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The Teenage Years by EnchantMe
Chapter 9 : Somehow
Rating: MatureChapter Reviews: 7

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A/N; Hello, you guys! Its been quite a while since I've updated, but I wasn't really happy with this chapter - I'm still not - but in the end I think you deserve to get this.

It's probably the longes one yet -  5610 words and 13 pages in Word! :D Can anyone say WOOT?

But anyways, I hope you enjoy and that you rate and review and all that jazz, ILY!!!








I managed to convince Gabbie(Drowned @ tda) to make another pretty for meeee :) And isn't it just amazing? Breath-taking? Beautiful?



9. Somehow

I have come to a realisation: life sucks.

Yeah, you’d think I’d known it beforehand with me being me, after all, but me being me, has somehow managed to stay sickly optimistic and oblivious about life.

But, apparently life sucks and Merlin has very smelly underpants. And of course I'm the last one to know.

That is, until now.

Because when I, clad in the clothes my mother had bought me and wouldn’t wear under any other circumstances, froze my butt off in the deadly cold that is Scottish winter and then got almost hit by some dung bomb thrown at me by some really naive First Year, right after which I had Potter run at me and Dom and somehow fall only on me, leaving Dominique completely unscathed and me with an almost-broken ribcage and a lot of bruising, finally boarded the train, then of course there was no other place to sit but the Weasley + Potter compartment .

And there is nothing more horrible than a whole train ride with most of the extended family - oh, don’t get me wrong, they are cool and fun to be around with.

In small amounts.

But stuffing all of them together in a small area with only 2 escape ways, one of which isn’t all that pleasant, wasn’t the smartest ideas Merlin could come up with.

I swear, the testosterone level is reaching higher with every time when anyone even dares to utter the words ‘Quidditch’ or ‘girls’.

Yay my life.





After wedging myself between Al and Roxy (who’s still mad at me and keeps poking me every 5 goddamn seconds, mind you), I have been the recorder of two cat fights (both of which have been courtesy of Dom and Rose, who tend to argue over every bloody possible thing), 8 man-pouts (one by Al when I said that the fuzz... thing he was calling a beard wasn’t all that impressive, 4 of which were by Freddie when any of us girls hadn’t noticed his ‘incredibly buff’ muscles, 2 by Potter over no reason what-so-ever [I mean, why should he even need a reason... He’s Potter.] and one by Louis when Dom almost sat on his Pygmy Puff. Well, at least he had a legitimate reason.), and one kind-of-but-not-really fistfight between Potter and Lysander Scamander who were trying to show Lorcan (also known as ‘The Other Scamander’) how one good punch looks like and a lot of candy eating, by the sight of which, I’m sure, any self-respecting dentist would’ve passed out.

Potter’s words were spinning in my mind for quite a bit, the fact that he even dared to insinuate we were alike, infuriated me to no end. We had absolutely nothing in common! How could he dare to even think something like that, let alone speak it aloud?

So I ended up moping, just like I had been doing for the past few days (Or a week. And a half. But it’s not like I’m counting or anything.), a thing I have been doing these past 2 hours.

What a jolly fellow I am. Really. Be amazed, bow down to me, whatever.

I look around to see everyone talking and having a good time. Usually, it would be me who’s one of the loudest and happiest, but right now, I just want to get home and into my bed, hide my head under the pillow and hope that the world would just stop spinning for even one second.

Or, you know, the apocalypse could come and swipe us all off this goddamn planet. I’m not picky.

The wooden door of the compartment bursts open and everyone looks up from their conversations, to see Marielle panting in the doorway.

“M-Maddie, I got the invite! To the WW’s Christmas Party!” her eyes shine with a happiness that seems so out of this universe to me. It looks almost like she’s actually excited to go. Okay, I really don’t understand it. If I had a choice in that matter, I would scream bloody murder and run as far away as possible.

But everyone’s got their own, I guess.

“Er... I’m really sorry in advance for any possible brain damage you might get,” I quickly say trying to punch the thought of the word ball out of my mind.

