I glanced around after leaving the hall, trying to catch a glance of Reece. Peeves was fiddling with a chandelier –that could only end badly– and a small group of older kids were making their way into the Hall, but there was no incredibly not-so-ordinary boy in sight. I felt my spirits deflate; I had hoped he'd be there, that maybe he really did want to be my friend. My pride wasn't quite ready to accept that I'd been wrong.
I heard laughter, my head snapped up. Peering through the railing a floor above me was his grinning face.
"Come on, Jenny, time's a wastin'!" There was a flash of movement and I saw him take off, teasing me to give chase.
'What did he call me? Jenny? At least it's better than Jenna.'
But I was the mature age of almost-but-not-quite thirteen, and the event of a young lady racing through a prestigious school is heavily frowned upon in our era. Who am I kidding? Of course I chased him, and I bloody well enjoyed doing it.
For once the stairs weren't running off on me, and I took them two at a time. The race was close, but he still reached the Defence class room a few metres in front of me.
I arrived seconds later, panting for breath, "Two more floors," I managed to wheeze out, "and I so would've had you."
He maintained the shoddy confidence and false sense of security that comes with winning, "No way, I'm the definition of speed."
My haggard breathing didn't allow for a quick retort to that, but I managed a snort.
We leant against the wall for a moment, trying to catch our breath. His eyes shined, rubbing in his victory.
Before Reece had even properly regulated his breathing he was off talking again. I lost track of the time, but I found I could actually stand his constant waffling. He got so excited, even about trivial things, and it was contagious. Honestly, I'd never thought Morgana's Theory of Strangling Plants could sound so interesting.
He was incredibly excited about the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend, the first one our year would be able to attend.
"– and there's the Three Broomsticks where you can buy these things called Butterbeers. My brothers recon they're the best thing in the world, that they practically make you melt inside, and apparently it's like foaming heaven. Then there's the barman's daughter, she's a little older than us, I think, but they say she looks like an angel. Then, down the street there's the joke shop, Zonko's, where they bring in loads of Fanged Frisbees, Dungbombs and Hiccough Sweets just for the Hogwarts visits –"
It went on and on. There was something called the Shrieking Shack, which had recently become the residence by a temperamental ghost; I was warned never to let anyone talk me into the couple's nightmare known as Madam Puddifoot's, even on pain of death; and to avoid walking into the shady bar, the Hog's Head, when anyone reputable was watching.
And I wouldn't be seeing any of it. I guess I had to tell him, but I didn't know how he would react. I began an in-depth forensic investigation of my fingernails. "… I can't go. There were some complications at home, my mother didn't… get a chance to sign the form."
There was a small twig snagged on my shoelace. How interesting, I wondered when that had happened. I chanced a glance at his face. It looked disappointed. I went back to staring at the stick; that seemed safer.
When Reece spoke, he didn't ask why. He didn't scowl and curse the vast selfishness of the world. In fact, he didn't even sound disappointed; that was surprising enough to put a halt to my in depth examination of my shoes and it's small collection of bark. Immediately, he proceeded to explain just how dull the trip would've been, how hideous Madam Puddifoot's was, and that the elves in the kitchens are said to made much better Butterbeers if you could find them, but only if you asked nicely; all an explanation of just why he wasn't going to bother wasting his time going and why staying behind with me would be so much more fun.
Liar. But it made me feel much better.
Soon enough the bell rang, and, upon finally checking his schedule, he raced off to Charms, yelling a hasty goodbye as he went.
The surrounding corridor had steadily filled with my Gryffindor and Slytherin classmates by that time, and they watched him leave with a mixture of expressions. Confusion seemed to be popular at the time, and disbelief didn't even begin to describe the emotions displayed on some faces.
"Merlin, what concoction did you slip into his pumpkin juice, Night? He's all over you like a lost puppy." Black goaded, basking in the crowd's laughter.
