Chapter 1 : 1,563 Words On How I Met My Doom.
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I didn’t start out hating him.
I know everyone always believes I did. But really, it wasn’t like that.
It started out like any other meeting. In fact I wouldn’t even call it a meeting. I noticed a rather tall boy in my Potions class. He was sitting at the very front the dungeons, his legs stretched out, staring off into space. I couldn’t really tell what he looked like, but at the moment I didn’t give it much thought. It was, after all, my first day as a Hogwarts student, and I had other, much more nerve-wracking things on my mind.
I took a seat on the opposite side of the room, at the very back. Meticulously (for even at the just-teen age of thirteen, I was ridiculously OCD about arranging my things) I arranged my silver knife, parchment, quill, and ink on my desk, as symmetrically as possible. The other third years where milling around me, some of them chattering. I sat quietly by myself, having no friends.
Pause. Let me explain that.
I wasn’t a social pariah or anything. I just enrolled in Hogwarts that year when I moved to England from America. Before that I was homeschooled by my very conservative British father.
You see my mother is a Muggle, and a high flying businesswoman and that. When I was five, she was made the CEO of the American branch of the bank she worked for and we all had to pack up and leave. Dad wasn’t very happy about it. Having spent all his life in the English wizarding countryside, just the move to London had been hard enough for him. Moving to New York became the thorn in my parents’ relationship since day one.
Dad got involved with my education. A little too involved. Instead of sending me off to Salem’s, he decided to teach me. I didn’t really mind at first. He was a good teacher and it meant no homework deadlines that really mattered.
Eventually though it got a little dull having just my dad for company. So you can imagine that I was a little irate when my parents split up and Dad decided to move back here. He didn’t even have to ask for my custody. My mother, too busy managing her work, was only too willing to let me live with “my own kind.”
I haven’t spoken to my mother since.
But I’m digressing. The point is that I was new to Hogwarts, having just moved, and didn’t know anyone.
So I was a little uncertain about all these people, chattering with each other about their summer, that Hufflepuff who got cute over the summer, and whether or not Professor Chang got a boob job.
As I was pondering over Professor Chang’s breasts in a non-sexual fashion, a walrus walked in.
Okay so maybe it wasn’t a walrus. But he sure as hell looked like one (I found out later that this was Professor Slughorn, Potions master and the head of Slytherin house).
“Welcome back!” he exclaimed gleefully, his many chins wobbling as he smiled. “Now you’re all third years, the Potions are going to be a tad more challenging. But I have full faith in your stirring abilities!”
Slughorn’s pronouncement was followed by a sarcastic chuckle. I turned my head and saw that it came from the tall boy I had noticed before. From what I could see, he was smirking to himself. Slughorn gave him a pointed look and continued, “This year we shall be focusing on many spells, but we’ll start with the Shrinking Solution. Now you will need to chop up daisy roots for this, so make sure you all have your silver knives…”
I grimaced. I hadn’t expected to start working on the first day of class. Being in a real school would take some getting used to.
The details of my potion-making aren’t important. After all this is a story about a boy and how I began to hate him. So I’ll just get to that part.
I was busy measuring out my daisy roots. I wanted to make a good impression on the walrus since I was new and all. I was just about to pick up my silver knife, when a long, slightly rough hand pulled it away from me. Surprised I looked up and saw Tall Boy standing before me, looking at me sarcastically, despite that fact that I hadn’t done anything that deserved a look of that sort.
“Um can I help you with something?” I enquired of him, cocking my eyebrow a little. He didn’t reply immediately; he just twirled my knife between his fingers in a precarious manner and then deigned to inform me in a very bored tone that he “needed it.”
“I’m sure you do. But so do I, so could I have it back please?” I put my hand out for it, annoyed with his behavior. I really needed to get started on the daisy roots and he was wasting my time.
His eyes flashed to my face. They were hazel, but in the dimness of the dungeons they looked strangely gray-blue – like the sky on a rainy morning.
“I need it,” he repeated, and so saying, he languidly strolled away from my desk, still twirling my knife carelessly. I stared after him open-mouthed, so puzzled by his unfathomable behavior and the strange animosity I suddenly felt toward him that I spent the entire rest of the class with my head definitely not on my work.
Slughorn tut-tutted when he looked at my potion.
“Had some trouble with the daisy roots no doubt,” he said sadly, and then proceeded to walk away from me, as though disappointed. I glared at the back of Tall Boy’s head.
Still after a few days, the annoyance ebbed away, and I forced myself to forget about how he had wronged me. After all, I hadn’t stopped him from taking my knife, so I was as much to blame as he was in my Potions failure. I wrote to my father and asked him to send me a silver knife, explaining away my lack of it on the Apothecary having failed to provide it in the first place. He was puzzled that I hadn’t noticed its absence before, but sent me a knife, and all was forgotten.
It would have been if Tall Boy hadn’t struck again.
It was two months into school. I was settling down well; I had made friends with the girls in my dormitory and my classes were easy enough for it turned out that Dad had over-coached me. So overall my life was pretty decent with no interference with my mental health, until one fine morning in History of Magic.
Professor Davis was from a Muggle background and, having had a thoroughly Muggle schooling till the age of eleven, had full faith in the power of projects when it came to teaching children. So occasionally, meaning more or less every week, she liked to encumber us with this “learning opportunity,” as she called it. They weren’t usually that time consuming, so it wasn’t something I had a huge problem with or anything. Mostly because we were allowed to work alone and I could take care of my work happily my own way.
Apparently Davis had woken up that morning and felt especially gregarious, because she decided to greet us with this announcement in class:
“I am going to assign you a research project, one that you must complete while working as pairs.”
The entire class groaned.
“And I am assigning pairs.”
I distinctly heard a girl behind me order Davis to stick her stupid projects somewhere that would prove distinctly uncomfortable for her if she tried it.
Pause. I’m not trying to sound cliché in this next bit. Please keep that in mind.
I waited with dread as she called out the names, circling the names of tolerable people in my mental list of the class.
“Finnegan and…Jones. Adams and…Weasley.”
From the way she was reading out the pairs, it sounded like Davis was simply choosing randomly. Irritated, I strained to hear my name.
“Creevery and…Wood. Fields (I perked up)…and Potter.”
Hint: this is where it gets clichéd.
Three guesses on who Potter is.
Tall Boy turned around and fixed me with his piercing gaze. I felt something strangely hot pass over my cheeks. Annoyed, I looked away. There goes my chance of passing this project, I thought, accepting the inevitability.
Pause. Here you might think this story will change pattern. You might think that Tall Boy turned out to be incredibly helpful and I realized how nice he really was.
False. Nothing of the sort happened, because the first thing he said to me when he sauntered over to my table was this:
“I would appreciate it if you would put the name James Potter on the report,” he said, fixing me with that sarcastic look of his.
“Would you though?” I replied, agitated by his presumption that I would do all the work.
He raised his eyebrow and smirked. “I really would. Thanks.”
And then sauntered off again.
We passed the project, but no thanks to him.
That was the limit of my contact with James Potter until this year.
But I did not completely hate him.
Not just then.
(A/N: So...new story. O.o Yea, I know. Why isn't she updating Lemonade more?, you're thinking. What right does she have to start a new story? Well this story is based off of my life. Yes. There's my right. Hahahahahahaha, anyway. Hope you give this a chance. It's gonna be very interesting. Bipolar. Charged with sexual tension. And sometimes just plain awkward. :) Btw, the number of words in the chapter title is not counting this lovely note! Teehee.)
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