Chapter 2 : Singed
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[Ian Whitley made by the supakewl our sea star at TDA]
I should’ve realised that when the Whizzio’s motto claim to start your morning with a bang they really aren’t joking. On closer inspection the Whizzio’s cereal pack informs you that Whizzio’s react with milk to create small whizzing, explosions, thus, making breakfast enjoyable and oh so lively for everyone.
It also appears that Whizzio’s still manages to react with milk splattered on waves of bed-head.
Meaning they still burst into flames.
Meaning my hair was on fire.
Why yes, this breakfast has been charmingly enjoyable and just ridiculously lively. So lively, that in fact, you won’t blame me if I go jump off a cliff.
You see, I seem to have a penchant for attracting danger.
At the age of seven my dad took Ian and me to the park. My father, being the lovable, forgetful man that he is, opened up a newspaper and was quickly lost in the world of the Daily Prophet. Ian then convinced me to abandon the crummy playground- which at the time seemed to be the coolest shit this side of the galaxy - and instead have an “adventure trek” with him. To this day I regret ever listening to Ian Whitely; it always brings doom.
But at the tender age of seven, I didn’t know any better. I had still yet to learn the Rules of Life.
Charlotte Avery’s Abridged Rules of Life (I speak from experience)
1. Never have relatives. Particularly cousins. If any aunt/uncle is pregnant steal the developing foetus in the middle of the night and ship it to Russia. There it can proceed to safely lead a glorious life of communism and Ushkanas.
2. In the very likely event that rule 1 is broken DO NOT EVER confirm any relation to said relative or EVER (and I repeat, EVER) listen to any of his ideas. They will only bring woe, paedophiles, melancholy and the plague. You must also remember to never associate with this moronic relative of yours. I don’t care if he becomes a billionaire and invites you to spend his/her fortune, adamantly refuse. He’ll only coerce you into converting his house into the next playboy mansion (i.e. Ian’s lifelong ambition).
3. Finally the third (and arguably the most important) rule of life. Never, ever, whip out your Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum in front of anyone else. Ever heard the saying “open a pack of gum and suddenly everyone’s your best friend”? Yeah, that shit’s true. Unless you’re a secret ninja don’t even attempt to take out a packet of chewing gum in class. In 0.021 seconds flat a beaming, gap toothed kid will cosy up to you and claim you’re his best friend. “Remember me? I once smiled at you in the corridor back in second year,” he’ll coo. Deny and run, deny and run: that is the code.
Being completely oblivious to these key rules I foolishly consented to Ian’s idea.
I followed him past all the botoxed mothers’ complete with designer prams and faux fur bottle feeders; past the groups of intimidating teenagers; drunk university students from the night before, and the masses of coddling young couples. After a while of scurrying we reached the very edge of the large park. All that stood in front of us was a layer of towering trees with trunks the size of Rose Weasley’s chubby stomach (which is extremely large, in case it doesn’t obstruct your vision daily).
My stomach was already churning with wet, cold fear. It felt like a dozen fish were squirming and wriggling in a frenzied bid to escape. This was the furthest I’d ever been away from my dad in a public environment.
What if we got killed?
Or worse, Dad found out we had ran off and there’d be no more dessert for either of us?
I simply couldn’t let that happen. I tried to persuade Ian to return to the playground, but he had a goofy grin the size of Jupiter on his face with an eager glint in his eyes. There’s no point trying to persuade Ian to go back on anything when he gets that strange look. It’s like an inexplicable desire that can’t be quashed down. It quickly consumes him so he won’t rest until he’s been there, done that, and bought the t-shirt.
Recognising “The Look”, I sighed in resignation and followed his lead through the thick foliage.
In hindsight there were probably a few bushes but my seven year old mind exaggerated everything ten times bigger. The fallen twigs were suddenly rotting logs obstructing our way. The mossy stones turned into boulders which hid wicked witches with warty noses and baskets full of poisoned apples. A passing fly morphed into a gigantic dragonfly, and a scurrying spider was a lethal, furry tarantula.
