Nuttier Than A Fruitcake
Book Two In The 'Lily' Series
Chapter Four -- Case of the Missing Snitch
September 26, 1975
10: 59 PM
Fifth Year Girls' Dorm
I must say something and diary, in the history of my writing in you, I'm not sure if I've ever mentioned this; James Potter is an oafish prat who ought to be force-fed owl dung for the rest of his pathetic existence. Alright, a bit harsh and well, unsurprising, I suppose, considering my history with Potter. It's nothing he's done to me, per say, but well, it's the meaning behind his actions as of late.
It is because of James 'I Really Hope He Has An Embarrassing Middle Name' Potter that I was forced to attend a meeting with none other than Madam Hooch. And well, considering the fact that I am dead useless when it comes to anything involving flying, heights, and/or Quidditch, I knew this wasn't about my recruitment as her protégé. No, no, no, this particular meeting was centered entirely around the missing snitch that she left in my ever-responsible care.
Now, there's something I must say about Madam Hooch. She is scarier than all hell. I mean, she has never done a single thing to me directly, but I suppose that my fear of her is a result of the flying lessons we were forced to take in our first year. Of course, the incessant, over analytical eleven-year old version of myself attempted to persuade Professor Dumbledore to exempt me from participating in such activities, but the crazed old man merely say, "It is overcoming fear that makes us stronger, Lily." Rubbish, if you ask me. I don't see how I'd be any stronger if I knew how to fly.
It was as I was sitting before Madam Hooch that I realized it wasn't her I was afraid of, it was flying. It was heights. It was the bloody broomstick that laid in the corner of her office, staring me blankly in the face and taunting me viciously, nearly screaming out, "Fall, fall, fall."
Yet, I snapped back, focusing my attention on the questions Madam Hooch wished to ask me. It had been only one day since Potter went chasing after the snitch, after he let it go, mind you. It made me wonder exactly how close she paid attention to the Quidditch paraphernalia. Not even twenty-four hours after the incident and she knew.
I remember wringing my hands in guilt, although really, I had nothing to feel guilty of. I was ashamed, of course, that I'd let Potter deliberately walk all over me. Truth be told, I had no idea where the snitch was. There was no way Potter could have caught up with it. He'd have to be bloody Superman, which, if I suggested this to him, he'd probably have no idea what I was talking about since he's failing Muggle Studies. And no one with an ego equivalent to the monstrous size of Potter's could go around selflessly saving people.
"Miss Evans, of all the people in the castle, you'd be the last person I'd suspect of theft."
Those were the words that first came from Madam Hooch's mouth when she got around to finally talking. Honestly, I thought she was just going to sit and look at me the entire time. Rather unnerving, really.
And me, being the cheeky, no-good, ignorant fool, felt the need to respond as such, "That makes two of us. Now, can I leave? Your broomstick is making me uncomfortable."
Your broomstick is making me uncomfortable.
No wonder Holly has been putting me through those damn evaluations. It's not anger management she's testing, it's my sanity. Well, I might as well break the news to her now; it's shot to hell.
I knew I'd puzzled the Quidditch referee from the look on her face. I could imagine the countless things that were going through her mind at that moment, none of which were in my favor. She probably thought me to be some sort of compulsive criminal, one who steals for the rush, opposed to the personal gain.
I give her some credit for her patience though. She actually threw the broomstick into a storage closet. Although I could have lived without the violence of throwing such an object, I was thankful to have that mimicking, stupid piece of wood gone.
"Now, Lily, you were the last one in the supply room. Tell me, did you take the snitch?"
Well, I was the last person in the supply room. But, technically, if Potter hadn't have gone chasing after the damn thing, I'd have made him deal with the rest of the equipment.
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Come on, Lily. You can tell me. I'm your friend."
She's my what-now? My friend? Ew. I really do have bad taste in friends.
"I didn't take it."
"Do you know who did take it?"
"Maybe it just flew away. It does have wings."
Alright, so I should have just turned Potter in. But, I was having far too much fun 'overcoming my fear'. That Madam Hooch was just too easy. I only hoped she didn't get really angry and swing at me because, well, I'm rather small in comparison and she'd clearly win in any hypothetical fight between the two of us.
Eventually, she got rather bored of my monotonous tone and monosyllabic replies. I was dismissed so that she may 'mull things over'. Mull things over, my arse. She'd gone to Poppy to get some head medication in hopes of preventing an aneurysm.
