The first time I met Cornelius, I was at a wedding.
Obviously not my own wedding. I had always doubted I would ever get married—oh, the irony—and had believed I'd end up the spinster (moonlighting as a cat lady) down the street.
Anyway, my good friend Frank Longbottom was getting married to his longtime sweetheart Alice. They'd been dating since first year or probably before that. (This is when Frank corrects me and says since fourth year. But it might as well be since first year, due to all the mushy-gushy love-y-ness that I am forced to deal with on a daily basis—without even the common courtesy of a few fights here and there, to spice up life for the poor, unfortunate soul who must live with them. I really should have opted for living with Lily and James instead. Who cares if their sex lives are really loud? Who cares if they fight every day, really loudly? Who cares if their mysterious jobs-they-never-deigned-to-explain-to-me lead them to loudly pop in at random hours in the night? For someone who works in the Department of Transportation, drama is definitely worth it).
It was eight years ago to the day the happy couple had met—Frank absolutely had to have his wedding on their first anniversary (probably so Alice couldn't forget it), despite the fact that it was a Sunday, and the common courtesy of letting people sleep in and wallow in their hangover miseries (because some people are not Aurors, so cannot afford effective hangover potions. Also, they are lazy, and would never actually be bothered to spend their time making said potions because they would rather draw suspicious doodles on Frank's sleeping face).
I remember their meeting almost as clearly as I can remember the bed I spent most of my time in (participating in such events as grumping, procrastinating, ignoring my friends' pleas for me to do something with my life other than eating cauldron cakes, and eating cauldron cakes). Of course, I'd like to say I don't remember it out of will, but out of the many times Frank talked about it, blatantly forgetting the million other times he'd told me.
It was a Hogsmeade weekend—the first Hogsmeade weekend of the year—and the three of us, Frank, Lily, and I, were out to Hogsmeade, bright-faced and excited for what we had not seen in months. (This was before we realized a troll wouldn't eat us if we broke the rules and before Peter Pettigrew showed Frank and I the hidden passage to Hogsmeade). Cold rain pounded down upon us, herding us urgently out of the few, moldy carriages into the cramped Three Broomsticks. My damp cloak quickly dried in the stuffy warmth created by hordes of people in a space made for half the number, my hair frizzed the way no straight hair should, and, of course, my shoes decided to leave my poor feet cold and miserable for the duration of the trip. Honestly, I could have been swooning over James Potter, and instead I had been constantly distracted by the drowned-rat feeling my feet had been experiencing.
Yes, I was in Hogsmeade on a date with James Potter. The James Potter. The James Potter whom all girls fell in love with at least once in their Hogwarts career, the James Potter who would later leave me utterly untouched in pursuit of my friend, the James Potter who, to all astonishment and awe, would later propose to the formerly unassailable Lily Evans and get a yes. Looking back at Hogwarts, this just might have been the highlight of my schooling—a date with James Potter—and I completely disregarded it, for the sake of my feet. Really, who cares if they ended up in need of amputation? (They didn't). If I had flirted with him and done my part, my whole existence might have been altered.
Instead, I focused my energy on nonverbal spells for the purpose of warming my feet (and also not burning the table in the process), and practically forced Potter to turn to my best friend for any sort of conversation, truly introducing him to her for the first time, and allowing him to fall into a deep fixation for her. Curse you, you stupid fourth-year-me.
Not that I'm bitter, though, as bitter as I may sound. Sure, my life could have been completely different, but James and Lily are meant for each other, and from the limited conversations James and I have actually had (I think we've spoken alone maybe once) I doubt anything would have turned out too differently. It's just fun to dream.
But that's not the point.
Lily and I had a double date with two of the marauders—I, as you already know, had snagged James, and Lily was with Peter Pettigrew. Frank had no one, but we (at least Lily) felt guilty about leaving him all by himself, so he had tagged along, in hopes of snatching an impromptu date and making our double date into a triple.
"Longbottom, you know you're going to be a third wheel, right?" Potter had laughed as Lily explained his predicament.
"Fifth wheel," Peter coughed.
"Meh. Fifth wheel," Potter corrected, elbowing Peter.
Lily and I slid into the booth, next to our respective dates, while Frank stood awkwardly for a second, until he apologized and started to walk off.
