Thursday, August 20th, The Weasley (Ron and Hermione, for clarification purposes) Household, Rose’s Study
It has happened. Inevitable really, but I must say I expected him to embrace it with more class and dignity.
I honestly can’t say it’s been much of the surprise given that the poor man spent the latter half of the year wallowing in self-pity and general shitefaced arseholiness over his unfortunate divorce (the wife got almost half the property. Half!? Can you believe that! Buggerfaced wretch). And then of course the mailman had the audacity to say that her actions were justified under the dire circumstances of his situation. What situation? He was middle-age crises affected, not half-giant or paedophiliac. Of course, he’s still middle-age crises affected; I reckon he was born with it. Like you know how some people are just perpetually middle-aged; they listen to Weird Sisters and insist they’re anarchists bent on a nihilistic agenda? Yup, that’s our Professor Whitman. Of course, he doesn’t go right out and publically state his anarchistic inclinations but it’s pretty obvious in the way he defends his whole classroom honesty policy. This basically entails that he casually steps out of the classroom during tests, because apparently “My dignity is worth more than this grade.”
Er, not really.
So of course, the students cheat their sorry I-was-too-hungover-last-night-to-study (yes, I am being judgmental) arses off, but I really haven’t the heart to tell Whitman they do. I reckon he knows though. Just by the way he randomly pops back into class and searches for guilty- faced Hufflepuffs (slytherins are too used to this practice now to experience any form of guilt). Then he reveals his true sadistic colours by subjecting them to another test of a higher difficulty level. But I digress.
The point here (and there is one) is that Whitman is sadistic. Unfortunately so. Merlin knows it can’t be helped.
But this is the first time he’s directed his sadistic efforts towards yours truly. Emotionally unstable Rose Weasley.
“Now Rose,” you say (in a tone that scarily resembles that of my mother), “surely you’re exaggerating, and being your emotional-hyperbole self. It can’t possibly be that bad.”
Oh but is. Unknown voice out of the shadows. It is indeed.
Because when you receive cryptic post from one Professor Whitman, you know the situation is dire and precarious.
You are acutely aware, in short, that you are fucked. Hopelessly fucked.
So fucked, they should invent another word for how fucked you are.
Yes, that fucked.
Dear Rose, Know that you’ll be affronted with a prickly situation today. I want you to be mature when you handle this. -Whitman
What. The. Hippogriff.
My first reaction: It has happened. Whitman has finally gone off the deep edge. Gone bonkers. Embraced his lunatic side. Has turned St.Mungo’s special ward for mentally handicapped worthy. Crazy complete with evil, maniacal laugh.
But now, after carefully analyzing the situation, with my trusty oatmeal and Mr. Wiggin (spy sidekick galore), I have determined that Whitman is simply being cruel by putting me into this sort of deranged frenzy. Much like the time he made all the multiple choice answers on the quiz Bs, leaving me to doubt whether I’d answered everything wrong.
That was one of the most terrible things I’ve ever experienced. James thought it was funny. James is an idiot.
Knowing Whitman, ‘prickly situation’ probably means that I’ll be forced to endure the company of Scorpius ‘Gitface’ Malfoy , or worse, Hugo ‘Bitchface’ Weasley. Or that I’d be forced to choose over my beloved David Bowie a la Ziggy Stardust poster and my David Bowie a la Thin White Duke poster by dearest mum who, I believe, thinks Bowie is the devil incarnate, and promotes smoking pot and shit. Consequently, she believes I might be smoking pot with Helen, whom she’s been very critical of ever since she discovered that trashy novel in my room with Helen’s name on it.
Which is not even fair, since said trashy novel was Like Water for Chocolate, a marked classic in the history of muggle literature. Which, of course, Mum wouldn’t know. Even though she’s the muggleborn one.
And since when has Whitman started sounding like bad fortune-cookies, anyway? I mean, I get that he’s depressed over the whole divorced-already- at-32 thing, but honestly man, get a little backbone, and stop envisioning yourself as the Friedrich Nietzsche of the modern world. Besides, she was, and I quote, “a good for nothing slag” anyway.
Alright then. So Mr. Wiggin and I, with our fuck-yeah-we’re-awesome detective skills and general intuitiveness have determined that Professor Whitman is simply being his sadistic self and trying to put me in an analytical what-the-snickerdoodles-does-this-mean frenzy.
Which has totally worked, by the way. It is now 12.00, three hours since I sat down analyzing this letter.
Dad’s probably worried. I did leave the breakfast table in the most unusual fashion.
It involved me ruining my long-established picture of dignity (pssh, yeah right) by spewing milk all over the table (most of it was caught by Hugo’s face, so not a total loss) as soon as I read Whitman’s charming letter, and bolting up the stairs, tripping once or twice as I went along.