But Ian wasn’t unnerved. He was happily stomping through the bushes with a large branch in hand to break down any barring branches.
Adventure is what he revels in, even to this day. He loves the pumping feeling of adrenaline coursing through your veins. He adores the thought of not knowing what’s going to happen next and where you might end up. He gets excited over the weirdest things like a new, unexplored territory, just waiting to be discovered.
I loathe it almost as much as Potter.
We trekked along until we reached a small clearing in which I pleaded for a rest. A hundred metres and I’m out of breath. And I can proudly say that I’ve kept that record until this very day.
Not many people can claim that.
Just as Ian declared this to be “The best day of my life, forever!” a man stumbled through the bushes and staggered to a halt in front of us. He was dirty, toothless, dressed in a black overcoat and smelt funny. You could put it down to my naive early upbringing, but I had no idea of the concept of a tramp.
Why would somebody be homeless? Didn’t their daddy love them enough?
Even though the creepy man smelt of odd Uncle Eddie and a stern voice at the back of my mind- that had an uncanny resemblance to my mother- was telling me to back away, I didn’t. I just stood there, gaping.
The strange man seemed to find our presence extremely funny. He just stood there, cackling, before slowly stooping down and outstretching his hand in the same gesture you use to call a dog.
By this point I was definitely considering running away. My steely blue eyes were darting around the leafy clearing, looking for the closest escape and quickly calculating the distance between them. In all my observing I missed the obvious- Ian was confidently walking towards the beckoning man.
He’d nearly reached him, when, acting on gut instinct and sheer foolishness, I pounced on Ian’s back in a bid to stop him. Typically, I missed short but managed to grab onto his ankle instead.
Sudden movements and deranged tramps don’t seem to mix very well. He immediately lurched forwards, towards us, with a manic glint in his eye.
We didn’t need to be told twice to run.
Ian quickly gripped my hand and half dragged, half pulled me through a thicket of bushes. My eyes were tightly squeezed shut to avoid having an eyeball gouged out. I was being blindly pulled along; with absolutely no direction of where I was going. But I didn’t need to know. Ian seemed to have gone into Usain Bolt mode and we dodged every “log” and “boulder” that came our way.
It was like a game of Extreme Mario, me being Luigi. Bowser had just struck me with his chomp shell and I was a goner. It was now up to Mario (aka: Ian) to save the day. He’d just eaten a magic mushroom (not that type of magic mushroom, sicko) and was on a raging power rampage.
But as everyone knows magic mushrooms are bloody temperamental things. The super effects soon wore out. Mario only loosened his grip on Luigi for a minute, but it was a minute too much.
I suddenly tripped over my loose shoelaces and fell tumbling to the ground. Ian didn’t seem to notice he had lost me until a minute later- when he’d charged too far ahead and I was nowhere to be seen.
Then suddenly, my worst nightmares were confirmed.
No, Flourish and Boots hadn’t closed down, neither had Quidditch players decided to stop doing shirtless photo shoots.
The tramp had caught up with me.
Up close he was definitely scarier, hairier and more bear-ier (yes, that is now a word) than before. His wiry black hair was a bird’s nest littered with dead leaves (think of me on a Sunday morning), his face was soiled with a layer of dirt and Merlin knows what, and how could we forget his manic eye bulging out of their sockets?
He ominously towered over me with a jagged, glass bottle top in his hand. A jagged glass bottle top that happened to be stained a rusty red.
His bulky overcoat flapped in a gust of wind and it made me wonder what other torture devices he’d hidden under there.
Merlin, him and Filch would’ve gotten along so well.
Seriously, even better than me.
The creepy man swiftly brought his arm down to make contact with my head, when suddenly, just in the nick of time, Ian came charging out of a nearby bush. With a fearsome war cry of “YOU POO HEAD!” he head butted the hobo right in the family jewels. After an ear splitting, animalistic cry, the tramp buckled to the ground.
