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Seven Weddings by ilharrypotter
Chapter 5 : A Bloke.
 
Rating: MatureChapter Reviews: 9


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Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.


I did this genius thing where I updated Real Ladies with a chapter from Seven Weddings - and I truly wonder how I managed to do that.


So now I'm in a bit of a hurry to update before the bell rings and I'm thrown into the confusing world of AP Chemistry. >.< Oh, how I hate it. And love it at the same time. Eeee.

-Paige.





Image by onlyInevitability.

 
 




 

“You lot will never guess what happened.”

 

 

 

I look up from my Potions textbook at Delia, who stands in front of me with her hands on her hips, looking quite excited with whatever tidbit of news she holds inside her vapid mind. Rose, Roxanne, and I walked down together to sit by the Black Lake a little while earlier, seeing as not one of us had a final class today, and waited there on Delia. As usual, we knew that our friend would join us after finishing up with Divination, the one class that Delia takes without at least one of us taking it alongside her – and the one class in which she manages to succeed.

 

 

 

Oh, the irony. Here we are, thinking that Delia needs all three of us to pass a class, and the only class she passes is the one that we don’t know anything about; well, that’s a depressing thought. It insults my intelligence – all of our intelligences.

 

 

 

Exchanging a look with Rose, who is on my left, and Roxanne, who is on my right, I glance back up at Delia with critical eyes. She beams at us, and her cheeks are flustered. Upon closer inspection, I note that her lips are a little swollen; oh, there’s no way I can’t guess what happened. All the signs are there. Trust me, it isn’t that hard at all. I manage to guess each and every time without the slightest hesitation, much to her agitation, thanks to those swollen lips, pink cheeks, and huge grins.

 

 

 

As a Ravenclaw, that means I can read Delia, who finds herself consistent about being as open as possible about her Hufflepuff-like emotions, as well as I read the “women only” sign on the bathroom doors in public spaces.

 

 

 

“You found a boy,” I begin, knowing that someone else will chime in – meaning Rose.

 

 

 

There isn’t anything else that could explain the dreamy, lovesick look on Delia’s face, and if another explanation left Delia’s mouth, I might drop over dead – or press a wand to Delia’s throat and threaten the life of the imposter that must have taken Polyjuice Potion to become Delia. A new boy is the only thing Delia finds worthwhile to tell us about – in fact, I’m positive that finding a new boy at Hogwarts is the only thing Delia finds worthwhile to spend any of her time on, hence the horrible grades and tangled hair. She doesn’t use her time for anything else. Especially not schoolwork.

 

 

 

“And you think he’s the one,” Rose adds on just as I expected her to, with just a taste of cynicism in her tone.

 

 

 

Delia believes that whoever her new boy toy, as I call them nowadays with so much affection, is the one for her, and she declares she is in love less than three days into the relationship – sometimes on day one, sometimes before the relationship has ever started, sometimes the first time she see the guy, sometimes the first time he snogs her in a broom cupboard.

 

 

 

As you would assume, the relationships tend to go sour rather quick when Delia’s male counterpart realizes that Delia is clinically insane and far too clingy. (I don’t mean clinically insane to be an insult… I don’t think.)

 

 

 

This happens every time she finds a new bloke, but Delia never stops doing what she does best. She doesn’t learn her lesson, and she overwhelms the bloke within a week, strangling him and scaring him senseless with her obsessive, overexcited tendencies. I’m not sure if she even knows what she’s doing wrong – maybe she thinks there’s something wrong with the bloke, when, in all honesty, it appears to be her that is at fault each time.

 

 

 

Every time her boy toy makes a departure and runs as far as he can away from her ever-present, ever-clinging arms, the event leaves Delia heartbroken and hopeless – it’s only a temporary period of mourning, of course – until she can find a new boy to be yet another temporary soul mate.

 

 

 

Watching Delia date and flirt reminds me of what I would assume a human game of pinball is like – she bounces from one thing to another, never spending more than a fleeting second in one spot. I find it hilarious, and I make that known to the rest of my friends. Watching a seventeen year old girl flit around from boy to boy, crying one day and in love the next, is an enjoyable sight for a cynical creature like myself. Roxanne finds it pity-worthy, but she never tells Delia that – she would burst into tears faster than a two year old tot at naptime. Rose, our brutally honest bitch of a friend, finds it to be the most depressing thing she witnesses every day, and she makes that quite obvious.   

 

 

 

“And you’ll be together forever,” Roxanne, the most optimistic of the three of us, pipes up, unaware that our voices simply drip with sarcasm while her voice remains sopping and soggy with gushy, annoying romanticism.

 

 

 

I bet Roxanne thinks Rose and I support Delia with our whole hearts – she always misinterprets our sarcasm for the first ten or so minutes. Always. Then, when she finally realizes that we’re not even the smallest bit serious, she grows furious and scolds us until our ears wish they could drop right off the sides of our head.

