I’ve never liked tea. It’s becoming a problem for me because I really should like tea. I’ve been brought up to like it. What if something such as this came out? Imagine the scandal, the British Minister for Magic’s Daughter not liking one of the most typically British things imaginable. It’s like an Australian not liking vegemite but then again who would like the stuff. I was forced to try it once, on our annual visit to another nation, and I spat it out. My father was not impressed and made me make a formal apology. I’m very good at making formal apologies. I just gave some bullshit response about being surprised by the taste and then talked about how much I had enjoyed seeing Uluru and the Great Barrier Reef.
I’ve been making an effort to like tea and it starts with having a cup every morning. That is why I am sitting at the Gryffindor table drinking my cup of tea while glancing longingly at the jug of pumpkin juice. The tea has two sugars and lots of milk because that is the only way to make it bearable. Food after drinking tea is very important too. It ensures the taste doesn’t stay in your mouth. I’ve found the chocolate is the best thing to achieve this.
“I thought you didn’t like tea.” Wood begins, “and I hope that doesn’t have sugar in it and we both know that you can’t afford to put on anymore weight.” I lean down to wack my head on the table repeatedly. Wood is annoyed by this, “Stop doing that it’s bad for you!”
I lift my head and sit up to glare at him with an outstretched hand. “Then. Stop. Bugging. Me. About. My Weight.” I say, punctuating each word with a hopefully painful poke to his upper arm. He laughs at me.
“You Know what Wood?” I ask sarcastically because I have just had enough, “I’ve had enough of you. My weight is absolutely none of your business. So why don’t you take your abnormally large nose out of my business and stick it up your ugly arse.” There is nothing wrong with Wood’s nose or his arse for that matter but when I get angry I tend to say things that aren’t quite true.
He laughs again, except this time he is looking down at the table and it is more of a chuckle. I huff indignantly and push the bench away from the table as I stand then proceed to storm out of the great hall.
To crash straight into Professor Carmichael. “Detention,” She drawls, “for invading the personal space of teachers”
I decide not to challenge this because it will only result in more detentions. I know this from experience.
“Detention,” She drawls again, “For sarcastic comments towards a teacher,”
I repeat a mantra of just keep walking. Just keep walking. Just keep walking.
“ 3 weeks of Detention!” I hear the distant shouting of Professor Carmhicael, but turning to check I discover it is not directed at me, “For Cursing a Teacher!”
I walk away even more quickly making an effort to control my breathing which has become too quick for my liking. I am very unfit; I’ll need to work on that. The Gus I was supposed to be would have been in perfect shape.
Maybe Wood is right. Maybe I shouldn’t put two sugars in my tea; maybe I shouldn’t put milk in it either. I am at risk at becoming extremely overweight. I think I need to go to the Quidditch Pitch straight away. My dives also need some work.
After four hours of Quidditch Practise I crash. It is not a particularly splendid or impressive crash, I just didn’t stop flying in time and as a result hit the ground. It wasn’t even the end to a previously impressive dive. There were no exactly vertical lines; I was a few degrees off. The fall wasn’t even comical. I just sort of spatted on the ground then rolled for a while because of the speed I was moving at.
I can’t feel my leg and I don’t think that’s a good thing. I can feel my head which is throbbing and bleeding. I raise my hand to the back of my head and feel warm blood. I apply pressure. My nose hurts as well and i can feel the blood on my face.
“Well it seems like I’m not going to have any trouble catching the snitch this year,” Potter says with a drawling tone worthy of Malfoy Senior. What is it with people who are not normally right being right today? First Wood is right about tea and my weight and then Potter is right about the outcome of the next Quidditch match.
Potter normally has no idea about Quidditch, even I know that he supports the Chudley Cannons and they have won a game in over a century, though they tied once in the eighties. Their sodding motto is “Let’s just cross our fingers and hope for the best” Well obviously that tactic doesn’t work too well!
I doubt crossing my fingers and hoping for the best is going to help in my case either. I obviously have no chance of getting the snitch if I can’t even fly without crashing. Usually I never crash, I must be getting worse at flying.
Now isn’t the best time for this discussion. Since something is wrong with my leg, my nose is most likely broken and the back of my head is bleeding. For once I have no real retort. I just want help.
“Fine Potter you win,” I removing the hand from the back of my head so that I may lean back onto the grass. “Can you just help me get to the hospital wing and I won’t play in the next game, if that’s what you want” I say. “Won’t make any ruddy difference,” I mutter. Potter mutters something under his breath which I can’t hear which angers me.
“Are you going to help me or not?” I shout. He doesn’t say anything but bends to pick me up. “You don’t have to pick me up! Just levitate me.” He ignores me. So I cross my arms and sulk all the way to the hospital wing while my leg hurts and my head covers his shirt with blood and my stomach feels very empty thanks to four hours of exercise on an empty stomach, except for the tea.
The very thought of the tea makes me start to feel sick and soon I am spurting it all out as well as all the water I drank while practising my dives. It covers both Potter’s and my shirts and the smell almost makes me do it again. I begin to cough violently which makes my head hurt even more.
Potter starts telling me to calm down as I cough and cough and cough because I can’t stop. I’m just coughing and coughing and coughing. He begins to run because he can tell I can’t breathe. The running makes my leg hurt more as it jiggles around and my head crashes against Potter’s shoulder. Everything starts to blur. Faces of portraits and worried faces of students mix until I feel as if I am surrounded by hundreds of people all watching me. All commenting on the things that I’m doing wrong.
Everything reduces to just the voices. There are no more faces and portraits just that uneven blackness that descends when you close your eyes. In the absence of any images the voices flood my mind, all the voices are criticising me, telling me what is wrong about me, how imperfect I am.
The doors to the hospital wing bang loudly and I hear shouting but the voices also blend together. Until both my sight and hearing is filled with emptiness.