Hello, there. It is updated. I know, I know...finally. I am so very sorry for not updating for ages, but I've just been crazy overwhelmed with work. But I just had a week of holiday, so I've had time. And up here the next chapter goes! I'll post the next one very soon, not to worry. It is almost complete. I promise...I think…

Anyway, enjoy!

And drop in a review to say hi! Have missed you all!

xx

johnnydicaprio


I don't care what anybody says.

I don't care if Mina, half the girls' dormitory, or even the whole house repeats it.

Not that they would.

But that's beside the point.

And I'm getting to the point.

About this date, for lack of a better word, as Mina so kindly pointed it out. If I were talking, I'd spit that word particularly vehemently to express my hatred towards the adjective that is used to describe this…this…treachery – yes, that's precisely what it should be called, and no it is not too harsh, and shut up.

I did not agree to go on this thing on purpose.

I am not eager to go on it, I do not want to go on it, in fact, I think I'd rather eat a whole Gryndilow if it'll save me from going out anywhere with that plonker.

In fact, if someone pranced up to me right now, and declared that I could be freed from this excursion by agreeing to marry Slughorn, I think I'd just about do it.

Maybe. It would require some deep thought, but I'm inclined to believe Slughorn would win in the end.

I'd even go as far as marrying Filch.

Alright? Do you believe me now?

Am I being clear enough?

Yes. That's what I thought. I think it's the Filch comment that did it.

I have no idea what made me accept. Yes, the cat's out of the bag – not that there ever was a cat…or a bag – I don't know why I said yes.

My brain was momentarily, and precisely at the worst moment possible – when a James Potter, having a particularly good hair-day asked me something he's asked me, oh, I don't know, a billion times – possessed by some alien creature unknown to man, and manipulated my thoughts and motor skills to say yes to someone I've said no to about three-hundred and forty-eight times.

Yes, I counted.

No, I am not crazy.

Yes, I know you're disinclined to believe that, but witness me ignoring you.

The fact is, I think someone is playing a very, very cruel joke on me. And I'm the only one not laughing, as it happens. I have the inkling feeling that someone is going to pounce at me from behind my wardrobe door and declare that it's April Fools and I'm only imagining that it's Christmas, and the whole ten feet of snow thing is just a figment of my imagination.

That, or I've been lying in a coma for the past seven years and that James Potter doesn't really exist. Or that he died in a tragic gardening accident.

Oh, a girl can dream.

Honestly, I think I've convinced everyone that I don't want to go. If James were here, I could put up a fair argument against him as well.

Not that I ever would.

Because that would be rude.

And I'm head girl.

And head-girls are never rude.

Unless they are in a queue and need special treatment.

"GET OUT OF MY WAY, OR I'LL EXPELL YOU ALL!" – Seems to work quite well at moments when I need to get somewhere in a hurry. For example, racing for the morning plain bagel.

Not that I ever said that to obtain bagels. That makes it sound like I am drunk with power. Which I am not.

Moving on.

I've never really realized that dressing oneself could be so time-consuming. Because I've never really had to dress myself.

That doesn't mean that my mum dresses me every morning or I walk around starkers. Hogwart's has uniforms. Skirt, shirt, robes, head-girl badge, the whole shebang. So, I have never really felt the need to pay particular attention to what clothes I put on my back.

But blast James Potter to hell, I'm going on an…outing…with him, and now I spectacularly need the ability to pick out matching clothes, and matching shoes, and matching everything…and this is expected from a girl who has difficulty picking out matching socks.

I thought this was supposed to be an innate trait for girls. Like maternal instincts, they're supposed to kick in whenever you have real need of it.

Apparently, it's not.

Or maybe, there's something wrong with me.

Which is something I've suspected for a very long time.

BOOM – and magically you are able to put together a spectacularly splendiferous outfit that you look absolutely spiffing in. And unfortunately, there is no textbook I can study and memorize to get better at this. I'll just have to accept that I'll be badly dressed my entire life. If it had anything to do with actual magical skill, I'd excel at it. Of course. Life is unfair, indeed.

Besides, it's like half of my bloody clothes have disappeared. I am not kidding, or being overly-dramatic, but my trunk is half-empty.

