Chapter 2 : Featuring: Lysander Scamander
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So yeah, just call me Lys.
Seriously, just Lys.
I suggest for you to not try to call me by my full name.
I’ll eat you, seriously. Last week I bit my friend Dory and would have kept going if she hadn’t started shrieking and slapping me away at a frequency that, I don’t know; only dogs and iridescent bats are able to hear. Then she tried to stick her wand up my nose –not happy memories. And just because I bit her arm (it was slightly tasty), but she should have known the consequences. She should have known I was weird enough to try that. My mother believes in little pigs with unicorn horns, for Merlin’s sake.
I don’t believe in little pigs with unicorn horns, FYI. Don’t be freaked out.
So, heya, I’m Lys Scamander –which might be hard to pronounce at first, but with a little practice it’ll all be spiffing. Most people call me Lyscamander when they first meet me because of their inability to separate the S at the end of my name to the S at the start of my last name. Dory calls me Lysca. I call her Dorothea and she usually shrieks and smacks my head. I have noticed she’s a bit of a drama queen that can’t take a bloody joke and is prone to overreacting and enjoys hitting me and… yeah. That’s my best friend, right there.
I suppose that you are quite curious about my name. Damn –no matter what I do, no one is ever satisfied with my nickname. They got to know. Why on earth should I be called Lys? Is it short for Elizabeth (hardly)? What name can be so goddamn awful that it shall never be named (it isn’t Voldemort)?
Well, alright. But just because you are begging. I like seeing people beg, it makes me feel powerful.
Err, fine. Here it goes.
Here it goes.
Just wait for it.
Wait for it.
It will come.
Losing hope already?
Yeah, that’s because I won’t give it up. My secret. Haha!
I’ve never been good at keeping secrets.
So yeah –back to the name.
My name is Lysander, and huh! Gasp! That’s a bloke’s name! Well, cry me a fucking river. I don’t necessarily hate it, but I also don’t like to be teased by it. But people don’t tease me about it, because they (unlike Dory) know that I eat people. And it’s not particularly pleasant.
I’m also kinda tomboy-ish, which is why you were probably imagining me speaking with a dull yet absolutely cool, laid-back voice. Yup, that’s the one. It’s incredibly funny that I get the manlier name while being the least girlie and my twin sister Lorcan gets the could-pass-as-woman-name. Still, we got boy names when we are actually completely gorgeous supermodels. All my mother’s fault –when in doubt, blame Luna Scamander and her blubbering wrackspurts.
Apparently, my insane mother thought that she was having boys –picked out the names, painted the baby room blue and all– and was very taken aback at the fact that we came out from the opposite sex. But no, Luna Scamander was not wasting the precious, perfect names she spent weeks picking out for her little twin boys-who-were-actually-girls. So after a long discussion with my father and a very stupid and enthusiastic nurse, she named my sister Lorcan and I was stuck with Lysander.
I seriously don’t know who had the best-worse luck. Like, Lysander is the absolute worst name for a girl, but it has the capability of getting a great girlie nickname out of it (even though I’m a tomboy, I don’t like to be mistaken by a boy). Lorcan is a name that could pass a female name, but no nickname on earth can fix it and most people will keep thinking its odd my dear sister was named like a boy.
Even so, I’m kinda embarrassed/annoyed by my name –so yes, let’s pretend Lys is short for Elizabeth, got it? (Even though for that to happen it would need to be Elysabeth with is just simply beyootiful –not, it screams loser and I am most definitely not one.) You don’t wanna get on my bad side. People on my bad side spend hours wishing they hadn’t pissed me off. Besides, I have Dory, and she’s a fricking beazt. So be afraid –rawr.
You should be afraid of Dory –she’s quite mental. Like I said, I have been smacked in the head many times, especially when I saw something I shouldn’t have, do something I shouldn’t have, or don’t do/say something when I really ought to have done/said something. So yeah, that’s approximately twelve times per day –I have actually counted them and made an estimate. I’m pretty smart.
Except my open-mind (I do accept plants to be living things, unlike certain people I know) and incredible intelligence isn’t enough to understand my mother’s insane antics. I mean, goodness gracious my name. The woman must hate me. Yet she smothers me with love and anti-nargle spray. I’m not kidding about the last part. My mother is so crazy as to actually create and develop an anti-nargle spray. But she only uses it on us, not on the mistletoe, because she says it wouldn’t be good for the nargles. She likes those invisible creatures way too much.
Well, the best thing to do in these situations is to not try to understand her. The sooner you accept that she’s seriously weird, your life will get easier. If someday you encounter her and she starts up about blibbering humdingers or whatever, just smile and nod, smile and nod. I, having lived with her since I was born, and therefore am skilled in this particular thing. The other she kept going on about the snorkack horn that blew up her house when she was sixteen, and Annie and I just grinned like idiots and nodded like bobbleheads. By the way, I call Lorcan Annie. I know it might just not make any sense, but Lorcan ends with an “An” at the end. And “An” sounds like “Anne” that can be called “Annie”. So I call her Annie when I feel like annoying her. For some unknown reason, she hates me calling her that and much prefers it when it’s just Lorcan. I think she’s being entirely ridiculous and should feel blessed that I want to call her Annie at all. She should feel blessed that I managed to get out a pretty nickname from that.
Sometimes my mother whines that we should call her Annie, because her name is Luna and it doesn’t have anything to do with it at all. I love my mother and all, but the woman is seriously bonkers.
So, enough about my mum.
Even I’m getting a headache.