“Oh, don’t be silly! I’m sure it’s amazing,” she laughs it off and somehow, though I haven’t got an idea as to how, she has somehow pressed herself into the little room I still had between myself and Al and the extended Weasley/Potter clan has returned to their doings.

“What are you going to wear?” she asks, almost bouncing with excitement. See, this is why I don’t like girls very much. They tend to overly fuss about my overly annoying mother, who, if you haven’t gathered yet, owns the Witch Weekly.

I hate that bloody magazine and yet I have to read every single issue of it. Damn Mums.

“A dress?” I say, shifting slightly as Roxanne pokes me yet again.

“Oh, I know that. What kind of a dress?” Marielle pushes, shaking her blonde hair. I can tell she’s a bit annoyed by my opposition to the subject. Dom snorts over something that Lily said. Al guffaws over something his sister just said. I wish I could bury my head under the sand or something.

“Um... I don’t know,” I admit, rolling my eyes a bit. “Mum’s buying it, so it will probably be frilly and utterly repulsive.”

Potter, who – by the horrible twist of fate - is sitting opposite of me and was in a deep conversation with Fred about... bats? ...err, whatever, laughs at this. “C’mon. Anything would look repulsive on you, Ackerley.”

Oh, thanks. Like I’m not feeling self-conscious today as it is.

“Please shut your trap, Potter. Just for today. Can you manage that?” I mockingly plead him, looking straight in his eyes first time in a week... and a half. Or something like that. As I said, it’s not like I counting or anything.

Yes, I’m a coward. I’m not a stupid, outrageous Gryffindor, if you haven’t noticed yet. I’m a Ravenclaw. I go by facts. And the fact is that if you ignore something long enough, it’ll just go away.

I hope so, at least.

“Well I could... but I won’t,” he smirks as he had got down with some kind of a miracle just now.

Yeeees, lemme too just think up with some lame phrase people have used about a 100, 000 times before and then bounce up and down excitedly as if I’ve just done something utterly brilliant like pole-danced on Voldemort’s grave.


Why can’t the Earth just open up and swallow him in whole? Or, even better, swallow him in half and leave the other one (preferably his legs, because then he can’t talk. Plus, who wouldn’t want a pair of writhing legs in their back yard. I mean, it’s hip.) just hanging above the ground and letting doves do their thing (POOP. POOP. POOP!) on it.

But I’m not going to think about it.

“Whatever. What are you going to wear yourself, Mari?” I ask, sufficiently drowning out his annoying baritone-ish voice.

Well, that was almost... easy.





The train gradually slows down and then stops in a shuddering jolt. We all shuffle out of the compartment, me of course face-planting and hitting my nose. Potter laughs at me as Rose helps me up and dusts me off.

Finally though, I make it out of the train and right into the immensely soppy scene of teary welcomes.

It’s like Seventh Heaven, Reloaded. Bleh.

And there it is, my family, on the surface just another water-eyed family hugging their son (aka, Andy the idiot) who looks like he’d rather duel with Voldemort than be in the deadly grip of our dear mother.

Well... I did say on the surface. Under the surface I know that Mum is sinking her sharp, sharp laws into my brother and trying to eat his soul out.

I smirk and turn to say my goodbyes to the group. “Anyone huggable in this station?”

Affirmative mumbling makes me guess there are. I hug Dom and Marielle and Al and Rose and Louis and even Roxy hugs me back, although grudgingly. Fred comes up and envelops me in one of his tight-teddy bear-hugs, Lily hugs me quickly too, but then notices her family and runs to them fast, Al following her. Hugo gives me a hug, too and drags Rose to their tall father and curly-haired Mum.

And somehow, although I have again no idea how it has happened, all of them have pissed off and about, leaving me alone with Potter.

I turn to leave, but stop as he says something. “Ah, Ackerley, no hug for me? I’ve got to say, I’m hurt,” his voice mocking and taunting as he says this, I can’t help but feel a twinge of annoyance towards him. I mean, it’s almost Christmas. Even I try to be somewhat civil at this time.

That means I only shout insults in my head, rather than out loud.

But if that’s how he likes it...

“I didn’t know dementors had feelings,” I comment and just walk away.

