CHAPTER TWO
Bash wakes up in her four-pallets-one-mattress bed on September 1st with toes playing footsie under her shirt. The alarm has spent the last twelve minutes waking their overworked Puerto Rican neighbours, rather than the two pretend-sleeping women in the shoebox-sized bedroom. Whatever time it is, it´s too early and too bloody bright. Bash covers her eyes with the sticky crook of her elbow. Sweaty summer nights are the worst.
The foot nudges her stomach and she ignores it stubbornly, sighing into the smelly morning air. It continues to tap it´s way up to her hipbone, then giving it a hard shove. Next thing she knows, she´s lying on the carpet floor, the air knocked out of her lungs.
Bash groans. "That´s it Winther, you´re going down."
She grabs the ankle of the pale leg dangling above her and tugs roughly. Vionnet shrieks into her pillow and the mattress shifts over the edge if the palettes. Seizing the girl by her thigh, she pulls again. She lands on top of her as a heap of bony kicking limbs and protesting sounds. Ugh.
"Gerroff me, you bloody toothpick! Are ya tryna stab me with those?!" She howls over the alarm.
Vionnet laughs too damn close to her left ear and lifts herself, knee pressing between Bash´s thighs and hands on ear side of the loose ringlets clouding about her head. She simpers down at her and the blue irises shift into a milky lavender tone. The early sunrays catch her face and make it glow.
Bash squints against the brightness. The leg brushes up higher between hers and her lips part, breathing out shakily. Vionnet´s right hand moves off the carpet, up to her knee and slides down the thigh of her tilted leg. White fingers softly drag over her dark skin, contrasting like snow on a forest ground.
Needy, she arches her hips closer to Vionnet´s knee and eases her legs apart. The Metamorphmagus takes the hint, inching closer until she rubs the cotton of Bash´s panties. She grinds against it. Vionnet catches her moan with her mouth, French kissing her moistly. Despite the sour taste, Bash´s dull nails scrape lightly beneath Vionn´s fiery red hair and pull her closer. Their breasts graze through two layers of clothes, a coiling warmth sinks into her stomach. She doesn´t hold back her moans, she wants this too badly.
"Fuck," she hisses into the kiss, clenching her thick thighs around the leg.
Vionnet´s lips suck down her jawline, her throat, and then her collarbone. Through hooded eyes, Bash stares up the water-flecked ceiling for a moment before she realizes what she is doing. Finger pads skim across the tattoo between her tits and she freezes up.
"Stop," Bash says a little shakily to Vionnet, who´s still bruising her flesh. "Jesus, Vionnet, stop!"
The Metamorphmagus complies and gazes down at her, lips red. "Are you ticklish or something?"
"No," she exhales, "We shouldn´t– We´re not doing this, Vionnet."
For a moment she sways between hugging the nose-pierced girl and pushing her away. Eventually her hands grasp the exposed shoulders and give them a little shove.
"Oh," she understands, crawling off of her. "Ouch."
Bash wishes she could stand up and spurt out the door when she notices Vionnet´s eyes glazing over with tears. God, she´s such a wanker. She feels her crying more than she sees it, pretends she doesn´t and accios her crutches to her. In a few clumsy movements, she is standing and clumps towards the bathroom, clicking the alarm off on the way.
-RWAC-
She continuously hates herself when she limps into the kitchen, prosthesis on, hair sopping and cheese-toasty awaiting her. Elbows on the counter, Vionnet is gulping down her earl grey, eyes skimming over The Daily Prophet. TWENTY MUGGLES DEAD IN EAST DULWICH, the front page says and Bash looks away. Last time it were seventeen in Colindale. She just prays she´ll never wake up to a Muggle-Massacre in Hackney. She doesn´t know what she would be capable of, if she ever does.
"More innocent killed for nothing," Vionnet informs Bash in a yawn.
"Yeah," she bites into the toast.
"Do you even care?" The Metamorphmagus snaps accusingly.
"´S not like I can help them, is it? What´s done is done."