Ian and I ran for our bloody seven year old lives, never stopping to look back. Eventually we found our way back to the crumbling playground. After enduring half an hour of Ian’s excited ranting, my dad finally remembered to collect us.
When Dad asked us what we’d done today, Ian and I exchanged hurried glances. Mines was a very attractive shitting-myself-terrified whilst his leant more on the grinning-so-hard-my-face-will-split-in-two. After a seconds hesitation, we both replied “oh, nothing much”.
The whole point of telling you that strange anecdote was to back up my very relevant point; I am a bad luck magnet. Awkward moments, tricky situations, and unrealistic events hunt me down and make me suffer. That very nicely brings us to the horrifically dreadful situation were my hair burst on fire.
“FOR THE LOVE OF MEGHORA NOX, YOUR HAIR IS ON FIRE”.
Thanks for that riveting assessment of the situation, Ian. That was completely needed and not at all unnecessary.
That was my very sarky and moody first thought. My second?
My hair was on fire.
My arms began to flail spastically and I’m pretty certain my eyes were as wide as a saucepan. I could pass for a demented bush baby…but on fire.
“Really Ian? I hadn’t noticed?” I meant to snappily retort, but it came out as more of a high pitched squeal. I was panicking and completely out of my depth. In all four years of my magical education nobody has ever prepped me for “bed-head becomes campfire day”.
Surprisingly, having your hair burst into flames felt rather different to what you would imagine. When you think of burning hair an overwhelming inferno slowly baking your scalp comes to mind. Yet, instead of a raging throbbing, all I felt was a strange tingling sensation- much akin to pins and needles. My distorted reflection in a metal tray revealed that each individual strand of my hair was fizzing away in a flurry of pink and red sparks of colour. It was like someone had set multicoloured fireworks off my head.
It wasn’t a good look. I’m not a very “pink” sort of girl.
“DO SOMETHING!” We were being so pathetically stupid. Here I was, standing in the middle of the kitchen with my arms suddenly deciding to become boneless. Ian was jumping up and down as if the fire was on the floor and not currently residing on my head. Malfoy was opening up cupboards at random, in search of a jug of water I suppose, whilst Potter had evidently gone mad and was muttering under his breath.
“Augumenti,” Potter suddenly incanted. A clear jet of sparkling water sprouted from Potter’s wand, directly onto my hair, drenching me completely. Well that certainly did the trick, no more flames! Just water…a lot of very wet water.
To recap, I was first assaulted by a patch of sweat; then came the stinky milk and cereal; closely followed by “The Great Fire of London” being re-enacted on my scalp, and I was now rocking the drowned rat look. This is exactly what I want from my mornings; I couldn’t be happier. Really, what fifteen year old girl doesn’t want to resemble soaked vermin? I know I do.
“You blithering git!” I hissed at Potter. My hair might’ve cooled down but I was internally boiling. The familiar feeling of rage was slowly engulfing me, taking over my sense.
Anger may or may not (personally I’m opting for the latter) cloud my judgement. But even so, I would never admit it; that would be ridiculously counterproductive. Where would all the hours I’ve spent yelling at Potter go?
“What?! I’m the git?” Potter incredulously asked. Finally! I had managed to get an inkling of emotion out of him besides smarminess (if that qualifies as an emotion. If not, please don’t correct me, I’ll look like a twat). His dark eyes were narrowed scathingly and his brows furrowed.
“I just saved your sorry arse from potentially becoming bald and this is the thanks I get? Typical Avery,” he spat.
“I was doing fine on my own!”
“Dear Lord, please throw some earplugs from the heavens…” Ian muttered in an undertone. Does he always have to add a side-along commentary? I’ll dear him in a bloody minute.