Oh, WOW. I’m genius in thinking up comebacks. Like, really, lookie just how great this one was! It has the whole ‘WHAM! BANG!’ quality too, and all.

Phew, shouldn’t I get a medal? Or something? A blue ribbon? Really, no? Darn.

And I so wanted one.

Mum huffs at me for ‘taking so long to walk 20 metres’ but I can see she’s happy. She just... shows it differently.

Yeah. And I’m a koala.

Dad is a lot warmer, almost raising me off the ground while hugging me. “I’ve missed you Buttermonkey!”

Insert Stewart Ackerley: really not good at nicknames, a useless bloke when it comes to my Mum, but otherwise absolutely the best Dad in the universe.

Yes, I’m a true Daddy’s girl. You know you are too, don’t try to deny it.

He finally lets go of me and we turn to leave, sending mine and Andy’s trunk before us, but not before being sidetracked by the Weasleys and the Potters (who once again tried to weasel their way out of the ball. Prick Potter was giving me the evil eye, as if I had wounded him or something by not hugging him. Creep.) and the Carmichaels; Marielle’s family who were all really awesome people even though Mari and her Mum were slightly obsessed with my Mum and kept staring at her.

That was a bit awkward.

I hope it goes over soon. I don’t think I’ll be able to live and be friends with someone who is partially in love with my Mother. That’s just creepy. I mean... what if she keeps a secret shrine about her with pictures and then she prays there every night...?

Okay, I really should restrain my imagination. Bad dog, bad dog! We don’t think stuff like that about friends... more than once a week. ...Stop licking me!





Even though all of the swirl of chaos filled with hugs and thousands of ‘goodbye!’-s, we’re finally home.

We stand in front of the big white house (or a manor, if you will) taking it in. Well, I am, at least. Mum and Andy are arguing over his party attire (he wants to wear hot pink robes, Mum won’t let him. Something is seriously wrong with that kid.) and Dad’s just standing on the side awkwardly.

But I digress. The house looks just magical. We’re not the family for all of those magical Christmas stuff on the outside; no, all of our grandeur is hidden inside. But still it is an enchanting picture.

The red roof is covered in snow, icicles hanging from it. The coupled firs are also hidden under a coat of snow; not to talk about the ground, which is sleeping under a deep blanket of white sparkling in the light coming from the streetlights.

But it isn’t the gingerbread house or the fairy tale front yard, it’s the light coming from the windows. I can picture Frida, our housekeeper, shuffling in the kitchen, making dinner.

At that thought, it’s like my feet have a life on their own, as they start to sprint towards the door, bringing up snow with every weary step I take. I can hear Andy run after me and Mum yell for us to stop, but I don’t care.

We’re at home.

A warm fuzzy feeling fills my lungs as I reach the door. I open it and step in, instantly filling with warmth, my nose picking up the incredible scent coming from the kitchen. I stand there, rooted to the spot, feeling every cliché feeling I possibly could and it’s when I realise just how much I’ve missed home.

Mum and Dad finally reach to us and Mum is nagging us while Dad says for us to take our coats off, ignoring Mum.

Wow, Dad. Kudos for you. Finally not cowering behind Mum’s... behind.

I remove myself from the black thing that probably was supposed to be a coat, but ended up as helpful in this weather like a bloody potato sack.

You can really see what her priorities are. Yeah, let’s let Madeline freeze, as long as she looks like some kind of a twisted big-headed Barbie...

Yup. My Mum, the Saint.

After slipping off my shoes – as I’ve found over the years that it’s far easier to slide myself on the floor when I’m wearing socks than do something as ludicrous as walk – I foot-skate through numerous (or two) hallways and through the kitchen entry.

“Frida!” I squeal and throw myself in the arms of the grey-haired old lady. She hugs me to herself tightly and I can smell the sweet scent of cinnamon coming off her in waves.

“I’m so glad to see you, Madeline!” she says softly. I think she is probably the only person who can call me Madeline without sounding downright vile. She, on the other hand, makes it sound delicate and ladylike... so not me, but a person I sometimes secretly wish to be. A lady.

“Me too! I can’t wait to tell you about everything that’s happened!” I say happily as she lets go of me and turns back to the oven.

