Lyla Potter and the Wizarding World's Alcatraz

by XxSoulTakerxX

Lyla always figured there was something a bit off about her. She knew she didnt fit in with her 'muggle' classmates, there was no question about that. But with her thirteenth birthday quickly approaching, how will she handle what her guardian, Remus Lupin

25. Chapter 25

Hogsmeade with Oliver

- Chapter 25 -

Hogsmeade with...Oliver

A dark figurative cloud seemed to be forming over Hogwarts, despite the sun being copiously distributed. The windows appeared to quiver against an unseen wind, while the unusually dank walls perspired nervously. Various inhabitants of nearby paintings shrank back deeper into the world within their frames for fear of their preservation; a sense of foreboding like no other building within them all.

A startled gasp, followed by multiple frightened cries rang out from hither and thither as the many students loitering around the corridors hurriedly scrambled to flee from the swiftly approaching danger that was a royally steamed 3rd year Gryffindor girl infamously known as Lyla Potter.

Lyla stomped through the halls of Hogwarts castle in a fit of irritation. All who saw her cleared out of the path of the angry and far more than likely to be explosive Potter. They knew better than to get into the line of fire when the Gryffindor was so incensed. There were too many gruesome prospects that could come from getting in her way at that moment and no one in their right mind would want any part of those possibilities.

Scowl set firmly on her face, Lyla slammed the door to her dormitory open and entered the once quiet and serene quarters, the sound reverberating off the walls as the door frame itself seemed personified into skittishly accepting the door back into its rightful place. The sudden noise burst the silent bubble enclosing the dormitory and caused its only occupant to jump in both surprise and fright.

Rylie nearly toppled off her standard four post bed when the hurricane otherwise known as Lyla raged on in. However the startled Gryffindor soon went from fright to concern as she recalled the events that were supposed to be taking place that very day. Sitting upright on her bed, ready to hear all the little details, she warily spoke, "I take it you had a bad date?"

Lyla nearly growled as she flopped onto her still disheveled bed, her eye twitching as she recalled the events of the past few hours.

Waking up was infinitely much more gratifying than being woken up Lyla decided as she came to that Saturday morning. There was no reliance on any outside force, doing just that, and forcing consciousness onto a slumbering and unexpected dreamer. There was just the bliss of a goodnights rest greeting its end.

Yawning widely Lyla sat up in her cozy bed, stretching her arms up above her head as she opened her eyes and smiled giddily around the room at her dorm mates who were bustling around in their attempt to ready themselves for the day, all in varying degrees of disheveled-ness.

Lyla's mind however, soon strayed quite far from her spastically scrambling peers. She was altogether quite surprised that she could actually fall asleep at all do to the escalating excitement that had been bubbling up inside her since the previous day thanks to one devilishly handsome Gryffindor.

She had noticed a change rapidly growing within her favorite Quidditch captain. He had gone from comfortably talking and laughing with her one day to suddenly nervous, shifty and introverted the next.

Every time the two ran into each other Oliver stumbled over his words and sometimes even himself, which never failed to greatly amuse Lyla. Especially when his moment of clumsiness had caused a rather calamitous chain of events involving many suits of armor crashing into one another and eventually a—until the inevitable moment of impact—oblivious Troll. Fortunately for Oliver, he wouldn't remain the only target of the Fat Lady's security guards' animosity.

For some reason, Lyla just couldn't seem to grasp, Oliver was having a hard time speaking to her or—as was more accurate—functioning around her at all. It couldn't have been just because of the Troll debacle, for who hadn't trampled a Troll with a brutal barrage of suits of armor anyway?

As the week progressed Oliver seemed to grow ever more frantic around Lyla. She knew all their "small talk" was eventually supposed to lead to something more but Oliver apparently always lost his nerve to spew out whatever it was he was going to say before they were interrupted—or as was more frequently occurring—Oliver embarrassed himself greatly and felt he had to go away till Lyla forgot about it. It wasn't until the previous day that Lyla finally learned what had Oliver so tongue-tied and flustered that week.

She had known about the Hogsmeade trip since that Tuesday—coincidentally the day of the armor-Troll mishap—but hadn't been very interested in attending the trip considering her last two visits hadn't ended so well on her part. Certainly skipping this one seemed best for Lyla or at least it had until Oliver nearly screamed out an invitation to go with him, startling not only her but the rest of those in the common room as well.

Lyla grinned fondly as she got out of bed, recalling the red hue his cheeks gained as the rooms' occupants snickered at his less than urbane request. He was simply too adorable, Lyla could not even think of possibly refusing him, so therefore she didn't. She simply shouted her acceptance right on back at him despite the snickering of her peers.

Without a moment's hesitation, Lyla had readily agreed to attend the visit to Hogsmeade with Oliver. Unfortunately the shilly-shallying soon smacked her squarely upside the back of her head, where her sensibility apparently dwelled. Residing in the back of her mind this attribute of hers was more often than not overlooked.

Lyla was still mildly wary of what might take place in Hogsmeade. After all, the last few trips with Oliver didn't end all too well. She was hopeful, however, that this one would be much different—as in more of a happy ending for the young heroine—what with Valentine's Day being only two days away and all. And the day had in fact started out well enough.

She hadn't woken to a nice fall out of her bed. Nor had she awoke shaking from wonky vision-type dreams. Lyla simply woke up, well rested and smiling gleefully; ready to start what she hoped would be a wondrous day full of marvelous memory making moments she would undoubtedly merrily look back upon while excitedly recounting the many details back to her dearest and best-est friend Rylie.

Lyla quickly showered and dressed for the day. She had found the perfect outfit, her make up was flawless and her hair seemed to be in an agreeable mood, working with her—not against her—to make things just perfectly peachy. Perfect for her soon-to-be perfect date she declared openly for she had decided to give optimism a fighting chance.

She left her dorm soon after getting ready for the day, intending to meet Oliver in the entrance hall like they'd planned. Promenading down the stairs, through the predictably deserted common room and out the ominous portrait hole, Lyla sighed forlornly as she passed the newly restored portrait of the Fat Lady, heavily guarded by thuggish security trolls who already seemed to dislike Lyla—which of course was no fault of her own!

She couldn't help the fact that she thought it a bit more than disturbing that the trolls frequently compared the size of their clubs...nor could she just not comment on this spectacle, brazenly stating that she'd seen bigger just to get a rise out of them for it was the Lyla thing to do. Unfortunately this resulted in the massive creatures chasing the cheeky redhead and many other innocent bystanders around the castle.

Suppressing a shudder, Lyla sniggered at the memory, quickly dodging away when the trolls glared, threateningly shaking their massive clubs at her as she sauntered on by. An almost despondent sigh left Lyla as she continued on her way. She was dearly going to miss Sir Cadogan. He wasn't as cowardly as to need assistance doing his job like the Fat Lady—whom Lyla wholeheartedly blamed for the newly appointed Lyla-hating security.

Lyla was distraught when the eccentric knight was sacked. She had—quite literally—got down on her hands and knees and begged Dumbledore not to do it, but he was unwavering in his decision. The Potter girl was so passionate about the issue that she had to be held back when Sir Cadogan's portrait was taken down for she was only hindering the process and refused to vacate the area in spite of this.

Fred and George had consoled her in her devastation that horrid day as she made a big scene of their goodbye, woefully shouting, "Farewell Sir Cadogan, may the paths we tread cross once more." As pointless as it is to shed light on, if any of her peers had not thought Lyla to be wonked in the noggin before, their opinions soon changed after witnessing this display. Though it wasn't like Lyla actually cared what they all thought of her. She was far too overcome with sadness to see the brave knight depart those hallowed halls.

With him gone Lyla now had no one else nearby to swap Shakespearean insults with and she was going to miss that ever so much. Now the only time she'd get to speak with him would be on her way to Divination, which she had taken to skipping recently, finding no joy in the subject or its' addle-brained Professor.

The more Lyla thought on Sir Cadogan's dismissal the more perturbed she became for it wouldn't have happened if it wasn't for Sirius' impromptu visit to Gryffindor Tower—Lyla was completely disregarding the fact that Sir Cadogan knowingly granted Sirius access for that wasn't his fault either. His job was to allow anyone who recited the correct password through the portrait hole and Sirius had the password! Had all of them for that week, he did, thanks to Neville's absentmindedness.

Poor Neville suffered the awful consequences of his blunder; he was actually still suffering at that moment Lyla noted. McGonagall was livid when she found out that someone had been enough of an idiot to write down the passwords to Gryffindor Tower and then proceed to lose said list. She was so furious in fact that she'd banned Neville from Hogsmeade, gave him detention and forbade anyone for telling him the password.

Now Lyla didn't exactly know why, but she had a soft spot for the incompetent third year. She knew that it wasn't his fault Sirius had gotten his hands on that list—Sirius had explained at least that much to her—and so she felt sorry for the innocent bloke. So much so that she had taken to waiting for him at the end of each day to let him in.

McGonagall and her punishments however were not the worst Neville had coming. Three days after Sirius' escapade in the boys' dormitory Neville received a Howler from his Grandmother that was nothing short of terrifying causing Lyla to reveal her compassionate side to all of Hogwarts once more as she attempted to comfort a shaking, white faced, and sickly looking Longbottom. It was clear to all that she had sympathy for the boy which was more than she or anyone else could say for Ronald.

She was still quite miffed with the youngest Weasley boy over their last encounter even though she'd left clearly the victor of their little spat. Ronald just seemed to be getting more and more on her nerves as of late ever since he had been 'viciously attacked' by Sirius Black. The blithering ponce was enjoying his moment in the limelight and this greatly bothered Lyla.

Not because he was getting all the attention because, really, she could care less. No, what bothered her was that Ronald was getting an inflated ego from everyone incessantly fawning over him, listening with bated breath for whatever mindless twaddle spewed from his mouth. He was acting all high and mighty, like more of an insensitive arse than usual and this didn't sit well with Lyla, especially when he turned his sights to tormenting Hermione—whether that was intentional or not.

Whenever the aforementioned was spotted she was blubbering about here and there, keeping to herself for the most part, barely speaking to any of the teachers during classes let alone her classmates, Lyla included. Normally this development would have delighted Lyla. However seeing as she no longer loathed the know-it-all, Lyla was instead irritated by the inconsiderate pillock who'd caused the constant overflow of Hermione's tear ducts.

