It's Not My Fault I Fell For Your Stupid Accent
Disclaimer: I don't really want to be a billionaire. All I want is a tub of Chocolate Obsession ice-cream and a bunch of British romantic-comedies (the Brit's really do them best). So in other words, I don't own the HP universe.
A/N: The end is near! I can feel it! Maybe a chapter or two to go, so keep those reviews coming ) And sorry for this taking longer than expected. I'll go hide in shame now. Enjoy! Oh and sorry if there's any US spelling in here, my stupid laptop automatically changes my spelling and won't stop...
In case you forgot where we were:
Previously, in It's Not My Fault I Fell For Your Stupid Accent:
For some reason, my fake anger has turned into actual anger and I've stood up and now I'm the one towering over Katie, glaring down at her.
"Wha- that's not – I mean – well that's not all I have to deal with!" Katie splutters, looking at me in shock.
"Oh, what else is there? Too many boys asking you out, Katie? Now that's definitely got to be a difficult distraction to have. No, you know what? You need to just stop acting like a spoilt only child and realise that other people have feelings too, Katie. Until then, don't bother speaking to me."
She backs away, white-faced, and I storm off into the castle, half angry with her and half angry with myself. I don't usually let my personal life affect my life at Hogwarts, but Katie had just made me snap.
I growl at a third-year in my way and continue angrily to Charms.
I can't help thinking that my plans to seduce Katie Bell aren't progressing as I would have hoped.
Chapter 10: Correspondence and Catastrophe
Katie:
This isn't so hard, I think to myself as I sit huddled on my bed. Just write something for Merlin's sake.
I'm surrounded by crumpled pieces of parchment and broken quill tips and I cannot for the life of me think how to write what I want to say. That for one is a singularity; I can't remember if I've ever been unable to express myself on parchment before. The thing is I also don't think I've ever written someone an apology. How do you write an apology? Somehow "Dear Mum, I'm sorry for acting like a complete brat" just doesn't roll off your quill as easily as you'd think. But what has gotten me most shaken up, the reason everything I write seems incredibly wrong, is that I can't actually believe that I've been accused of being a "spoilt only child" in my entire life. I hate that person; the one who has everything they could possibly want and then spends their time complaining about things that really couldn't have been easy on anyone, if they bother to think about anyone else. If I really think about it, would it have been easy for my mum to suddenly come face-to-face with a man who she loved so much? Would it have been easy for my father to approach a woman who had obviously moved on and for him to try and become part of that life and get to know his daughter? The simple answer: no. Oliver was right; I've been being petty, childish and bratty. Yet I just don't know how to say sorry.
"Katie? Katie you've already missed Herbology and I really don't think McGonagall will be too impressed if she finds out you've skipped class to write your mum a letter."
"Frick!" I stab my last remaining piece of clean parchment with my quill and jump off my bed, hurryingly grabbing the closest assortment of books I can find and slipping my feet into a pair of shoes as I prepare to run down the stairs. Obviously, due to my already clumsy nature, this results in me tumbling down the staircase. My butt hits each step with ever-increasing pain and my books fly in front of me so I land on the ground as a tangled mess of limbs jutting into sharp corners.
"Okay, I said Transfiguration, not hospital wing Katie," Leanne complains as I feebly get to my feet.
"Am I selfish, Leanne?" I ask as we exit the Common Room, rubbing my aching rear.
"Well—"
"Don't answer that," I cut her off. Great; I'm selfish. How am I supposed to be less selfish?
"How are you, Leanne?" I ask, feeling pretty proud of myself. That's unselfish right? Not quite selfless but it's a start. In fact it would be quite easy to stop being selfish; all I have to do is keep asking people how they are. Oh, and I should probably listen afterwards.
"…so I'm alright, I guess," Leanne finishes as we make our way into the classroom. Perfect timing; I didn't have to listen to a word she said and I appeared to be truly interested in what she had to say. Whoops, that probably defeats the purpose of asking the question but at least I appeared concerned.
"Miss Bell, Miss Jones, why are you ten minutes late to my class?" Professor McGonagall stares sternly through her glasses at us as I realise that the rest of the class are already seated and are in the process of turning mice into mittens.
"Oh, Professor, it's my fault, you see I was—" I pause on the threshold of relaying the cause of our delay and then stop. It would be selfish to dwell on my personal problems that made us late. "Well Professor," I rephrase with an apologetic smile. "Leanne here was just telling me about how she was feeling, and you know how important it is to listen to your friends."
McGonagall's pursed lips tightened.
"Miss Jones, learn how to curb your tongue. Miss Bell, take your seat."
See? I'm learning.
Professor Binns is droning on about goblin wars in the 4th Century, my stomach is complaining about missing breakfast, and I decide to try my hand at that letter for the thirty-fifth time.