This is an utter and complete disaster.

I mean, I know Myrtle hates me – the flushing was an accident! That girl can hold a grudge, let me tell you – and some of the ghosts are a little irked because I tell them off when they creep out little first years, but I don't deserve to be treated like this. I am a good person.

I WANT MY CLOTHES BACK! YOU HEAR ME?

I'm shaking my fist at nothing in particular. I think I've lost my brain completely now. I am threatening thin air. This isn't healthy.

And Peeves can't get in here…right?

Right.

Of course he can't.

I'm just being silly.

Silly, little, Lily, as Potter would say.

Eurgh.

I should just wear the first thing that I can get my hands on.

Yes.

No.

That's a Halloween costume. Unless I would like to go on this thing as Little Bo Peep.

And I do not.

Potter would probably follow me around as my sheep for the day, and I will not have that.

Aha. This'll do. No it won't. It's ghastly. Agh. It's like pink threw up on it. Or Petunia.

Petunia…

Oh, God. I've packed one of Petunia's shirts. Oh…there's going to hell to pay when I get back this summer. What a thing to look forward to, is it not?

What's worse, is that I've been staring at myself in the mirror for over two hours, in fact, I've been standing for so long, blood has pooled in my feet, and my brain isn't working properly. Which is probably why my reflection has two noses and four eyes.

Great. Now I have double vision. This day just keeps getting better and better.

Is it possible to want to avoid someone so much that I actually want to invent a Time-Turner that will turn time forwards? Is it magically possible? Because if it is, I demand one this instant.

I could fast forward through the day, and end up cozy in my bed with all my limbs attached, without Potter's blood on my hands. Or his lips on mine.

I think I'm going to be sick.

When I talked to Potter this morning – translation: when I marched up to him and demanded, "What exactly are you planning to do with me this afternoon?" To which, he of course allotted different and many disgusting connotations – he said 'dress casual.'

Casual.

I can do casual. Yeah. Of course I can do casual. Since I am such a casual person, and I'm in such a casual place right now.

…What exactly is casual? This is all mind games that I refuse to take part in. I will not have my brain condensed to jelly by the end of this, do you hear me? I can wear whatever I want. I will not be manipulated. My character is too strong.

I wonder if I look pretty today... - shut up, brain! I said strong character, not a slimy little pushover!

Then again, I still found myself spending nearly three hours getting ready for something that I apparently don't even want to go to in the first place. I am a rather peculiar person. Bordering on self-harming, I think.

I have never spent so much time preparing for anything – ever. I showered, primped and preened in the bathroom for an extremely unnecessary amount of time (who needs seven different hair products in their hair, anyway?!) under the disapproving and annoyed gaze of Mina, put on some make up, only to remove it and curse myself for trying too hard. I then kept a firm resolve, and stopped my hands and brain from performing any other kind of beautifying routines, because I don't want to go to this thing in the first place.

That's right.

And all of this "not wanting to go" attitude has led me to standing in my dressing gown, near tears, looking down at the different outfits I laid out on my bed.

Meanwhile, Mina, though she agreed, (well, not so much agreed, as I tricked her, but never mind that now,) did not fail to disappoint with her reaction, nonetheless. She swore, shouted, screamed bloody murder, took her anger out on the dorm furniture, and actually pelted several bottles of ink towards the boys dormitories, only to hit poor, unsuspecting Frank full in the face with a color changing one. He swallowed some too, upon the impact, and we had to haul him to the hospital wing when his entire body turned a rather peculiar mix of rainbow colors.

And although it was rather amusing for Tessa and I that a fully grown witch threw a tantrum like a six year old, it all got less funny when Mina went absolutely ballistic and burnt her bed down.

Seriously. Burnt, her bed. As in the thing she sleeps in every night.

It is now a pile of ashes next to my suitcase.

The new bed the house-elves brought up a minute ago is next to mine too. Great. If she flips out in the middle of the night, I'm in range of her wand and spell-casting ability.

I'm probably going to wake up tomorrow with an eggplant for a head.

Wonderful.