Of course, he hadn't gotten far when he walked right into a blonde who was aiming herself for James.
"James!" she exclaimed, as Frank stumbled backwards, nearly falling until he had the last minute sense to grab onto the back of my seat. "How are you?"
The blonde, as it turned out, was Alice Fletchley, a Gryffindor from the year above us, and whose parents worked with James' in the rich people part of the ministry.
"Oh dear," she turned to Frank. "Sorry about shoving you to the ground. Is there anything…?"
"Maybe you could be his date, Alice?" James suggested in Frank's silence.
"Wait, no"—Frank had begun to protest.
"Of course I will!" The beaming blonde proclaimed as she sat down, pulling Frank down after her. "But, I should like to know your name before we start dating."
"Frank," the bewildered boy replied. "Frank Longbottom."
"Well, it's nice to meet you, Frank Longbottom. And you two are?"
Lily and I quickly introduced ourselves, and then Peter and I were off to get the butterbeers.
"So where are Black and Lupin?"
"Zonko's," was the terse reply. "They said they didn't like girls and dates and things."
"Sirius Black doesn't like girls and dates and things?" I raised my eyebrow.
"Not when he has to pay for them," Peter snorted.
"And I suppose Remus was too much of a prude to come?" I continued. "Does he ever date?"
"He…he has his reasons not to," Peter answered slowly.
I shrugged, and thanked Madame Rosmerta for the mugs of steaming beverage, as the two of us wrestled our way back, balancing the precariously full glasses, and pushing our way through to our table.
"What do you suppose Remus and Sirius are getting at Zonko's? Any insight on the newest prank?" I shouted at Peter, trying to capture his attention over the loud and obnoxious sixth years with their game of Exploding Snap.
"I can't—"
But I never got to hear what Peter was going to say (I could give you a pretty good guess, though). A yard or two away from our booth, we heard it. Everyone in the pub heard it. I'm pretty sure some people across the street heard it.
"POTTER, GET YOUR HANDS OUT OF THERE!"
The sixth years went wild.
Who knows what would have happened if I hadn't gotten the butterbeer, but because I did, Potter had turned to Lily and decided she was somewhat pretty, so had asked her if she was available the next Hogsmeade weekend. Lily, however, was a much better friend than Potter, so told him to buzz off, and started to markedly ignore him.
He ignored this, and in a desperate plea for her attention, grabbed at her bag, holding it away from her. I'm told (and for the most part, I know) Lily wasn't too peachy about this, and had started clawing at Potter's face to get it back, kneeling on the bench to try and pull the bag out of his outstretched hand. (And I find it extremely relevant to note her chest would have been right in his face).
It wouldn't be enough for James to simply deny her of her purse, but he also had to poke through the contents.
Big mistake.
According to Lily (who cited this incident many times in each of her various anti-Potter rants throughout the years) that day just so happened to be one of those days, and Lily, just like any other girl, did not exactly fancy the idea of James snooping through her tampons. Also, though Lily will deny this until the day she dies, I'm quite sure she didn't want James seeing the minimized copy of Hogwarts; A History that even to this day she carries with her at all times.
And that was when we heard that infamous screech.
Let me tell you, sitting there, sipping those butterbeers afterwards was one of the most awkward situations I have ever encountered.
There I was, holding the mug on the table, my mouth resting on the lip, my eyes downcast to my shoes, where my feet were still soggy, trying, along with Peter, to shrink down between the constant bartering between Lily and James.
"You arse."
"Prude!"
"Scumbag."
As this was just the beginning of their argumentative relationship, the quality of the fight was probably not the best. Later on, in fifth year and so, they'd scream at each other until they were hoarse, or in seventh year when the arguments would escalate into steamy snogging sessions (granted, those weren't as fun to watch—unless you were a teen boy, and of course, and I never was). Now, the fourth year me didn't really know what to expect, so at the time I thought this was more hardcore than Dumbledore's beard.
"Why don't you focus on your own date?" Lily shot at Potter, venom dripping from her voice.
"Because you're more interesting, Evans, darling."
