A/N: Sick today. See my LiveJournal for details. Thus, as a result of my terrible boredom upon being home alone all day with nothing to do, I decided to write this, the eighth chapter of The Stalker. Which is how and why you're reading this.

Disclaimer: What the crap kind of music is this?

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The Stalker

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It was now the next day, meaning it was the day after the day which the previous eight chapters have been chronicling in which Monica begins to stalk Harry Potter, and in which Tonks laughs hysterically and tells a story worse than I do to the Order, who all promptly wig out, but none of this really matters unless you haven't read the previous eight chapters in which Monica begins to stalk Harry Potter, et cetera, et cetera, but if you haven't read those chapters, I suggest you go back at this very moment and correct your grievous mistake.

In any case, it was now the next day, and, I am pleased to report, Monica did indeed get a good night's sleep as her younger brother by five years did not sleep at home that night, but instead at a friend's house. How Kevin's parents could stand Mark was very puzzling to Monica, but at the moment, she wasn't concerned with that. In fact, she wasn't particularly concerned with anything right at the moment. Except for food. You see, the mornings after she ate meatloaf, Monica was always ravenous. Of course, the fact that she wasn't a morning person didn't help, either, and nor did the fact that she was a bit odd in the head. As a result of that all, the mornings after Monica had meatloaf for dinner were similar in a number of ways to a hurricane blowing through a small village built with straw. That is, chaotic and running into walls. Mr. Evans always left for work early Meatloaf Mornings, as they came to be called, and Mrs. Evans woke up early to do gardening on those days. Thus it was that the Evanses did not have meatloaf often, regardless of the fact that they all enjoyed it immensely.

Monica stumbled down the hall, three-quarters asleep, but awake enough to know that she had to have fooood. NOW. She ran into a wall, and crawled down the stairs. She tripped down the last five, and landed on her feet, amazingly. All those years of meatloaf had really paid off. She meandered clumsily through the kitchen door and sat down at the table, where there was a stone-cold breakfast feast waiting. She immediately began to scarf down all the food on the table; kippers, toast, marmalade and jam (though not together, she tended to put them on the toast), bacon, poached eggs, sunny-side-up eggs, deviled eggs (her mother had an innate fondness for anything with the word "vile" in it—don't ask), sausages, cereal, oatmeal, pancakes, waffles, ten different flavors of syrup, and, most importantly, a huge pitcher of orange juice.

Nearly an hour later, after Monica had polished off all—or nearly all—of the food on the table, she cleared the dishes, put them in the sink, and trudged up the stairs to take a shower.

A further hour after that, Monica was skipping gloriously wet-haired down Privet Drive, anticipating another boring yet slightly amusing day of stalking the neighborhood delinquent. She reasoned that he was far more interesting—and less dangerous—than his cousin, the neighborhood gang leader. She climbed obviously up the droopy, dying, water-starved tree, and settled onto her branch from yesterday, whistling brightly Beethoven's Fifth. This may be slightly after the fact, but Monica is a rather odd girl.

Of course, as it was sweltering, Harry's window was open, though it was only eleven o' clock, and he did not appear to be awake. Also, his wardrobe door was slightly open again. Doesn't he know how to close a door? Monica thought. What, was he raised in a barn or something? She took a closer look at the rest of the house and thought about the Dursleys. Suppose he was, then.

As it turned out, Harry was awake, and shortly after Monica arrived, his Aunt Petunia called up the stairs in her screechy voice, "You have a visitor, bo—Harry!" Monica looked bewildered. No one had come up the street in the ten minutes she was sitting there.

Harry opened his door and left his room. Monica snapped loudly as a way to replace an expletive.

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It seems I am fond of innately bad endings.

As always, review, bitches!

...I mean, please review, darling readers, lest I get...er, the vapors.

...?