Though despite the fact that she was upset with how Ron was handling things and treating his friends, Lyla opted to stay out of the drama and leave her brother's friends to sort out their own affairs for she wanted no part of it. Yes, you heard correctly. Lyla was staying out of this fight...no matter how much it may have irked her to do so.

Lyla shook her head out of her reverie as she carried on through the castle. The further she walked the more evidence she came across of the effect Sirius' visit to Hogwarts left on everyone. Both students and staff alike were constantly twitchy and on guard half expecting Black to pop out wand-a-waving and curse them all to high hell which was a completely preposterous fear of course, to Lyla at least.

The precautionary steps Filch had taken to keep Black out were unbelievably absurd. He had nailed boards on nearly every inch of Hogwarts—even where there weren't any cracks or holes to cover—in a silly attempt to prevent Sirius from entering the castle. However Lyla knew—without a shadow of doubt—if Sirius wanted in, he'd find a way. Persistent is what he was. He and Lyla were very much alike in that aspect.

Lyla glanced around as she neared the Entrance Hall. Oliver was standing at the bottom of the marble staircase, greeting her with an almost exaggeratedly excited grin that practically made her lose her footing on the stone steps. She vaguely wondered if that was how Oliver had felt during his less than graceful moments while around her.

Quickly righting herself, Lyla thanked Merlin that the gorgeous Gryffindor 7th year hadn't noticed her near fall. She didn't want Oliver to know quite yet how utterly ungraceful she could be at times...despite the fact that he was more than likely well aware of this piece of information thanks to her continued run-ins with the Great Hall doors.

Carefully making her way down the last few steps, Lyla greeted her date, grinning widely as she readily took his proffered arm.

A conspicuous Harry passed the couple, darting back up the stairs after shouting a hasty farewell to an equally shifty Ron—the two making a big show of them going their separate ways. Who were they trying to fool though? Lyla wasn't nearly thick enough to believe that Harry had any intention of staying inside the castle or its' grounds. He was probably planning on taking the One-Eyed Witch passage to Hogsmeade, though he could do with a bit more practice on being unobtrusive.

Lyla smirked at how obvious her brother and his idiot friend were being but kept quiet nonetheless and pushed all thoughts of their soon-to-be escapade out of her mind. No sense wondering what her brother and his moronic comrade were up to when she was in such good company. Though she may as well have been pondering away for Oliver still seemed to have difficulties in the conversation department.

He had inquired about Harry's reaction to him and her going out again and Lyla told him Harry had gotten over it. It wasn't as though he could actually do anything about it anyway, not if Lyla had any say which of course she did—telling her temperamental brother to stay out of her business where Oliver was concerned though in more of a threatening manner when Harry tried to dissuade her of her decision to accompany Oliver that day.

Sadly that was the most of their conversation since Oliver was still slightly jumpy when she was around for some reason. And no amount of prompting on Lyla's part seemed to make any difference. Oliver just couldn't snap out of his fumbling shell long enough to have a simple conversation with her let alone inform her of their destination which he adamantly—or as obstinately as he could considering the stuttering—refused on the grounds that he'd wanted it to be a surprise.

And Merlin what a surprise it was...

Oliver led Lyla down High Street when they finally reached the village. They quickly passed the Three Broomsticks which was teeming with Hogwarts students, milling about like little hormonal robots skittering to and fro. Boy's chatting up skirts here and there. The birds for the most part giggling at their respective blokes' advances...Yes, one could definitely tell Valentine's Day was just around the bloody corner.

Lyla was nearly relieved to note that Oliver wasn't taking her there for a butterbeer. It was far too crowded and terribly noisy. The place was just about bursting with prepubescent teens trying to get their jollies off from the opposite sex. It was disgusting and Lyla wanted no part of the bizarre love bug that seemed to be catching and spreading far and wide like the plague.

Oliver quickened their pace, guiding Lyla passed Honeydukes—which Lyla had no need to go into for Remus' office was like a treasure trove of hidden sweets as it was. Lyla pouted as they passed Zonko's hoping Oliver would make a detour in there, for if he made her endure a pit stop to the Quidditch Supply shop and refused to accompany her on her quest to plot—chat—with her favorite store proprietor then they were going to have words...and Lyla would not—or more accurately—could not guarantee those words would all be of the pleasant variety.

The pair quickly ambled by Galdrag's—of which Lyla had no reason or want to visit, having a peculiar aversion to Wizard-wear as it was—and finally turned left off High Street after Scrivenshaft's. Lyla had never been down here before and wondered once again where the bloody hell Oliver was taking her.

Her inquiry was soon answered as Oliver slowed his gait in front of a quaint little building that was boldly—and not to mention vibrantly—branded Madam Puddifoot's. Lyla's curiously excited smile turned down at the corner of her lips as her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. To say the least she was a bit thrown by the architecture of the building alone. Tilting her head to the side Lyla pondered over the curved and partially puffy parts of the structure before her.

Crinkling her nose in outright confusion for she didn't know what to think of the place. Her only conclusion soon came to her, though she knew better than to voice this observation. The place looked to her as though a flamboyantly colored tea kettle and a poodle shagged each other rotten and their bastard love child is what came of their torrid affair.

Unfortunately Lyla didn't have time to further observe the exterior of the shop for Oliver was hurriedly pulling her towards and through the front door before he burst from anticipation. His excitement was nearly contagious as he pulled her along, though she un-regrettably remained very much immune to it.

Upon entering the...institution, Lyla's eyes widened as they attempted to adjust to the shock of color, and then broadened ever-more in horror at the sight before her eyes. "Merlin curse me now," she muttered shakily to herself, glancing quickly all around her as something akin to—though far more intense than—terror overtook her.

She couldn't escape it. Every where she turned, every time she blinked it assaulted her senses, causing her eyes to water, her ears to ring as the ebullient laughter of her peers echoed in her head. Her breath hitched in her throat in outright fright as she fought to maintain some semblance of calm, all the while frantically contemplating whether to fight of flee from the all encompassing pink.

The floors were completely covered with a coarse coral colored carpet that caused Lyla's trainer-clad feet to itch uncomfortably within their confines. Both the walls and ceiling were painted a streaky salmon shade with tiny rose imprints here and there covering the former and giving the walls a flushed appearance—as though they themselves were embarrassed by their poor choice of coloring. The windows were draped with wispy fuchsia curtains that did absolutely nothing more than make the place look even more horrifying to Lyla's franticly racing mind.

All in all it was like a monochromatic nightmare Lyla just couldn't seem to escape. The offensive color was quite literally everywhere. Lyla felt as though she were drowning in it causing her to cover her mouth for fear of spewing out whatever contents were held prisoner in her stomach.

If Lyla thought that was bad it was nothing compared to the many floating paper heart cutouts that fluttered all around her, incessantly ramming into her and occasionally whacking her in the face, or the Cupids tittering about the tables, threatening bodily harm, in the form of arrows, to innocent passersby.

The place was, in one word, ghastly and in another oh-so tacky. The sickening over-use of the shade and the lovey-dovey—though shockingly malicious—creatures however was, regrettably, not the worst cause of Lyla's gag-reflex kicking in.

Lyla could barely breathe without inhaling multiple florally grotesque fragrances that were being liberally dispensed from liquid incense holders situated directly above each table setting to cascade elegantly over the poor unfortunate and unsuspecting saps who sat below them.

It was rather unfathomable to Lyla how everyone could stand it, for it was something quite foul. It ranked high on her list of 101 Most Awful Stenches in Europe and Where to Sniff Them Out, right between the Divination classroom of Hogwarts and Remus' old sock drawer. Lyla shuddered as she thought of the repugnant odor the drawer still emitted despite many years of disuse.

Shaking her head to clear the haze of fumes surrounding her Lyla took a daring, deep breath after cringingly looking over the interior of the tea-poodle—as she had taken to referring to the shop in her head—and came to one solid and hopefully factual conclusion: Oliver was taking the piss. 'He can't possibly be serious,' Lyla silently declared, hoping she was right and this was all some lavish practical joke. However, daring a glance at her date's face, Lyla was left with no doubt that Oliver was very much indeed serious about the place. He smiled encouragingly down at her, mistaking the revulsion on her face for excitement.

The non-official couple was soon led through the maze of tables by the hostess—a rather plump witch with flashy fuchsia curls messily nestled atop her head, who was also covered from head to toe in pink and red hearts. Lyla dodged the fluttering butterfly-like symbols of affection as they proceeded on to their table, which happened to be in the very center of the massive room.

"Oh really now," Lyla muttered in exasperation. Did the fates really detest her so much as to force her to endure such torture?! Sighing reluctantly Lyla took her seat, grinning at Oliver's gentlemanly gesture as he pulled out her seat for her. He was trying so hard it was actually rather endearing and despite not wanting anything to do with the place, Lyla relented to at least try and enjoy herself for Oliver's sake.

Lyla leaned back in her chair to try and alleviate some of the tension in her. Unfortunately it was then that Lyla realized—with horrifying clarity—exactly what was going on all around her. Lyla didn't know whether to laugh or cover her eyes and scream for everyone—and she did mean everyone—there seemed to be utterly intoxicated with varying doses of affection.

Lyla couldn't help to note this for every which way she looked witches and wizards, young and old, students and self-proclaimed adults alike were vigorously—or as vigorously as one could without raising the rating of the scene from PG to something slightly more scandalous—expressing their fondness for each other.

Not even a second had passed by before Lyla had made her decision, settling for simply shielding her eyes—vigorously resisting the urge to shriek as she witnessed one old mans tongue disappear down some poor innocent little old ladies throat. Lyla kept her eyes covered while she calmed her frantic impulses that were coaxing her into fleeing from the House of Horrors posing as a poorly disguised tea-parlor.

Cautiously uncovering her eyes, Lyla attempted to ignore the various lovey-dovey non-PG PDA scenes going on all around her. Hoping her date would help in distracting her, Lyla turned towards Oliver, more hopeful than she'd ever been before for him to strike up a conversation. This granted he did, though the topic he chose wasn't something Lyla had anything remotely positive to say about.

Whatever had stolen Oliver's speech that week had finally decided to generously give it back. Though that was more likely due to the fact that he was rambling about Quidditch and not actually carrying a conversation with Lyla—to which she suspected him still incapable of. So she took the only course of action she could in this situation.