Just as the rest of the class begins to awake from their hour-long snooze, I mark my last full-stop and then glance over my handiwork. It's not the most earth-shattering letter I've written, but it's the best I'll do under the circumstances:
'Dear Mum (and Derrick)
Firstly I want to apologise to both of you for being so difficult. I know I must have upset both of you (especially you, Mum) because of the way I've been acting, but I didn't mean to. Okay, that's a lie; I meant to upset you a little bit. But the thing is, I was upset, and when you're upset you do stupid things. I want you both to know that I was never really that angry that you (Derrick) came back. You're my father and I've always secretly had this desire to meet you, but then I think I've always secretly wanted to kick you (hard) in the groin, too. And Mum, it really hurt me that you had been talking to my Dad and you hadn't said a thing to me about it. I get now that you probably didn't want to upset me for no reason, but we've always told each other everything and I felt like things were changing. And it's always just been the two of us and I felt like, when it came down to it, I'd rather it just be the two of us than know my father.
But I've had time to think things over and, with the help of a person I would never have thought would actually say something worthwhile, I've realised how stupid I've been acting. Even if you (Derrick) hadn't come back, things would have changed between my mum and me and I should have realised that. And I really would like to get to know you, as my father.
Well History of Magic is over so I should probably end this letter here.
Love Katie
P.S. You have no idea how hard it is to write a letter to two people, I hope it makes sense.'
I follow the rest of the class out of our room but, rather than make the dash to the Great Hall for lunch, I shove my books on Leanne (who, now unable to see, promptly knocks over a suit of armour that begins to berate her in a thick Irish accent) and make my way up to the Owlery. Now that I've written the letter I want to send it as soon as I can, before I can read over it and suddenly decide that I really do hate Derrick.
I open the door to the Owlery and scan the dark room for Mistoffelees, my black-capped Screech owl. Yes, it's a stupid name, but I was eleven when I named her, and still wished for my dad to come back every day. Mr Mistoffelees was the name of a little, black cat in a book of poems that I found in my mum's drawer, hidden in a shoe-box with a bunch of other books that were too long and complicated for my young mind to appreciate. But the pretty book, Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats had struck my imagination, and I hid it under my bed, pulling it out every night and poring over the adventures of The Rum Tum Tugger, the fiendish MacCavity, and of course, the magical Mr Mistoffelees. Even after I began to resent my unknown father, I kept the book and the name, and I guess Mistoffelees has been the one thing stopping me from completely hating the man who left my mum.
"Mistoffelees," I whisper, not being able to spot her small, dark shape amongst the restive shadow.
"Mistoffelees," I call again, and I hear a soft hoot and a flap of wings, and a black owl lands gently on my outstretched arm. I move over to the windowsill and she hops off my arm and holds her leg out so that I can tie the scroll onto her leg.
"You take this to Mum, okay," I say as I secure the letter. "And stay there until she replies, but no pecking, alright?"
Mistoffelees blinks her large eyes slowly as if to say that she understands, and I stroke her gently before she takes off.
The Owlery door opens once more, letting in a shaft of daylight into the gloomy room, and for a moment I can't make out the figure in the doorway but as he closes the door I say "Oh."
I haven't spoken to Oliver since he shouted at me, and to be perfectly honest, I'm not too keen to begin right now. It's not that I'm angry with him for what he said; it's more that I'm confused by what it made me feel. Sure I can understand being shocked by what he said, upset as I realised how right he was, and maybe a little annoyed that he shouted at me, but that's not how I have been feeling for the past few days. Instead, when I try to get to sleep at night, all I can think of is the fact that Oliver Wood thinks badly of me. His words, "don't bother speaking to me" have been playing over-and-over in my head, and at the sight of him they seem to be getting louder.
Well he certainly doesn't have to worry about me speaking because my tongue seems to be stuck to the roof of my mouth for the eternity that we both stand there frozen. What seems like an eternity to me must have only been a few seconds though because before I know it, Oliver is walking briskly to the other end of the Owlery as if I don't exist, as if he had never seen me. I run out the door and down the steps before I can try to figure out why I'm so close to tears.
Oliver:
Since the first part of Fred and George's foolproof plan failed, I naturally moved onto part two whilst I was still fuming in Charms that same afternoon. I had pulled out the already-crumpled piece of parchment that the twins had bestowed upon me and put a neat line through the first step, glancing down at the line underneath it;
'Step two: Ignore her. Play hard-to-get and she will start to miss the attention you gave her whilst you were stalking her and will fall madly in love with you.'
Ignore her? That's been easy. See, ever since I blew up at her, I've been feeling like the world's biggest prat, and the look on her face has been etched into my head like a form of punishment. I've been feeling so awful that I actually decided to call on the one person who will be able to help me, even if it means I will never live it down. I look down at the piece of parchment that was folded neatly in my hand, and realise it is now scrunched into a tight ball. Great, that's what you get when you run into the girl you like and don't know what to say. Yes, Katie caught me by surprise in the Owlery and all I could do was stand there and stare blankly (and apparently scrunch up my letter) before she ran out of the room.
I carefully smooth out the parchment and look over it:
'Veronica
I need your help. It's about a girl (yes, proof once & for all that I am not gay). Anyway, I've completely screwed things up…actually there wasn't really anything to screw up in the first place, but I've almost ruined the possibility of 'things' ever happening.