"Now, now Padfoot, we mustn't be mean," Potter mock-chided, "It's not the fault of her Potion's skills she's had no friends until now." They guffawed rather stupidly, and I found myself pondering their uncanny resemblance to apes. Same mental capacity, similar sense of personal hygiene, and the ability to draw coos from little girls that remains to be understood. It was plain amusing, really.
"Shut up, Potter, I think it's great that she's made a friend," I watched, gobsmacked, as Lily Evans glared him down in my stead.
Potter's hand instantly made the customary nervous leap to the back of his head while his face and demeanour fought to be contradictory and remain as suave as possible. "Hey, Evans," his voice had dropped about an octave, into the squeaky/strangled zone that can only be classified as 'cool' in the mind of the thirteen year old male. Or ape, as the case may be. "I – ah – I completely agree, I was just tell Sirius here, what a tosser he is. Of course. I, er, how are you for lunch on Saturday? Hogsmeade weekend, you know. I heard the weather's supposed to be lovely, or at least as far as Scotland weather goes, only hailing most of the afternoon–"
Remus, ever the smart one, chose that moment to send a bony elbow into Potter's ribs, "Mate, you're taking about the weather," he whispered, eyeing Lily's annoyed but slightly amused face apologetically.
Potter's eyes widened, a slight blush heating his cheeks. "I do not need tips about girls," he loudly proclaimed, then tried a subtle hair flick to further prove his point.
I rolled my eyes. My voice was unsteady and nervous, but I couldn't resist, "Potter here thinks he's learnt from the best."
Lily giggled. I took it as a good sign. "If by 'best' you mean Sirius, he should be slightly concerned. I'm pretty sure Black gets his tips from playboy magazines and chick flicks."
I'm not sure Black even knew what a television let along a chick flick really was, but the word was pretty self-explanatory, and he was back to defend his pride, "Not true. I'm a natural, you can't teach this level of awesome."
"Says the guy who calls himself the Girl Whisperer," I muttered despite myself. No one seemed to hear me, but that was probably for the best.
"I am all natural too!" Potter said, puffing up his chest in what could only be described as a chicken-like manner.
"Potter, I suggest you stop now, or you'll probably lose more than just an eyebrow," Marlene McKinnon, the sanest third year in all existence, pushed through the crowd to Lily's side, raising her own eyebrow to exaggerate her reference to the event of the previous week.
"But Lily, why wouldn't you want to go out with someone like me?"
Lily rolled her eyes and recited the whole 'I wouldn't want to go anywhere with anyone as conceited as you!' speech. Then the arguing started and they came up with new and exciting insults for each other (my personal favourite was still 'son of a moon-addled hedgehog'). It carried on in the same way it always did for too long, until Potter started talking about flowers.
Black chose that moment to descend into a chronic coughing fit wherein the word "whipped" was clearly distinguishable.
Lupin nodded, and Peter hesitantly agreed with a shy grin. Potter couldn't decide who to scowl at first.
Mercifully, the teacher opened the door and we filed in. Lily and her friends sat as far away from the Marauders as physically possible, effectively ending the confrontation.
Thankfully my feet managed to find their way into the classroom as my brain was otherwise engaged and couldn't offer its services. For the record, I prefer to call the action of contemplating events with great passion reflecting. It isn't brooding. I do not brood. Brooding is for old people.
I reflected some more and weaved through the desks to the back of the room. No one spared me much attention as I took my usual seat. The teacher was hovering near a large silver chest and prodding it with her wand while muttering incantations with her head cocked to the side. I guess she may have been in her fifties. She had large silver framed glasses and crisp white robes that held a suspicious similarity to a dressing gown. Her head was topped with a fuzzy grey mass of hair and her expression was a mask of concentration. Overall she didn't look too threatening, but neither did Lily Evans, and it turned out she could cast a nasty eyebrow-banishing curse when necessary.