 

 

 

 Delia shakes her head, which shocks me only the tiniest bit. We’ve never been wrong before when Delia had “news”. Well. Okay. Rose and I have never been wrong before when Delia had “news”. Roxanne is wrong all the time about Delia’s news; damn her and her unbelievable upbeat view of every situation. She’d be right every once and a while too, if only she could be a little more cynical about things.

 

 

 

“No!” Delia disagrees in a loud voice, like an over-excited puppy that barks when you dangle a biscuit before its snout. “I found a boy, and I think he’s the one, and we’ll be together – oh.”

 

 

 

Her face falls, and now she looks like the puppy whose biscuit has just been gobbled up by a much bigger – and much more intelligent – dog. Which, figuratively, is exactly what happened here and what always seems to happen here; the intelligent dog – well, dogs – would be, in this situation, Rose and I, and Delia would be the depressed and idiotic puppy who had to have mental problems to think she would get the biscuit in the first place.

 

 

 

“You guys guessed…”

 

 

 

“What a shock,” Rose rolls her eyes.

 

 

 

I chuckle, hoping Roxanne won’t hear me. She hears, though. She hears us every time.

 

 

 

Roxanne shoots us both “the look”, a patented glare that only Roxanne is capable of giving. It combines motherly frustration with a Weasley temper and is, in theory, threatening and scary. However, despite how frightening it may appear, Rose and I know Roxanne, who cringes whenever the professor forces her to add a beetle’s wing to her potion – “Oh, Professor, what if they hurt the beetle taking his poor little wing away from him?” – and therefore, we are not intimidated in the least by Roxanne’s pathetic attempt.

 

 

 

If Roxanne worries herself to death about hurting a beetle, I doubt she’ll hurt Rose or myself. Roxanne is frightened half to death by insects, but she refuses to kill them, even if there’s one crawling all over her books or her clothes. Rose and I are basically the human beetles of Roxanne’s world; we won’t get killed, either. Not even nudged, poked, or threatened by a wand. I would be disappointed in my existence if I was ever intimidated by Roxanne and one of her “looks”.

 

 

 

“Who is he, Delia?” Roxie asks, her face the picture of enthralled in the forthcoming story. She could continue to glare at us, but I’m sure that will come later. She is, of course, a romantic first and foremost, and a glaring, condescending best friend slash annoying mother slash pain in the arse second. Romantic stories mean more to her than scolding us.

 

 

 

“His name is Casper Fairfax,” Delia says, starry eyed with a dreamy smile resting on her pale pink lips. She sighs in delight and rolls back her shoulders; I wish I could smack that look off her face. Merlin, does she look pathetic. “He’s a seventh year Hufflepuff, and – “

 

 

 

“Fairfax!?” Rose snorts so loud that it causes me to jump a little. Her eyes light up in amusement; she loves whenever she finds that she can make fun of whoever Delia’s boy of the week is. “Casper Fairfax? The boy who is named after a bloody American ghost, and looks like one too?”

 

 

 

I snort, and then I cover my mouth to keep from upsetting Delia. Rose is much more intelligent than Delia when it comes to blokes, although that isn’t saying much of anything, and she can’t help but let that fact be known to all three of her friends – at the expense of hurting Delia’s feelings. We’re always messing with Rose for the influx of blokes pouring in and out of her life, but at least she can throw back at us that she’s smarter than Delia about the boys she chooses to snog. Once again – not that that’s saying much of anything.

 

 

 

While Delia looks insulted by Rose’s crassness, I understand Rose’s comment – you see, Casper Fairfax is pale with white blond hair, and whenever he wears a white shirt, which is frequent, you can’t tell where the shirt ends and Casper begins. He’s a washed out, pale, and close to being translucent. He can’t possibly be healthy.

 

 

 

The boy apparently doesn’t know what color his skin is, because he dresses exactly the way someone that pale shouldn’t dress. Either he wears black, so that his face lights up like a neon sign, or he wears khaki pants and a white shirt so that it’s just a continuous, frustrating, blending blob of white. You can’t even find Casper Fairfax when it snows – I dare you to try, because it’s impossible; all you can see is a black figure with no head.

 

 

 

And you can’t, for the life of you, call Casper Fairfax anything but Casper Fairfax. Other than “the guy in white”, for the occasional person who has yet to be introduced to Hogwarts’ own living ghost.

 

 

 

“And wasn’t he bummed out whenever he got rejected by that manly-looking German girl who continuously got detention for flirting with Professor Flitwick?” I add on to Rose’s question. Thanks to my roommates, I’m kept updated on the world of gossip, and even though I’m reluctant to admit it, I know plenty of embarrassing facts about Casper Fairfax. Why Astrid picks him, of all people, to discuss at great frequency, I will never know.

