Chapter 6 : The worst present ever
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Chapter 6. The worst present ever
"Happy Christmas, Black!"
Kill me now.
I feel something annoying poking my arse. I grunt: A way of saying 'fuck off' without the need to communicate.
"I got you a present!"
Ever heard the phrase 'let sleeping dogs lie'? Well, let's just say that this creature from hell should turn down the happy dial a few thousand notches and then get the fuck away, or I'll take great pleasure in proving how important(and true - literally) said phrase is.
"Up and attems, lazybones!"
Where did my blanket go?
Well, the thief is in for a rude surprise once-
"What the hell, Black?! You're naked?!"
Ah, blankie! You're back!
"God, Black - you're disgusting."
"Nothing you ain't seen before, love," I say groggily as I snuggle into the blanket. "Or touched, for that matter."
"Don't remind me," Evans complains and sits down on the edge of my bed. "But over to bigger and better things - it's Christmas morning!"
She giggles. Barf. And it sounds like a cackle compared to the way Muffi-
"I think it was," she says, and begins to poke my arse again. "Come on!"
"What is it with you and that need you have to fuck up my mornings?!" I sneer, and try to swat away her prodding fingers.
"When Potter's not here I don't have anyone else to be mean to," she tells me. "You're the next best thing."
"Don't I feel special..."
"Blaaaaaack!" she whines and starts pinching my arm. "Get uuuuup!"
Fuck this shit.
With epic ninja-reflexes I turn around, grab Evans, throw her down on the bed and basically jump on top of her. She's now pinned to the bed by my whole body - and it's not a tiny body.
"What the hell are you doing?!" Evans wheezes out and wiggles under me like crazy. Oh no. I find the movement...pleasant.
Bugger! I did not think this through.
Why can't she lie still?!
"Would you stop wiggling?!" I hiss and close my eyes in concentration.
One flying hippogriff, two flying hippogriffs, three-
Evans's body freezes under me.
"Is that your..?"
"Mhm." Oh, the blushing - I damn thee to hell!
I lean away from her, which gives her enough room to crawl away.†
"So, ehm, I'll just...yeah," Evans mutters and coughs awkwardly before putting something on my bed. "Ehhh, I'll see you later, Black."
There's a flash of red, and the next thing I register is the door slamming behind her. Why, that was fast.
I should 'get excited' more often - it seems that's the only way of getting rid of her.
And no, I'm not particularly embarrassed; there's no use. If I got embarrassed every time that happened, I can't ever leave this room.
I'm not particularly proud that it happened with Evans - again. But yeah... Can't get too hung up on that now, can I? It's not like that was the most awkward moment between me and the redhead; not even second, to be honest.
Well, the woman had succeeded in one thing though: I am painfully awake. It's no use trying to fall asleep again, so I throw away the blanket and put my feet on the floor.
A soft thump erupt and I find the 'something' Evans put on my bed on the floor. It's wrapped in shiny, blue paper, and it's tempting as hell. I'm one of those people who tear open gifts like their lives depends on it; Moony once said I behaved like a werewolf when it came to this. I didn't find it particularly funny.
That's why I now find myself ripping apart the wrapping paper, and once finished I sit there in clear confusion.
In my hand I'm now holding an oven mitt.
What am I going to make of this?
At least this means I don't have to feel guilty for not giving Evans something in return. I can just doodle something on a sheet of toilet paper and give it to her.
Seriously, though - an oven mitt?†
I turn the thing over, trying to find some sense to it. But there is none.
The chick is seriously bizarre.
With the strange gift in one hand, I get to my feet and begin to dress. To answer your question; yes, I do carry it around while doing this. You see, I'm still trying to rack my brain to find if I ever said anything to insinuate that I was in need of an oven mitt.
I can't remember shit.
I'm actually still carrying it when I make my way to breakfast, and when I catch a glimpse of the redheaded freakshow,†I sit down beside her with a quizzing look.
"Seriously?" I say and hold up the mitt.
"Oh, you opened it." She smiles and then returns to eating her porridge.
"Eh, yeah," I raise my brows at her, "but I can't for the life of me figure out why the hell you thought this was an appropriate present for me."
