June 16, Tuesday
Feel like poo. Last night, had apparated over to Neville's only to find him looking quite depressed in his work clothes, reeking of fertilizer and surrounded by a mountainous terrain consisting of empty take-out boxes and bottles of Glady's Butterbeer. Although some posh artist from New York or the like could have swooshed in and declared it a breathtaking piece of urban art, it was hardly the atmosphere where proper attention could be focused on Lupin's trousers and my World Cup dilemma, so sonvinced Neville to hop into shower as he stunk rather badly, and took him downstairs to Catch.
Let's make something very clear. Am rather accustomed to talking portraits, staircases that change out of boredom, but can not fathom the shoes stylish Muggle women wear. As a general rule of thumb, I for one try not to wear anything with heels longer than my forearm but these girls apparently hadn't gotten the same memo. Very cruel as upon entering Catch, not only felt horribly drab wearing slacks and a zip up in various shades of grey while these women, three feet taller than I (hadn't known they were cheating for the longest) pranced around in frilly little things in every color of the rainbow while their cleavage (once again, they must be cheating as for all them to have such large breasts is not mathematically possible) practically leaped out with every step they took. By the time Neville and I had been seated, previous decision to remain sober was nullified as had developed severe inferiority complex concerning height since walking through the door.
"Corduroy." I had slurred, sipping on my third glass of merlot.
"What?" Neville had asked, pouring himself another glass as he was far too sober to fully appreciate my words of wisdom.
"Lupin's pants tonight, they were corduroy and positively delicious."
"So what makes his trousers any different from, let's say, mine or any other chap's?"
"Yours aren't on his bum."
"I see."
"Nothing personal."
"Of course."
"More wine?"
"Definitely."
"So what about this World Cup thing?"
"Do you not still despise Quidditch or has something dramatically changed?"
"Well yes, it's a ridiculous sport, really. But don't you think there's a chance that we might end up over a candlelight dinner with him comparing my eyes to a dessert?"
Neville laughed, "Your eyes with a dessert? Like sherbert?"
"I was thinking Chocolate Mousse, really."
"I suppose there's a chance. Although there's also a chance that the former Dark Lord himself might escape his present state and replace that barmaid over there with leather stilettos and all."
"That's the spirit! Then it's settled, I'm going. More wine, please?"
After that, all was a blur of wine glasses, silly girls flinging themselves over Neville and trying to figure out how to get myself home as Mum would certainly have a fit if she woke up and wasn't there. Apparation was not an option as was so sloshed could hardly walk, never the less able to concentrate enough to end up in my room in one piece. An unauthorized portkey was out of the question, couldn't stomach a ride on the Floo Network, thus, finally ended up on the Knight's Bus with Stan Shunpike trying to cope a feel every time the bus came to a halt.
Noon
Perhaps should start packing. Only 4 more days. Well, three and a half if one were to be technical about it, which I'm not, of course.
12:15 p.m.
Not really in the mood to pack, have plenty of time for that. Must tell Ginny the news as she will surely be equally delighted as I.
5:30 p.m.
Crookshanks, although love him dearly, is a horrid, wretched thing sometimes. Ginny apparently used Ron's little owl to send her reply and Crookshanks, having not been let out in fear of him confronting a car and not having the proper sense to back down to a component made of steel, thought Pidwegon was just a lovely treat for him and promptly batted around the poor thing like it was a rag doll. Granted, charmed as many feathers back on to the creature as possible, but doubt it will be quite as willing to deliver posts to my house in the near future. Stupid cat. Anyway, am going over to the Burrow to catch up on quality time with Harry, Ron and Ginny as Harry and Ron will be shipped off to Auror training and Ginny will be back on the Hogwarts' Express in a matter of weeks and I shall be left practically friendless.
June 17, Wednesday
9:30 a.m.
Hmm, that's odd. Usually Crookshanks is sleeping in my room and when went downstairs to feed him, he was no where to be found despite the fact that the sound of cat food rustling against the bag is like a mating call. Perhaps he is just pissy as I sent his playtoy back to the Burrow yesterday and scolded him quite harshly. Sure he will turn up.
9:50 a.m.
Alright, have searched the entire house from floor to ceiling and Crookshanks is not here. Am very worried. Perhaps he snuck outside when Mum and Dad went to work and is wounded after a confrontation with heavy machinery that he did not win, or even worse, what if he simply can't stand me anymore? Must go look some more.
10:30 a.m.
Look like hysterical woman with puffy eyes and mad hair. Have gone up and down the street calling his name and surely, if he were able to, he would come. What if he's dead? Dear god can't handle this. Argh, door.
10:35 a.m.
Was Harry of all people. Evidently he wanted to get out of the Burrow for the bit and decided to pop in. Told him about Crookshanks and he simply couldn't resist but taking one look at the mad creature atop my head (as obviously haven't had time to fix self this morning as missing familiar is surely a more pressing matter) and asking "Have you checked there?" How bloody funny. He is currently wandering around the street calling "kitty" as to remain in my good graces while I try to regain my composure. Really wish I wasn't so horrid to Crookshanks. Perhaps if hadn't scolded him, he would of stayed inside, and wouldn't have met an untimely demise and would have lived to a ripe old age of two hundred and four. It's all my fault.
12:30 a.m.
My mother is absolutely insane. She had come home on lunch break to drop Crookshanks off as she had had him all along! He is alive, but hardly unscathed.
After saying hello to Harry, she plopped a cat carrier down on the kitchen floor. "Well darling, he's a bit drowsy after the operation so just let him be for the afternoon." She had said.
"What operation?" I asked, opening the door to the carrier and pulling out my cat. "You had my cat, my familiar fixed? Oh my god, where is his hair?"
"Oh, that."
"Yes, that! What happened to his hair?"
"Simple matter of miscommunication really. The girl at the desk was new, could hardly speak a word of English. Tried to explain that I just wanted them to cut off a few of the knots he had gathered under his tail, but well, you can see what she thought I meant."
Sat down holding my poor, drugged, and unpleasantly bald cat in absolute horror.
"Well," she sighed, "I was only trying to help."
A/N: Wow. I can't even begin to thank you guys for all of your wonderful reviews (especially LeGrimoire, cdk, amariel, radclifferox for being ever so faithful. I keep you guys in mind every time I post.) I started out writing this as a total spoof and considered abandoning more than once, but you lot have seriously inspired me. The last chapter got more focus on Lupin (for RadcliffeRox, ewanspaz and the rest of you who were thinking it, but didn't say anything) and last but least, the World Cup is coming up. Hoorah.