DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter does not belong to me, however much I wish he did. But, alas, he is not a possible impossibility. >_<
A Possible Impossibility
When I ask someone “how are you,” many respond with “oh, I’m well and good” just to be safe, like circling B and D on a test if both answers seem equally plausible. Personally, I feel well when I’m not under the weather and good when I’m not evil; however, I don’t often feel both at the same time. Some say I limit myself, but I beg to differ—I simply love being correct.
Correction—I love to correct. Doesn’t everyone to a certain extent? I know I’m not the only smart arse out there who picks out the blatant flaws in humanity. There are plenty of grammar fanatics in the world--and yes, even in the magical world, we care about the bare necessities of language. We aren't all trolls in human form--though I could easily rattle off a good cauldronful who are.
Honestly, if the fate of the world rested with me, I’d round up all those illiterate imbeciles and treat each to a rich Arsenic Avada Kedavra. I’d then wave a sweet farewell to the mass hearse party and only feel satisfied when the unspeakable sins of the tongue were buried once and for all.
Oh, how life would glow if I had my way...
Buried alongside the grammar deficient would have to be one other poor, unfortunate soul. Some know her as Joan Bastey, most know her as Jo, and only a handful don’t know her at all. However, I know her by a name that by any other name would smell sweeter—and we can’t have that.
Joan of Dark is the spawn of Satan, the lovechild of You-Know-Who, the moaning of Myrtle...
Oh, and she spells her name with a silent "evil" at the end. In case you failed to notice.
Not only is she flamboyantly wicked, but she is also popular. She’s this sordid mix of Elphaba and Guh-linda, and every single boy wants to be her Fiyero. In all my attempts to comprehend her appeal, I have come to only one conclusion--mystery. She’s Joan of Dark, the absence of light, of secrets and intrigue and lingering temptation…granted you believe any of that balderdash.
I’ll have you know that I don’t.
I don’t believe she has anything to hide, any mystery. If you take a good gander at her, Joan of Dark ganders back, not some paper-mache look-alike. As terrible as she is, she doesn’t put up a front (or a back, for that matter...if you follow me). She's completely black-and-white--no mystery, no secrets worth pining to unveil...no depth at all, really. To be honest with you, she's rather...boring.
So, I ask myself—and if you're an all-knowing god, feel free to answer:
Why in Merlin's corduroy trousers is she so bloody popular?
There’s seriously nothing to her. If I had to praise her in any way, I would say she is genuine. But that’s all. And that’s not really praise, considering. Unlike her minions, the she-devil doesn’t wear a mask; she's just purely evil to the core.
Which, as I'm all too happy to note, is worse.
So, what's worse than worse? The worst:
We have to share everything. A dormitory, lavatory, common room, house table, every bleeting class since 1st year...and now, we're in the same Potions group for the next two terms.
Well, what can I say? Just counting my blessings...
Oh, and here's another joyful addition to my blessing count and Potions group: Mr. Scorpius Malfoy.
He may not be on my hit list yet, but he's most definitely playing with fire. It would be a lie to say he disgusts me, yet he is rather disgusting. And I can't say I hate him, though he is rather hateful. But one thing I can say about him is that he is terribly misunderstood...
Though I can't say I quite understand him.
She doesn't understand him either, naturally. Who does? He's off--that's what he is. Off kilter...but at the same time, so terribly rational and sane and logical, that it's a wonder he hasn't been added to the dictionary. If she would only open her eyes, she'd see how silly she is standing next to him. She'd see how he's so beyond her in every respect down to the last hair on his wispy blonde head. Only then would she treat him differently, as he deserves.
Who am I kidding? He doesn't deserve anyone's respect. The things he does...I won't waste my time cringing. He's the epitome of sinful--wouldn't be surprised if he's a murderer one day. What? You think nobody deserves to be seen in such a dim light as that? Well, if anyone does deserve it, it's Malfoy. He's vial.
But she still should respect him.
Don't get me wrong--in no way am I holding him in high esteem. He's just higher than she is...only by a millimeter, but one notch makes all the difference.
But all this makes no difference to me, really. I cannot believe I wasted more than one breath on either of those tramps. I'm not usually one to complain and find comfort in passing along itchy, sented soapboxes, but these two, especially Her Hivenest, have pushed my buttons so far lately that they won't ever bounce back.