I should have said something. I really should have. I'll always regret it. Not just because I could have ended up with James (unlikely), but for the sake of my pride. After James said it, there was silence; even Alice and Frank, who'd strayed off into their own little world, looked up in quasi-horror. Lily was rendered speechless. I think James himself had been shocked a bit. There was a definite gap for me to say something, and I can remember formulating something in my head—"You arsewhip, I am just as worthy as Lily. Maybe if you didn't spend all your time bragging you'd notice!"—that I probably would never have had the guts to say. I had just opened my mouth to start and say something a bit less inflammatory and—
There was a brief pop and a bright orange flash of light.
And my moment was over.
Despite the fact that James' statement would forever be engrained in my head, James and Lily and Alice and Frank would never think of it again. For the memory would be erased and replaced with the image of James in women's clothing and Lily in men's clothing.
More specifically, James was in Lily's clothing and vice versa.
With a shriek, Lily had realized she was in James' boxers of all things.
And James had realized he was in Lily's bra of all things. And proceeded to take off the lacey purple contraption and show it to the entire pub.
"Black! Lupin!" came the unforgiving cry of Lily Evans, who began to pull herself up out of the booth, and over me on her way to kill the two marauding pranksters, but was seriously deterred when she tripped and slipped on the oversized robes, and landed on the corner of the table, mostly in my poor lap, but head in James' crotch.
James continued seeking for treasure in the pockets of Lily's clothing, only made happier by the arrival of Lily's head.
"Ooh, what is this?" James exclaimed, pulling out a tampon.
Blushing furiously, Lily snatched the tampon from James's prodding fingers and leapt out of the booth, brandishing the tampon as a sort of weapon, but not before landing in a pool of butterbeer she had spilled in her earlier jaunt across the table.
"You toescum! Give me my bra!" she growled, and as James continued to examine the foreign article she tacked on a more desperate plea: "Potter, I'm serious. Give me back my bra," she whimpered in a desolate voice.
Just as my future could have been drastically changed at that point in time, James' could have been the same. But James refused to heed Lily's despondency, and ignored the very important fact that Lily had been pushed to her limit; she had been standing there, butterbeer down her (or, rather, James') shirt, tampon in her hand, and bra in James Potter's clutches for everyone to see. James could have made life easier for all of us (don't tell me you thought I actually enjoyed listening to all of Lily's constant spiels berating Potter), but instead he tried to save face and not allow Lily to retain her last shred of dignity.
Face nearly as red as her own hair, Lily slapped Potter for the first time, claimed her undergarments in his astonishment, and dashed off to catch the next carriage back to Hogwarts. It took a few seconds for James (who, I might add, was still sitting there in a skirt and too-small blouse) to get over his speechlessness at the incident, but when he did, he declared, "That's the girl I'm going to marry one day." I'm still not sure how one resounding blow could make a guy fall in love—if a guy hit me, I wouldn't be so brill about it—but from that day on, James was head over heels in love.
Three years later, I was the one forced to comfort Lily in her evolving feelings for James Potter. (Frank was so lucky that he couldn't go into the girls' dormitory). And let me tell you, I have heard enough about that stupid incident with the bra. It took Lily a long time to get over it, and James…let's just say I do not envy what he had to do to win her over.
But I think I'll spare you that tale, as I'm pretty sure before I carried off on this tangent, I was talking about Alice and Frank, not Lily and James.
So, while Lily lived through her most embarrassing moment ever, and my feet were chilled to the bone, Frank was completely ignoring what had been happening around him in favor of chatting up Alice Fletchley. Somehow he convinced her to go to Madam Puddifoot's with him the next Hogsmeade Weekend. And from thence forth, Alice and Frank were the ironclad couple.
They were the dream couple, the 'it' couple, the perfect incarnation of what high school sweethearts should be. It was creepy how close they were—they were together forever. Except for that one year. But that year was a sort of glitch, and if it hadn't been for Mrs. Longbottom it wouldn't have happened.
But as I was saying, the whole school looked up to that pair. Girls dreamed of having relationships that would last that long, relationships were constantly put up to scrutiny against it, people joked that the Ravenclaws wouldn't win the Quidditch Cup until Frank and Alice broke up (but I'm pretty sure they won the year we were right out of Hogwarts, and Frank and Alice were still going strong then), and there was one year when the sorting hat even sang about them at the beginning of the year.
