Chapter Thirteen: Booze and Pleasantries

That party was the most positively, absolutely, horrendously worst thing I've ever subjected myself to in the history of time itself. Teachers! Something they never tell you about teachers is that they never stop thinking about teaching. It's all blah, blah, seventh-year Ravenclaw this and fourth-year Slytherin that, curriculum this and corridor duty that. Boring! There was music, but Flitwick had been in charge of it, and no offence to the guy, but his music taste sucks like a vacuum. Punch! The punch was the only redeeming quality of that horrific so-called party. It wasn't very strong but since I'd had nothing better to do I'd just sat on my navy chair, drinking punch and talking to the table in front of me. It didn't reply but it shrugged sometimes if I asked it a direct question. Unfortunately I had to stop that eventually when people started complaining that their drinks left on the table kept spilling. I think the punchbowl had a charm on it that made it self-refill whenever it got low, because I never saw anyone refilling it but it always seemed to have enough in there. Needless to say, with nothing better to do than to drink, I ended up making vain attempts to walk in a straight line out of the staff room and I may have propositioned a bookshelf. Then that horrible old bat Pince looked down her big nose at me and Severus looked like he was fighting the urge to burst out laughing. And the next morning… bleh.

It was a good thing it was a Saturday and thusly there were no classes, because I definitely would have vomited in a cauldron. I skipped breakfast yet again because my bathroom floor was desperate for a catch-up. I felt afterwards like that hour and a half I spent lying on the floor going 'urrrrgh' was really good for the both of us. After the contents of my stomach had been purged completely from my convulsing stomach, I saw fit to exit my bedroom and make my way to Hogsmeade for the first breakfast I'd had in days. I knew of a nice place that did all-day breakfast (I'd had several Saturday mornings like this in my own time as a student here) and that was my destination. I felt so icky that I didn't even bother making myself look nice, I just threw on jeans and a t-shirt and staggered down to the village.

Once I had my breakfast in front of me my stomach immediately stopped feeling so nauseous. Very polite of it, I thought as I scarfed down the bacon and eggs with all the grace of a warthog. I took my time a little more with the coffee, relishing the slightly bitter taste and thanking the Breakfast Gods that the barista hadn't burnt it. If there's one thing I can't stand, it's burnt coffee. It ruins the whole thing and you have to add about seventeen sugars just to make it halfway decent. But then, of course, because of all the sugar it makes you sick. It's a lose-lose situation. It's always better to just avoid the whole thing and find a barista who knows what they're doing. After my completely awesome breakfast, I felt a lot better and so I figured I'd go to the Three Broomsticks for a butterbeer. Just one couldn't hurt my still-thumping headache, since they're about as strong as Professor Binns. I would have called him by his first name, except for the life of me I couldn't think of what it was. I couldn't remember ever having been told it, or having ever found it out through any means. It was quite ridiculous. I made a mental note to ask someone when I got back to the castle, but before I could think any more I was startled by someone sitting down at my small corner table. I'd picked a corner table specifically so that I wouldn't be bothered by bar patrons, but apparently my sneaky plan hadn't worked. Though, if anyone was going to invade my privacy, I was almost pleased it was him.

He was very, very pretty. It seems odd to describe a boy as being pretty, but there it was. He was just that. Pretty. He had large blue eyes with long eyelashes, and long, messy brown hair. Bloody hell, why hadn't I put some makeup on that morning? Or brushed my hair? Or my teeth, for that matter? And I hadn't even showered, I must have stunk like old socks. Or vomit. I couldn't decide which was worse, vomit or old socks. Both equal, I figured eventually, before he opened his mouth and began to say something.

"Hi," he said. Oh, lovely. He was one of those people. The people that don't have anything of any consequence to say other than 'hi', and then they expect you to pick up the conversation slack. Well, I wasn't going to. We could sit here all day if we had to, just waiting for him to say something interesting.

"Hey." Damnit!

"I don't usually do this – actually, I never do this, but I just came in and I thought you looked really, really -"

"Horrid!" I cried, putting my head down onto the table, cautiously avoiding my butterbeer. "I normally look okay, but I only just woke up and last night I got very, very pissed and this morning I felt so icky and… it's not nice."

"That sounded like a mouthful." He sounded slightly amused, slightly worried. I wondered if the next thing I would hear would be the sliding of his chair against the stone floor and the sound of his shoes walking away from this insane, disgusting-looking woman. Surprisingly, he spoke again. "I was going to say, gorgeous."

"You were not," I cried from my cozy position with my face pressed against the table. "It's not my fault I got pissed last night and now I smell like old socks or sick or something…"

"I can't smell you," he said. "Though I do have a cold right now."

I brought my head up from the table to look at him. If this was what he looked like sick, I would have liked to see him healthy. So pretty! I was almost suffering from an overload of pretty. I was about to have a heart attack from all the pretty. It was actually causing clots to form in my bloodstream. I had to stop looking at him, for two reasons: my health, and his sanity. I was sure that I was creeping him out to no end with my slack-jawed, wide-eyed gazing. Fortunately, I had the presence of mind to tear my eyes away and concentrate on my drink. It was delicious, and I was feeling great.

"So," he said, attempting a weak smile, "I'm not really sure what I'm supposed to say now."

"Supposed to say?" I asked, confused. "I don't think you're supposed to say anything, I think you should just say whatever you feel like. I do. Though that's probably not the best way to live."

"Well, you don't seem too damaged by it," he laughed. "And I had a conversation all planned out, you see… I was almost pissing myself before, I was so scared of coming over and talking to you."

"Am I frightening?"

"No… you're just very pretty. And not what I expected." He didn't look displeased by this notion. In fact, he seemed quite overjoyed at my peculiarity. That was all to the good, I figured. I could never keep up a conversation with someone who didn't appreciate my quirks. That was why I had to have those one-sided conversations with Severus. He just didn't understand me. "Sorry… I'm sorry if I've come across as a bit odd. I just have issues with saying the right thing at the right time."

"Oh, you and me both," I said, taking a drink. "I tend to shout whatever I'm thinking. My co-workers all think I've gone mental."

"Well, I promise not to cast aspersions on your sanity," he said with a small laugh. "Now, can I buy you a drink or are you still feeling night-beforey?"

I thought for about half a second. "The day Raphaela Vialle refuses a drink is her funeral," I said loudly. "And even then I might come back as a ghost to get someone to pour booze into my cold, dead esophagus."

"Well, that's a fabulous mental image," he said, but he was smiling. "I'll go get something nice for your esophagus, shall I?"

Mmm, delicious. He looked almost as good from behind as he did from the front. He returned a few minutes later with two very pink, very girly-looking drinks.

"I thought something easy to start with," he said, setting down a drink in front of me. "Wouldn't want you throwing up all over the floor, that would be quite revolting."

"Ha! Easy? Difficult is my middle name!" I said, downing the drink in one gulp and slamming the glass back down on the table with a loud bang. "Firewhisky!" I called to the bartender, who complied in an instant with two flaming shots. This guy needed to learn exactly what I was about, which was everything in excess, and damn the consequences. Damn them, I say! Of course, the consequences might be me being violently sick all over the place, but damn them! Vomiting was just part of the Raphaela Vialle experience. Vomiting and saying insane things.