“Yes, yes, Maddie-bear, but first go and get yourself dried off, then we’ll talk.”

“Yes sir, Mayor Frida, sir. I’ll go,” I skip out of the kitchen and back to the foyer, then up the marble stairs that lead on to second and third floor.

I cannot fathom why we actually need marble floors and stairs and 3 bloody floors for a house that only 5 people inhabitate, but Mum says ‘it’s all about appearances’ whatever that must mean.

I think we’d be just as well off with a tent in the middle of nowhere, but her word is the law. Seriously.

Mum and Dad are in the study on the second floor. I hop by them and then trek up to the third floor, which is left completely in my and Andy’s hands. Even though that, Mum still won’t let me install a second bathroom. She said we have to share. I told her my bladder doesn’t do well with Andy locking himself in there and singing bloody Moon River.

She slapped me on the back of my head and told me to talk like the young lady I was.

Well. So much for that.

My room is on the right as Andy’s on the left, a bathroom connecting them. Andy’s room is scarlet, filled with Gryffindor flags and other mushy stuff. Mine, on the other hand, is painted a sky blue, a queen sized bed against one wall, opposite it a big closet, so big I actually don’t own so much things to fit in there. A bookcase is adorning the wall opposite the window, filled with my all-time-favourites, some old schoolbooks and other stuff. Under the window stands the desk with the comfiest chair in the UNIVERSE.

Really. I would marry it if I could.

Various items of clothing and whatever are already littering the floor, somehow. The walls covered with some posters.

All in all, it’s the second-most homey room in this big house (first is Frida’s flowery-patterned room and I don’t count kitchen as a room).

I smile contently and go up to the closet, finding a whole load of new clothes I don’t need but still will act as if I actually like them, because it was Mum who picked them out, and a dress.

But not any dress.

No, the deep-sky-baby-whatever that colour must be blue dress is probably the most incredibly... horrific thing I’ve ever seen in my whole life.

And that’s saying something as I had to wear the most hideous pink lacy and frilly and PINK thing when I was 7 for Mum and Dad’s vow-something-or-other-thing.

I stare at it, my mouth agape. For first it’s strapless. Strapless. Hahah. Mum must want me to do some kind of a freak-o striptease or something, since I definitely don’t have enough boobs to hold that dress up.

Second – FRILLS and RUFFLES. The evil of the world. Inches and inches of the dress filled with those things.

I take in a shaky breath. I can do it. Girl power and all. Powerpuff Girls. I’m not going to die. Not going to be a Mummy’s gir-“Mum!”

And there goes that.

“What is it?” she asks, irritated, having just scrambled up of a flight of stairs, probably fearing to see me hanging from a chandelier, like last summer (I wanted to know how it felt like being Tarzan, so sue me.), only to find I’m frantically standing in front of the Frilly-Blob-of-Apocalypse. “Oh, you saw the dress. Isn’t it just darling?” I think puke-attracting would be more accurate.

“No,” I grit my teeth.

“Ah, I know. It’s downright amazing,” she grins, showing off every and all of her brilliantly dazzling white teeth.

“Not really the direction I was going for, but all right.”

I look at her to see her rolling her eyes. “Madeline, listen now. You will come to the ball and you will act like a lady I know you are... very deep, deep down. And you will wear that dress. Understood?”

“Yes, mam,” I say, not wanting to be ripped apart by a mother tiger she resembles so much right now.

“Okay then. Get changed now, you look cold.” And with that, she leaves the room, her blonde hair waving behind her, heels clacking on the marble floor. She really is a sight to be admired.

Or feared.

Whichever you’re more comfortable with.

I look into the Closet O’Slag and search for anything that is wearable. Candy has already put my Hogwarts’ clothes in the closet, when they arrived about an hour before we did. After having admitted that I actually don’t own anything of what I like and what Mum would actually approve, I just decide to go the easy way: the uncomfortable prissy Barbie’s clothes.

Waaaay-Too-Skinny jeans, a weirdo top and finally, after for what feels like hours of searching, I find a jumper to cover it up and still look kind of normal.

Or... well, not.