She was neither unaccustomed nor was she above ignoring people when they bored her out of her mind, therefore it came as no surprise when she temporarily left her conscious thoughts to run wild throughout her vivid and overactive imagination while Oliver sputtered on about nothing of particular interest to Lyla.

Reflexively her body nodded as though she were actively paying attention to each and every syllable that emitted from the handsome Scottish boy's mouth across from her. Though in reality—and if one were to look very closely they could easily tell—she was not actively listening but rather actively envisioning all the horrible acts she would commit against the fluttering nuisances of affection, should they choose to persist their attack on her person.

Overjoyed. Ecstatic. Positively elated. Those were just a few of the emotions flowing through 7th year Gryffindor house-team Captain Oliver Wood's Quidditch obsessed body as he dragged a vivacious and overly mischievous 3rd year Lyla Potter to the number one destination for young lovers—or more precisely in his case, potential couple.

Madame Puddifoots, for all its obvious downfalls in Oliver's eyes, was the single most romantic venue in Hogsmeade and the utmost perfect place for Oliver to finally woo the girl of his adolescent dreams for all he was worth. There was only one slight hitch in his plan however; a minor setback or minute roadblock if you will.

Despite his enthusiasm and readiness to have their relationship finally set in concrete, the unfortunate and pitiable—at this point in time—Oliver Wood, Gryffindor's residential heartthrob and All-Star Quidditch Keeper could not for the life of him—though try with all his might he did—work up the nerve or calm his racing heart long enough to pop the question let alone speak properly while in the presence of the most amazing girl Hogwarts had to offer him.

All he'd managed to do thus far was order their drinks for them and ramble on about Quidditch, and although he noted—immensely pleased with himself—that Lyla didn't particularly mind listening to him spew on about his love for the sport, he knew he had to do something before he lost his chance and their date was over.

Taking a few deep breaths, that were supposedly calming—though Oliver thought to be entirely the contrary—Oliver glanced over at his lovely date. He grinned softly then, quietly observing her as he had taken to doing recently. She seemed to be enjoying herself, he concluded, since she wasn't verbally shouting otherwise—like the Lyla he knew would, should she dislike something—and mentally gave himself a small pat on the back for a job well done.

Recalling the way Lyla's face lit up with excitement when he'd pulled her through the doors, and every sudden jolt of elation her body made as she perused the interior of the establishment caused Oliver to beam even more with pride. Though true, it was far from being enjoyable for Oliver and surely the polar opposite of his idea of a perfect date, he assumed—from his many observations of his date's behavior—that it was her ideal date and that she was overjoyed to be there with him as well.

This conclusion only served to strengthen Oliver's nerve and gave him the courage to finally speak up and say what had been on his mind for many weeks now. However, fortune did not favor the brave this day, for just as the courageous Gryffindor made to venture onto a vast and dangerous plane of uneasiness, an obscene and not to mention inappropriately embarrassing interruption thwarted Oliver's one chance of solidifying his proper place at Lyla's side.

Lyla slouched in her seat, successfully managing to dodge a dive-bombing, Kamikaze-like, fluttering heart as it aimed to take her face off. Glistening white teeth were bared in an angry snarl. The girl's right eye was twitching to an undetectable rhythm as an almost inhuman growl was heard reverberating from deep within 3rd year Gryffindor Lyla Potter's irritated throat in her failed attempts to ward off the nuisances.

However, it soon became clear, not only that they weren't taking the hint, but that they were the least of her tribulations. To be fair though, she really should have seen it coming—fate did, after all, seem to have it in for her.

Lyla only just became conscious to the fact that Oliver had ceased his mindless 'Quidditch-themed' babbling and looked about ready to say something potentially imperative when it happened...It being Lyla's worse-case scenario coming to life before her very, disbelieving terror-stricken, eyes.

"Ooh,"

"OOoohh,"

"OOOooohhh,"

"OOOOoooohhhh."

A harmonizing quartet of cupids had somehow found it's way to the center of the room and although Lyla hoped with all her might that they'd amble on peacefully by considering the way her day had been going, she knew better than to believe that would happen.

The foursome each took turns singing a line, while the other three not singing their part backed up a wingspan or so swaying to their melodic 'ooh's' and the snapping of their tiny fingers in time with their tune.

"Oh we're here to serenade you—Baby,

'Cause you look so down and blue.

Say what's wrong with you pretty lady—

Hunny,

Why so far from your handsome beau?"

There was of course a minor dance routine inserted between their verses but Lyla didn't feel compelled to remember said spectacle let alone pay attention to their spirited pirouettes and leaping bounds of daring. She was far more concerned with controlling the impulse to strangle all four of the singing little imps.

"You should be kiss'n and hug'n sweetly—

Sugar,

Underneath this sweet perfume.

But instead you're far from him—oh Darlin'

Oh no, why so far from him?"

Lyla chanced a glance at the other couples surrounding her and Oliver —who were unashamedly gawking at them—and noted that they were the only two that weren't snuggled closely together at their table, some still quite openly expressing their affections for one another.

"We're gonna fix this picture up right—

Dearie,

'Cause you look like you need the help.

So we'll shoot our arrows at cha—Sweetie,

And pretty soon you'll be in love."

Their dance routine came up again only this time it was worse than before, Lyla noted cringing as she pondered how someone could tap dance in midair and still manage to make that irritating tapping sound.

"BE.

IN.

LOOOOVEEEEE—

CHA!"

Lyla cringed one last time as they finished their performance with a spectacularly well executed pyramid and spirit fingers. The room erupted in applause as Lyla sneered at everyone around her. They couldn't have possibly been cheering because they enjoyed the quartet's performance, for that was just too far fetched for even Lyla's mind to believe. No, the only plausible reason for their cheers was relief that it hadn't been happening to them.

"So how's a'bout it, sweetheart?" the short plump—leader-like—one of the group asked, rushing forward till he was right up close and personal with Lyla's face.

Lyla leaned back farther into her seat—tilting her chair back on two legs ignoring the little voice in her head that reprimanded her for not keeping all four on the floor—to put even more room between her and the fluttering pillock before her.

"An arrow with your serenade?" a much taller, gangly cherub squawked lowly at her, flying up next to his squat buddy.

"We'll even give you the two for one deal at no extra charge," the last two said simultaneously, looking as identically cutesy—and not to mention chubby—as their squeaky voices sounded. There might have been a smidge of a difference tone wise, since Lyla distinctly recalled four differing pitches during their schpiel, but she didn't rightly care enough at that moment to decipher which was whose.

Shaking her head wildly, Lyla frantically looked around for some form of escape as the nettlesome little buggers rattled on about how utterly adorable her and Oliver looked together—though they soon switched their chattering to suggestions on how the two should act more couple-y. Lyla's hysteria soon died down to scathing relent-ness as she decided it would be much too cruel to ditch Oliver.

She'd hoped the quartet would have moseyed off to badger some other, more receptive, couple after embarrassing the blithering hell out her and Oliver but alas, they just kept going on and on much like little energizer bunnies Lyla wished ever so much to rip the batteries from.

And if there truly was some High and All Mighty divine power somewhere out there surely they'd have mercy on Lyla's poor pitiful person and strike her down where she sat, slowly sinking lower into the ghastly pastel salmon plush lining of her seat, hiding her embarrassment behind a scowl and a narrowed set of emerald eyes—that were currently far from being full of mirth.

The seconds ticked by unbearably slow for Lyla as she willed the bothersome twittering creatures to flee before she truly lost her temper, which would happen soon if they didn't cease their animated chattering. Really, what were they hoping to accomplish by inquiring—quite loudly mind you—why the duo weren't smooching away like everyone else? And further more, was it truly necessary of them to persistently try to move her seat closer to Oliver's so the two can just—in their words—get on with it?

Oliver chuckled nervously, but neither said nor did anything to help or worsen the situation as his face reddened far worse than Lyla's herself. Fortunately, for all those involved, the hostess Agatha—or Aggie as she had requested the teens call her—chose that exact moment to bring the 'happy couple' their drinks.

"Chauncey! Cornelius! Constantine! Carl! What 'ave I told you four about badgering the customers?" Aggie asked sternly, though not without a hint of amusement dancing around her wrinkly eyes.

The four cupids had the grace to look abashed for their antics—their heads lowered in shamed and their sandal-clad feet scuffing the air. Though that little act of theirs didn't last long as they answered Aggie's inquiry.

"Make sure they'll pay first?" the short plump leader of the quartet—who Lyla then realized was wearing quite a large nametag emblazoned Carl—asked giddily, flapping excitedly about Aggie's head—nearly getting his self entangled in the lively locks.

Lyla had to hand it to Aggie for remaining unyielding and stern while the quartet mucked about. She didn't get angry at their less than serious answer. Nor did she shout at them either. She simply raised her eyebrow expectantly, shook her head slightly in minute reproach and patiently waited for them to finish their games.

"Wait till they've ordered?" Chauncey—the cherub that looked like he'd been stretched out unnaturally—continued with the cupids' act, disregarding Aggie's pursed lips as she grew farther from being thrilled with the spectacle the four were causing. Or so it would seem to anyone that wasn't Lyla and couldn't detect someone's amusement a mile away. Lyla knew for a fact that despite appearances, Aggie was indeed delighted by the scene.

"Not to do it?" Cornelius asked before his spitting image—Constantine of course—concluded their tirade.

"Unless otherwise requested?" Lyla bitterly noted that Constantine had the slightly lower voice as she wished for the ability to set fire to things with just the power of her mind. Which granted was more than likely a highly probable possibility considering her witch-liness and all.

"Too right you are," Aggie cut through the jungle that was Lyla's vivid imagination before she was able to fully envision the whole entirety of Madam Puddifoot's going up in flames—the chirping cupids clawing at the windows for an escape. Lyla smirked as she imagined their shrieks being more music to her ears then their serenade had been, before returning to reality in time to witness Aggie—her newfound hero—shoo away the four little terrors.

"Now off with you lot. Go on, back to your posts! I'll have no more of yeh're shenanigans t'day." Lyla sighed with relief as the little imps bid them farewell—winking cheekily at the couple before quickly scurrying away to a far off corner of the room. It was then that Lyla was finally able to relax for the first time since she stepped foot through the door. However, as unfortunate as it was for both inhabitants of the table, her tranquil mood did not last very long at all.

"Will that be all dearies?" Aggie inquired, quill at the ready to take their order, which Lyla would have given had she not just then noticed that Aggie had already brought them drinks. Which the girl was ever so surprised to see since she didn't quite remember ordering anything.