It would be interesting to see how she'd score compared to the past professors. First year was brilliant. Professor Plattel was a Curse-Breaker in Australia until he lost three toes to a possessed boomerang. Then he decided to resort to teaching, but he choked on his pumpkin juice one morning before the start of my second year and that put an end to all things to follow. Dumbledore must've been in a real rush to find another teacher after Plattel died, because for some unknown reason he hired Professor Klyde. He was worse than useless and managed to singlehandedly turned Defence into a huge hazardous joke. He died mysteriously before the end of the year, no one knows why. A popular theory was that the fifth and seventh years smothered him with pillows, but the Marauders swear he must've managed to strangle himself while trying to learn how to tie his shoelaces. Personally, I was inclined to lean towards the later.
The new teacher impatiently tapped her fingers until most of the class had nervously trickled in. We had the right to be apprehensive after the many disastrous lessons last year. You had to stay sharp in case the Professor spontaneously decided it was high time to learn how to defend one's self against, say, a giant flesh eating maggot.
"Right!" The teacher called enthusiastically, with a lot of volume for such a small lady, "I'm Professor Vance and I'll be your teacher this year until I'm eaten by a small flowering plant or otherwise killed. But until that terribly unfortunate day we have lots to learn. It's best we get stuck straight into it, so who knows anything about dark creatures, in particular, Boggarts?"
I resisted a grimace, managing to suppress that particular bad memory, but noticed many others couldn't. That lesson was educational, if nothing else. Being chronically afraid of falling as I was, I'd often wondered what would've happened if that last Boggart had managed to get near me last time. I hoped she wasn't about to give another one a chance.
I'm sure we could all answer the question, but apprehension was an effective silencer for most. Without fail, Lily's hand shot into the air.
With a highly practiced skill she regurgitated the information she'd read from some book or another, "A Boggart is a shape shifter with the power to turn into whatever a person fears most. The natural form of a Boggart is a mystery of magic, and it is unknown if a Boggart does, in fact, have a 'neutral' state as a popular theory states it may always be in a position of transformation, most probably the last victim's fear or forced form, until it encounters another."
"Excellent, ten points to Gryffindor." Lily's cheeks flushed with pride while she endured the death glares coming from the Slytherin side of the classroom with practiced ease.
"Yes," Vance continued, "Boggarts are particularly nasty creatures, but luckily there is a simple charm that can be used to repel one. I suggest you pay attention Mr Black, there's one in this room." She said with a slight smile on her face, leaning back against the silver chest casually. As she did the chest gave a slight jump.
Black detached himself from his hushed discussion with Potter. "Say what?" But before the teacher could reply, similar cries of distress came from all throughout the room. Vance finally managed to settle them all down but everyone still wore expressions of varying levels of stress and panic.
"The charm to deal with a Boggart is riddikulus. But the word alone isn't enough, what really destroys a Boggart is laughter."
Well that certainly would have been nice to know a few months ago. We stuffed up the laughing part, and when the first person to face it is afraid of giants…
Vance smiled reassuringly, "It's not all that difficult. The charm forces the creature to take the form of your choice. Make it funny and the Boggart doesn't stand a chance. Can anyone tell me how to spell actually works?" Vance brought her hands together. The single clap echoed in the dead silence of the room.
The light and cheery expression disappeared. "No one? Please tell me that you former teachers have seen fit to at least give you the fundamental understanding of what magic is?"
Her tone invited no answer or contradiction, but true to form, the Marauders disregarded this.
"But, Professor, we've been taught how to do the magic, isn't that enough?" Ah, Potter, bad move.
"Only if a primitive casting is all you ever aspire to achieve," she barked out starkly. "A true master of magic knows what it is they are doing and how it works, they understand that magic is more than a tool and it goes further than blood. Most people never struggle past the most basic form of magic."
Her tone softened, "Now, does anyone know what magic is? Just give me a definition. Or a guess, I'll take those too."
"Its energy," some boy from the Slytherin side of the classroom muttered.