The girls had a fun time with it; Rosalie and Evangeline ran around the burning bed and chanted things in ridiculous languages while Mina grumbled on the side like a naughty kid who'd been sent to the corner for punishment because she burnt her bed down.

Which is exactly what she had done.

Alice joined the savage bed-fire dance in an annoyed kind of trance, rightfully so, in my opinion, as her boyfriend had just been turned into a sodding queer parade.

Poor Frank.

I chanced to look into our shared sitting room after the bed-fire incident, to find that our couch was no longer…a couch per say…but more of a pile of stuffing and chicken feathers - obviously, she and her wand had been 'venting.' To be frank, it was taking vandalism to the extreme. Shreds of the couch lay across the little sitting room, along with bits of the futon and quilts, pieces of a fuzzy, Muppet-skin rug, and the crushed remains of a side lamp. And something that looked a lot like pieces of parchment and maybe pillows? I wasn't very sure.

Not to mention the ickle first years shaking in their boots. It looked like someone had thrown a hand grenade into the middle of a teddy-bear party and the only survivors had had their fur blown off.

But since then, I think she's quieted down and began dressing. Thank God. I'm sure the common room furniture feels grateful too.

Not that I'm much better.

I'd been pulling off the thirtieth shirt I'd tried on this morning when Tessa walked into the room and declared that I was overdoing it. She ordered me to drop the shirt and approached like the police, with her hands up in the air, a strained sort of smile on her face. The rest of the girls filed in behind her, smiling gravely at me, wearing an expression I associated with visiting the mentally deranged.

I probably looked the part, anyway.

"Lily," Tessa had said, sitting down and stroking my arm, smiling sympathetically. "Just relax and pick something."

That's when I'd gone completely berserk and thrown out everything from my trunk into the middle of the room and crumbled to a sobbing, pathetic version of myself, wailing that someone had taken my clothes. I didn't stop wailing for a very long time.

They all looked at me funny. And without so much as a 'see you later,' or 'don't hurt yourself,' or 'good luck,' they patted my shoulder with guarded sympathy and left the room, eyeing me as if I belonged in an asylum.

Which I probably do.

And that's how I ended up here, alone, because my friends now think I've gone batty and refuse to associate with me any longer. I have become a social outcast and a head case because of stupid bloody Potter! Though I'm quite certain Mina's in the adjoining room picking out something to wear, just as – if not more – whacked out than I am.

I pick up a salmon colored blouse, and eye it with caution, slipping my arms through the holes and checking my reflection in the mirror.

Great. I look like a giant fluffy cloud. And not in a good way.

I rip the shirt off and fling it into the reject pile that's steadily growing in the corner of the room.

It's been three hours, and I haven't even gotten to the pants yet.

Ugh.

Hm. This could look good, I suppose.

I thrust my arms through a new t-shirt I bought at an old vintage store last year.

Scratch that, it makes me look like a disco ball. I should never be allowed to do my own shopping. Glitter should be outlawed in fashion. There's a reason the sixties are behind us. Merlin.

I then pick up a navy blue, button down V-neck that my mother bought for me last Christmas. I think I vaguely remember looking acceptable in it.

Yeah. This is acceptable.

"Hello," I tell my reflection in the mirror, pulling a face at it. "I am an enormous slut. Nice to meet you." The girl in the mirror blinks back at me, her eyebrows raised.

I groan and off goes the shirt, flying to the corner of the room.

"You know, I think we've both gone crazy. You're talking to a bloody mirror, and I just screamed my head off at a second-year because she was eating too loudly."

I wheel around to see Mina, her face drawn and tired, her hair sticking up everywhere, as she plops herself down on her bed. She's wearing a very pretty cream colored pair of pants with a dark purple shirt. Everything looks good except her general head-and-face-area.

Oh, of course, everyone besides me has something to wear.

Mina has no weird stalker ghosts that enjoy playing pranks on her.

"Tired?" I question, cocking an eyebrow curiously.

"Yeah…" she says, laughing tiredly. "Destroying an entire dorm really takes it out of you."