I hadn't had the chance to properly explain the situation to Holly quite yet and so, it was after that meeting with Madam Hooch that I figured I ought to fill my best friend into the situation. She'd given me a rather curious glance as I informed her of my meeting with the Flying Instructor, my fear of heights being quite known throughout the castle, especially within our dorm where I often can be found cradling myself in my bed, clammy and pale as a ghost, from merely looking out the window.
I was fully intending upon passing through the common room without muttering a word to anyone. All I really wanted was to go up to my dorm, rant a bit to Holly, and go to bed, hoping that by the next morning, I would stop feeling so bloody guilty for a crime I did not commit.
But, no, passing through the common room is never quite that easy with James Potter in the vicinity. I could sense his presence the minute I opened the portrait hole, hearing that atrocious laugh of his from all the way across the room. I refused to make eye contact with him, knowing all too well that he was attempting to attract my glance. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction, especially since it was he who'd caused the release of the snitch upon the grounds. It was because of him that I'd spent an uncomfortable couple of hours being interrogated by Madam Hooch. If he had any sense at all, he'd just admit to the crime and attempt to get back on my good side, as if that were possible.
Just as I'd nearly reached the stairs, I felt his presence to my side, a huffy sigh escaping my lips as his hot breath hit my skin. It was rather creepy and unnerving if you ask me, but I suppose a moron such as Potter thought it was dreadfully romantic. Because every girl wants a stupid bloke to intervene in her personal space. Made me melt in my shoes, I tell you.
Please, make note of the sarcasm used, diary.
Although I was deliberately trying to avoid his gaze, something bright caught my eye, forcing me to face him, crossing my arms impatiently. It was when I managed to realize what exactly that bright object was that my mouth hung agape and my eyes grew wide. Potter had retrieved the snitch. And do you know what he was doing with it? Letting it fly a few feet in front of him, idly catching it without taking his eyes off of mine. Made me want to wring his neck.
"So, Evans, just come back from your meeting with Hooch?" he asked me, his clan of no-goods (aka, the Marauders) watching our interaction with nearly comical looks upon their face, probably waiting for someone to whip out their wand and hex the hell out of the other's face. Violent confrontations between myself and Potter were becoming rather notorious throughout the school.
"How did you know about that, Potter?" I demanded fiercely, keeping my eyes off of that damn snitch and his so-called display of talent.
He elicited a slight laugh, one that crept beneath my skin in a disconcerting manner. People such as Potter shouldn't be given the opportunity to laugh. Completely contradicts the image of evil that society has cast upon them; society being me in this scenario. "You jest, surely. I'm the captain of the Quidditch team. Surely, any missing equipment is to be put upon my radar. Yep, had a meeting of myself with ol' Hoochy this morning. She informed me that you were her prime suspect for the theft of such valuable merchandise."
Narrowing my eyes, I couldn't believe he was dangling such information before me. He'd had a meeting with Madam Hooch and hadn't taken the time to inform her that yes, he happened to know what happened to the snitch. I really ought to have ratted him out when I had the chance.
"Oh, and the fact that you happen to have the item in question within your possession happened to slip your mind, did it?"
And do you know what he told me before going off to have a good laugh with his friends? It sickens me to even write it down, diary.
"Hm, yes, I suppose it did."
Honestly, James Potter brings the word schmuck to an entirely different level.
September 30, 1975
4: 15 PM
Great Hall
This morning, my perception of James Potter hardly faltered in the least. If anything, the feelings I have expressed towards him in the past have only exemplified in the last twenty-four hours. Never before have I been so humiliated. Well, ha, guess I can't really say that, considering the numerous embarrassments I've brought to my name in the past. Nonetheless, this is quite high up on the humiliation factor.
As I've said before, the amount of mail I receive has always been rather feeble in comparison to that of Holly, who receives not only letters from her countless concerned relatives, but also packages full of sweets, clothing, and Quidditch supplies. Recently, her mum has taken to shipping informative reading on the many fields of psychology, only helping spark the obsession that myself and Peter Pettigrew have been forced to deal with in the past month.
It was this morning, while I was absentmindedly munching on a strip of bacon and taking a glance at my most recent Potions essay, that a school owl landed before me. Of course, Holly, queen of the mail system, was too busy gloating over her own mail to even notice that I, the less fortunate, had finally received some of my own. Yet, in this past month at school, every time I've received mail, it's never been anything positive. And so, needless to say, I was rather hesitant upon opening two thin letters the owl had clasped between it's talons.
"When will my brother ever show any confidence towards my initiative?" Holly complained, looking over a letter written by Neal, the professional Quidditch player I've vaguely mentioned over the past year or so, and eyeing the words with a scrunched nose and beady eyes. "He makes it seem as if I'm the laziest person in the world. 'Oh, Holly, be sure to keep up on your running. I know how difficult it is to get out there on your own, without anyone there to motivate you, but it is imperative for the upcoming Quidditch season'. Honestly, Lily, would you write this fool and tell him that only yesterday I went on a three-mile jog?"