Note to self- you are not an accomplished runner. Please never attempt that again. Also, apply ice, I’ve heard it works.
Bloody OUCH.
Wait, maybe this is what Whitman wanted. He was obviously all “I feel sadistic and bored today, whatever shall I do? Oh I know, I’ll simply slip Ms. Weasley a cryptic little note. She’ll obviously freak the flip out and trip on stairs or something, and hurt herself. Hehehe, how amusing.” Oh my Merlin, my life is totally crap enough for that to be an actual possibility.
Merlin, why, oh why, do you hate me so?
“Rose, are you okay in there?”
Crapmuffins, have we been discovered Mr.Wiggin? Quick, look natural!
Mum enters through the small thatch and peers in, wrinkling her nose in obvious disgust. I can’t imagine why she’s so annoyed. I mean, we all know she was expecting me to be puffn it up on a joint with Mr.Wiggin as my trusty companion in here, the attic which I affectionately termed my Study, in my anorak phase, during fifth year.
She enters carefully, and positions herself directly in front on me, drawing herself to her fullest height, and giving me her signature stink-eye.
Another sign that you, my friend, are fucked in the truest sense of the word.
“Rose,” she sighs, “You have to stop doing this. You can’t stress about every small thing in life. It can’t be good for you.”
I’m sorry, what!? I’ll have you know I live a very stressful life indeed.
“What did you read in that letter?”
“Nothing, mum. And I swear I’m not stressing about this or anything.”
She purses her lips and sighs.
“Right then. I know I can’t force you to talk about this. But know that you can tell me anything, okay, Rose?”
I am such a shite daughter.
“Yes, of course.” Signature yeah-I’m-being-truthful smile.
I am such a liar.
“Okay then.” She begins to walk towards the door.
I’m a terrible offspring, my parents should have drowned me at birth, like some people do with kitten and puppies. Which, if you ask me, is totally cruel and undeserving since-
“Oh, I almost forgot. We’re going to the Burrow for lunch today.”
On second thought, I should’ve drowned myself.
Maybe this is what Whitman was referring to.
Still Thursday, August 20th, The Weasley (Ron and Hermione, for clarification purposes) Household, Living Room
Let’s get some things straight.
I love my family. Each and every one of them really (even Aunty Audrey, who insists the phrase ‘sexually active’ is vulgar, even though she does spend a lot of her time questioning us on whether we’re sexually active), and Uncle Percy (Aunty Audrey’s husband. Coincidence that the two most unpleasant members of the family are married? I think not).
The point is though, that my family is several levels of awesome. The kind of awesome that bail you out of the one detention you ever got (courtesy of our dearest Malfoy Jr.), the kind of awesome that defend you against mean-spirited bullies. The kind of awesome that teach you the bat-bogey hex to combat said bullies.
They are, in short, the shit.
They are, also, very many. The Weasleys (and Potters) could populate a small town easily. This, combined with my special lack of social skills, means that sometimes being around so many people makes me uncomfortable. And then there’s the fact that with so many cousins, our parents tend to get quite competitive. And given the fact that Victoire recently graduated Healer academy, the parental figures will be on edge indeed.
Of course, I’ll get to see Al, who’s quite definitely my best friend (including Helen. Of course), but it’s not like I don’t get to see him on normal days. I mean, he literally lives down the street. Ginny told me Dad insisted on the Potters getting a house close to ours so he could ensure his sister’s virtue was still intact.
Which makes sense. Dad’s over-protectiveness, I mean. But I still maintain that forcing my one and only boyfriend to strip down to his boxers, looking for piercings or tattoos that declared him a devil-worshipper, was worse.
I reckon poor Michael’s life was never the same again. I wonder that he didn’t press harassment charges. But, then again, he was a good bloke.
But yeah, a huge Burrow meeting is largely inconvenient at this point. What I really want to do is huddle inside my little Study and have several freak-out sessions.
About the meaning of life. And why I don’t have a boyfriend. You know, normal, teenage girl shit.
But alas, ’tis not possible.
I turn my attention towards the telly where Hugo’s watching Dr.Phil talk to a woman who claims a bottle of lotion whispered to her that her husband was the antichrist.
This makes me feel better; at least I’m not as deranged as this person.
Life is good.
“Feeling any better, Rose?”
“Indeed, mother figure,” giving her my full-watt, crazy-sugar-high-rose-is-back grin.
Because, of course, I have come to the sudden epiphany that life is not so bad after all. And that Nanna Molly makes beautiful cupcakes. And tarts. And trifles.
Rosie. Tummy. Happy. Mmmmmmmmmmmm......
