor. "It's nice to finally meet you, Mrs. Evans." He flashed her a genuine smile, the sunlight illuminating his eyes to a golden glow behind his glasses—dear Dumbledore, even I found myself enamored by him for a good second—as he enveloped her hand into both of his.
And just like that, he had my already wedded mother wrapped around his undeserving, wretched finger, despite the motorbike which I was positive she'd once told me was nothing more than a two-wheeled decapitating contraption. Now, after being embarrassingly dazzled by the Muggle imposter, my mum seemed to have found a new hobby in life hazardous machines. "That looks new," she commented, glancing at the bike with, what appeared to be, a new-found interest, "I keep telling my husband we need to invest in a newer vehicle."
"That's a mate's, actually," Potter said honestly, "I'm saving up for something safer."
I snorted. Yeah, okay, if by safer he meant a faster broomstick that could go from naught to seventy in two seconds, then sure. Bloody Potter. My mother was just about oozing with approval; for all I knew, she was about to pull an arranged marriage stunt and turn me into a summer-hating Chadna.
"How responsible," my mum crooned.
"I try my best, Mrs. Evans."
"Please, call me Claire."
For once, my sister and I were thinking along the same lines. Petunia, arms crossed just like mine were, was tapping her foot impatiently on the ground. Hello? Daughters of your husband standing right here. Honestly, my mother was too social for her own good. Petunia finally cleared her throat, and my mother startled slightly.
"Oh, how rude of me, James," she gushed as thickly as a pint of Butterbeer, "this is my other daughter, Petunia."
My sister glanced at me suspiciously, ignoring Potter's outstretched arm that did some weird hand movement that awkwardly covered the whole thing up. "How do you know him, exactly?" she asked me curtly.
Potter opened his mouth—apparently not keen on giving up until my entire family fell at his feet in admiration—but I beat him to it before he could make up something incredibly outrageous that I'm sure would include an elopement and a couple of donkeys. "I met him last summer, when I waitressed." I grinned, mentally clapping myself on the shoulder and awarding myself for my humor. "He was a busboy."
I found that I was actually enjoying myself. This was fun, mostly because Potter had no idea what I was going on about. The look in his eye when I'd mentioned the word busboy had nearly broken one of my ribs as I tried to hold in my laughter. He probably thought that I'd just told my family he was a conductor on the Knight Bus, which, with his brains, he'd be lucky if he got that job.
"He just started at Oxford."
It was almost as if I'd just hit Petunia upside the head with a stick, the way she fell backwards onto her heels in disappointment. She sucked on her lip as if it were a particularly sour lemon. Even Petunia couldn't find anything to complain about with Oxford thrown in there. James Rotter was flawlessly golden. "He'll be helping me out with your dance routine, Tuney," I finished triumphantly.
Potter ruffled his hair, but not before throwing a surprised look my way. I wondered if his brain was rolling as fast as mine. "I'm quite the dancer," he commented, "people at Oxford—" I nodded at him encouragingly—"call me the feet with the beat."
Shut up, Potter.
"Three weeks is quite the commitment, James," my mum said fondly, "Lily's a terrible dancer; I pulled her out of ballet after a week because she frightened the other children."
As the two best chums laughed at my expense—ha, bloody ha—I sulked. Jeez, thanks, Mum. Really, the chipper off the old block and all that jazz. Besides, how in the world was anyone meant to perform pirouettes and leaps with only their toes as their support? Impossibly preposterous. Then I realized what she'd just said.
"Three weeks?" I yelped. I swear, our neighbor next door who was mowing his lawn even looked over in worry.
Potter the Prat patted me on the back. If his smile grew any bigger, it would eat up his entire face. That could only be an improvement, however, and I immediately made it my goal to experiment with that thought. "She's just worried that I'll show her up on the dance floor," Potter insisted, tapping my cheek flirtatiously in front of my mother and all.
Lovely.
"Shouldn't be hard," Petunia muttered.