I snicker, glancing up at her bizarre hair-do. "I can see that. Oh, by the way, all the girls think we've both gone daft, just so you know. I wouldn't be surprised if they were filling out paperwork to get us into the mental ward in St. Mungo's," I add nonchalantly, flinging a couple of more tops onto the floor.

She gives an indifferent shrug. "It was to be expected. At least we won't get in anyone's way. In St. Mungo's, and all that."

"Or murder anyone," I add dully, flicking dust off my robes with my finger.

"I wouldn't be too sure of that," she grumbles quietly, her eyes narrowing.

Groaning, I plop myself face forward into my clothes in desperation just then, hoping that some kind of inspiration will hit me and I will magically have to ability to dress myself. I can no longer hear or see anything Mina's saying or doing. Until –

"Whoa," she exclaims curiously. Her bed groans as she jumps to her feet. Probably, that is. I still can't see anything but a jumble of un-matched colors. "What's with the new bed?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did you want the burnt one?" I ask sarcastically, my attempt at humor lost in the depths of my clothes that I have nose-dived into.

I can almost hear her rolling eyes. "Ha-ha. Who brought the new one?"

"The house-elves," I mumble, but I don't think it's even close to being comprehensible as I have a maroon blouse in my mouth.

"Oh," She sighs, and I hear a series of sharp cracks, like she's stretching her arms over her head. "I wonder if McGonagall knows."

I shrug, but instead of my body moving, my legs bob up and down at the edge of the bed. It'll have to do. I can't bother to sit up and shrug properly. My body has collapsed in on itself due to excessive stress.

"Wouldn't be too worried," I garble incomprehensibly, a stray button digging into my left eye socket. "Risa just told me that Dumbledore did the same thing back in his fifth year."

"Dumbledore got set up on a terrible date by his supposedly best friend and then burnt down his bed because he went crazy?" She asks, her tone light and sarcastically interested.

"Erm…no," I clarify, cringing into the blouse squashed into my face. "He just burnt down his bed."

"I see." She pauses. "Whosharisa?"

I think I have a shoe in my ear.

"Heh?"

"Whose Risa?" Her tone's slightly irritated now.

I lift my head up momentarily. "Oh," I say, mildly responsive. My head plops back down. "A house-elf."

"Interesting."

"Mm-hm," I grunt in response into my favorite blue vest.

"Do you know why?"

"Do I know why, what?"

"Why ol' Gandalf burnt down his bed?"

I struggle to remember the rest of the story Risa told me. It isn't very easy. She's a very accident-prone and excitable elf. I don't understand what she says half the time.

"Mmmh…" I grumble, scratching the back of my neck in irritation. My legs rest on the edge of the bed uncomfortably; I can feel the edges of the wood dig into my shins, but I can't muster up the necessary strength to pull myself into a sitting position.

"She said that it was the only bed they had to replace 'till now. He set fire his curtains and it ate up the whole bed," I say instead, shifting my legs so that my shins don't start bleeding.

"Hm," She says, sounding disappointed. "So no date, eh?"

"Nope."

"Wow…," she murmurs, her tone mollified. "Y'know, it's kind of bizarre imagining Dumbledore as a kid…like imagining a smart Black or a small-headed Potter."

Unable to imagine a small-headed Potter for the life of me, "Hmphgh," I grunt instead. Her musings about Dumbledore's childhood and love life quiets as I throw a mini fit, my legs and arms flailing about, my bed groaning under my fidgeting form. I continue flinging myself about for a while, my face still pressed into my mattress. My freak-out ends with another grumble, my limbs falling dead to my side with hopelessness.

"Having trouble?" She asks in a voice of suppressed calm. I can almost hear the smug smile in her voice.

"Yes, Thanks Sherlock," I grunt, throwing my arm to the other side of the bed and turning my body upwards to see her watching me with amusement. I fling a pillow at her but she catches it and wedges it between her head and the bed-post, continuing to look at me with an innocent expression. I pull my quilt over my face and groan. "Help me," I whine pitifully.

"Can't the lady find naught to wear?"

"No."

She sighs knowingly, getting up and fixing a wise but comical expression on her face. "So," she says in a booming, authorative voice. "You want my help now, eh, wench?"