And finally, her attention focused towards me, Holly noticed the owl. And not only that, she noticed the way I seemed to be looking at the owl, nearly challenging it to fly away with the letters.
"Are you going to open those?" she asked, pointing a finger in the general direction of the envelopes, as if the contests weren't potentially hazardous. She obviously doesn't know my family all too well. I could see from the postage that the letters were from my parents, as well as Grandmother Evans. I honestly didn't mind reading letters from my mum, knowing that in comparison to Grandmother Evans', her letters were completely mild.
"The dirty, dirty, dirty trollop's writing to you again?" Holly asked, biting into a piece of toast indifferently, as if I were being ridiculous about the whole thing. I am many things, but ridiculous? I think not.
Yet, I do praise her on the proper use of Grandmother Evans' little pet name. She is only to be called a dirty trollop when the use of the word dirty is represented three times. She is three times dirtier than the average trollop. At least in my opinion.
"You're being silly," she insisted, confirming my suspicions that she found my actions to be ridiculous.
"I swear to you, if you write anything about this on that damn clipboard of yours…," I warned her, finding my hands upon the parchment, unfolding the letter from within the envelope and reading it to myself, Holly, nosy bugger that she is, reading over my shoulder.
Lily, darling,
I realize that two letters in one month is probably rather surprising to you, but well, we're writing once more upon the advisement of one of the staff members at your school. It seems that a certain Madam Hooch feels it's in our best interests to review the right's and wrong's of the world, particularly the consequence in stealing.
Believe me, I've written to this so-called madam and explained that we've never had a problem quite like this in the past. We both find it rather difficult to comprehend, seeing as if you'd have asked, we'd have happily purchased this so-called 'snitch' you supposedly claimed as your own.
Remember, love, we are always here for you. Stealing is no way to take out your problems upon the world. Just know that you can write to us whenever you wish.
Hoping to see some change in you,
Mum & Dad
As if that letter hadn't been enough, I had yet another to read before reaching over and strangling the hell out of Potter. This next letter was the one I'd been dreading, the one that I knew could only mean trouble. If my mother knew about the snitch issue, then surely, so did my grandmother. Petunia is a human tabloid, I tell you. One word to her ears and the entire neighborhood knows, as long as it isn't at the expense of her own reputation. Thankfully, such has kept my involvement in the magical world a secret.
Grandmother Evans' letters are always blunt, always to the point, and rarely providing a greeting or salutation of any sort. This particular letter was no exception.
I knew the moment I saw that bleeding red hair of yours, fifteen years ago in the filthy hospital your mother insisted you be born in, that you would be trouble. And, missy, let me tell you how satisfying it was to laugh in your dear mother's face when darling, Pet, informed me of your supposed sticky fingers.
Although your parents failed to ask for my assistance in providing proper discipline towards you, I took the liberty of writing this very letter to express the immense shame you have brought upon the Evans family. Although, well, as your grandfather so helpfully pointed out, nearly no one in our family knows of the circumstance. Stupid, sodding git should have learned fifty-three years ago, the day of our wedding, that interrupting my train of thought was useless.
She's telling me. In her presence, I am rarely allowed to get five words at a time into a conversation. Apparently, 'young ladies are meant to be seen, not heard, although with hair like yours, I can see why you'd try'.
Let me just inform you of the life you have ahead of you, little hellion. Living on the streets, drinking liquor out of dirty shoes, and eating that one-eyed cat of yours for survival. Sound appealing? Before you know it, you'll be turning to the drugs and stealing one of those snitch-bitches won't be the end of your criminal record. No, I guarantee you, you'll be serving hard time in a matter of six years.
I will leave you on this note; shape up or I'll see to it that your darling monster of a feline gets shaved by my hairdresser.
Dare she forget that her hairdresser is an animal rights activist. Stupid wench. Really, I'm rather glad I'm not seriously in need of anger management. I see how well it's worked for Grandmother Evans.
I attempt to avoid my grandmother at all costs and now, I have received a letter from her. And why? All because James Potter can't keep his bloody hands to himself. If he doesn't do something about the situation soon, it won't be Jules who'll be getting shaved, it will be Potter. I'd like to see him run his hand though his apparently seductive locks once I'm through with him.
Bah. I've got to run, diary. It's the middle of dinner and Sirius Black has taken it upon himself to give the phrase 'tossed salad' a literal meaning.