Whew, I just ooze of personality now. Just like the other 200 000 people wearing the same clothes. You totally should be amazed.

But I’m getting off track – it’s time to do the family affair – I mean, it’s time for dinner.





It’s 22nd of December, also known as Doomsday. Or the day of the Christmas ball.

Which is starting now to be exact.

I stand in front of a big, stupid mirror, my eyes big with surprise.

Wow. I had no idea those things over my eyes were eyebrows. That’s interesting. I used to think it was a miniature moustache.

Oh, and so I guess this is the place I give you some big, spectacular description of exactly what or who I’m wearing and how my makeup looks like and how my hair is framing my face just perfectly?


I look like someone who has been a doll for various makeup and hair and whatever artists should look like: tired.

And so not in the mood to go to the party downstairs.

“You like zee haar?” Franco, The Hairdresser, asks. I look at my once-wild tresses now turned into delicate waves and push down the urge to bawl as a baby and whine that I don’t want to go as it would ruin my eye makeup and would earn me a slap on the head from Marie-The-Make-up-Artist, which would make Franco mad because ‘he’z work eez en ruinz’ and then a full out-brawl featuring hair gel and a powder brush would take place.

How do I know this? It’s happened before. Last year. And the year before. And maybe the year before that. Ah... good times, good times.

“It’s spectacular, Franco,” I say sighing. I am going to be ‘fashionably late’ to my own party, dragging everyone’s eyes on myself.

Just what Mum has always desired. Exactly what I dread. All that Potter needs to make fun of me.

And now I can’t even punch his very dim lights out, because there are cameras. Bloody reporters.

“And the make-up?” This comes from Marie who sits on my bed reading next weeks’ Witch Weekly.

“It’s brilliant,” I sigh again twirling a lock around my fingers, which earns me a slap on the hand from Franco.

“And the nails?” Amanda, The-Nail-Something, speaks up.

“They’re magnificent. So I’m good to go?”

“You’re moaar than good! You are amaaazment! Now zow’ ‘em, kit’en!” And with that, I’m pushed out of my own room.

Oh, just great.

I walk toward the stairs, closer to the music and clatter.

Down one set of stairs: not many people but the early snoggers. Down the other stairs, a whole other story completely. I hear a sharp intake of breath and realise it’s me. Trying to calm myself, I slowly step down the stairs, like I’ve been drilled to do since the smack old age of two and smile lightly, all the courtesy of How-To-Be-A-Lady classes by Madame Fauvraux.

Bloody old hag, that one.

The flashlights are, oh the originality, flashing in my face as the Daily Prophet tries to get a glimpse of the ‘Almighty Annaliese Ackerley’s beautiful young daughter’ – oh, don’t make me laugh - and maybe even have a word with me.


I finally reach the foyer and suddenly am attacked by Dom, who’s grinning like her life depended on it.

“Oh, the frills! Everything is so nice! That’s an amazing dress, by the way, Maddie,” she says, guiding me towards the Potter/most of Weasley extended family. Who are trying to nudge away inconspicuously.

But they ain’t no 007, so I don’t see why do they even bother. Like they didn’t know my Mum has eyes everywhere. Literally.

I grab Fred by his shoulder. “Oh, no you don’t. There is no way you are leaving me alone here, any of you. Hear me?”

He just stares at me, like most of his family. “What?” I snap, almost stomping my foot on the floor.

But I won’t. Mum would have a fit.

“It’s just... we didn’t know you even had eyebro-,” he starts to say, but then Lily smacks him on the head. Subtle.

“What Fred was trying to say was-,” Lily starts herself, but not before long, Potter cuts in. “We’re just amazed that you look like an actual human. I didn’t know it was able to make you to even resemble one.”

His – and actually all the parents have been suddenly gone.

Oh, wonder why that is. Can’t be because of my Mum’s terrifying ability to install fear and obeyment in any-and everyone, could it now?

And he’s still as grumpy as before, I see. That boy needs a whole tank full of Happy Gas.

This time Rose cuts in, smacking Potter’s shin. I smirk. It seems it’s the Hit-And-Cut-In day today. “What James here wanted to say is that you look smashing,” she says smiling at me, her brown hair looking incredible with the pale pink dress she was wearing.