It happened, they happened, in Potions this morning. Mr. Male-toy sauntered into the classroom late, as usual, but this time, he brought his lovely E-G-O with him in overdrive. Talk about Hell as if it’s foreign territory, but I’m convinced, as I’m sure Scorp-dork is, as well, that I gave him Hell in all its twisted glory after he had his sick idea of fun:
"Mr. Malfoy--so thoughtful of you to join us."
Whether he responded or not is beyond me, but whatever that numbskull did, it had the Professor’s knickers in a twist. Which is slightly irritating, if you don’t know. And painful. And…itchy.
At any rate, he took his assigned seat beside me and ignored me. That’s it. No acknowledgement of any sort. No anything. Nothing out of the ordinary, but it still caused my blood to boil. It was just so…so typical of him, so incredibly Malfoyish, that it drove me up the wall, down, and back up again. He didn’t cross any line per-say, which is the worst part of it. He didn’t do anything—it was all in my head. Which put the blame on me.
Though I’d never admit that to anyone or his mother. Especially not his mother...hmm, maybe his daughter…who doesn’t exist…
Needless to say, I wasn’t in the best of moods—and it was only a matter of time before my mood got the best of me.
I gave him his own medicine by not giving him the time of day. As usual. No imagination necessary. Just like routine—never out of the box, but rather cramped inside, suffocating. What else is new?
Ugh. Did he not get the message the first time round? Even Maleficent across the table wasn’t joining in with him. My bestie, Devon, on the evil sorceress’s right, sent me a wary glance. But I ignored her, too.
“Weasley. Answer me, or I’ll answer for you.”
Hmm, this could get interesting. Still typical, still not crossing the line of normalcy…but he certainly was walking along it. Which is better than nothing.
When I still did not respond, he did the unthinkable:
He threw every ingredient into the cauldron all at once.
And that’s the last thing I remember before I found myself flat on my face. On the molding, creeper-crawling floor. Or that’s how I imagined it, anyhow.
“Mr. Malfoy, would you care to explain to me why three of your fellow classmates are unconscious on the floor and you aren’t?”
Feeling a teensy bit of life come back into me, I turned my head against its will and saw poor, innocent Devon and the one-and-only Joan of Dark sprawled on the floor to my right. I then peeked up at the rest of the class. Everyone was sniggering, with the exception of Ferret, Jr., who appeared as if he was trying and almost failing to hold back his own laughter.
“You see, Professor, I—”
“Why, this isn’t an excuse, it’s the tru—”
“Hop to it, then.”
As Joan of Dark, Devon, and I staggered to our feet, Malfoy cleared his throat. He did so in such a way that I knew all too well that he had a magnificent, drool-worthy lie up his seared and sopping-wet sleeve. It turned out to be quite admirable…though nothing short of insufferable. And anything but believable.
Though it was everything but ordinary.
“I was off fetching ingredients when I heard a low whisper in my right ear…no, I believe it was my left. Yes, I am certain it was the left. And I couldn’t make out the words at first, though they sounded remarkably like a poem Mum forced me to listen to night after night until I was ten. Though perhaps, I was mistaken. Oh, I know I was mistaken now…or, well, I may have been correct, though I’ll never truly know for as long as Merlin keeps me alive on this crumbling Earth—”
“Do go on, Mr. Malfoy. You’re digging a larger hole by the second.”
“Right-o, Professor. So…” He lowered his voice a few levels, and I must say he knew how to captivate his audience. “The whispering…it never stopped. I can still hear it in my head as we speak. I’m afraid it will haunt me for the rest of my life, I just know it will. It…possesses me.” Like the drama-queen he’s been since birth, Malfoy rolled his eyes around crazily and staggered to the side. “I can feel it drawing me in…it wants me to…to…”
Before I knew what was happening, he was on top of me. Literally. And uncomfortably. And completely inappropriately.
I could not move as I heard him whisper in my ear:
“Oh, my love is like a red red Rose, that’s newly sprung in June…”
Oh. My. God.
What the hell?
“Get off me,” I seethed, though not much louder than his whisper. I thought to shove him off, but my arms and legs refused to function.