Basically, Frank and Alice are the sweetest couple—to the point where it's almost vomit inducing. After Hogwarts they both started Auror training—and of course they were accepted into healer training too—giving some nauseatingly valiant little speeches about how they couldn't let injustice live or whatever to me when they got their acceptance letters. They're the wholesome, picturesque couple that I can just see eating Frank's deliciously hearty and homemade breakfasts together. (It had been such a pity that I could no longer eat those breakfasts—a girl could get used to pampering like that). And then of course, they'd go to work and kiss goodbye as they went to kill some Death Eaters, and then come back to fall asleep in each other's arms.
Nothing like that image to bring out the bitter bitch within me.
Still, I love the pair dearly, and if weren't for the rather unfortunate fact that I had was alone in a deep sea of happily-ever-after-type couples, I'd have been completely contented and beamingly ecstatic. However, as it happened, I was desperately single, which leads me to my big bone to pick with them on that day.
See, Frank suffers from a severe case of OCD (according to me, at least) and so he couldn't deal with an odd number of people at the wedding party table—or something like that anyway.
So, he approached me a couple weeks before the wedding and demanded I bring a date. Clearly he doesn't have any tact, because he completely disregarded my apparent lack of appeal to the opposite gender, so I was forced to invite my older brother Martin.
I figure I should just come out with this—no point in covering it up now—I had never even kissed a boy. (Despite what Lily says, Davy Gudgeon will never count—it was kiss on the cheek and I was in no way willing). I know to some people (the people who've been having sex since age thirteen) that little detail is a bit shocking, but if you've gone to a school as prudish as Hogwarts it really shouldn't be a surprise.
At Hogwarts, everyone likes the system of pairing off and staying that way for eternity. By the time we graduate, everyone has at least met their future spouse, and gets married within a few years. Too bad that our year had one more girl (me) than there were boys.
And that was the root of my predicament—my brother had decided the day before the wedding that he was going to go chat up some muggle girls with his fellow Prophet writers instead. Nice knowing how much you mean to your brother.
As a not very good apology, Martin told me he knew someone who might—only might—be able to come, and who was of the "male persuasion".
The "male persuasion". What in Merlin does that even mean? For all I knew, he might have set me up with some sort of masculine, scary witch. That would have been a fun date, wouldn't it?
And this I was left wondering up on the altar—Frank's eyes boring evil little holes into my head. (Either that or he was staring lovingly into Alice's eyes. It's a close call). Because, my brother's manly woman friend was also late.
Great.
Now, I have to be honest (I always said I'd take this to my grave, but I guess I am, so I figure I can tell you), I completely zoned out for most of the wedding. Please don't tell Frank. He'll kill me once again. I know I should have been paying attention to the little wizard with the funny hair, and the mushy faces Alice and Frank were making at each other…but I didn't.
Instead, I was staring intently at the little ring-bearer, wondering how in hell he got to have so much red hair. It was like he had a massive laceration on his head that would not stop bleeding. I just wanted to tackle him and floo him over to St. Mungo's. I don't think he could have been more than three—how did he have that much hair? I had less hair than him when I was that age and I was a girl. Maybe he was a girl though—Alice called him Percy…ambiguous name? Maybe?
Anyway, this little boy kept tugging on his luscious hair. (Yes, I'm envious of a three year old—still am actually. I want that hair). But that made me look more intently at the boy; he looked so embarrassed—fidgeting around, reaching for his mother, looking with big eyes at Alice and Frank. The mother, while juggling evil looking twins with even more red hair) later apologized to Alice (she obviously didn't know the newlyweds enough to know that Frank was the one who'd care), explaining that Percy felt that he didn't fit in up there. Strange. I thought he made the wedding. He was just too adorable—I couldn't help staring, the awful friend I was. But it's okay—I think everyone else was staring. (At least Lily). I just wish he knew that he was a complete showstopper.