Wow. I sounded like such a girl. Okay, whatever. I’ll make an exception for today.

“And so do you all,” I say smiling dazzlingly, like I’ve been taught. “Well, except you, Potter, but I guess today isn’t much of a difference from how you usually look so it doesn’t matter.”

And this is the place when my Mum decides to jump in and sink her claws in innocent people’s souls. “Oh, hello, Fred, dear And Dominique, adorable as ever, Rose, Lily, you look amazing. And James, don’t you just look handsome?”

She looks like she’s waiting for someone to answer, so I decide to end her grief and do so. “No he doesn’t, Mum. It’s just the poisoned odour coming from him.”

She looks at me, Scolding Look no. #4 (1st for Dad, 2nd for Andy, 3rd for bad/lazy/a bit overweight employees) firmly plastered on her face. “Oh, now, Madeline,” I cringe, “be nice. Don’t you want to have a dance with James?”

No. I don’t.” But apparently my Mum has become immune to any refusing whatsoever, since I end up in Potter’s hands during a waltz, him stepping on my feet every few seconds. I can hear Dom and Co. laughing at us and try to shut up the little voice in my head repeating it wouldn’t be too bad to kill Potter just to relieve the pain in my toes.

“Could you just stop trying to maim my toes please?” I whine after he steps on my feet for the umpteenth time.

“Well, it’s not my fault,” he says, agitatedly running a hand through his hair. Whose is it then, that Santa Faux guy’s?

“Oh, sorry, somehow, I missed the fact you were the one to take ballroom dance lessons since the age of 5. Silly me,” I say sarcastically looking up at him and glaring.

“Well, I’m sorry I’m not a spoilt and pampered twit living in a bloody manor!” he spits out the word, like it’s my fault we live in a manor. And steps on my foot once again. I wince.

“Do you think I could choose where I was born? No. It isn’t a bloody game Pick & Choose and I can’t choose who I live with. If I did, it definitely wouldn’t be here! And don’t try to tell me you’re not spoilt or pampered, your Dad’s the bloody Harry Potted, for Merlin’s red knickers’ Sake!” I snap at him angrily, trying to keep my face as neutral as possible.

If Mum would see even a crease forming on my face, I’d get an hour-long lecture of ‘what you don’t do during a ball.’


The song ends and I get away from him as fast as I can, spinning away so fast that I almost fall, but not before someone catches me.

Oh, how cliché. But absolutely convenient.

“Matt McLaggen, in your service,” a big grin full of blinding white teeth is flashed at me.

I pinch myself. Nope, definitely awake. “Madeline. Madeline Ackerley.” Cue the dazzling smile.

I suddenly realise we’re still in a somewhat... awkward position so I get myself up, almost tripping again in the midst of people.

“You want to dance?” The sentence jumps out of my mouth before I can stop myself. I mentally slap myself for such stupidity, but he drowns me in that full-white grin again and answers. “Sure. It’d be an honour.”

Well, as long as he thinks so...






2 hours, 28 minutes, a dinner and a lot of soon-to-be-dead people dancing with me, I fall onto a couch next to Dom and Marielle, who has kind-of stalked my Mum and trying to talk to her.

Honestly, this Mum-crush has to stop.

But anyways.

“Agh! I’m so tired,” I moan, stretching out my legs.

“Yeah, you tell me,” Dom says shaking her blonde tresses making at least 3 blokes in the 10 metre vicinity to stare at her like she was a pack of meat or something. Marielle, too, was attracting many looks with her blonde locks and a red dress that made you go ‘WOW!’

And then there was me. I’m not going to go off a whine-parade and say that no-one didn’t give me even a second glance, but with Dom and Mari in the room, I look like an ugly duckling next to them.

I’d found out that Matt McLaggen, the only guy who properly had his attention on me, also had the ego size of the U.S. of A. So I ditched him in the most inconspicuous way possible.

Or, you know, I might’ve spiked his drink with some sleeping potion (which Mum gave me just in case I got stuck with some old groper) and then left him in the study to sleep it out. I’m so nice, I know.