Of course that could be due to the fact that she'd mistakenly inhaled multiple heaving breaths of the ghastly fumes permeating the air while frantically trying to calm herself. Just to be sure though she figured she'd better make sure it wasn't just her. "Um Miss," Lyla started slowly, gaining the hostess' attention before going on. "I didn't order anything," she stated confusedly, shaking her head as she glanced from the steaming cuppa to the now grinning woman.

Aggie's tittering laugh caused the hairs on the back of Lyla's neck to rise indignantly as she sat up straighter in her seat. Her eye's narrowing for what felt like the millionth time that day. She didn't know why this woman was laughing at her or even if it was her that she was in fact laughing at but what she did know was that she didn't like it one bit. Nor did she like the sly little smirk that soon crept across Aggie's features as her laugh died away and she leaned down to whisper to Lyla.

"Not to worry dear. Your beau has everything covered," she said reassuringly, patting Lyla softly on the shoulder before scampering off to tend to other patrons.

Lyla bit her tongue so as to focus her attention on the pain and not on her anger. When that didn't work she took a big gulp from her cup to occupy her mouth and distract it from pointedly ignoring her brain when it attempted to talk her out of saying something detrimentally insulting to her date.

This however was a colossal mistake on Lyla's part which she realized moments too late as the scalding tea hit her tongue. Her throat closed on instinct letting none of the boiling liquid seep through its defenses. Screwing her face up in disgust and pain, Lyla subtly spat the foul fluid back into her cup about ready to let Oliver have the verbal thrashing she'd been itching to hand over to someone for a while now.

First he'd deliberately brought her to this god-awful place where she was assaulted from every avenue by sight, smell, sound and scenario, the last of which embarrassed her more than she'd ever thought possible and to top it all off, he'd ordered for her like she was some ham-handed little toddler incapable of doing anything herself.

And he couldn't have ordered something Lyla actually liked, for instance lets say a butterbeer, for no, that would have been giving Oliver far more credit than he obviously deserved. Lyla hated tea. Despite her lineage, heritage, and the fact that she'd lived in England all her life, she simple detested it.

She knew it was very un-English of her but she couldn't rightly help the fact that she gagged at the mere thought of the drink. She wouldn't say no to some crumpets if offered, however she was not, nor was she asked her preference! Oliver had just imposed and took it upon his self to order for her, a fact that irked her no matter how she tried to ignore it.

To put it simply, Lyla was aggravated. Beyond all reasonable explanation, she just couldn't calm the angry thoughts pulsating through her raging mind. What with the atmosphere of the place, the serenading cupids and kamikaze hearts, the ongoing—and not to mention unwilling—staring contest everyone seemed to want to pull her in on and her date who couldn't seem to do anything right at all, it was really no wonder Lyla was so perturbed.

All these factors added up to make this Hogsmeade trip the worst Lyla had ever had the misfortune to endure—and yes, she was including the Malfoy fiasco that past Halloween into her calculations as well.

Lyla sighed trying to reason with her brain and talk herself out of pretending to go to the bathroom only to ditch Oliver without any notice. It wouldn't have been that difficult, assuming—which she was—the bathroom had windows. All she'd have to do was make her excuses, toddle off to the lavatory and make a B-line for freedom. Of course afterwards she'd have to avoid Oliver till he graduated which was only a few months away so reasonably, she could pull it off...

Scolding herself for even considering doing something so heartless, Lyla sat up straighter in her seat, her hand tapping restlessly upon the table as she tried to work out precisely how she was going to break it to the one boy that'd ever struck her fancy that she was beyond fed up with their date.

So caught up in her thoughts was Lyla, that she didn't hear Oliver call her name multiple times. Her eyes didn't catch sight of him trying to subtly move into her line of vision. She didn't see him reach across the table towards her incessantly tapping hand till it was far too late.

Startled out of her reverie, Lyla jumped as Oliver's hand grabbed her own; her action startling the boy as well. Time seemed to move in slow motion, for Oliver at least, as he watched the accident unfold. His sudden jump knocked over Lyla's tea cup which spilt tea all over, not only the table cloth, but Lyla's hand and the front of her clothing as well.

The tea surged over her flesh like a torrent of molten lava, bubbling over the scorched skin in it's endeavor to melt the epidermis right off her small shaking hand. As soon as the scalding liquid touched her skin, Lyla was out of her seat and ranting for all she was worth. Somewhat relieved that she was finally getting to say all the things she'd wanted to but held back since they entered the place.

Her relief, however, was pushed aside by an overpowering sense of frustration. The very air of the place was becoming more than Lyla could handle, making her nauseous to the point of barely being able to hold in her last meal—which seemed, and more than likely was, days ago.

The migraine thrashing about her mind thanks to the embarrassing events of that day was making her dizzy and disoriented and to make matters worse she was now marinating in the most foul smelling liquid she had ever had the misfortune of sniffing—and yes she included that stink-sap fertilizing formula Professor Sprout had them handling for better potting and planting.

Her clothes were splattered with the tea and its' leaves, Lyla noted as she chanced a glance down at herself to check the damage. She felt about ready to go on another rant after coming to the conclusion that her clothes were officially ruined but stopped short of making any sound when she realized that she was a witch—a fact she seemed to have to remind herself of daily at least.

Lyla quickly cleaned herself up, muttering angrily as she did. Unfortunately, being ill adept at healing charms, she could do nothing about the now noticeable burn on her throbbing hand. She figured it was for the best if she had someone else fix her up since her track record clearly showed that she'd only make things worse if she so much as thought about attempting to heal herself.

So caught up in her exasperation, Lyla hadn't noticed she'd been muttering her crazed, irritated thoughts aloud. When she finally paused her ranting to take a breath she noticed all the gaping faces of those around her staring in shock at some of the things she'd said.

Her mouth shut with an audible snap then and there before anything else could spill out. Her eyes cringed closed, willing this all to be some kind of horrible hallucination, but after slowly taking a peak through hesitant eyelids, Lyla realized that she wasn't hallucinating. She was simply having a very bad day.

Lyla shook her head slowly as she finally made eye contact with her date. He was frowning sadly at her, his chocolate eyes pleading with her to say she was only kidding but she couldn't. She had said some pretty nasty things while she was angrily ranting so it was no surprise to her that she'd hurt his feelings. She wanted to take it back and make him feel better but her body simply wouldn't allow it.

She opened her mouth once or twice to say something but it was only on her third try that words finally came to her. "I'm...just going to...go...now," Lyla said softly, backing away from the table slowly.

She turned quickly, not able to take the dejected look on Oliver's face any longer. Head down and willing those around her to go back to their own business Lyla slowly and carefully made her way towards the exit, hoping she'd seen the last of her embarrassment flutter away with her words.

Unfortunately, her bad day was far from at its end.

Lyla had barely made it three feet from her table when four voices rang out, stopping her mid-stride.

"Oh no!" Carl said loudly, elbowing his fellow cupid, Chauncey, in his side to get his attention.

"Bird on the run." Chauncey shouted, raising the alarm to the fleeing girl.

Cornelius and Constantine glanced at one another at this notification, their cutesy smiling expressions growing dark as they looked back at the girl that was threatening to ruin the happiness of one of their patrons—especially after they sang to them and everything. The nerve of her! There was just one course of action for them in this situation and there was no talking them out of this. "Get her!" They war-cried together, their voices mingled with one another's as the quartet sprung forward to apprehend the unwilling third year.

Lyla knew enough to know not to turn around to see what all the clambering behind her was all about. She kept repeating a mantra of, 'Don't look back. Don't look back,' in her head but no matter how many times she'd said that, it didn't deter her from quickly craning her neck to peak behind her. It was fortunate that she did too, for her mind had just enough time to register what the cupids were doing and take action.

Four arrows sped towards Lyla as she quickly ducked to avoid the nearest two that connected with an overhead incense dispenser and a tea kettle respectively, both of which exploded from the attack sending liquid spurting in every direction Lyla tried to flee. The last two projectiles planted themselves in the floor as Lyla contorted her body out of the line of fire, sighing with relief that she managed to evade them.

Lyla relaxed then, thinking she was in the clear for she was mere feet from the exit by then. Smoothing her clothes and hair down, to save what was left of her dignity, Lyla breathed deeply only to have said breath get caught in her throat as a thought suddenly hit her. She had the chance to escape, and she was just standing there?

Just as Lyla realized it was a smarter idea to be reaching said exit rather than simply staring at it, a low whirring noise reached her ears, like that of a car engine revving, as something whizzed by her again, doubling back to collide into the back of her head. Now instead of racing for the door like any sensible person would in a situation like this, Lyla turned to look back, curious as to what was attacking her now only to be met with a fluttering heart slamming into her face.

Lyla could not believe her eyes. Apart from the malicious foursome shooting arrows and now dirty disapproving looks at her there was now an avian fighter plane formation of fluttering hearts—making little engine noises for authenticity—floating in wait for the precise moment to attack again.

The once mildly irritating fluttering annoyances had finally taken the plunge fully into violence and officially became kamikaze's for their Generals, the ring leaders of this attack on Lyla's person, pride and ego: The Cupid Quartet—performing locally at a Puddifoot's near you!

Lyla only just registered that the sound she'd heard definitely wasn't a car revving but rather an aircraft in attack mode when she was assaulted again.

All at once they descended upon her. The cupids splitting up to shoot at her from every direction while the paper airplane hearts dive-bombed, zigging and zagging all around to further confuse her. All in all it was a very well thought out and organized attack. Lyla had to admit this—though begrudgingly so, for she never thought a band of cutesy chubby cherubs, barely two feet tall and garbed in white diaper-like loincloths, would get the best of her.

Lyla had to barrel roll out of the way of the offensive creatures like some secret agent on a mission to save the world from total annihilation. "It's like a bloody war zone in here!" Lyla growled as she ducked and dodged attacks left and right thanking Remus profusely for training her so well. She was able to dodge everything they had to throw at her because of him.

Lyla thought too soon and cursed herself for patting herself on the back like that. Just as she had thought she was doing so well, another unidentified object collided harshly with her face sending her sprawling to the floor.

Wiggling her nose to make sure she hadn't broke it Lyla glared at the object that had finally managed to take her down. Wiping the crumbs off her face with her hand Lyla snarled at the giggling cupids who had just given Lyla a newfound odium for the tasty little crumpets that had just invaded her personal space.