"God, you´re such a bitch!"
"Says the bird who shoves her tongue down my throat every opportunity she gets."
Vionnet sets her mug down and tea splashes over her hand. "Fuck you, Bastienne."
"You wish," Bash arrogantly smirks at her and feels like a twat for it. She doesn´t want to be one, though. It just comes genetically, like ginger hair to Irish people or jug ears to Albanians.
"Alright," Vionn says with more politeness than anyone else would manage. "Is your trunk packed?"
"Yes, mama." She snarks and finishes eating.
The Metamorphmagus stares at her, before she starts shrinking to Bash´s height. Her skin tone darkens to a reddish brown and her straight hair shifts into tight caramel curls. Lips puffing up and nose tilting upwards, Bash recognizes herself.
"The fuck you doin´ that for?"
"I have to look like your mum to bring you to the station, don´t I?" She explains, giving herself crowfeet, baggy cheeks, and a few grey strands of hair as well.
"My mum´s a fifty year old blonde white hooker."
"Oh." She fades back into herself and studies her with a quizzical expression. "I didn´t know that."
"Shocker," Bash snorts.
Vionnet blows out a defeated sigh. "What am I to do then?"
"Nothin´. I can handle it."
"Don´t you think it would be a tad dodgy if you showed up at King´s Cross alone?"
"´m not exactly a first year, ya know? A seventh year going to school alone, don´t make me look suspicious." Bash counters and claps the breadcrumbs off her hands.
The Metamorphmagus eyes the crumbs warily, saying: "Except that you´re not a seventh year, Bash. You could easily teach there."
"Oi, twenty-three isn´t that fucking old, and I can pull of a teenager." She shoots back and points at herself with two fingers.
"Really?" Vionnet raises a lime-green brow.
"Oh my god, mum I told you a million times, this stinking punk is my boyfriend! We´re gonna get married on a Rock Concert someday. Why can´t you just accept him? I hate you!"
Amused, her lips quirk into a smile. "God gracious, you´re terrible."
"Bite me, Winther," Bash chuckles, levitating her trunk to the front door.
Her hair is still wet in some parts and frizzing in others, but the sun is beaming through the small square window, so she decides to not dry it. She scoops up the breadcrumbs, throws them into the sink, tugs down her shot shorts a bit and plods to the door.
"You gon´ drive me or not?" She asks over her shoulder.
"Sure. Let me grab my keys." Vionnet says, marching into the bedroom and returning with a bag dangling from her shoulder.
Bash pulls on the oversized jean-jacket she bought last week. She adores the message it sends. Fuck you, you fucking fuck is stitched onto the back in large punch-pink letters. Quite poetic, really.
"Nice jacket," The Metamorphmagus comments as they exit.
-RWAC-
Despite the tiger-print platform shoes, Bash is barely a head taller than the first years crowding Platform 9 ¾. She pushes her trolley forward, parting the group like Moses did the Red Sea. Some soccer mom sends her a boorish glare and she refrains from flipping her off, because seventeen year olds were supposed to be respectful towards elders.
"Fucking cunt," she mumbles to herself, doing exactly what a seventh year would do.
The railway station clock is ticking up to 10:45 am and Bash figures she should get on the train. Truth to be told, she dreads trains or any moving mode of transportation except walking. She always gets train-sick and no meds could exorcize this out of her. Naturally, she isn´t too excited to board the steam locomotive either.
She walks half the length of Hogwarts Express and levitates her trunk into the train, before she follows. The narrow corridor is mucky filled with teenagers, eleven to eighteen of age and Bash already hates it. She never got along too good with younger folks. But necessarily for the case, she´d have to try.
May the hunt for a compartment begin! She squeezes down the corridor, mumbling French pardons to whoever´s foot her prosthesis squishes. Most compartments are overfilled or occupied by hormonal couples. Bash doesn´t want to be part of either of those.