I, however, was standing there, significantly less important, fighting and losing the battle against Lily and her gorgeousness. Her auburn hair and fair skin popped against the black dress, while my brown hair (not even a rich dark brown—no, my hair had to be excrement brown) and normal skin just looked drab, as always. Lily could wear a diaper and still look sexy, while I don't think I've ever really looked sexy. I mean, the only reason that more guys ended up trying to hit on me rather than Lily, apart from the fact that they were all drunk and balding, was because Lily had a hot, young, menacing looking boyfriend to ward off the unwanted suitors. Not to mention Lily could probably kill all of them using only her pinky finger. Or something like that. Maybe her crazy smarts. Lily was just…
Lily was just the best friend you loved to hate. She was the girl who was so perfect and so nice that you couldn't help but be her friend, but was so perfect and so nice that you couldn't help but resent every ounce of her. She was the one with the perfect grades, the perfect looks (natural redheads are never ugly), and the perfect Hogwarts sweetheart boyfriend. She was the one out making a difference in the world, making you feel extremely guilty for spending a whole day sitting behind a desk at the Department of Transportation, sneaking Cauldron Cakes when your boss isn't looking—which really is rather stupid because you would totally be out there kicking Death Eater arse, but you can't as you didn't even qualify for the preliminary round of Auror training.
It was a sad and inconvenient truth. Both Lily and Frank (not to mention their significant others) were ten times the person I was. I still am lost as to how I ever managed to be their friend, when I never had that same innate talent at life in general. I can doodle pretty well, and pack down a bushel of cauldron cakes like nobody's business, but it's not exactly the same thing here.
And Cornelius' timing had to make me feel a hundred times worse than my friends. Of course I'm the one who's stuck with the twit…
Because right as the officiate was saying that line about people with objections and speaking now or forever holding your peace (except in the wizard style, which tended to skip over it much more quickly and fairly indirectly due to a history of pureblood mothers wanting to make sure that the muggleborn/half-blood tramps their children were actually in love with didn't interfere with the arranged marriage), the doors banged open, accompanied by a loud echo and not one but two panicked ushers.
Remember how pureblood mothers made sure this part was short? Well, the doors opened not a half-second after "We're assuming everyone is ecstatic about this marriage" had been pronounced. If it hadn't been (indirectly) my fault, the ironic timing would have cracked me up (as it seemed to do to Sirius Black, who wouldn't shut up about it later).
But I was blamed.
And I have never seen Augusta Longbottom look more outraged in her life. Honestly, if she didn't like the pure-as-a-chastity-belt blooded Alice Fletchley, I can't imagine what her reaction to a muggleborn for a daughter-in-law would be. I'd imagine she'd prefer the Giant Squid.
Frank had also caught on to the evil stares his mother was giving him, and I could see his mind reeling, going through the list of people he'd invited and comparing it to the list of people actually there.
And only one person had not arrived yet.
Yes. My date. The one I had formerly worried of being a witch with a tad too much testosterone.
Quite frankly, as soon as (and maybe even a bit before) Frank turned his beady, perfectionist eyes on me, I knew I was better off with the witch. I never should have trusted Martin.
Obviously oblivious to all around him, the recent addition to this oh-so-charming wedding sat down, with a wink, next to Alice's cousin (a Hogwarts dropout who, at the time, was modeling for Playwizard magazine, until it turned out she was in an affair with the junior chair of the Wizengamot and the head of the Department of Sports and Events—a department full of total pricks, by the way, who think they are superior to the so-called "poor, unfortunate souls" in the Department of Transportation. Arses, the lot of them—and was promptly fired. And Frank wonders why his mother doesn't trust Alice). Merlin, I couldn't believe that my brother set me up with some man-whore who has such horrendous choice in women as to stoop so low as to flirt with Desdemona Fletchley. He should really off himself before it's too late.
Finally, because the offender ignored the dumbfounded gazes everyone else was sending his way in favor of the torture known as Desdemona's giggling, attentions were averted back to the ceremony, and without further interruption, Frank and Alice were married.
Do you know that feeling when you should be paying attention to something, but you don't? Because there's something that just distracts you?
When I was nine, my parents took my siblings and I to see the ancient dwellings of magis in India—which I had been begging to do for years. But I got there, and all I could think of was that Marcy got a stuffed elephant and I didn't. Also, I was rather sleepy the whole time the tour guide stopped to explain how magis lived. (They lived pretty shittily).
Or that time in fifth year when I probably should have been focusing on my arithmancy OWL, but instead stared at Jervis Cauldwell's beautiful face. (However, I may or may not have been on my period, so it's not like I would have focused much anyway. And Jervis Cauldwell is gorgeous—I still see him on the cover of Witch Weekly from time to time). Who knew that the Arithmancy OWL would determine my career? Who knew a Dreadful on it would drop me into a position as deputy head of Identified Flying Objects (IFOs) at the Department of Transportation? Not even the big-ticket transport, like flooing or apparating? No, even though those don't require in depth knowledge of Arithmancy. (Can't think of anything that does).