Lyla barely had any time to think before the place was raining biscuits down on her in a one-sided food fight she neither started nor wanted any part in. She sat up, her arms crossed above her head shielding her from further harm via-crumpet while she frantically searched for her next course of action for it was finally apparent to her that running wasn't an option.

Hiding however, seemed a much better plan. Needing someplace to hide Lyla quickly searched the place for a safe haven from her prone position on the floor. Lyla—after finalizing her plan to scurry under a nearby table—then realized that all the tables in the building were spread far apart for privacy reasons she was sure. And the one table that was closest to her had the nauseating old couple occupying it, as though her luck couldn't have gotten worse!

Weighing the positives against the negatives for her next decision, Lyla quickly made up her mind, having no time to deliberate any longer for her assailants were honing in on her. Flopping back entirely horizontal with the floor, Lyla finally threw her pride and dignity aside for the sake of her survival, and army crawled the rest of the distance to the table, rolling out of the way of oncoming crumpets, arrows and airplanes, till she was safely beneath it.

Lyla had her eyes clenched shut as she breached the table's boundaries for she didn't want to be scarred for life from what she might see hanging around under there. So it shouldn't have come as any surprise to her that she failed her stealth test as a secret agent when she loudly fell into rather than silently crept under the table, startling the little old couple from their snogging session much to Lyla's relief.

Ever so cautiously, Lyla snuck a quick peek at her new surroundings, sighing with relief to find that things were being kept safe for all General audiences under there. After coming to this conclusion Lyla soon reached another: the floor was not a pleasantly comfortable area to lie on. She moved to sit on her knees but poorly estimated the height of the table resulting in the top of her head painfully crashing into the bottom of her sanctuary jostling it slightly and more than likely revealing her position to her pursuers.

Scoffing indignantly at her inability to pass as a secret agent, Lyla set about checking her battle wounds while the war continued to rage outside her confines. Aside from the soon to be momentous bump on her noggin and the burn mark—courtesy of one Oliver Wood—on her hand, Lyla's skin was littered with tiny stinging paper cuts.

Although annoyed with her injuries, Lyla was ever so thankful she hadn't been hit with any arrows. She really wouldn't have enjoyed that bubble of love she'd be forced into by the cherubs' magic. Lyla vaguely wondered where the cupids were pulling their arrows from for she didn't recall seeing any quivers. The bow yes, but definitely no quiver.

Lyla had to quell her rampaging thoughts from thinking any further into the phenomenon or surely she would have started quivering in more disgust than when she saw her refuge's occupant's antics. Instead she wondered how long she'd have to hide before she could fully escape the insane asylum that was Madam Puddifoot's.

As the minutes passed by the sounds of battle grew increasingly quieter. Lyla assumed that she'd managed to evade them long enough for them to get bored and flutter off to cause mischief elsewhere. Though just to make sure she was in the clear—and her head wasn't just being messed with again—Lyla peeked out from under the tablecloth as silently and as inconspicuously as she could, trying to spot her nemeses and their army before they found her. Unfortunately for Lyla, she had underestimated the attention span and determination of the little pests.

Since she caught neither sight nor sound of the quartet Lyla assumed, quite foolishly, that they'd either given up or loss interest in apprehending her. Unbeknownst to her though, the persevering ill-mannered little imps hadn't yet raised a white flag nor had they gotten distracted. They were in fact poised—ready and waiting—on top of Lyla's safe haven, shushing themselves and those around them to keep quiet.

Lyla, thinking she was in the clear, rolled out from under the table and got to her feet, ready to walk out the front door without any further mishaps. She made to take a step in the right direction when her mind set off the warning bells as it had just registered the gleeful smirks on the other patrons' faces.

Quickly spinning around to defend herself, Lyla was met with the horrifying sight of four winged creatures hurtling towards her immobile and disbelieving form. For what felt like the millionth time that day—though in reality wasn't more than a handful of that—Lyla sprawled to the floor, struggling to wrestle four nuisances off of her while everyone else just sat back and watched—fascinated by the spectacle that was Lyla's eventful and extraordinarily entertaining life.

"Oi, no biting!" Lyla shrieked in outraged hysteria, her cry finally bringing Oliver back to his senses, into reality and out of his brooding catatonic alternate universe where Lyla's ranting exhibition replayed over and over in his crestfallen mind. "Watch the teeth! The teeth!!" Lyla roared, managing to get two of the vile creatures into a headlock while the other two ankle biters set about doing just that and wreaking havoc on her ankles.

Seeing the predicament Lyla had—somehow—gotten herself into, Oliver sprung into action, setting off to play hero—a role he reveled in when it came to saving his lovely red headed damsel in distress and one she highly detested when even being thought of as a D.I.D. for she was hardly some dainty doting damsel and though she definitely was in distress at the moment, it was nothing she herself couldn't handle.

Though being far too preoccupied with the four stooges at that point in time, Lyla hadn't the time nor the energy to tell Oliver to bugger off and stay out of it. Suffice it to say however, Oliver was far too blinded and deafened by his endeavor to save Lyla that he didn't notice her ungrateful look of annoyance as he pulled the viscous cupids off of her.

Nor did he hear her finally manage to make her getaway out a nearby fire escape window—it had been far closer than the door at that moment—as he was otherwise engaged in a battle of wills with the quartet over his interference of their ruling out justice for the crimes that had been committed by one Lyla Potter.

One Lyla Potter that was currently elsewhere at the moment. An elsewhere that was far from Madam Puddifoot's and all it's neurotic, nightmare inducing, mayhem. This realization hit Oliver hard, but instead of falling back into his dejected phase, he had suddenly decided it was about time to grow a backbone.

Throwing a few sickles on the table for their service, Oliver roughly pushed the bickering quartet out of his way as he took off after the girl he still fancied despite the events of the past hour or so. Not only was Oliver chasing after Lyla because he wanted to make things better between them but because it was awfully chilly outside and Lyla had left her coat behind while trying to flee from the establishment and its' many masochistic mascots.

Oliver ran as though he were being chased by a horde of Manticores—though fortunately nothing of the sort was actually in pursuit of him. It was just the urgency he felt that made it seem as though he had little time to dawdle. So dawdle he did not, scurrying speedily down the lane till he reached High Street, finally catching sight of his fleeing date as she was just passing Zonko's joke shop.

She barely spared a glance for the store as she swiftly swept on; leaving Oliver to wonder if following through with his previous intentions was of the best ideas. Straightening his back, ready for what doom may lie ahead of him, Oliver pressed on—ignoring the little voice in the back of his head that was screaming for him to leave well enough alone.

In all of the thirty seconds it took him to catch up with Lyla, Oliver mulled over—working the words over in both his mind and mouth—exactly what he was going to say. He had composed this remarkable earnest and heartfelt speech that consisted of many—derisive—defamations of his character, declarations to never again act like such a pillock around her, and of course the occasional, "I'm so incredibly sorry about the cupids!"

Unfortunately upon catching up to her, despite having practiced his act of contrition, Oliver found that he was once again left speechless in the presence of the Potter girl. "Lyla," he called out hesitantly, blanching paler than he'd ever gone before as she twirled around to face him.

Her perfect pale porcelain skin was flushed pink from both the embarrassment she'd gone through that day and the cold wind that rushed against her face, swishing her already disheveled hair about her face and body. Her emerald eyes glowing with repressed fury completed her current frazzled state and caused her to look even more enchanting that he'd remembered.

"What now?" Lyla whispered so softly that if it weren't for the wind carrying her words to his intently listening ears, he would have missed them entirely.

"I—um, that is to say...you left this," Oliver finished lamely, holding out Lyla's white and very much unstained coat to her.

After a few silent and tense-filled moments of Lyla staring unblinkingly—or as resolutely as she could with both the wind and her hair whipping about her, far more than likely, frightening face—at Oliver—who adamantly refused to meet Lyla's steely gaze glare for glare—Lyla reached out and took her coat.

"Thanks," she replied softly, no longer feeling the rage that had been running amuck inside her just seconds before. Now that was being pushed aside by guilt and remorse over how horribly she'd treated Oliver. She wanted to apologize but considering the beating her pride had taken that day, she didn't think herself altogether capable of accomplishing it let alone making it sound sincere.

"Can I walk you back?" Oliver asked, hopeful for a positive response, but trying to look as nonchalant as possible. As though he wouldn't be completely shattered should she refuse.

Lyla's stony expression finally cracked after hearing the uncertain uneasiness in Oliver's tone. A small genuine grin lit up her face as she nodded her assent to his request. What harm could it do anyway? What's the worst that could happen? The worst had already hop-scotched all over her as it was so Lyla saw no point in turning down the bloke she still quite fancied.

The pair ambled back up High Street towards Hogwarts castle, neither saying a word to the other, for there was nothing of particular importance to say. After all the excitement of the day, the two were simply enjoying each others company in a strangely serene silence that left both in higher spirits than before.

"Well what do we have here?" Lyla sighed, knowing it was too good to be true to hope for their peaceful little stroll to go uninterrupted for longer than it had. Though if she thought about it, Lyla was just glad it lasted as long as it did for she'd been expecting—and was still very much indeed paranoid of—an ambush coming from any darkened alleyway she passed.

Turning to face the igits that decided to bother her now, Lyla scowled, unsurprised to find that the morons were none other than Slytherins for who else would have such bad timing as to decide to stir up a bit of trouble when it was uncertain as to when the girl's next manic mood swing might occur.

Lyla glared at Malfoy and his cohorts, about ready to tell him to piss off when an older Slytherin—who bore an odd striking resemblance to that of a troll—sauntered up to them. It was apparently he who had spoken not Malfoy, who got a lucky break that day for Lyla wasn't in any mood to deal with him and his toadies on top of everything else she'd been put through.

Though Lyla swore if this unidentified buddy of his made any sort of club-like reference she would lose it entirely and anyone within a five meter radius of her better head for the hills a-runnin'.

"Flint." Oliver spat distastefully, hate clearly pouring off him in waves of animosity.

"Wood." Flint drawled contemptuously with equal, if not more, abhorrence coating his words. "Shouldn't you be out on your little broomstick preparing for the arse-kicking you're going to get from us at the Quidditch final?"