"Why? Don't you like it?" Those big, scary eyes are directed at me, and they widen even more than usual.†
"Well, it's not about whether I like it or not. My question is why did you buy this?"
"I dunno, I thought you'd....like it?"†
Yep. She's definitely insane.
"It doesn't make any sense," I tell her. "There are snitches on it."
"I'm a Beater. I use a bat - to hit bludgers."
"Well, they're both related to Quidditch, aren't they?"
"They're both related to-?" I start in disbelief, and then pinch the pridge of my nose with my eyes closed. "Never hit a woman, never hit a woman..."
"Sorry, I've never gotten a guy a gift before, I wasn't sure about what to buy."
"Then why start now?"
She shrugs, and then stuffs her mouth full of porridge.
She's trying to evade answering my question by choking herself? That's fine. I'll just wait.
When she realises I'm not going to let go of the topic anytime soon, she splutters something about the loo, and then rushes off without another word.
I dry away a slimy piece of porridge that spat out of Evans's mouth with the oven mitt. At least it can function as a spit remover. Because I'm sure as hell not going to use it otherwise. I mean, I don't bake! I don't cook at all. You know, I actually managed to set fire to boiling water? Yeah.
I'll drive myself as crazy as Evans if I keep trying to make her gift logical, so I give up. The bacon begs me to inhale them, and I happily comply.†
"You'll give yourself heartburn if you keep eating like that," I hear a voice behind me say teasingly. When I turn around I see a very tall, skinny girl with hair like a rainbow - a very ugly rainbow.
"Hi, Skeeter," I greet in a monotone mutter. She's staring at me with those probing eyes; I can practically hear her brain buzzing to make a story out of my binge eating.
She's still studying me, and I go back to eating my way to blocked arteries as if she never interrupted me.
"I saw you talking to Lily Evans," she states, and I see her fiddling with a quill in my peripheral vision. "And then she ran out like the room was on fire. Why?"
"None of your business, Skeeter."
"Well, Olaf Coleman - the editor in chief at The Daily Prophet - never takes that for an answer, and neither will I."
Never hit a woman, never hit a woman... I repeat over and over in my head. It seems I'm a bit short-tempered this morning.
No, it's not me; it's these women. Every mentally disturbed female in a three-mile radius seems to be drawn to me .
"Did she give you that?" She points at the oven mitt I'm still holding. "Oh, I see. She gave you a gift, but you didn't get her one in return? And now she's hurt and alone; heartbroken that the one she loves-"
A barking laugh escapes me, and I am pleased to note that a few bits of bacon shoots out of my mouth and lands on the notepad Skeeter is holding. She grimaces, but doesn't back off.
"You don't fool me, Sirius Black." Why does she always insist on calling me by my whole name? It feels like she's giving me a prison sentence.
Sirius Black, I condemn thee to a lifelong punishment in Azkaban prison! May God have mercy on thy soul! Apparently the judge in my head is from the fourteenth century.
"I'm not trying to, Rita Skeeter," I retort while smirking.
"Tell me, how does it feel to betray your best mate? Do you feel guilty at all that Lily Evans gave you a present - gave you her heart, while your best friend sits all alone, weeping - having nothing?"
"It's an oven mitt."
"Do you have so little substance in your life that you have to go around interrogating people on Christmas morning?"
"Mr Coleman says I need to brush up on my interviewing skills before my internship this summer," she tells me with an air of superiority.
I care more about my own fart than her internship. And I'd like to wipe my arse with her snooty expression.
"And I'm the poor victim who has to suffer through it," I mumble, and exhale agressively. "Fantastic."
"A little hostile, are we? Any particular reason to why you're this closed up? Any skeletons in that closet you don't want anyone to find?" She's so close to me now that our noses are almost touching. "Any secrets that are gnawing on your insides like a-"
But I never found out what was apparently 'gnawing my insides' because someone finds this to be a good time to call out:
Skeeter looks away, and I give a relieved sigh.
There is a God!
...and he hates me.
Gilderoy Lockhart, more affectionally known to his girlfriend as 'Gilly', is the most insufferable, narcissistic, obnoxious, blonde idiot I've ever had the misfortune of meeting. Dumb as a skunk, and his stupidity is actually painful to be around. He's so obsessed with his looks that it's almost on the verge of being a legitimate illness. I once saw him going around a whole day talking to himself in a mirror. When Prongs asked why, Lockhart replied: "My hair is having a bad day, and I'm giving it a morale boost."