And you can laugh at me all you want; I don't give a hoot as long as you help me do something right with this girl.
Love, Oliver'
I fold the parchment and then tap it with my wand; it rolls into a scroll and seals itself seamlessly. I let out a whistle, and with a ruffle of feathers, Hemingway swoops onto my arm, digging his claws in gently as a form of greeting.
"Hey old boy," I say, tying the scroll onto his leg. "You take this to my sister, alright?"
As he soars out into the sky my stomach ties into knots. Somehow I'm not even sure if Veronica can help a disaster like me.
To my relief, my breakfast the following morning is interrupted by my tawny owl who, after losing his footing on the edge of my plate, tumbles headfirst into Fred Weasley's pumpkin juice, the letter thankfully still attached to his leg, which is flailing madly as Fred looks on in disgust.
"What do we have here?" he asks, gingerly picking Hemingway up by his leg and dangling my poor bird in front of his face.
"Oi, put him down, Fred," I say angrily as Hemingway hoots with a dazed expression.
"Oh, you can have the bird," Fred answers, handing Hemingway to me. I am in such a state making sure that he hasn't got brain damage (can owls get brain damage?) that I don't realise I'm missing something until—
"Who's 'Veronica'?"
Oh crud.
"Hey George, our Oliver has a secret lover called 'Veronica'!" Fred yells to his brother, who is unfortunately several seats down, so half the Gryffindor table gets to hear this (totally untrue and disgustingly incestuous) comment. I hear a loud smash and see Katie staring at me, white-faced, her goblet sending a cascade of orange liquid down the table.
"Give that here," I snarl, making a snatch for the letter, but Fred is too quick.
"Uh-uh, not until you tell me who Veronica is and why you're writing to her about—"
He glances down at the parchment and I realise that he hasn't actually read the letter. When he does, a faint look of dawning understanding spreads over his face, his mouth forming a comical 'O'.
"Yes, so hand it over," I growl, and he hands me the parchment wordlessly.
My chair scrapes harshly across the stone floor as I get up, swinging my bag across my shoulders and stomping off, thirty minutes early, to Herbology.
Not even Professor Sprout is in the greenhouses this early, so I take a seat on the lawn and glance down at the sheet of parchment in my hand.
'Dear Oliver,
So it takes girl troubles for you to take the time to write to me, does it? Ha, it's alright, I've been too busy with little Angie (you missed her second birthday you awful boy) to really keep in touch. But honestly, I thought if you ever wrote to me it would be asking me how best to break it to the parents that you would like to settle down with a nice young man!
Okay, I'll stop teasing you about your late blooming and get down to it. First of all, who's the girl? Knowing you, she's well above your league…Let me guess…oh I bet it's that girl James was telling me about, the one whose mum he was dating? He said you were quite smitten. Well I don't know what you've done to screw it up, but there's only one thing that will ever get the girl. I mean, you can't have her if she doesn't know you want her, can you? And she won't know unless you tell her, because girls second guess EVERYTHING. So whatever you did, just apologise, and explain yourself, and tell her you want to spend the rest of your life holding her in your scrawny arms and staying up late reading the latest issue of Which Broomstick.
Hope I've helped you. Merlin knows you need all the help you can get with the ladies.
Love you little bro'
Veronica xoxo'
Right. I fold the letter up and place it alongside the twins' 'foolproof' plan in my front pocket. Who do I listen to; two stupid red-heads or my twenty-seven year-old, worldly-wise, happily-married sister?
"Ahem."
I look up hastily, and squint up at the small, rather nervous-looking figure of Katie Bell.
"Oh, Katie." It comes out kind of dully, so I try make up for it with a smile, but with the sun in my eyes it probably looks more like a grimace.
"Um, I just…well Angelina wouldn't tell you for me, nor would Alicia, or Fred or George…or even Harry…er, but I won't be at Quidditch practice today if that's alright…"
She tapers off and stands there chewing on her bottom lip, afraid to look me in the eye.
"Er, sure, that's fine. Listen, Katie, there's something I wanted to talk to you about—"
She looks up, her eyes shining brightly, and my mouth goes dry.
"The reason I've been acting so odd lately, and shouting at you, and then not talking to you, and then that letter…Well, I want to apologise for all of it."
Instead of grinning broadly or flinging her arms around me, or kissing me passionately, her face becomes blank.
"The letter?" she repeats.
"Fred is an idiot. The letter is personal, it's—"
"No, don't answer me, it was stupid. It's none of my business who you…I- I mean, I think I should go," she turns slowly, the brightness in her eyes long gone, and I jump to my feet, grabbing her arm.
"Katie—"
She turns to me fiercely.
"No. It was stupid. It was just stupid," she sobs, pulling free of my grasp and running back in the direction of the castle.
I groan and cover my face with my hands. First the twins screw me over, and now even Veronica's advice doesn't work. If I'm ever going to get Katie Bell, I'm going to have to do it by myself. Ha! Me, getting a girl by myself?
Yeah. I'm screwed.
A/N: Review?