“Oh yes, you were doing just fine. Please, tell me when exactly you planned on conjuring water, before or after the trip to A & E?” Potter’s tone had immediately changed of one of anger to a mocking jeer.
“There would’ve been no need for this if you hadn’t decided to trash my bloody kitchen!” Yes, I am using divisionary tactics, what of it? Champion Feisty Bitch tip 1: when you can’t think of a sharper comeback switch to picking out the enemy’s faults.
“It was an accident Avery. Besides if it's causing you that much grief I’ll fix it.” Before I could stop him, Potter had flicked his wand in an upwards motion and suddenly the plates zoomed back to the cupboards, jars fixed themselves together, cutlery flew back to the table and a dustpan and brush scooped away the sauces and crumbs.
Bloody show off. Anyways, basic non-verbal magic is so overrated.
I stamped my foot in frustration and resisted the urge to pull on my wet locks. “Potter stop with the frickin’ cleaning!”.
“Stop the cleaning!” I demanded, pinching the bridge of my nose in frustration.
With a muttering of “alright, keep your weave on”, Potter halted the spell and at once all the kitchen objects became inanimate.
“Wha- but Charlotte, Al was doing a great job!” Ian protested though a mouthful of toast. Pig. The kitchen hadn’t been fixed for one minute and he’s already tucked into more food. By the looks of it, he’d also invited Malfoy for a bite.
“I don’t give a flying piece of hippogriff’s flea bitten fur’s head louses’ babies’ dung, Ian! I can do anything Potter can…” I viciously stated. “…If not better,” I added as an afterthought.
It seems Ian’s good mood had abruptly ended. His lips puckered up into a sour pout. “Except get Prefect”.
Not a word was uttered. Malfoy dropped the apple he’d half eaten onto the floor- his mouth comically open and eyes wide in shock. Potter’s eyes flashed with an emotion I vaguely recognised as surprise and his eyebrows arched upwards. And Ian. Ian. Ian. Ian.
That good for nothing, back-stabbing, traitorous, supposedly related, sickening piece of most evile (notice the extra “e” at the end, it’s a little something I came up with in my spare time; a mixture between vile and evil. Good isn’t it?)
Well, that thing just sat there, with his hand covering his face and his eyes horrifically large; as if he regretted saying anything.
As he should’ve.
I mean, I cannot believe he said that. After all we’ve been through! The psycho tramp incident, the ice cream van chronicles (we charged after a speedy ice cream van and accidentally knocked out the ice cream man himself- don’t ask me how, I’ll never know. We were then faced with the ugly issue of hiding his body. Let’s just say I’ve never been able to look at a freezer the same way again), Uncle Eddie’s vegetable themed family reunion and not to mention the countless other memories that I simply can’t be arsed to remember!
“Avery didn’t get prefect?” Potter asked, his voice a low whisper. It seemed he too was utterly baffled as to why on earth I hadn’t been given the beacon of responsibility. Well, that’s rather touching, if I do say so myself. Don’t get me wrong, I still loathe Potter with every fibre of my being; it’s just that for once in my life he hasn’t started flaunting my shortcomings, not to mention the fact that he seems genuinely shocked- which is the appropriate reaction.
Just as I was about to open my mouth- with an equally grave reply of, “I know, but it’s to be expected really, I always knew McGonagall had it in for me”- Potter slipped in another comment. “Well I’m not surprised, really. This is Avery after all. Who actually thought she’d get the job? She couldn’t navigate herself out of a paper bag, let alone a group of rowdy students.”
Right. That’s it. Sod it. Sod it all.
“Excuse me. Are you actually implying that you could do a better job at being prefect than me?
“I’m not implying, I’m stating. It’s a fact that even a headless koala could do a better job than you,” Potter coolly retorted.
Oh no, he did not just go there.
Oh my god. He went there, didn’t he? He compared me to a headless mammal living amongst people who use "sheila" in actual conversation.