"Morning, Sirius," he says as though we are on a first name basis. Which we aren't - and I decide to remind him of that.
"An absolutely gorgeous day, isn't it?" He grins as though he and the sun are having a contest of 'who can shine the brightest'. Skeeter curls a skinny arm around his waist, and he kisses her cheek. Lockhart then turns to me again, and fans(I am not joking)†his eyelashes while grinning even more.
And what do I notice? The bloke is wearing make-up. You know the black inc, or whatever, that girls draw around their eyes with? Yes, he's wearing that.
I think it's time for Madam Pomfrey to have a look at him.†
What I just realise is that the clown has been trying to gather my attention for several minutes, and all I've been doing is stare at his eyes.
He probably thinks I'm a poof.
I clear my throat. "Did you say something?"
Oh, how I want to punch that grin right off his face! But you know what I've said all morning: never hit a woman.
How am I not a comedian? I'm so bloody hilarious, it should be illegal!
"I was just wondering why you have an oven mitt on your hand?"
First of all, it's not on my hand, it's in my hand - get your prepositions straight. And second, mind your own sodding business.
"Lily Evans gave it to him," Skeeter fills him in just when I'm about to tell him to 'piss off'. "They're in love, you see."
"Oh?" he looks alarmingly surprised. This may be more than his almost non-existent brain can handle. "But I thought James Potter fancied her? Wouldn't it be wrong of you to fall for the girl he likes? Isn't he going to be-?"
"Lily Evans and I are not in love!" I roar out, and the ten other people in the room are looking up from their plates, and all eyes are on me. Including the Headmaster, who is now chuckling to himself.
This may not have been my most shining moment.
Flee! my brain yells at me. Now!
So with a tight grip on that stupid oven mitt, I get to my feet and strut away from there as if I have something terribly important to do somewhere else. Of course I don't, but they don't know that.
So, where to?
There's a limit to what a person can do around here over the holidays; almost everyone leaves, and there's nobody left to prank.
Or to help you prank.
I know it's not a very manly thing to say, but I really miss my mates. Prongs in particular.
Great. Now I'm turning into a woman. Next thing I know I'll wake up with a pair of tits and a uterus.
...I wonder what it would feel like to breastfeed...?
Woah! That was a questionable thought! Un-think it! Un-think it fast!
"You okay there, slugger?"
I whip around, panting like I've just completed a marathon, and realize I've been running all the way out to the snow-covered Quidditch pitch.
Tabitha Bell, our Chaser, is hovering beside me on her broom with a worried expression. Her short hair sticks up everywhere - resembling Prongs's - and I'm oddly comforted with the lack of locks. Women with long hair mean trouble - life lesson number four.
After one: Never, ever mix firewhiskey and meade - or just don't drink at all.
Two: Always win the blame game.
And three: I should never be responsible for ending an awkward silence.
Oh, and let's add another one: Never, in a million years, or even if we were the only two people left to repopulate the earth after an apocolypse -†will I EVER have sex with Lily Evans again.
"I'm fine," I assure the short-haired girl after regaining my breath. "One-on-one?"
And here's what I like about Tabitha: she quits the subject, and instead goes on board with this idea by engaging in some fierce trash talking, saying she's going to(and I quote) "wipe this field clean with my flat arse".
My arse isn't flat; it's nice and toned.
She should know.
You know what I mean.†
What can I say? I'm a seventeen-year-old male. I have needs. Blokes only need two things to be happy, you see: Quidditch, and to get laid.
And after the one-on-one on the Quidditch pitch, we go do a one-on-one in my bed.
Which makes Sirius Black a happy lad.
Ahhh!!! :D I just LOVE writing this story! It's physically impossible for me to stop! How great is that? :D
Well, I may be ever-so ecstatic about this story, but what are your thoughts? Are you enjoying it at all? And if there are any guys reading: Do you find it believable?†
Well, Sirius is a very stereotypical young male, and may seem very...one-dimensional to many of you - but I promise he isn't! He's just not a very emotional lad on the outside - but that's due to some very questionable things in his past.
But, seriously, what do you think?
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