She nodded in agreement, "To some extent. There is magical energy, but that's not what magic, in essence, is. Magical energy is simply just a form of energy that is particularly useful in conveying intention and travels through weak mediums, mainly air, in sometimes visible pulses. It is converted from other energy by a witch, elf, or any other magical convertor. Every action involves energy and forces. But magic isn't just an influential force either: that is what we refer to as magical force, and just gravity and friction does, it exists in the world and constantly impacts all things. There are Laws of Magic, dictating what magic cannot do, chief among which being that energy can't be created or destroyed, and similarly, the four fundamental forces cannot be altered. Normally, the only thing stopping sound energy turning into light is method and reason. That's what magic is. It's the missing link between intent and action. With the right intent, anything is possible. Depending on what signatures are exchanged by objects, magic can do four basic things. You may have heard of the four Layers of Magic?"
Silence. A few exchanged glances. More silence.
Professor Vance let her head fall onto her hands with a heavy sigh that was clearly exasperated, "We have a long way to go…"
She soon snapped back into full teacher mode, "The layers, or effects, have the ability to forge magical bonds, influence energy or forces, and alter what we perceive as an object in what you'd call Transfiguration. All spells are a combination or variation of the four basic effects of magic. I expect 11 inches on the Layers by next lesson." –cue the collective class groan– "But for now, I assume only a handful of you have ever picked up a Muggle textbook? Yes, that's as I thought, we'll just have to plough on regardless. Tell me, what forces act upon, say, a person standing still?"
"Gravity," I muttered, amazed that there was a question I could answer.
"Yes, but that's not all. A great wizard and alchemist, Isaac Newton, worked out that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. So, when someone is standing on the ground their weight is causing gravity to act downwards onto the ground, but the ground meets that force with an opposite one. If the forces were unbalanced our hypothetical person would sink or rise. When forces are unbalanced there is motion, otherwise an object would be inclined to remain in its state until acted upon by a different force." As she spoke the chalk inscribed diagrams on the board. The stickmen all looked a bit like mashed potatoes. "So now can anyone tell me how Wingardium Leviosa works?"
"You remove gravity?" Someone suggested.
"No. Ignoring the fact that gravity is one of the fundamental forces and unable to be influenced by magic, it doesn't just act upon an object and however amusing it may be, removing gravity would be marginally problematic."
"Then you increase the upward force exerted by the ground?"
"Exactly. It has the same effect as removing gravity but with less effort and issues: the object essentially becomes weightless and a little intent can have it moving around in no time."
The lesson continued in a similar manner for the remaining 47 minutes. My poor barely-Muggly-educated brain was forced to bring up long forgotten information just to be able comprehend half of what she was saying. I almost felt sorry for the Purebloods; they were watching her with gaping mouths.
I hung back after the class had been dismissed and waited until everyone had filled out before approaching her desk. I wasn't particularly looking forward to more information overloading, but my fruitless attempts at producing even a hint of a patronus was grating on my nerves more than it probably should have.
By way of an explanation, I didn't expect myself to be able to pot evil plants or mix nasty concoctions in a cauldron, but spells were my forte, I hadn't encountered a single spell I couldn't conquer with enough time. It had become a matter of pride. It was personal. But more pressingly, it was really, really annoying me.
I was nervous. Talking to people, much less adults, was not something I generally excelled at. Of course, I had no idea how the correct social interaction was meant to proceed, I had to improvise and say the things I thought might possibly be right. Starting with some form of – I think they call it an icebreaker? – was probably the best way to begin.
"I want to learn how to cast a patronus."
Or I could just out and say it. No manners, no small talk, not even a warning. Oops.
"Oh, er, sorry. I meant could you maybe-please, teach me to, you know, cast a patronus?" Not my finest work. I think she managed to glean a meaning from my rabble though. That takes skill.
I'd expected a number of scrutinising questions, mainly at why a soon-to-be thirteen year old witch would want to cast a patronus. I had the answer prepared, it saved the mess of searching for an answer on the spot, but in following with the pattern, my knowledge on the predictability of the human race was, well, wrong.