She finds one, a long way down, empty except for one person. Inside sits a boy her age, a ruby headscarf wrapped skilfully around the top of his head. He dresses in leather pants, crummy army boots and a shirt labelled Sex Pistols in frill pink and yellow. Both, his headwear and clothes clash like a ball gown and flip-flops. Some would refer to it as interesting choice, Bash would more likely use the term catastrophic.
Bash slides the compartment-door open and hears the bloke hiss: "Piss off, Prongs."
"Excusez-moi?" She grumbles and his head twists towards her. Bash stares, she can´t help it. He has strange eyes – a clear, silvery grey, like the gun her sister Nika hides behind her bedpost. His tawny beige skin and the red scarf have his irises stand out even more. Jesus, he is absurdly attractive.
"I´m sorry?" He says confused, and the voice, she notes, doesn´t match the owner. It´s too soft with a hint of forced lowness. Too light to be male. Oh. Oh.
"That is what I said." She claims in a trained French accent after a while and feels the locomotive start moving.
Bash pays no attention to his on-going confusion and wordlessly seats herself opposite from him. Luckily she chose the right side, the one not driving backwards.
Fifteen minutes into the train ride, her stomach begins protesting and she feels sick. Her neck is boiling with heat, face greying. Bash lies down, the jean-jacket folded under her head.
"Merde," She gulps and closes her eyes. The mere knowledge of how many hours she´ll have to spend in this fucking thing makes her want to avada kedavra herself. How in Merlin´s name is she supposed to suffer through this? She can´t even bloody apparate without vomiting her guts out.
"You alright?" The bloke interrupts her thoughts. Ugh, even that fucking voice is queerly attractive. But he´s also illegal. Sixteen, seventeen at most. She can´t fantasize over 1001 Nights as his Scheherazade. She can´t be Princess Badroulbadour rubbing his wonderful oil lamp. He can´t be Ali Baba opening her sesame and stealing her goods. Jesus fucking Christ, she needs to stop.
A window opens above her and the wind tosses her curly hair into her face. But the fresh air soothes the train-sickness a bit, so she doesn´t mind. After a while, she dreams of 22 Tudor Road.
-RWAC-
The mumbling hat is barely sat on her head before it shouts out, loud and clear: "SLYTHERIN!"
The table under the ivy-green snake banner erupts in claps, cheers and whistles. Whilst the others join unenthusiastically, some of the red lions even boo. She spots Aladdin between them. Bloody Tossers.
Bash ridiculously slides down the high stool like the First Years have to and lumbers towards the Slytherin table. She slides in across from a hijabi girl, then focusing her attention back on Professor McGonagall, as said witch calls out names.
"Ahmetovic Vedad!" A pale-skinned boy with two missing teeth in his wide grin climbs onto the seat. "GRYFFINDOR!"
He gets a hearty welcome to the table of the previously booing mob.
"Honeycutt Shelby!" – "SLYTHERIN!"
"Janowski Andrzej!" – "HUFFLEPUFF!"
"Janowska Anka!" – "SLYTHERIN!"
"Lamar Gilroy!" – "RAVENCLAW!"
"Latty Frankie!" Bash´s head snaps out the haze. Frankie.
How is he eleven already? And a wizard too? Christ, when she´s last seen him he was still holding onto Nika´s skirt and gnawing off the wood from a pencil. And now, she only recognizes him when his name is called out. Freckles are crowding on his face, ginger ponytail reaching past his shoulders. He used to cut it short. The sneakers she remembers though, brown and worn down. Bash nicked them from that posh twat´s porch when she was nine. She shone them up every morrow before skipping to school.
After her and Benjamin, she never would´ve guessed there´d be a third wizard in the family. But Barbara´s fanny is as mysterious as a surprise egg, so you never know.
"GRYFFINDOR!" The sorting-hat yells, startling her.
An affro-haircut bloke at the Ravenclaw table balances on his bench and hollers. Bash stiffens when she assumes, but already knows who it is.
The reason this investigation will go a shit-ton harder.
Benjy.
A/N: Review?