Even Petunia was being sucked in by the idiot! Granted, she had just made a slight at my rhythmic abilities, but she was actually appraising James Rotter with something that looked akin to approval. What was it about him? Merlin.
"No, no, no" I quickly corrected; I was good at thinking on my feet, even if I was a nightmare dancing on them. "James is only here for the weekend; his family moved further south to be closer to his school."
Potter was smirking. And to think that I thought I had learned my lesson about leaving my mouth to its own devices. How was it that my brilliant plans always seemed to backfire on me like our ancient car's engine? If I knew what was really good for me, I would have sent Potter packing the second I realized that he wasn't the milkman. I still wanted my milk, too.
Before I had time to fix my stupidity, to inform my audience that what I had really meant was that James Rotter was incredibly busy and had to rush back to Oxford-My-Arse, and that he couldn't, under any circumstances, be here for more than one night otherwise the Lily planet that seemed to be orbiting him these days would implode, my mum had snapped up James like an intrusive, hidden bear trap.
I would have to get her chained.
"If your parents don't mind losing you for a few weeks, James, I'm sure Lily would love having you," my poor delusional mum offered, despite the objections that surely was radiating off every pore in my body, like geysers of sweat.
Potter seemed quite pleased with himself, the jerk. "I wouldn't want to intrude…"
"Lily's far too lonely over the summers; we even have a spare room," my mum carried on.
Ugh, the bloke could Apparate! But I couldn't tell my mum this, because I had turned immature prankster James Potter into a responsible, intelligent rotter. My makeover was an unexpected and unwelcome miracle. But there he was, James Rotter, charmer extraordinaire. And if I pulled a whole 'gotcha moment' now, well, I would be stuck with a whale as a dance partner and a real date with James Potter.
Curse wedding receptions.
For the first time in years, I turned towards Petunia, hoping that she would reject the idea, like she did when most things looked to be going my way. There was something odd going on with her face, two different expressions trying to win it over. It seemed as if she were having an internal battle with herself. I could only imagine that she hated the fact that Rotter was above her apparently low expectations she'd set for me, but I could read the approval in her eyes over the fact that I had brought home a Muggle university student instead of a magician.
Looked like I would have to save myself.
"Mum," I began, kicking Potter in the foot none too lightly, "I'm sure he's taking summer courses."
And though he had winced so I was sure he had felt the sting, he merely tugged me closer to his side, as if we were the closest of friends in the entire universe. "I'm as free as a fanged Frisbee."
I kicked him harder for his Wizard slip.
He simply gave me look as if to say, "That's what you get for calling me Rotter."
As my mum kicked into humble and helpful host mode, and Potter came up with an elaborate story about how it was a good thing he'd brought a trunk (that deserved him another smack to the shins) full of clothes because he'd been planning on staying at a mate's house anyways, Petunia and I shared a knowing glance over our mother's behavior.
Even as children, we'd always disliked how Mum had always had the final say.
Where was the justice?
You know a betrayal is bad when it's your own mum selling you to the Dementors.
I jumped as Potter the Rotter placed his arm around my waist, his low voice reverberating in my ear. "Want to show your date to his room, Evans?"
Suck up my soul now, Dementor.
There's chapter 2! I hope it was alright...James's arrival didn't turn out exactly how I had pictured it...but I still tried to make it work. Hopefully, it did. Next chapter should be pretty entertaining. Lily has to teach James Rotter how to be a Muggle, among other things. Hehe. To quote A Very Potter Musical, "Well, that could only lead to disaster and hilarity!"
Now, I'm off to watch the new Deathly Hallows trailer that apparently just came out today. YES!
Please review. It will make my life. No, really, it will. I work from 8am-6 and then I come home, work out, eat dinner, fit in some writing time, and then go to bed to do it all over again. Hectic summer schedule I have, huh? So, please, make it a bit more fun for me by leaving me a witty little message.
Thanks!
Tiredly yours,
-HeyLookTheSnitch