"You're prepared to work hard?"
No moral related questions, nothing. Sure, I could work with that; one word answers were my favourite, "Yes."
"You sure? This magic is very advanced, it's not some trivial spell. It requires high concentration and remarkable skill, or, for the lesser mortals, understanding works just as well. But it's hard earned knowledge, it takes brains and guts to pull off."
Yeah, I'd gathered that much already. Thanks. "Yes."
"Alright then. On top of the essay I've already set, researching shield and repelling charms may prove beneficial. We all have to start somewhere, and, personally, I always love to start with the basics."
I didn't really know what to say to that, I settled for, "Ok."
She turned back to the giant chest, clearly dismissing me. I had to run, and even then I barely made it to my next lesson in time. It was just Charms, nothing remarkable. We had the class with the Ravenclaws, and I was lucky to get a desk to myself at the back. I found myself missing the Hufflepuffs; one in particular. He was a mystery, that boy.
You may be thinking; right, here we go, Reece is a nice guy –aww, ain't that sweet– but it's never going to last. If you are it's totally excusable, I assure you.
But I did see Reece Ottoman again, and quite often, actually. Later that night I was in the library battling my way through the Defence essay. It wasn't too hard, but it was not helped by the question that remained unanswered.
The question wasn't simple, not for me anyway. I just couldn't grasp why one Reece Ottoman seemed to want to be in my company. The most likely answer seemed to be what Reece had said himself: he found me interesting, and he thought my company was better than –and I quote– "those backstabbing Hufflepuff guys". I looked at the question and tossed it over in my mind, trying to find alternate, more plausible solutions, but I was going in circles, always arriving back at my original answer. It wasn't one of the defined and definite answers I preferred.
Reece made his appearance not five minutes after I'd grudgingly drawn that rusty conclusion. He announced himself with a very loud; "Do you known how long it took me to track you down?" Needless to say, after a telling off from the librarian we were kicked out, though quite impressively, I might add.
Reece's mildly startling and slightly creepy announcement unexpectedly made me feel guilty. After feeling guilty, I went on to feel plain lousy. I must've been the shittiest new friendish acquaintance on the planet. I resolved to make more effort, how hard could being considerate really be?
I'd known him for merely half a day, and already I felt closer to him than I ever had another human being. As half a day turned into half a week, I was coming to find that our odd relationship – that I could no longer deny was blossoming into a friendship – was well worth the extra effort.
I learnt a lot about him, first and foremost being that he loved to talk, so much so that despite me being the recipient, there was hardly a quiet moment between us. He had two older brothers, both in Ravenclaw, and Half-blood father and Pureblood mother. We liked mostly the same classes, although he didn't see the truth in the evil ways of Herbology and Potions. He also had a strange fetish with jam. One of the most common topics was Quidditch. His favourite team was from his hometown, the Appleby Arrows, and he led me to believe he wasn't too bad a player. These things he was quite happy to divulge, but there were a few touchy topics I learnt to steer clear of, namely details about his brothers, the fight he had with his dorm mates, and just the topic of politics altogether.
This immediately caught the attention of my curious nature, but I was practicing being considerate, so I held the questions down.
With all his jabbering I was well aware that the Quidditch season had officially begun, unfortunately. The first match of the year was never short of… interesting. The novelty never failed to strike everyone, and tensions between houses peeked. There was plenty of suspicion, backstabbing and countless other dirty sabotaging techniques. As a person commonly part of the collateral damage, I can assure you that being caught in the crossfire was not an enjoyable experience.
Our schedules didn't cross much, but it turned out we had Herbology together. He happened to work very well with plants, which brought about a significant drop in my tally of plant related near-death experiences per lesson. He couldn't stop them completely of course, I was far too good at annoying things for that, but generally a panicked, "Don't poke that, it'll eat your face!" was help enough.
I was soon presented with another pressing question: how did he survive the buffeting of my person repellent for hours a day? I couldn't answer that one at the time, but I hoped in was just a matter of waiting and watching. I found that the prospect didn't bother me; I fear I may have even enjoyed his company.