 

 

 

Delia frowns and furrows her brow. “He didn’t get rejected by her, she just told him she didn’t like dating people her age and he was disappointed – and yes, that’s him.”

 

 

 

“Oh, your standards have gotten a little lower recently, I see,” Rose points out, rolling her eyes. She finds this hilarious, I know. She’ll use it as evidence to her defense next time Roxanne scolds her for one of her own boy toys. “Casper Fairfax – I suggest you don’t date him into Christmas hols, or else you’ll lose him and never find him again.”

 

 

 

“Rose,” Roxanne says, her voice taking on the tone of warning to which Rose and I have become so adjusted. The fighting should begin soon. I know it’s coming.

 

 

 

Rose does not stop – why she would stop is beyond me. If I were as cruel as she is, I wouldn’t want to stop, either. I enjoy battering Delia every once in a while, but as a somewhat humane person, I can’t let myself continue for too long; Rose never has that problem. She’s just a bitch, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Must be nice.

 

 

 

“Delia, have you ever considered dating someone who, I don’t know, deserves you?”

 

 

 

The redheaded devil now treads into dangerous territory, I see. I know what will happen next – it’s the same thing that always happens. Rose isn’t pushing too far, but Delia will think that Rose acts completely out of line – a common assumption made, of course. Delia will cry in just a few moments. She always ends up crying. She is thin-skinned and easily offended, and whenever we do offend her, which, as I said, occurs all the time, she cries. Immediately. She does not waste a single second. She just bursts into tears, covers her face with her hands, and runs away sobbing. And I have a feeling that the waterworks are on the way. Oh, brilliant.

 

 

 

Delia’s eyes widen and fill with tears, and I know from the way her bottom lip trembles that I’m one hundred percent correct. (Big surprise there, right?) That’s the one thing about Delia that you can count on, no matter what. Even when her standards change daily, when she changes her style and her mannerisms because of the boy she is with, when she can’t stay the same for two days in a row, Delia Longbottom will always burst into tears whenever she is insulted – or whenever she even thinks she has been insulted.

 

 

 

When she buries her face in her hands and sobs into them exactly as I predicted she would, I sigh, wondering when Delia will ever change.

 

 

 

Never? That sounds about right.

 

 

 

Delia will stop crying over everything when Roxanne breaks up with Rhys, Rose falls in love, and I start to date Albus Potter. Ha.

 

 

 

Never, indeed.

 

 

 

Roxanne stands up and throws her books to the ground, clucking her tongue and shaking her head at her cousin, and she walks over to Delia, wrapping her arms around her shoulders. “Aw, Del, don’t worry about mean old Rose. You know she’s just jealous – “

 

 

 

“Oh, fuck you, Roxanne!” Rose throws her hands up in the air, and Roxanne shoots her a warning look over Delia’s shoulder.

 

 

 

This doesn’t stop Rose, though. The minute the two cousins are alone together, I’m sure claws will be out; I can tell from the way Rose continues to snap at Roxanne that this fight will continue on later in the day whenever Delia isn’t crying and I’m not around to come to Rose’s defense.

 

 

 

“You’re not fucking serious, are you? Me, jealous? Of Delia? Delia and her ghostly boy toy? Don’t feed her that dragon dung.”

 

 

 

Roxie does not respond to Rose’s challenges, even though we both know that’s what Rose wants to happen. Rox never gives her the satisfaction, which annoys the bloody hell out of Rose. The petite brunette tugs on Delia’s bony arm to walk with her, and the two girls hurry on down the path that leads back to the school, not even glancing back in our direction to imply they’re discussing either one of us.

 

 

 

Rose sighs. I can see her irritation. “Can we feed Delia to the Giant Squid?”

 

 

 

“I don’t think she’d taste any good to him,” I respond. “Too skinny. All bones and tangled hair. Not appetizing in the least.”

 

 

 

“Good point,” Rose agrees, and I look over at her to see her smirking and her eyes glittering with mirth.

 

 

 

Ever since we were eleven and first years here at Hogwarts, Rose has had some sort of strange obsession with the Giant Squid. All animals, really, fall under that obsession of Rose’s; she doesn’t like people much, but she does like animals, including the Giant Squid. So much so that she names every animal who crosses her path – whether it has a name or not. This is one of the few pieces of evidence that Rose has a heart – if it were not for her naming tendencies, I suppose I would have a hard time believing it myself.

 

 

 

“The tears would ruin it for him. Filbert doesn’t like salt water either, remember?”

 

 

 

“You don’t have any idea how much it frightens me that you’ve named the Giant Squid.”

 

 


 






Favorite quotes? And I hope you enjoyed your little look at the workings of Delia's brain! :) 



I've got a plot bunny for a story about a wizard or witch who falls in love with a scientist... Hmmm. Sounds intriquing. It definitely just hit me. I suppose that's what I'll use tomorrow's study period for! 



-Paige.

 


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