Lyla wasn't entirely aware trolls were capable of intelligent speech—though the intellectual bit might have been giving this one far too much credit. Regardless, she was not feeling anywhere near impelled to let this boorish brute get another word in—especially if said word were anything about that loathsome sport—lest she lose her senses completely.

"What is it with you Slytherins with starting something and always sounding so utterly portentous?" Lyla cut in before Oliver could angrily retort to Flint's jab at his team's skill. "Strutting about like that as though your knickers were in a twist about your knockers. You do realize that gives your supposed victims more ammo to use against you right?" Lyla finished too irritated to revel in Malfoy's annoyance as his eyes narrowed, more than likely recalling back to his own experiences with Lyla specifically, knowing her words to be factual.

Flint, or Troll-boy as Lyla would have much rather called—and thought more accurately suited—him, turned his attention to the young Gryffindor. "Lyla Potter," he dragged out slowly, letting her name linger on his lips—causing Lyla to, of course, cringe with disgust at how dirty her name sounded coming from him. "I don't believe we've had the pleasure of meeting."

Lyla's answer was completely automatic, without so much as a thought thrown into it at all, and a true testament to how accustomed to dealing with Slytherins she had become, "Yes well, considering my luck's gone on holiday to hell in a hand basket today, I should've foreseen this confrontation coming."

Although shocked, or as was more accurate, affronted Flint did a remarkable job keeping his cool. If Lyla were anyone but her, she probably wouldn't have even detected the change in the boy's stance as he transitioned from attempting to seduce her smoothly, to crudely. "You've got one hell of a mouth on you, don't you?" he asked rhetorically, pausing long enough to take a step closer to his intended.

"It's wasted on Wood here of course," he went on, chuckling as he gestured to a slowly reddening Oliver as he moved increasingly closer. "He wouldn't know what to do with it even if you were begging for it," he took another step, smirking as he finished what Lyla had no doubt would soon be known as the one of the world's most idiotic things to say—innuendos and all—to one Lyla Potter, "So what say we give your mouth something a little more fun to keep it entertained?"

Flint took his final step towards the utterly and thoroughly disturbed Lyla, who was ready and quite frankly willing to punch his lights out should he even attempt to touch her. However he never got the chance to as Oliver, in an act of spastic heroism, leapt in the way, clocking troll-boy right in the kisser, and essentially beating Lyla to the...well punch.

This of course started an all out brawl between the two as the other Slytherins wisely chose to slink away from possible bruising to themselves and their egos. Whereas Lyla, having no qualms about furthering her injuries, though being far too infuriated to even think about jumping in to the tussle, turned on her heal and stalked away from the scuffle.

"And so I left him there to act like the pig headed brute he so obviously was and stomped my way all the way up here," Lyla breathed out sharply, finishing her lengthy tale of Adventure's in Hogsmeade Dating. "I mean who the bloody hell did he think he was anyway? My savior?" she scoffed, "My knight in ruddy shining Quidditch gear?" Lyla ranted on before Rylie could process all that'd happen to her friend much less get a word in.

Though Lyla wouldn't have heard a word she'd have said had Rylie been successful at cutting her off, for the young red-head was much too caught up in her enraged thoughts once more to pay much attention to those around her. Just as Lyla's ponderings were working her back up into a frenzy that could quite possibly last the whole weekend, Rylie found her voice.

"And that's all?" Rylie asked slowly, if not cautiously, as Lyla flopped backwards on her bed once more, a short frustrated semi-shriek coming from her in the form of a supposed sigh.

"Well, I may have frightened a few students and altered the portraits' view on the Potter name, but other than that yes." Lyla concluded, eyes closed and waiting for her friends response. However no answer met Lyla's ears for many drawn out moments and in a surprisingly investigative mood Lyla found herself uncovering her face—propping herself back up on her elbows to get a better look at her friend.

It was then Lyla noticed Rylie was struggling to stay her snickers. Sighing she reluctantly ground out, "Oh go on then," before falling back onto her bed once again as her friend rolled around on hers—and then consequently the floor—with mirth. Tears were literally rolling down Rylie's flushed and aching cheeks as she banged her fists on the stone floor. Every now and again words like, "Cupids," "Kamikazes" and the occasional, "Tea-Poodle," could be pulled from her hysterics.

At the five minute mark Lyla expected there'd be an intermission but her friend just kept giggling, gasping every now and then from air deprivation. "Are you quite finished then? Or are you waiting till you wet yourself?" came the irritated call from one overly annoyed Lyla.

"I'm done. I'm good. I'm—" whatever else Rylie had been became indiscernible to Lyla through the snort that swallowed up the word. "Ah-ha-hah, oh goodness," Rylie said breathlessly, taking in a lungful of air as she fought to regain her bearings. "That's priceless," she concluded, plopping her still wheezing form back on her bed.

"I'm glad you find my pain so amusing, really I am," Lyla grumbled wryly.

"Oh come on now, don't be like that. If it were anyone else all that happened to you'd still be giggling for weeks after." Rylie reasoned to the bad-tempered Lyla.

"That's beside the point," Lyla said waving her friend's statement off, ignoring the snickering voice—that sounded suspiciously similar to her own—that said Rylie spoke the truth. "Now can we stop thinking about how hysterical my poor unfortunate life is and get back to the topic at hand?"

"Alright," Rylie agree, still smirking at her friend who was still stuck in a mud pit of denial. She paused, puzzled for a second or so, "Wait, what were we discussing again?"

"Oliver." Lyla said shortly.

"What about him?" came Rylie's equally as curt response, though with a lingering sense of perplexity swarming around her.

"Tch," Lyla scoffed, "About what an insensitive, misogynistic, doddering fool he is! I mean—"

As Lyla once again ranted on interminably, Rylie deliberated with herself over how she was going to word her next sentence for she wasn't foolish enough to just come right out and say it, unless she wanted her friend to finally fly off the handle and murder her where she sat. She thought and thought and unfortunately came to the conclusion that she was slightly a bit dotty for there really was no easy way to say what she was adamant—although uneasily so—about bringing up.

"I think you overreacted." She blurted out quickly before she had time to chicken out, cutting Lyla off in the middle of the third verse of the inconsiderate blithering ponce portion of her monologue.

Lyla sat up so fast she was certain she'd have taken a tumble headfirst into the trunk at the foot of her bed had she not caught herself in time. "How can you say that?" she asked in outrage, "Were you not listening at all?"

"Well it is sort of true," Rylie said resolutely, her tone soon turning nervous as Lyla shot her a look that said she best explain and do it quickly. "If you think about it at least...I mean it's not like his one and only goal this day was to make your time in Hogsmeade miserable. How was he to know you didn't like it there—"

"Besides the fact that no one in their right mind would enjoy that place?" Lyla asked scathingly.

"—if you didn't tell him?" Rylie continued, nonplussed by her friend's interruption. "It's a widely known fact by now that Lyla Potter does not just sit back and let things bother her. She takes matters into her own hands and bloody well does something about it. So the fact that you didn't do anything and just let things bottle up, more than likely gave the impression that you were having a grand ol' time," Rylie said conclusively, taking a deep breath to start again once she saw Lyla make to speak again—accurately interpreting what would come from her friend next.

"I'm not saying Oliver didn't make some seriously horrible mistakes—because Merlin did he ever! I'm just saying that maybe you shouldn't take it so hard on him because of it," Rylie said, her voice pleading with Lyla to reconsider her newfound aversion to the much older Gryffindor. Having known precisely what Oliver had intended on asking her dearest friend—and thinking them to be utterly perfect for each other—Rylie was predictably saddened by this horrid turn of events.

She would do whatever it took; say whatever need be said, in order to change her stubborn friend's mind for the sake of their happiness. "After all, it sounds to me like he was trying to make this trip special. Maybe he was trying to work up the nerve to make the two of you official finally..." Apparently however, that had been the wrong thing to say.

Lyla huffed angrily before snarling her next sentence at Rylie, "If that were so, then he shouldn't have chosen the most obnoxiously unromantic place to do it!"

"There's really no reason whatsoever to be biting my head off here!" Rylie said indignantly, "I was only trying to help."

Mouth open in shock, Lyla stared at her friend with wide disbelieving eyes. This was the first time Rylie had ever so much as raised her voice at her friend in anger—which was more precisely annoyance anyway. Lyla felt ashamed, and had the grace to look thus, for the way she was treating her best friend.

"Rye, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to take my frustrations out on you really," Lyla said remorsefully, expecting to get snubbed any minute now, though she wouldn't blame her friend for doing so either. She was after all acting like a right awful arse.

"It's alright," Rylie spoke up softly, her voice back to normal as she couldn't stay mad at anyone, much less her best friend, for very long. "I get that you had an awful day and needed someone to vent to." She smiled slightly, "And as the best friend it's my job to dutifully fulfill that position. However, being best friends is reciprocal so when I attempt to help I expect you to actually listen to what I say and not just wave me off like you would Hermione."

Lyla was ever so relieved their fight had ended so abruptly for she didn't think herself altogether capable of fighting with anyone else, let alone her best friend. After the events of the past few hours, Lyla hadn't the energy to stay angry for very much longer anyways. In fact, she felt herself growing tired from exerting herself so much by ranting so frequently. Perhaps it was for the best if she simply listened for a while.

She nodded her head slowly, silently stating that she was ready to listen. Rylie however had already said all that she'd intended to say. "Just think about what I said alright," she requested calmly, knowing full well that Lyla had remembered every word of her short soliloquy.

And though Lyla had wished with all her might to come down with a sudden temporary case of amnesia, Merlin did not grant her that one reprieve. Every word her friend had tried to reason with her with came rushing back to her mind, washing it clear of any traces of still furiously raging anger and replacing said deep and justified vexation with that ever gnawing sense of guilt that soon overflowed Lyla's senses for she knew her friend had spoken the truth.

Heck, she'd come to that conclusion as she was leaping from the window of the tea parlor. Regrettably however, for all those involved, she'd also arrived at the unfortunate realization that she'd had enough of Hogsmeade dates with Oliver. Lyla Potter was literally and quite positively through with them and there wasn't anything anyone—including Rylie—could say to change her mind.

She'd been optimistic about the day beforehand and had desperately tried to maintain said optimism all day but failed horrible as each and every second ticked by. Sure she may have overreacted a tad, but she had a right to it.

Sighing miserably—torn up inside as the newly resurrected irritation battled with her inner guilt—Lyla stood, readying herself to leave, wanting no more of the pity pool party she found her shoulder consciences high diving quite giddily into.