Mom gives me the are-you-high stare. “Rosie, are you hi-“
“Mom, no.” For the love of Nanna Molly’s cheese casserole and Uncle Harry’s awkward first impressions. This is just the perfect example of how my life is engineered with well and pure suck. I’m misconceived as a smoker, when James, who’s actually smoked his share of joints back in fifth grade, is declared a saint. In what parallel universe is this fair????
Ah, the bucket of utter crap that is my life.
“Rose, have you been reading those trashy novels again?”
It never ends. Why, wizard god. Why?
“What trashy novels?,” Dad pops into the room holding a giant-sized back of Doritos. He sprays the couch with cheesy crumbs, which Hugo eyes longingly.
“Oh, nothing,” mum says, casually throwing me a wink as though we share a secret or something.
What. Is. This. Poopage.
“Rosie, why don’t you go get dressed for the Burrow. Wear something nice.”
Translation- I want you to look better than Victoire, so I’d have an edge in the bragging battles.
Bitch, please. Unicorns could poop on Victoire, and she’d still look beautiful. It’s called being a part-veela. You want me to be beautiful? Go turn into a veela.
I have issues. But then again, so does my mom.
SO DOES THE ENTIRE WORLD.
Except David Bowie. And Caleb Wood. They’re undoubtedly perfect.
Still Thursday, August 20th, The Weasley Mobile (a present from Grandpa Arthur, for clarification purposes), Backseat
I can’t believe this.
Do mine eyes deceive me? Is this a sure sign of the Apocalypse? Was I right about Sharon, the old lady across the street who claims to have slept with Elvis, in that she was the antichrist? Were my parents aware that they lived in such proximity of pure evil? I mean, granted, they offed Voldemort and all, but he was man. And Sharon is the antichrist. Or have I simply contracted acute myopia? Is a visit to the Healer in order? Will I look good in glasses? Or will I acquire those ocular lenses Albus is so fond of using? Such a dilemma indeed.
Or can it be that (GASP, pause for dramatic effect) Hugo Weasley has made an effort to look almost.......(good? clean?)human?
Snigger. Oh, how I amuse myself on my little brother’s expense. I knew he’d be good for something when mum and dad brought him home.
“Hugo?” I say.
“Yes?” he replies, with careful insertion of boredom in his tone.
“Are you really not wearing any articles of my clothing? For the first time ever?”
“What? I don’t-“
“Hoping to impress James with our new and improved style are we? I reckon he’d be satisfied. He also thought you looked a bit like his old girlfriend.”
“The nailpolish, and the eye-liner are a form of expression of art, Rose. Something you wouldn’t understand,” he harrumphs and firmly yanks his gaze toward the passing sights.
A slight breeze catches his brown hair. Wait a second....
“Is that my conditioner I smell?”
“No!” he says, and makes a harried attempt to stuff his hair back into his stylish newsboy hat.
I suspect foul play indeed. If only Mr.Wiggin’s handy detective skills were available to aid me. But no matter, I shall solve this mystery single-handedly. Because no body, especially not slacker-extraordinaire Hugo Weasley, makes this kind of effort for nothing. Which could only mean one of two things:
a)He’s been bullied by mum into doing it for her to gain points in what is sure to be a most exciting bragging battle yet. (Detective’s analysis- Unlikely but definitely a possibility. Hugo Weasley was born a mama’s boy, and while he has successfully deviated from this status in recent years, a promise of new guitar-picks, or other trivial trinkets of the sort, might entice him back into her bidding).
b)He is hoping to impress a girl (Detective’s analysis: Unlikelier than first hypothesis, but definitely more plausible. Despite evidence to the contrary, subject is not homosexual, but simply believes he is David Bowie a la Ziggy Stardust incarnate. Is obviously delusional, as David Bowie is glam-rock god and subject is a mere bloke)
This is obviously a very tricky problem indeed. In desperate circumstances such as these, the detective is forced to resort to unconventional methods. Namely, straight out interrogating the subject.
“So, subje- I mean, dearest brother, Hugo! What has you decked out so impeccably?”
“Nothing.”
Detective’s notes- Subject flinched slightly when questioned.
“Are you sure? Because you do look quite nice.”
Flattery. Oldest trick in the book. What book, you ask? One my brother is not familiar with.
“Really?” he chirps, straightening his collar self-importantly.
“Of course, when have you ever known me to lie?”
I’m lying. I lie all the time. It’s so instinctive now, I hardly notice it.
Hugo’s eyes narrow suspiciously. Abort, Abort, subject suspects! But then I notice his ears are still a nice, red colour.
Bitch is still in the game.