I pull the quilt down to stare at her weirdly. "Excuse me?"

She groans and slaps her forehead apologetically. "I've been reading the Troll Diaries for too long. I'm very 18th century right now."

"Oh."

"Yeah," she says grimly. "I just screamed at someone and told them to fight me like a man." Shaking her head, she points to something next to me that I can't see. "Why don't you just wear that?"

I battle the quilt to get it out of my face so I can see what she's pointing at. "Wear what, exactly?" I demand, looking wildly around the room. She's pointing at my jeans and a dark green tank top that I hadn't even bothered trying on because I was sure would look hideous. "No," I state with an air of finality, retreating back under the protective cocoon of my quilt.

"Why the hell not?"

"Because it's ghastly," I say, my voice garbled.

"This then," she suggests, throwing something on me.

I barely take a peek at it. "No."

"Methinks, the lady doth protest too much," she says in a sing-song voice. I sometimes forget she's a muggleborn; she acts like she's been raised a witch her entire life. I doubt many people in school know her parents are muggles.

"Methinks," I retort through gritted teeth, "the lady should leave this lady in peace." I look up. "Also," I add, "I think you're misquoting."

"Maybe," she shrugs, flashing a toothy grin and flipping her hair over her shoulder with an air of pomposity. "But it sounds more eloquent."

"Yes, but it is wrong."

"What's your point, lady?" She demands.

"My point is, that it is incorrect, Hamlet."

"Urgh! Fine," She declares defiantly, "How about you just go naked, then."

"Ha-ha," I mutter, rolling my eyes. "So very funny, William Shakespeare."

"No, no," Her voice turns solemn, and she looks down at me very serious now. "Seriously, Potter would have an cardiac arrest and we wouldn't have to go to Hogesmede."

"As much as I'd like Potter to die a painful death," I say sadly, "I'd rather not freeze to death myself while triggering it."

She nods thoughtfully. "Indeed, to freeze or not to freeze, that is the question, is it not?"

-x-x-x-x-

"PADFOOT! Are you ready yet?" I emerge, flying from the bathroom, the place I have just spent the last three hours trying to do my hair. He's lying on a bed. My bed, to be exact. That doesn't bother me as much as the fact that he's lying on it in his underpants. Not dressed.

One can never be sure where Padfoot's underpants have been. And now they are resting comfortably on my bed sheets as if they own it.

Wonderful.

He idly turns the page of a book which I'm sure he's not even understanding as it's in Latin. Also, it's upside down. "I'm afraid not," He says serenely, sighing.

"Sirius," I say in a voice of forced calm. Though I'm violently slamming his head against a wall and killing him in my head. "Sirius, what in the world do you think you're doing?"

"I'm reading," he says sensibly, as it if it is so painfully obvious and I should be ashamed.

It will be painfully obvious when I murder him in cold blood.

"You're reading?" I ask, my voice cracking with the sheer force of my pubescent rage.

"Yes."

"I see," I mutter. "And when will your highness get ready?"

He shrugs dismissively. "I dunno."

"You don't know. I see."

A second of silence trickles on by. He peers at me over his book, and taking in my - almost certainly - homicidal appearance, cringes and goes back to reading. Assuming he can read in Latin upside down, of course.

"You're coming though, right?" I ask finally, my voice several octaves higher in the utter panic that is consuming my soul.

"Dunno," he mutters. "Maybe. Maybe, I'll just sit and read here a while."

"Sirius."

He doesn't reply.

"Mate?"

…

"OI, KNUCKLEHEAD!"

"What?"

"You've got to come," I state slowly. "You've got to come to Hogesmede with me."

He raises an eyebrow at my demand. "I've got to? Who says I've got to?"

"I do!"

"Uh-huh," he replies in a dull grunt.

"Sirius."

He says nothing.

"Sirius!"

Still nothing.

"YO!"

"WHAT?"

"PLEASE!"

We're in the middle of our dormitory; I'm on my knees on the hearth, my hands clasped together and near tears, as Sirius just sits there on his bed, looking unaffected by the tragic demise of his friend. Remus and Peter are eating dinner. So, really, this is the opportune moment for Padfoot to betray me completely.