I might have even been head of the stupid IFOs, had I not been so preoccupied with the broken seam on my robes during my interview. I wouldn't have had to deal with Goneril Jones on a daily basis.
And don't even get me started on my almost life with James Potter—if only I had shut up about my stupid feet. Let them be amputated.
Anyway, my point is, this is one of those times; I should have paid attention to Frank and Alice's ceremony—something I can't relive (do you know how expensive pensives are?) and that I should have been watching like a good friend. Lily was most definitely watching. But while the pair kissed and walked to their well-wishers and the scenery changed to the reception, I just stayed in place, my mind fixating on that awful sight of my mystery date with Desdemona Fletchley.
I mean, I don't even remember Alice and Frank kissing—despite the fact that they were all of three feet away from me. All I can see when I try and picture that moment is that idiot hitting on Desdemona Fletchley. There are many better (and natural) blondes out there, along with tons of brunettes whose laughs aren't so grating to one's ears. Like me. Not that I would ever condescend to date a man (more boy, actually) who would condescend to date Desdemona Fletchley. Also, his multitudes of cheesy pick-up lines suck. (Yeah…your basilisk is staying far away from my chamber of secrets.)
But, was I that ugly? That he dropped me for some…for Desdemona Fletchley? Just as there are no words to describe her (apart from easy slut that is), I have no words to describe that feeling. I was stricken—no sure reason, but I was.
No matter how stricken I was, as I soon realized due to the strange looks Frank's faceless groomsmen (imported from distant relations I've never met and I'm guessing he's never met either), I couldn't just stand up at the altar after the wedding ended, gawking at the blatant displays of horniness on the part of my date and Desdemona Fletchley. As I descended the stairs to the waiters, who had materialized out of nowhere with copious amounts of Firewhiskey (the only thing Frank did right with this wedding), I resolved two things: first, to never try anything with my date (ew…the slime), and second, to go talk to him immediately.
I did still need to bring somebody to fill that extra chair at the wedding party's table if I didn't want to be lynched. And if worst came to worst, I doubt Frank would mind eating next to a dead body if it brought us up to an even number (and didn't clash with the décor).
I sighed in resignation as I began to stalk towards my date. "Let's see how much of an arsehole he is…" I muttered under my breath.
"What was that?"
Startled, I looked up, to see my date in my face, looming over me by at least half a foot, with Desdemona Fletchley practically drooping off his arm. He was not as prim and polished as I had originally thought from my place beside Lily and Alice; his wavy blond hair turned out to be scraggly with mousy undertones, the five o'clock shadow on his face looked less rugged than a poor attempt to color in his skin with a magic marker, and I was fairly sure his eyes were mismatched colors. Dear Desdemona only picks the best.
But what surprised me most was his voice. I had pictured him hitting on Desdemona in a Gilderoy Lockhart-esque voice—high and arrogant. (I had the misfortune of meeting Lockhart during one of his charity events. Only Gilderoy Lockhart would think that The Department of Transportation needed charity—I swear, no one knows we're in the Ministry). Instead, his voice was low and deep—I was tempted to ask him to repeat himself, until I realized that would require acknowledging his inevitably slimy existence.
"Nothing," I hurriedly replied, before deciding I might as well chat up one of the Prewetts instead of wasting my time trying to break up Fletchley and….whatever my date's name was.
"Oh," Desdemona Fletchley said in that insipid little voice of hers. "I could have sworn you said he was an arsehole."
The thing about Desdemona Fletchley is that, while most other people would have said that sentence intentionally, in order to make me look bad (which isn't really hard), Desdemona was actually confused. It was surprising how naïve she was—I'd say bordering on stupid, but she crossed that border ages ago. Well. Not that surprising. But I still had to jerk an overflowing glass of Ogden's finest off the nearest waiter—or else I would never be able to pacify Frank. God forbid this require flirting.
"Whatever he is, I know one thing for sure," I replied in my peppiest voice to Desdemona.
My peppy voice must not have done a good job, because as soon as I said this, his eyebrows shot up right to his hairline.
"Ooh! What?" Desdemona asked eagerly.
"I"—
"No, wait! I need to guess it for myself! I love these games! Teddy says I'm so good at them!"