I mean, I could’ve just thrown him off to some unused cellar or something.

“I think I’ll try to sneak to the kitchen. You coming?” I ask standing up.

Dom’s eyes are on Aaron McKinley, who had been invited but had ignored for the whole night for some reason, so I guess that’s a no. Marielle shakes her head and adds, “I think I’m just going to talk to your Mum once more. She’s so interesting!”

I sigh and make my way through the crowd and just as I’d made my way away from the main event, past the giant stairs and behind the corner, I trip again. And am caught once again.

I really think I could get used to this.

I look up to thank the amazing person who had saved me when my eyes meet with Potter's and I jump out of his hands faster than you can say ‘thestral’.

“Oh. It’s you,” I say, adjusting my dress. He looks at me in surprise which soon transforms into distain.

“And you.”

“Oh, you’re so original, it hurts,” I say, dramatically clutching at my heart. “No, if you don’t mind, I’ve got places to be.” I make my way past him, but he catches my hand. Prat.

“And what if I do?” he questions, looking at me creepily. It’s as if he was... drunk. “You don’t seem to have learned anything from our conversation a few weeks ago.”

Okay. This new, intense and creepy Potter is just plain out scary. No argument in that.

“And you look like you’ve made a pass at our liquor cabinet.” I look at my hand trapped by his and try to wriggle out of his grip. Somehow, I still have no idea how, it seems like we’re kind of repeating 2 weeks’ ago and I don’t think I’d really like that.

He doesn’t look fazed at all by my antics and drags me away to one of the storage rooms, despite my retorts and whining.

He shuts the door and finally lets go of my hand. “Now, can we talk?”

I massage my hand and rest myself against one of the shelves, which, by the smell, carries the cheese.

Oh great. We’re in the Cheese Cellar. When I get out of here, I’ll be smelling like several sorts of fromage.

I bet I’ll be simply irresistible. I mean, who wouldn’t love a girl who smells like someone’s old pair of socks?

“About what?” I retort back and slide along the shelves trying to get myself as far as I possibly could from him. Somehow, though, I end up in a corner with his body against me.

I can’t whine about it much though, as Potter is a boy and he does have a warm body and I am a bit cold. Even though it’s utterly repulsing having him against me like this.


Oh, who am I kidding? It would be almost comfortable is Potter wouldn’t be drunk.

... something must be really wrong with me right now. Hit me, please.

“Well, you being a human, for one,” he answers, his eyes burning in the slightest light coming from a lone candle on the wall. The gold flecks are drowning in the brown and he has the strangest glint in them. I’ll take it’s his Drunk Look.

“Or, we can talk about the fact that you’re smashed and the fact that I could rat you out any minute now. I mean, do you try to always look like you’ve got Titanic shoved up your arse or does it come naturally?” I rattle, trying to push myself even closer to the wall.

“But you won’t.” His smirk is barely visible in the bad lighting, but I can still tell it’s there. It’s always there.

It’s like the only expression he owns. Sad really. I mean... damn, I’m swerving.

I fear the answer, but ask anyway. “And why is that?”

“Because,” he says, leaning closer to me. The air suddenly has become more electric, I notice. And not the good kind of electricity. Rather the I’m-in-a-Cheese-Cellar-With-A-Creepy-Guy-I-Hate-And-He-Is-Acting-Very-Weirdly kind of electricity. “You should get past me at first.” And then he’s leaning suspiciously closer to me and I have no idea what to do. His eyes are getting closer and his mouth is getting closer and his nose is getting closer and he is just too dangerously close for my comfort.

So I do the only thing I possibly could in a situation like this.






A/N2. Because I just can't resist.; Liked it? Hated it? Wanna leave a review saying how much you liked/hated it? :P

Anyways, I juust wanted to give you a small piece of the next chapter which doesn't have a title just yet. So here goes:


Leave me alone with a person who tried to impale me with a glass cutlass just minutes ago. Real geniuses.

No, the fact that I tried the same just a few months ago is completely irrelevant. 

Erm... yeah, not that you can make anything out of it, but I'd like guesses. ALSO, just wanted to ask you if i should make a MTA page?!? :)


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