He grunts and turns another page. He looks utterly evil and conniving in his underpants. If he were stroking his imaginary moustache and cackling to himself, I'd say he'd make a great movie villain.

But he's Padfoot, and he's got no beard to stroke, so he will put his pants on and help me.

Damn it, he will! Now…where are his pants?

"I told you I wasn't going."

Crap.

"But…but…but…" I splutter, "BUT YOU'VE GOT TO!" I shriek hysterically, shuffling forward on my knees. "Sirius, you HAVE TO! Lily won't go if Taylor's not there, and you've got to come with me so that if they join together to kill me, you'll have my back!"

He's sitting in his boxers and an undershirt, looking very unruffled. I, on the other hand, am fully dressed, hair done, face done, except that bloody tie that I can't tie. And who wears ties anymore, anyway?

"Where are your pants? Where are your PANTS?!" I demand, getting up now, my temper flaring. I go on a hopeless crusade around the room to locate his clothes. "PUT ON SOME BLOODY PANTS!"

"Nope," he replies calmly, examining his fingernails.

"I'm ready to go, and you haven't got any pants on! Get up!" I spit at him in disgust. "GET UP!"

"Now, now," Sirius reprimands, shaking a finger at me over his book. "Be careful not to hurt my fragile feelings. I might just breakdown and cry."

"Padfoot," my voice breaks half-word as I slump against the dresser I've been emptying to find his garments. It is painfully obvious that I will be the one breaking down and crying at this point. "Padfoot, please. How many years have I been chasing this girl? Do you want me to lose my mind?!"

Though it appears as though I already have.

He half-shrugs. "You didn't ask me when you set up this date."

"You're a marauder!" I bellow finally, advancing towards the bed. "You need to help a fellow Marauder in need! It's in the CODE!"

"I disagree," he remarks calmly, looking up at me as if I'm only mildly interesting. "If you recall, we added a new clause to the marauder code when Lily burnt all of our eyebrows off in fifth year."

"No, we didn't," I reply quickly.

"We all looked like aliens…" Sirius prompts, a knowing smile on his face.

"No, we didn't."

"Yes, we did," he grins, seeing the expression on my face. "I can tell from your face that you remember exactly what it was."

"No, I don't."

He takes a deep breath, and starts recounting in an official tone. "Marauder Code: Clause eighty-four."

Oh, no.

"A fellow Marauder is required to have the back of another Marauder, if, and only if, it is not conflicting with the first clause." He smiles at me inanely. "Do you remember what the first clause is, Prongsie?"

"No."

"Yes, you do."

"No, I don't."

"I'll tell you then," he smiles like he's being helpful, but in all actuality he is ruining my teenage life. "Marauder Code: Clause One; All Marauders, future and present, are required to preserve their health, both mental and physical."

I snort and try to be nonchalant about it, but it isn't working. My world is crumbling around me. I would not be surprised if my mother burst in at this moment and declared I was adopted. It would be fitting. And it would just put the cherry on top in the catastrophe that is my adolescent life.

"What's your point, Padfoot?"

"Well," he says slowly, "This trip is damaging to my mental health. And possibly physical too. So, I don't have to go, according to the code," he says evilly.

Oh, he deserves to be destroyed. Instead of doing what must be done, however, -

"You're Padfoot!" I declare, grabbing at his shirt and shaking it in front of his face. "Hang the code! They're more like guidelines, anyway!"

"Nope," he tutts, "I am a devoted Marauder. I shan't disobey thine rules."

My eyes narrow. "I'll do your homework for a week."

"Nope."

"I'll wash your clothes for two?"

"Nope."

"Get you breakfast for – "

"Nope."

"Make you –"

"Nope."

"Give you – "

"Nope."

"Sing you – "

"Nope."

"Bake you - "

"Nope."

I pause, weighing the prospect of going out with Lily in the face of preserving my manliness within the Marauders. I look at his face, and he looks like dinner's come early.

Oh, damn it all to hell.

"I won't talk about Lily for a month."

As soon as the words escape my mouth, I know they've worked.

"Deal."

.x.x.x.

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xx

Johnnydicaprio