My eyebrows joined my date's in the northern regions of our foreheads. Theodorius Cromwell IV, or Teddy apparently, was the junior chair of the Wizengamot.
"Oh, he's your estranged brother? Or you just had his baby? Or"—her voice lowered several decibels as she leaned in confidentially—"you're in love with him?"
I snorted. "As if."
Desdemona shrugged, her perfect curls bouncing off her perfect shoulders, as she lifted her glass towards me. "You never know."
"I should think I know these things," I smiled tersely, turning the man (boy) beside her. "You're needed at the main table."
"Did the bride finally realize she's in love with me? They realize they can't live without my entertainment?" he grinned roguishly. (Not that roguishly. It was more safe roguish. Kind of. Not like the Marauders. Not sexy at all. Maybe.)
"More like they don't know who you are but they need my date to even out the numbers," I said, steering him away from Desdemona and towards the impatient Frank. I decided to scour my arm with acid later.
"So you're Marlene. Nice to meet you. Sorry I couldn't say hello earlier—I'm at a bit of a disadvantage, seeing as I didn't know what you look like."
"Too bad we couldn't keep it that way."
My date chuckled. Chuckled. But not just the ordinary, expected chuckle of a slimy ladies man (not that I would call Desdemona Fletchley a lady), or a chuckle that clearly translates as "Oh, you silly girl. I will poorly placate you and your sad attempt at humor for now because I am seeking to get into your pants later." (Yes, you can read that much into a chuckle—I've heard it used enough times on Lily. DON'T LISTEN TO FRANK). Instead, this was a genuine chuckle. I could tell because—in a moment of weakness—I looked back at the five o'clock shadowed man following me to the main table, and all I could see were his eyes. I said earlier that I heard that fake chuckle used on Lily before. Well, I've had to sit through many men hitting on my best friend, and you learn a lot about reading signals—if someone's lying, if someone likes a person, if someone has a mother addicted to doxy powder and is only talking to you in order to fool the wizarding mafia into thinking they're not stealing doxy powder from the mafia for their mother (yeah…that was not a particularly fun night), and if a person is genuinely smiling/amused/not just trying to placate you to get into your pants.
And my date was just that. (Genuinely smiling/amused/not just trying to placate me to get into my pants).
I could tell because of his eyes. They light up with glee, in a way no pimp could fake, and the corners of his eyes crinkled quite charmingly. That was when I noticed that, even though he could not have been more than a year or two older than my twenty-two year old self, he already had lines marking the corners of his eyes. One of my earliest memories was one of my mother telling my older brother that she knew Dumbledore was a good person because the lines in the corners of Dumbledore's eyes were his most prominent wrinkles, which meant he must have smiled a lot in his life.
At that point, I forgot about Desdemona Fletchley, and smiled back at him, showing quite a few teeth. I'm pretty sure that caught him by surprise, after all that hostility, as he suddenly stopped (right while we were walking through the middle of the room), and his crinkled eyes widened at me.
They were in fact two different colors, I realized. One hazel, the other green.
I raised an eyebrow at my date, ushering him to continue forward, which he did (though he did not resume his partially witty banter).
"So, do you have a name, or do they just call you Two-eyes?"
"Ah…yeah. My name," he stuttered, coming out of his reverie.
I raised an eyebrow. "You do have one of those, right? I don't really have a hankering to refer to you as Man-Whore for the rest of the evening."
He managed to choke out a chuckle. "You really don't like me, do you?"
Well. I supposed we'd have to have this conversation sometime. But I wasn't having it in the middle of the room. Frank would kill me. So I did the only logical thing for a person in my situation.
I pulled him into the nearest broom closest. (I know, I'm surprised there was one there too—but even wedding venues need to sweep up sometime, apparently).
"Maybe I was wrong," he sputtered incredulously. And after a second for recovery, he attacked me.
Like, launched himself on top of me. Looked like only one of us was getting out of this broom closet alive. As his arms wiggled around me, my hand fumbled around desperately in order to find some way to get out of his imminent death grip.
Finally, after moments of desperation, in which my life flashed vividly before my eyes (don't hold your breath—it sucked), my fingers closed around a broom (took a surprisingly long time to find one of those in a broom closet). I raised it against him as I felt something slick against my face. The broom came down on his head as I realized.