How very dare he. Steal my own cousin from me, gatecrash my morning moan, throw flaming cereal at me all you like, but never, and I repeat never, compare my perfecting abilities to that of a creature that smells like cough drops from scoffing eucalyptus all day.
I felt the urge to fling my loosely tied hair back and tell Ian to “hold ma hoops gurlfriend” as I savaged Potter to death, but I didn’t. Because I have no energy in the morning and Potter would most definitely pummel me to death.
Not to mention the fact that it’s most probably illegal.
“Okay, I’m betting twenty galleons, right here and now, that you’ll never make it to the end of the year with your prefect badge and head not decapitated,” I recklessly betted.
I’ll admit, this was very unlike me; I don’t do reckless, I do thought out and over analysed. Quite frankly, I’d like to keep it that way. It’s just that when Potter’s around this savage, ugly monster rears its enormous green head inside of me, and then- BAM- suddenly I’ve nearly lost all control. It takes a good amount of self restraint not to prick him with a needle and see if he deflates- you know, since he’s full of hot air.
Full of hot air, do you get it? Good, eh? I’m rather proud of it myself. Environmental jokes are always the best.
Potter rolled his eyes. “Deal, Avery. But let’s raise the stakes, whoever loses has to announce their eternal devotion to the other in this year’s final Quidditch match. On the microphone. In front of the entire school.”
Potter’s previously cold eyes had sort of light up with a vindictive pleasure- as if he knew I would duck out because the stakes had gotten to high.
I couldn’t declare my devotion to him in front of the entire school! Not only do I loathe him and everything he stands for, but what will people say? They’ll think I’m some kind of groupie. I’d rather be mauled to death by a stampede of possessed hippogriffs then be mistaken for a Potter fanatic.
Potter’s female admirers are the lowest of the low. People assume they’re those bleached blond chicks with their hair up in pigtails and their mini skirts way too high. You know, those girls who wear Barbie pink lipstick and feel the need to say “omg!” and “babe” at the end of every bloody sentence.
Yeah, those ones.
But actually Potter fan girls are a lot cleverer than that. The bubblegum pink, MTV watching ones are simply the tip of the iceberg. It gets a whole lot worst; believe me, after all, I’ve been unwillingly spending time with the three douches for nearly five years.
The hardcore Potter admirers aren’t the ones who play dumb, oh no, they only want to get jiggy with him. It’s the ones who take NEWTS in History of Magic and Specialised History: Battle of Hogwarts edition. It’s the ones who appear creepily bland at the beginning, but as you get to know them you realise something’s a bit off. The glint in their eyes goes ever so slightly manic when a certain family are mentioned, they have a peculiar talent of knowing exactly where Potter is and they own a limited edition Potter family collectors doll.
Yes, there is such a thing. And yep, I also came to the conclusion that our generation are well and truly screwed. How are we going to fight global warming when everyone’s too busy analysing the meaning behind the Potters preferring treacle tart over cheesecake?
The term “everyone” excluding Ellie and me, of course. We’d never lower ourselves to such pathetic and damn right creepy frivolities.
So you see, I cannot possibly allow myself to go through with this. I don’t want another bout of public humiliation to add to my ever growing list. Besides, Potter will probably use the proclamation of devotion to prove I’m a sexually frustrated stalker or something else demeaning.
As I stood there quite speechless, contemplating the reasons not to Avada Potter there and then, Malfoy rolled his eyes. “She’s not ever gonna do it, Al.”
Potter’s lips curled upwards in a self satisfied smirk. “You think I don’t know that?”
How absolutely irking. I could do it! I swear I could do it any day… just not today. If they’d just have the decency to contact my secretary and book an appointment for a day when I’m not busy plotting everyone’s demise. That would be fantabblyous.
“Pusssssssssy,” Ian mocked quietly, sniggering along with the other two gits. How dare he? I thought we were at the stage were he grovels at my feet in a fit of guilt? Not the part where he joins the "Making Charlotte Avery Feel Uncomfortable Initiative" (a real organisation Potter founded in second year).