"Regardless," she said softly, saddened but resolute—for she still was very much indeed perturbed with everything—with the decision she had just made, "I'm through with Oliver. It's obvious it wouldn't have worked out anyways..."

Rylie made to speak but Lyla cut her off, "I'm going to go blow off some steam. I'll see you later." She turned and left the room in a fashion highly divergent to her arrival—head down and feet dragging, still marginally miffed with how utterly horrible her day had gone. She was foolish however, to think herself alone in having experienced a bad day.

Dirty. Despondent. Disastrously depressed. These were only a few of the things Oliver felt as he limped his way back up to Gryffindor tower, his shoulders hunched and his head hanging low for he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he had blown it big time with Lyla. The only thing he was a bit hazy on was how everything had gone so horribly wrong.

He went over every little detail of their date over and over again in his mind and yet still couldn't figure out what had gone wrong. It couldn't have been anything he'd done, for he'd done everything in his power to make sure Lyla had a nice time. And she seemed like she was! Everything had been going smoothly until those ruddy cupids decided to serenade them.

Oliver would have cursed them for all he was worth had he had the energy. Unfortunately fighting off Lyla's attackers, chasing after the then fleeing girl and his little tryst with Flint had all but drained the 7th year of any and all of his liveliness.

Oliver crinkled his nose as his shoes squished with each step he took, leaving muddy footprints in his wake all throughout the castle for the soon to be enraged caretaker to stumble upon, hopefully quite literally as that would be awfully amusing. Though Oliver was very sorry to say he found little joy in thinking any further on Filch's muddy mishaps.

Growling lowly, Oliver muttered the password to the Fat Lady who seemed rather reluctant to allow such an abomination dirty the insides of Gryffindor tower. He couldn't rightly blame her though. Aside from the blood running from his nose, Oliver was completely covered from head to toe in mud thanks to his impromptu wrestling match with Flint.

Thankfully the animate portrait had no choice in the matter. As it was her job, and he was indeed a student somewhere under all that muck, the Fat Lady let him pass after scolding him on proper hygiene maintenance much to the amusement of her bodyguards as they had neither forgiven nor forgotten Oliver's little calamitous run-in with them earlier that week.

Oliver entered through the portrait, careful not to splash any mud on the walls unless he had suddenly grown fond of the Fat Lady's voice and her lectures. The once bustling common room muddled down at the sight of the lowly 7th year, though he took no notice of this. He passed them all sightlessly, his body on autopilot, leading him without incident to his dormitory.

In his zombie mode, Oliver had neglected to notice the two red heads who curiously followed after him and was otherwise unaware of the verbal thrashing he was about to endure.

Upon reaching his room—although all he'd wanted to do right then in there was collapse on his bed and forget the day ever happened—Oliver headed straight for the bathroom to wash the filth from his bruised body. He returned to the room—cleaned yet still entirely miserable—running a towel over his face and cringing as he accidentally put pressure on what would soon be a black eye.

Oliver slowly and carefully removed the towel from his face, jumping in surprise at the sight of the two bodies that were sprawled languidly across his bed, staring up at him with unbridled, identical expressions of pain.

"Whoa," Fred said in surprise, "What happened to you?"

Oliver stared at his two teammates silently for a few seconds. He hadn't the foggiest how they got in when he knew for a fact that he'd locked the door with an 'impervious to magic' spell. Though he figured it best that he didn't know for one mental image of the two scaling the outside walls of Hogwarts like a pair of ninjas was the things nightmares were made out of and he feared he'd never sleep again should they confirm his suspicions.

Letting out a harsh huff of air Oliver finally replied—an over dramatic 'Hi-yah' resounding in his mind as mini-Ninja Weasleys crash landed into his room via window. "Does is really look that bad?"

The twins glanced at each other before speaking. "You look like you went a few rounds with a cave troll," George said earnestly.

"More like a dungeon troll," Oliver muttered, scowling as he recalled his encounter with Flint.

The mud had obscured the twins' vision from the entire dreadful picture that was their Captain's battered face before but now, they saw clearly the thrashing their friend had obviously undertaken and came to only one valid conclusion. "You blew it didn't you?" they asked together, tearing Oliver away from his ponderings.

Besides the fact that their hypothesis was blatantly obvious, Oliver nodded, scooting pass the twins to retrieve his cloths from his trunk as he felt far too exposed with just a towel around his waist. He quickly changed into some sweats, trying desperately to ignore the two prying pests occupying his bed. To no avail of course, for the Fred and George were far too persistent.

After about the sixth rendition of, "What'd you do to piss Lyla off?" Oliver thought it best to just spew out everything and clear his name quickly rather than continue building up the urge to throttle something. So for the next hour or so, Oliver paced the length of the room, relaying the events of his day back to Fred and George, as they in turned listened intently, guffawing gleefully of course at all the appropriate and inappropriate parts of his terrible tale.

It was only after another half an hour had gone by after Oliver had concluded his sad story that Fred and George were able to breath normally again—a sullen and sulky Oliver, pouting in a corner repeating different variations of the line, "It's not funny!" to the snickering teens, who were slowly turning Smurf from air withdrawal.

Neither of the twins felt it prudent to reply to Oliver's denial-filled mutterings for it was obvious to them and all those involved that the events he had just revealed to them were not only gutbusting-ly humorous but the work of genius. Instead, rather than refute what their friend wanted to believe, Fred and George worked on settling themselves down enough so that they could give their dense companion a detailed rundown of how everything went so wrong and how he himself had caused most of the downfalls of the day.

The mischievous red heads got to their feet—having fallen from their perch during Oliver's tale—prepared to do as planned and force Oliver to see the error of his ways. "The first mistake you made—" Fred started, him and George pacing before the seated Oliver.

"And yes, you did make a plethora of them, contrary to what you may want to believe."

"—was neglecting to ask what Lyla wanted to do. You should have made the day all about her instead of trying to surprise her."

"You can't surprise a girl like Lyla—" George explained.

"At least not with a good surprise."

"—until you get to know her more," George reasoned, going on as Oliver tried to argue. "And don't say you do know her because if you did, you would have been able to at least have a conversation with her, instead of rambling on about Quidditch."

"And plus he wouldn't have taken her to Puddifoot's," Fred cut in turning to his twin who nodded his agreement with his brother's statement, "which brings us to your second and most colossal error."

Oliver felt back into a corner by the two Weasley's as they went on and on, back and forth, each taking their own turn to spew on about the horrors of Puddifoot's, what must have been going through Lyla's mind at the time, and most importantly what a moron Oliver had been for even thinking it was a good idea to take Lyla there. Their rant on the establishment went on for a good ten minutes or so—it seemed they sympathized with Lyla because of some past peccadillo they fell victim to and notably failed to mention at that point in time.

"And why in the name of Merlin's sodding underpants did you order for her?!" George all but shouted, rounding on the uneasy 7th year once more as though finally remembering his presence.

Oliver gulped uncomfortably wondering if he was meant to answer or not. Either way he suddenly found didn't care. He was not just about to sit there and get lectured or yelled at without defending himself. He was Oliver Wood! Gryffindor seventh year! All-star Quidditch keeper and Captain of his house team! He wasn't about to disgrace the Gryffindor crest he wore oh-so-proudly each and every day by standing down to anyone.

Straightening his back, head held high, Oliver cleared his throat to defend his self. "I was asserting myself because girls like that. They're usually so finicky and indecisive, so I took the initiative and saved her the trouble of wrinkling that pretty little forehead of hers."

Several silent seconds swept swiftly by as Oliver's resolute expression stayed firmly in place. Fred and George didn't even have to share a glance as they simultaneously reached the same palpable conclusion. "You're and idiot."

"Plain," Fred started.

"and," George continued.

"Simple," Fred concluded.

Oliver's face fell in embarrassment as his friends mercilessly pierced the fantasy bubble that had been encircling his head, preventing oxygen from getting to his brain. He was merely trying to justify his actions but he should have known better. His mother raised him better than that and she would have tanned his hide had she known what he was thinking.

Oliver shuddered to think what would happen to him should word ever reach his mother's ears. "And further more," Oliver's head snapped up, back to facing the twins. It seemed they had proceeded to rant as he was lost in thought. But unfortunately now that he was back, he could do nothing to tune out the double-act. "You could have fixed all of this when you ran after her," George nearly cried out in frustration.

"Because it sounds to us—" the two continued, stopping their frantic pace of the room and giving the stone floor a temporary reprieve from the further corrosion.

"Like she was willing to give you a second chance—" George's stance was that of a teacher scolding it's pupil, succeeding in making Oliver feel smaller than he already had.

"Something that should be widely known," Fred started, arms flailing to emphasize the magnitude of his words, "and published in bold print in the:"

"Dating Lyla Potter for Idiots Guide Home Journal," the twins were apparently on a role for thinking alike that day.

"As hardly ever to occur," Fred finished in exasperation.

Finding the desperate need to refill his lungs with air, he let his mirror image cut in, "But you blew it!"

Oliver felt George's words strike a nerve somewhere deep inside him. How had he blown it when he did it all for her? Everything he did that day was entirely for her! How could he have been wrong at all when he'd only had her happiness in mind? Moreover however, Oliver couldn't see how he'd acted brashly at all where Flint was concerned. "How?" he cut in angrily, "All I did was defend her honor?"

"Are you really daft enough to think that's how she sees it?" Fred shouted back quickly, not expecting an answer, "She thinks you stepped in to fight her battle for her—"

"Because you think she's incapable of handling things herself."

"And that's an insult to her pride right there mate," Fred paused for a second or so after he spoke, pondering over what he'd just said, "Or what little she had left after the day you told us you put her through."

Oliver huffed, still completely perturbed that his friends blame him for what had happened; though despite being irritated he was also exhausted. So worn out that he didn't have the energy to fight back when his throat suddenly closed on him, refusing to permit any words pass his lips till he actually thought about what his friends had said to him.

Since he apparently had no choice in the matter—his subconscious saw to that—Oliver sat there in indignant silence thinking back to his day and cringing when he did. He thought about Lyla's reactions to each and every horrible spectacle. And it was only after Aggie brought them there tea in Oliver's mental instant-replay that he saw it.