"Shit, was that your tongue?" I practially shrieked at the man (more boy) before me.
Who, of course, was not even listening, as he was more focused on the head clasped in his hands. I promptly smacked those out of the way, glaring at him as his pathetic face looked up to greet mine, to give me the apology I deserved.
"Ow, what in Merlin's hairy balls was that for?" he cried, hands returning to clutch his head. "And yeah, tongues are usually involved when one makes out!"
I blinked at him. (Not that he could see in the dim light of the broom closet. I knew I should have chosen the girls bathroom—not only better light, but he would have been right at home there).
"You realize, Man-Whore, or whatever your name is, that I didn't want to make out. Not everyone is Desdemona Fletchley. Most of us are impervious to your…charms."
"You pulled me into a broom closet. What was I supposed to expect that meant? That you wanted to discuss politics?"
"Excuse me, but you said yourself that I hated you. How did you go from that to assuming that I wanted to grope you?"
Maybe it was because he was a pseudo-redhead, and therefore probably more susceptible to blushing, but, despite the poor lighting situation, I was sure he was turning pink. "I just…" he started to mumble, "girls are always having mood swings and stuff. I just thought it was…you know…that…please don't make me say it…time?"
And, wouldn't you smack him for that?
So I did. Twice.
After the customary recuperation period had passed, I pulled him up towards the door.
"Don't you still want to know my name?" he asked softly.
Focusing on straightening my dress and fixing my hair instead of looking at him, I replied, "I think Man-Whore will do for the night."
We managed to get to the head table without incident, slipping in besides Lily just in time to pacify Frank. Or at least, that was what I had planned on doing. However, some people just don't know how to cooperate.
"Marlene," the insolent man to my side whispered when we were not three yards from our designated seats, in a bit of an urgent tone. (Hm. I doubt it's really urgent. Lily's wannabe boyfriends always tried to pull that sincere apology—except, they weren't so sincere in the end). "Please… look. I'm sorry. Just listen, will you?"
I rolled my eyes at him, looking his way for what would hopefully be the last time that night. "If I had a knut, for every time I heard that one."
And so, alright, maybe every time I've heard it, it was being used on Lily. But he didn't have to know that.
"What does that mean?"
Of course. Martin sets me up with the idiot.
"It means that you're stupid and I hate you. And you're ugly."
Well. That's what I wanted to say, anyway. I was thinking it pretty hard. If he had any telekinetic powers, he'd understand.
Instead, I went for, "It means that I hear that stupid apology a lot, because I'd be rich if I had a knut every time I heard it."
I added in an extra eye roll.
"I've never heard that before."
"Lily says it sometimes, okay?" I sighed frustratedly, dropping my forehead in my hand to avoid looking the idiot in the eye.
He chuckled once again. That chuckle was getting on my nerves. Did he always get amused at others' pain? The sad thing though, that his chuckle wasn't even in time with Desdemona Fletchley's giggles—the beats were completely incompatible (which was rather surprising as one would think the simpering buffoons would be completely compatible).
I rubbed my eyes. Honestly, I was analyzing the syncopation of their laughs.
But I simply had to admit that even my laugh would match his better—even though I was indubitably going to end up an old maid at the rate my friends were pairing off.
"Let's go," I growled at my unwelcome companion, before proceeding to haul him up to fill up the empty seats. Frank had, for once, had a stroke of genius, deciding to segregate the table by sex, leaving him and his blushing bride (who was blushing far less than Frank himself) as the only male and female next to each other. Therefore, I only had to avoid the unfortunate sight of my date on the opposite end of the table. It was practically paradise.
Lily looked up at me as I sat down between her and Frank's relation's date (who kept talking about loo roll quality to anyone who would listen—not that anyone was listening). "Finally," she muttered. "Thought I was going to be stuck alone for the rest of the night. Honestly, it's no fun sitting next to the newlyweds. Where were you?"
I shrugged, restraining myself from glancing the answer to that question. Not that I would have any time
"Well, anyway," Lily hurried on, her eyes shining in a way that was either excited or batshit angry. (I was rooting for the former). "I've been wanting to tell you this forever"—here she paused for suspense, as anyone in her situation would do—"James proposed to me this morning."
Fuck. I was going to be an old maid. I had better invest in some cats.