Saturday came, as Saturdays tend to do. It was the first weekend after I'd met Reece, and a long conversation later, his superior coercion skills resulted in it taking less time than my resilience would care to admit to get me down onto the Quidditch pitch.
It was really only the mention of pineapple that had gotten me from the sanctuary of the castle. But after looking around, I noticed there was no pineapple in sight and I was immediately suspicious, "You're serious about this? What are we even doing here?"
Almost everyone else was at Hogsmeade, but Reece had kept his unofficial promise and remained behind with me.
His answer was almost fiercely determined. "We are going to have fun, and yes, I am going to be totally serious about it." He grinned at that. I rolled my eyes.
He frogmarched me to the broom shed, and after pulling out one of the dreaded sticks with twigs on them, he held the broom out to me.
I glared at it, the horrible nasty thing. "I don't fly."
He tilted his head in a way I assumed was curious. "You can't?"
Was I somehow not clear? "I could, if I wanted to. But I don't."
"Well, why not?" He asked as if it was a simple matter. It wasn't, I couldn't just describe what I was feeling, there was a nasty level of fear there I wouldn't care to admit.
He took my lack of an answer as a positive response, "Then grab the broom and get in the air. Relax, nothing bad will happen."
I really didn't have much of a choice, Reece was one of those people who'd never shut up until they got their way, and I'd never have the patience to deal with that.
For the first half hour or so, I hovered no more than a few millimetres off the ground. Really, I've jumped higher. When I finally decided to go properly fast, most of the time my feet brushed the ground. You could've traced my route by the flattened and occasionally uprooted grass left in my wake.
Reece followed me, shouting encouragement, but occasionally he'd laugh and say I looked like a large psychotic swallow zipping around along the ground. Then he'd quickly fly out of range so I couldn't wallop him. See, he knew me too well, even back then.
It was thrilling and terrifying like nothing I'd ever experienced. The wind was deafening, I couldn't hear anything besides its howling. But I was hesitant to move onto the next challenge: throwing the quaffle. Removing my hands from where they'd possessively latched onto the broom handle seemed like a bad idea. Reece convinced me otherwise. He pelted me with the stupid thing from above and, as it turned out, he had quite good aim. I convinced my nerves to detach a hand, catch it, then hurl it back. By some miracle it went in his general direction and with enough force to send him into a backflip. We both laughed at that.
The quaffle had a bit of weight to it, and each time I caught it my balance would shift, the broom would dip, and my heart would leap to my throat. Experiencing these near-painful encounters but somehow avoiding a face full of dirt each time was immensely satisfying.
We played around for hours. At one point Reece said, with notable surprise, that I was getting the hang of it. He then suggested that we should find some bludgers to make things more interesting. I fiercely opposed that idea, instead calling for a lunch break to appease The Beast within.
In the empty Great Hall, our eager discussion about the finer points of the game seemed oddly loud. But we quickly got distracted and the conversation took a different turn.
"Come on, just try it, it's really not as bad as it looks." He was gesturing to one of his sauce, jam and cheese sandwiches.
"Nah thanks, I'll pass."
"Just a bite!"
"I'm not keen for a trip to the hospital wing; if your choice ingredients don't kill me the matron just might."
At his disbelieving look I persisted, "She hates me, she'll see my weakened state as a prime opportunity to finish me off."
"Unless you're allergic to pure awesome, the sandwich won't hurt you. You didn't want to try flying, but that was fun, right? Just one bite. One tiny bite."
There's nothing more annoying than undisputable logic.
"Ah, fine, but when I do this, you're going to have to eat one of those pineapple skewers dipped in peanut butter," I offered, splattering jam onto a slice of bread as I did so.
He shook his head, grinning slightly, "If I have to eat a whole skewer, you have to eat a whole sandwich."
"No way! The sandwich has four ingredients, the skewer only has two."