“I’m glad you made an effort, Hugo. Honestly, you’re pretty good-looking, you know. You don’t even have the Weasley curse for red hair,” I say, sincerely.
He’s falling for it. “Oh. Well, thanks, Rosie.”
Yes, yes, I must know what has brought on this sudden change.
“So......is it a girl?”
“What!? Pssh, no,” he chokes out.
Bitch please, you’re dealing with a professional here. Do you not realize how obvious you’re being?
“Aww, come on, who’s the lucky girl,” I tease, as though we’re friends and I’m not subtly interrogating him like the superawesome detective I am.
“NOBODY,” he snaps, “Look, would you me stop grilling about this? Is it so hard to believe I dressed up nice to see Nanna?”
Oh. Oh dear.
“You’ve dressed up nice too. Should I assume you’ve done it to impress a boy?”
I look down at my bright red summer dress and sputter, “What!? NO. You know that mum-”
“It’s Scorpius, isn’t it? He’s the only one who’s going to be there that’s not related to you.”
Wait a second. Scorpius smarmy-prick Malfoy is going to be there? Why? Why does Albus have to invite his miserable slimy ickiness? What does the see in that Slytherin? Does he not realize that the presence of such gitfaced specimen can lead to unfortunate circumstances, such as brother implying you dressed up for them?
Wait, WHAT!?
“In what parallel universe would I dress up for SCORPIUS BLOODY MALFOY?” I shriek.
Hugo is speechless. Yeah, bitch, we all know who’s boss around here. Bow down in front of my awesome comeback skills. Cower in the light of my sheer epicness. Thank the good Merlin you’re allowed to bask in my company. Appreciate-
And then he smirks. What-
“What’s this about Malfoy?” Dad barks from the front seat.
Hugo obviously has no idea of what he’s started. This is war, my friend. This is hell, and trust me when I say we’ll both get burned in this process. Burnt to crisps. Hopeless little black crisps. Utter, pitiful ashes.
Because here’s the thing. Father dear? Yeah, does not appreciate the Malfoys. Doesn’t like them. Doesn’t like to be reminded they still exist and have not hightailed it to another dimension or something since he last heard of them. Does not like it that they haven’t choked on their wholesome egos already. And he especially doesn’t like the fact that Albus has befriended the king of all gits, Malfoy Jr. I reckon he feels betrayed (I know I did). I bet he counted on anybody with even an ounce of Weasley blood in them to cheerfully hate the Malfoys for forever more. I bet he thought, “Yeah we have our differences. But we’re a family, we laugh together, cry together, cheerfully hate the Malfoys with a burning passion together. Carefully plot methods of their demise together.” You know, that sort of thing.
Sometimes I feel like one of the most powerful motivations behind everything he does is Mr. Malfoy, the older, balder one, of course. It’s like he spends the entire year accumulating accomplishments about which to brag about to Mr. Malfoy at the Ministry’s annual Christmas Ball. All these accomplishments are accompanied with a casual hand through his hair in the “Yes, I have hair and you don’t, problem?” fashion.
I swear he likes to gloat he has hair to Malfoy Jr as well. Which doesn’t make sense as Junior has a head full of hair himself. I think it’s more of a “You were sired by a man with no hair. How does that make you feel, hmm?” thing.
To which, Malfoy usually gives him the blank “What the fuck are you on, old man?” stare.
The point here is that Dad doesn’t really fancy the Malfoys all that much.
“Rosie, what’s this about you dressing up for Malfoy?” Dad spits out.
Beside me, Hugo goes into a fit of badly disguised chuckles.
What a little bitch my brother has grown up to be.
“Nothing, Dad. As if I would dress up for that slime. The thought itself is revolting.”
Dad gives a firm nod in the “Damn, straight” fashion, Mum shakes her head in the “Why did I marry into this family?” fashion.
I swear, Dad and I are probably the only members of the Weasley clan who stick to their well-founded hatred of Malfoy. The others have simply succumbed to his (charm? wit? Ability to perform the Imperious curse well?”). Whatever it is, the family simple adores Malfoy’s prickfaced hide. Ginny and Harry invite him over every Christmas, Easter, school holiday, Nanna Molly insists on feeding him her homemade chocolate éclairs (without even suspecting him of attempting to steal the recipe. I mean, she suspected me, her own flesh and blood, and not him), George insists on sampling the latest Wheezes products on him.
Even Aunty Audrey insists his use of the word ‘bird’ to describe McGonagall was vulgar.
You know you’re part of the family when Audrey declares you vulgar.
The car jerks to a stop. I narrowly miss having my eye poked out.
“We’re here!” Dad announces.
Well, let’s get this show on the road.
Note to self- Was this narrow encounter about Malfoy in the car what Whitman was referring to?
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