What do you want to know now? More about the greatness madness that is my Hunky-Dory? Or Lorcan? Or the fantastically hot abs of Dominique Scamander?
And before you ask, he’s a very manly (albeit girly) bloke. His mother seems to have the very same issues ours have –though of course, the woman is not so obvious about how mad she truly is. Because I can assure you that Dominique is a pretty bloody girl’s name, no matter how much manly it is in French according to her and according to her son, who always prefers it when people call him Dom because if not, well, he would be probably bullied for life. Well, not really, considering he is a Weasley (and what a horrible destiny! Dom-ee-nik’ Weez-lee. Poor sod) but still, it must suck to have such a name. We all have name issues, it seems. And you may be wondering how I know this stuff about him –despite the sod being incredibly popular; which is just because I may have a teeny, tiny, wee little crush on him.
“Oh, look, Lys,” Lorcan pipes up, bringing me out of my stupor and bolting me back to the earth, which I must say, isn’t that great of a place these days. Not with us sitting right here in this ridiculously tight collar-dresses, in the midst of one of the Sunday brunches of the Weasley-Potter bunch which I still wonder deeply why the hell we are always invited to. Lorcan’s is light pink and mine is dark blue like the Ravenclaw I am. At least Annie Boffanie here and I got sorted into the same house.
And you must know, please, that I did not pick that outfit myself –it was mum. It is always mum. Thinking she can monitor my outfits… I am looking for fashion emancipation, for the sake of Rowena.
Nodding my head in my sister’s direction, I let her know I’m listening without actually looking at her face. I don’t want to snort at any expression she makes and have Roxanne and Lilybeth sneer at me from under their pretty elaborated makeup-ed face, that just like it has been caked on. And yeah, her name might not be Lilybeth exactly, but I never really liked the sod.
“Dominique Weasley is staring at you,” Lorcan finally said, tugging on a lock of her blond hair.
I choke on my pumpkin juice.
Almost immediately like a lightning flash, Dom Weasley, who was sitting beside his younger cousin James, the sodding egotistical fourteen year old, turned to look at me at the sound of my drink going down the wrong pipe. The conversation around the table doesn’t really hush though, is almost as if it’s gotten louder –and that’s even more humiliating than choking in front of the boy I fancy, the fact that the Weasley-Potter bunch are used to these types of things from the Scamander-Lovegood spawns as to even give it the time of the day. Horrifyingly for me, I end up with pumpkin juice trickling down my chin as I dash for a napkin that I have the bad feeling Annie here placed out of my reach. With my incredibly un-clumsy manners, I managed to tilt and titter the jar of butterbeer that Albus managed to save with a wide-eyed stare at us (I have the slight hunch that he fancies my sister, you know) and dabbed it at my mouth, wiping away anything that would just make me want to die further than I do now. That is a lot. Oh dear Rowena, I want to die.
Lorcan bursted out laughing beside me, a fit of tiny little giggles that managed to get the attention of the table for a second before everybody went back to their business. I could see from the corner of my eyes the second Potter boy gazing at her in awe at my twin’s adorableness (because she makes these cute little faces while laughing that I never manage to achieve. Twin gene fail.) and resist the very strong urge to flick his head. Never going to happen, dude. You are thirteen.
If you were wondering, anyways, Lorcan and I are fifteen –and Dom over there is sixteen. James, being two years younger than the older male cousin he looks up to is fourteen, Albus is thirteen, Lily is eleven (and she still sneers at me the little wench), Victoire is nineteen, Teddy is twenty-one, Rose is thirteen, Freddo is our age and Roxy-Doxy is twelve. And she wears makeup. I’m scared for her future.
Little Louis Weasley is not going to Hogwarts just yet, attending the Wizarding Boarding School next fall along with the eldest Weasley Percy-lot child, Lucy. Molly is seven. Yeah, she ain’t joining us anytime soon and I’m glad for that.
And in case you were wondering, Annie and I do have a set of nicknames for them all. There is Jay-bear, Albie-boo, Lilybeth (or Lisarisa or Laralel or Lilo or even Lilylollipop which she seems to hate), Twah (because, you know, Victoire is pronounced Vict-twrah the French way and all, which is why she made the wise decision of going by Vi), Todd (‘cus everybody calls him Teddy and is not fun anymore), Rosesaur (with the temper of a fricking dinosaur), Fringo, or Freddo (which isn’t that original now that we think about it) Louis-Louon, and Roxy-Doxy, Roxy-Poxy, Roxy-Loxy, and Roxy-Moxy. We enjoy annoying her lots, you see. But then, Molly is Molly and Lucy is Lucy. Maybe because we actually like the poor sods.
Its amazing the amount of stuff I can think of after choking.
Gulping an entire glass of water down with one long swig was never this good, or this easy. Even so, as soon as I set down the glass, my eyes may have slowly, probably, sort of like drifted towards Dom, a bit shy after my big show and sort of slouching in my seat. A slight blush creeped to my cheeks as soon as my gaze sat upon his and I realized he had, in fact, been looking at me, and diverting away quickly, I did the only thing I felt it was upon my power to do: flick my stupid sister’s head.
“Ouch!” She cried, turning from Albie-boo to look at me indignantly.
Wagging my tongue out at her, I turned back forward, though of sodding course my eyes had to betray me and pretty soon they were locked in blue. And then the most imperceptible, cocky of the half-smiles I had never seen in his adorable face tugged at his lips, aimed straight at me. As if trying to say, you are not so bad, Scamander.
Needless to say, I turned to jell-o in my seat.
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