"It has three: the stick definitely counts."
"Only if you eat it, and even then I'm still one up."
"I'll add some jam to mine too then."
Ah, not so fast! He liked jam. "Nope. Jelly."
"Fine then."
"Fine."
We stared at each other, our bizarre concoctions on the plates before us. He looked determined to win, I imagine I looked the same. The atmosphere reminded me of my first duel in DADA. I lost that one, but only barely. I'd never liked losing by any margin.
"GO!"
Who made it a race, you ask? I have no idea, I just stuffed the sandwich in my mouth and took a bite. That was a mistake- I almost gagged. The texture was horrible: slimy, chewy and dry all at the same time. Then there was the taste; it was a like a bunch of too sweat berries had been passed through a cow, and then garnished with something overpoweringly tangy.
Reece wasn't faring much better. The squishy pineapple and clammy spread probably didn't go well together, and the stick and jelly didn't seem to be agreeing with him. Ha.
I finished first, while Reece was still chewing the last of his skewer. I figured that mean I'd won, but Reece wasn't having any of it, resulting in round two, which was soon followed by rounds three, four and so on.
I won't name everything we came up with, mainly because I try to forget, but also because just imagining it will likely give you nightmares and/or put you in intensive care.
The next was one of my favourites, I was quite proud of coming up with the onion, honey and egg blend. But then Reece made a duplicate and officially declared it a race, and I was feeling marginally less thrilled. A few minutes later I lost the round.
The lemon burger was a product of Reece's imagination. It was basically just a whole lemon and some unidentified meat encased in bread. It was worse than it sounded.
The recipe of Sweet Revenge: half fill a pitcher with pumpkin juice and milk, add three parts chicken and two parts salt. Garnish generously with fruit loops and chilli for added effect. Mix well. Present the smoothie and with a little sympathy, but the dish is best served cold.
I'll say no more, other than that Bertie Botts could take lessons from us, our imaginations were that sick.
Too many gruesome dishes latter, and a visit to the Hospital wing was looking increasingly like a good idea. But after barely eating an unmentionable meal, I'd brought the scores back to a tie, and I had one more idea.
A few metres down the table sat an untouched jar of vegemite. I made the mistake once of applying the mysterious spread rather too generously to a piece of toast. The stuff is nice, but I'll say it's strong, and leave it at that.
I pointed at it, a wicked smirk on my face, "There. Three large tablespoons."
He didn't look concerned, "That it? A'right, what is it?"
"Vegemite. You've never had it?"
"Nope."
Even better. I resisted a smile, "You have no idea what you've been missing."
He retrieved the jar, grabbed a spoon, and dug in. He shovelled in the first spoonful quite confidently, but that soon changed. The first sign of trouble was his eyes watering. He pulled the half eaten spoon from his mouth and chocked the rest down.
I grimaced, glaring at the spoon reproachfully. "Thanks for that, I may just lose my lunch." Not that I'd be too disappointed.
"What is in that?" He yelled hoarsely.
I ignored him, carrying on with a more cheerful tone, "They've sold it quite cleverly, haven't they? Packing it in an innocent jar to confuse the victim into believing that it's actually edible in quantity. Very smart."
He gagged down the rest of the first spoonful, then miserably went for the second, "Ugh, I think it just moved!"
I resisted an evil cackle. It was moment appropriate, but would probably creep him out.
The second spoonful followed the first. His eyes were seriously streaming now.
"You give up?" I asked eagerly.
He hesitated for a moment, then nodded.
I stood victoriously, and yes, such an action is quite possible if you're feeling smug enough.
"Come on, buddy," I said a little sympathetically, watching him guzzle down goblet after goblet of pumpkin juice, "Points for trying."
"Really?"
"Sure, I guess we can still leave it as a tie, but just as long as we don't have to have a rematch."
He blanched at the thought. Maybe my nasty imagination made him slightly nervous. That was probably just as well. "Deal."
We shook on it, just because that's what friends do.