Lyla wasn't enjoying herself at all. Every smile and laugh he'd remembered to be genuine and utterly overjoyed were fake. Forced to the point of being blatantly obvious to every one it seemed but him. Further more however—and this observation made Oliver feel worse than he had before—it was finally now evident that Oliver caused more damage than even the cupids for Lyla was visible more annoyed with him than them.

Heck she probably would have enjoyed their company had he not been there to ruin everything! Oliver was furious with himself for not noticing earlier. If he had, perhaps he could have turned things around. Could have saved the day! He would have come out on top, enjoying his date with Lyla still, instead of wadding around in a mud pit of shame.

Oliver sighed loudly as he wordlessly waved off his friends, feeling more tired than he ever thought possible. He had given up all hope of ever attaining Lyla Potter as his for good. It was a hopeless cause to pine over someone that was so very clearly out of his league after all. All he could do now was wallow in self-pity and hope to suffocate under his pillow so he wouldn't have to face the next day with the knowledge that he was then and would, more than likely, forever remain to be a clueless sap doomed for failure.

The change in Oliver as he went from angry to despondent was very obvious as his eyes, once narrowed in ire, softened, slumping in syncopation with his stooping head and slouching shoulders. Fred and George shared a silent look after their Quidditch captain waved them off after revealing his proverbial waving of the white flag where Lyla was concerned.

They had decided their next course of action right that very instant. However revealing said plots would have to be left for a later time since it was obvious their team captain needed some time alone to rest and sort his thoughts. The terrible twosome soon shuffled off down to their dorms, zealously muttering plans for their schemes quietly back and forth to one another, agreeing with most and shooting down very few ideas, hoping to rectify the gap between their two friends with a bang of Weasley brilliance.

The storm formerly known as Lyla had settled down to mild winds from the north of the castle building in momentum as her passage was tracked through and to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom where the fully enraged maelstrom started up in full blast again. Leaving the inhabitants—both animate and in—shaking in fear.

Lyla entered her godfather's classroom in a fury, her bad mood from earlier in the day coming back in full swing with some buddies of theirs named Brassed and Off. She couldn't believe the morons Hogwarts allowed within its' illustrious walls! Just thinking about them made her blood boil with the irritation clearly shown on her scowling façade.

"Are you alright?" Remus asked somewhat hesitantly. He'd heard word from numerous frightened portraits that had been scrambling to keep out of his goddaughter's line of fire earlier and was of course concerned for her but more so for his self should it turn out to be he she was upset with.

Lyla snorted at Remus absurd question. Did she look alright to him? He should have been able to tell for his self, after all she was flushed crimson with annoyance, shaking with restrained rage and nearly about ready to burst from aggravation overload. She saw no reason to answer him but her mouth apparently hadn't received that message quick enough. "I'm perfectly peachy, downright ducky in fact," she spat sourly.

Remus raised an eyebrow, highly doubting she was anywhere near what she'd claimed. Perturbedly peachy possibly, though her answer was downright dodgy enough for him to conclude that she was being duplicitous. "No you're pointedly peachy leaving me to conclude that you're hiding something."

Lyla's expression turned sardonic as she theatrically gasped in amazement. "Your keen sense of observation astounds even me, Remus. Tell me, did you arrive at that conclusion based on the sarcasm or disdain in my voice?"

To reply at this point in time with anything that sounded remotely smartarse-ish meant certain death by means of verbal assault. Remus knew this well; had suffered the consequences of a Lyla bantering whilst incensed many times before. There was no chance of winning against her while she was as irately stubborn as she currently was. Therefore he chose the only path to lead him out of the fire as unscathed as possible: he returned to the topic at hand.

Despite the fact that it would have been far more intelligent to avoid the subject altogether, he was by then far too curious for his own good. "So what's wrong then? Didn't you have a nice time on your...date?" Remus spat out 'date' with much distaste for he still disapproved of the budding relationship between his young goddaughter and the much older and more experienced Oliver Wood.

Crossing her arms as she carefully leaned against a wall, Lyla snorted, "You mean my horrible Hogsmeade date from hell?"

"You really do fancy alliterations today, don't you?" Remus asked before he could stop himself. It literally felt like a compulsion to ask it and Remus was helpless to fight against its ever determined pull.

Face scrunched and lips pursed, it was obvious not only from her facial expression but her stance as well that Lyla was in no mood to be mocked. "Would you like to be mutually muddy? 'Cause we can do that," she shot back just as quickly, her eyes narrowing as though daring her Professor to say something else and give her the reason she'd been itching for to retaliate.

Now even though Remus had indeed noticed the state Lyla had been in when she entered his classroom, he had enough sense about him not to say anything till she brought it up. Though the smarter choice by far, once again, would have been to say nothing at all but...that was apparently a characteristic both lacked that day. "Might I inquire what precisely it was that had transpired without such an occurrence taking place?"

Without leaving time to even blink Lyla shot back her retort, "Only if you stop talking like you've got a proper etiquette pamphlet for the priss and proper shoved up your arse." If Remus wanted an all out war of words then she'd bloody well give him one. After all there was no one else in the whole of Hogwarts that had more one liner's than her so she'd no doubt of her ability to triumph over her godfather.

Having been put—entirely against her will—through the ringer that day, Lyla found herself completely fed up. She'd had enough of the world, and everyone thing in it, being out to get her that day. First the fiasco date at Puddifoot's and all the horrors that lied therein, then Flint with his unwanted and, especially noted, unwarranted innuendos aimed at her person!

And just when she thought everything had settled back down to the way things were—and the world bared no more ill will or grudge against her—exactly when she was finally able to grasp some semblance of calm!! She slips...on a mud puddle—far more than likely—strategically situated in the middle of the well used corridor. Though puddle was understating it a tad; it was more accurately a stream of ever flowing mud that continuously coursed down the hall in all its mucky goodness.

She had virtually saw red at that moment. The color only intensified the second she attempted to relieve herself of her present predicament and lift her tired body from the floor for she had placed her hand in something unfavorably squishy. If she ever found out who the arse was that tracked mud all over the castle and neglected to put up caution signs for klutzes like her, she'd bloody clobber them! Their own mother's wouldn't be able to recognize them after she drowned them in their own mud puddles, she'd guarantee that.

Since fate was adamant in remaining an intangible little bastard, Lyla had to settle for taking her rage out on a more solid arse.

Remus coughed roughly after a few seconds of blankly staring at his goddaughter, his eyes wide with a great deal of shock at her last jab. He hadn't heard her speak to him like that in a good long while...and the last time it was entirely his fault—he'd admit to that now though not to her for he wasn't completely dead from the head up yet.

It was finally clear to him. He no longer had any doubts. His goddaughter, Lyla Lily Potter, was in a foul mood. One of the foulest he'd ever witnessed of her in fact.

The only probable choice of action—that would cause the least amount of damage to his person, pride, and ego—was to carry on with whatever she said. Though he very much did wish to go blow for blow in a verbal match of 'who can one up who?' he had enough sense in him to squash that aspiration, knowing he didn't stand a snowball's chance in the Sahara with Lyla as fired up as she was.

Remus inquired the details of her day as unsophisticatedly as he could. He sat back at his desk and listened intently as Lyla retold the events that led her to his classroom for the second time that day. She paced back and forth before his seated form, working herself up into hysterics once again. Though Remus was very much in hysterics as well—they were for entirely contradictory reasons. Once again however, Remus was far too concerned with preserving what little health he had to risk goading his goddaughter into a rampage.

When she finished her tale, Remus schooled his face into a neutral—nonchalant—sympathizing expression, and nodded his head in understanding—not that he actually comprehended half of what she was feeling for he was entirely too preoccupied with detaining his amusement while Lyla was still so near and so obviously unpredictable.

He watched as she threw herself haphazardly in a chair, arms tightly crossed around her torso as she pouted over her ruined day. She sighed then, her eyes softening her glare as they gradually grew glassy, "I guess that's it then." She spoke so softly and so sadly that Remus felt his own heart breaking, seeing her in so much pain. He opened his mouth to comfort her but she continued on, speaking more to herself than him, "No more Oliver and Lyla, or ruddy happily ever afters."

Remus grew suddenly uneasy. What was he supposed to say to that? How was he supposed to talk to his goddaughter about boys? Of all things to make her this unhappy it just had to be a boy! He was at a complete loss. Not only for how to make her feel better but on how to get his message across that he didn't even want her thinking about boys let alone seeing one!

Gulping loudly to remove the lump from his throat, Remus resolved to just come right out and say it. This was Lyla after all; any beetling around the subject would only worsen the situation. It was best to just be completely honest and straightforward with her.

Though being straightforward had nothing to do with making eye contact with her—Remus knew he wouldn't be able to go through with it had he been required to do that. He sighed loudly in relief, gaining Lyla's confused, yet curious, attention. "Well that's good then," he spoke jovially—thinking his tone alone would lighten the tension in the room, which may have worked had his voice not cracked halfway through his sentence.

Remus cleared his throat quickly before going on, "You don't need to be dating anyone now anyways; especially someone that much older than you. I wouldn't have allowed it." Remus nearly felt a slap in the face hit him as he realized exactly what he'd just said and the events that would undoubtedly occur because of them.

The change in Lyla was instantly perceptible to Remus. She had gone from sulking over some worthless boy to ready to hex her favorite—only! Remus' mind sneered at him—godfather in less time than it took Remus to become conscious of his blunder.

Lyla kept her relaxed pose in her seat for there was no need to move to get her point across. She simply tilted her head to the side, her eyes virtually asking, 'you're not serious are you' to her uneasy godfather. She spoke deliberately, each syllable drawn calculatingly slow. Her eyebrow quirking just slightly in disbelief that Remus had actually said what he had and understood the depth of the hole he'd just dug for himself.

"You are aware that, had I not previously chosen to give up on ever dating Oliver, I would have just done it because of what you said right?" Remus nodded hesitantly, still cringing, awaiting the eruption of anger he expected to burst from Mt. Lyla any moment now. "It's a good thing I already gave up on him now in't? Otherwise you would've started something I know you want absolutely no part of," Lyla spoke cheerfully, doing a complete one-eighty from her earlier tone.

Remus collapsed in his seat, which was a feat in and of itself considering he was already seated, at Lyla's sprightly words. He silently thanked Merlin right then and there that he hadn't expressed his concerns to Lyla previously like he had planned, else she'd already be dating the bloke, regardless of what he had to say about it. Yes today was indeed a lucky day—though he'd never say that to the unstable one for he'd rather keep his jollies dangling.

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