He just smiled, still too close and smelling entirely too wonderful for words. And looking ready for anything and everything, and…open. He wasn’t holding anything back, which took away the mystery in a mysterious situation. Which made the situation terribly absurd and ridiculous and so painfully ironic, that the shock rendered me speechless.
And close to fainting.
“Rose, are you listening? My love is like a red, red Roseee...”
Merlin, help me.
“Mr. Malfoy!” Professor Slughorn roared in disapproval and incredulity as he attempted to drag my seductive yet repulsive predator away, “I say, if you do not end this charade right this minute, I’ll—”
At the most opportune moment, my limbs finally recognized that they could, in fact, move, and one long limb in particular collided with a slightly shorter limb between his legs.
That sound was soooo satisfying. You’ve not idea. And if Joan Beastley were a boy, too, I’d be knocking her manhood all day long. Which sounds wrong to the worst degree, but so long as I keep my mind out of the gutter, at least one of us isn’t blinded by nightmarish images.
I, on the other hand, was blessed with satisfying images of glory and triumph and heroic victory…however short-lived.
“Ten points from Gryffindor, Ms. Weasley, for destroying Mr. Malfoy’s chances for an heir.”
Though I know my jaw must have dropped so low it fell off, it was back in place when I retorted, “Honestly, Professor, I was only defending myself against this b—”
“Ms. Bastey, Ms. Alley—an additional five points each from Gryffindor for disorderly conduct.”
Devon piped up, “But, b-but we hadn’t anything to do with I, sir!”
“Make that an additional five, Ms. Alley,” the teacher interrupted sternly, “The cauldron explosion was a group effort.”
Devon lowered her pretty head in defeat, and Joan of Dark crossed her arms, dramatically huffing and puffing, but no house blew down. Pity.
Everyone else stood still and silent, not moving a centimeter and hardly breathing. For the fleetest of moments, I honestly believed in the injustice that Slughorn wouldn’t deduct any points from the real perpetrator. I just about had a cow. With rainbow spots. Wearing stilettos.
Unfortunately for any astounded witnesses, the cow was never born.
“Mr. Malfoy, see me in my office in—” The professor hastily checked his pocket watch. “—two seconds time. Alone.”
A befuddled Malfoy looked on as the Professor strode heavily across the room until he realized what the man had said—at which point he darted after him, angst painted all over his faultless face.
Wait for it—one…two…three…SLAM.
He was officially in the dungeon. Literally and figuratively. Cue the applause in my head. The clapping was pretty much deafening for a moment or two, and it made me smile wider than ever. Sweet, sweet victory! But then, it started to hurt. REAALLY bad. And I realized my imagined applause was not the cause:
Did Joan of Dark really just slap me across the face?!?
“How dare you hit him!”
“How dare you touch him!”
“Alright, Beastley, will you get out of my face n—”
“How dare you!”
“You’re being awfully redundant, you know…”
Yeah, that time, it was my slap. Across her face. Against her evil. And apparently, against her stupidity, too. And her oh-so-rich vocabulary.
I never said she is an eloquent villain.
But she is a rather violent one. In the next two minutes, she landed us both in detention along with Malfoy. For a full week’s time. Which pretty much ruined my chances of ever being Head Girl next year.
So, here I am in the first week as a Sixth Year, already in detention, for the first time in my life, and all because of the Wicked Witch of the Everywhere-I-Turn.
At least he will be joining us. Which, by no means, is reason to celebrate, especially since he lost our house 30 points. But it will make scrubbing the molding, creeper-crawling floor that much more bearable.
You see, as much as I cannot stand Scorpius Malfoy, he fascinates me and always has. I cannot put my finger on it, but that something he has, that lingering mystery is the only reason I see any point in Prefect duties. Every night, I find out more and more about my patrol partner, and each secret unveiled produces more and more mysteries. They’re endless—he’s endless.
Which is an impossibility. An imagination.
Do you follow? Perhaps, not. But neither do I. As a human being, as a limited, grounded, rational, and stubborn human being, it is emotionally and physically impossible enough to understand the possible, what’s more, the impossible.
So, why not throw all caution to the wind, spread my possible and impossible wings, and fly?
A/N: Phew, chapter one's down! If you're confused, I've done my job. So long as it's a good confusion. Please REVIEW with any comments, questions, and off-the-wall anythings. I hope you enjoy this so far--look out for the next one!