Potter made to turn away, a sly smirk etched on his face. “Well it seems we’re all done here,” he airily remarked.
“WAIT! I’ll do it.” The words quickly slithered through on their own accord and I regretted it as soon as they had. It seems an evil Martian took over my brain and possessed me for the last ten seconds, because the real Charlotte Avery would never agree to do something so utterly stupid. This devilish extraterrestrial (I’m thinking sickly green with neon spots and 5 bug eyes) also seems to be the one that does stupid things like accept Ian’s half baked apologies and misses out on Prefect.
Hmm, maybe I should go see an exorcist. Is there some kind of priest that specialises in the teenager-possessed-by-E.T kind of thing?
I do hope so; and if not, then it’s a valuable gap in the market! Maybe I should look into doing something about that. I could start up my own business: “Charlotte Avery’s Emporium of Exorcists- Extraterrestrial unit”.
Has a nice ring to it, don’tcha think?
“You’ll do it then?!” Ian practically squealed, like a pubescent girl faced with the prospect of meeting Won Infection; a boy band consisting of 5 wizards (sexuality ambiguous) who enjoy prancing around barren beaches and making witches feel “beautiful”. Rumours claim that the band’s manager (a missus Parvati Patil) came up with their band name after reminiscing on her own days at Hogwarts. Odd, I know.
Anyways, I couldn’t go back on my answer now. That’s just wrong. I’m Charlotte Avery I don’t go back on things, I go forward on them. Call it a matter of pride, but I just couldn’t take back the dreaded words.
“Yeah…I’ll do it,” I muttered, trailing off dejectedly. Damn that confounded Martian to hell.
“This’ll be fun to see,” Malfoy excitedly chirped. Oh yes, buckets of fun, so much fun that you won’t mind if I excuse myself to pour acid in my eyes.
“Well it’s been nice knowing you boys but if I spend any minute longer in your company I might just break out in hives, so if you’ll excuse me,” I gave them a nerdy little salute and swivelled in my fluffy slippers. Just as my hand was on the doorknob, skin already itching to distance myself from the three idiots, a voice called out to stop me.
“Wait- Charlie doyouwannacomeoutwithus?” Ian quickly spat out the invitation, as if it hurt him to even say it- which, thinking about it, it did. Malfoy had obnoxiously elbowed him in the stomach with his bony elbow (which I’ve been on the receiving end of before).
Nice to know I’m such a hot commodity. In fact, I’m so hot that I bet if I entered the stock market the global financial crisis would flip around. No one would be after oil or gold, nay, everyone would lust after Charlotte Avery and I’d be spilt into seven pieces- like horcruxes- and then Voldermort would rise from the dead and get pissy and-
You get the picture.
Anyways, I can most definitely tell where I’m not wanted. I don’t particularly enjoy being the fourth wheel (which is far worse than being the third) I’d rather stay at home with my broken dreams.
“I’m fine here.” I could see Potter and Malfoy’s grimaces widen into viscous smirks at the prospect of sad little Avery, home alone in the holidays. I found myself adding on a quickly thought out lie. “You know, got things to do, places to see, fish to fry and whatnot.”
“Are you going to visit Ellie?” Ian asked curiously, referring to my pint-sized best friend.
I internally thanked him for an excuse. For once the slimy git has proved his worth on the Earth. His mother didn’t go through nine painful months of hell just to give birth to a spoilt, troublemaker. She went through nine painful months of hell to conceive a spoilt, troublemaker who gets future cat ladies out of social embarrassment.
“Yes! Exactly like Ellie! Well it’s been lovely and all, but I’ve got to dash. Maybe we could do this again; in another life, with another me, but for now, adieu!” I cheerfully finished off my rant with a stretched smile, falsity oozing out of every pore.
I even found the time to add a hair flick- in an attempt to resemble the preppy girls at school- which consequently sprayed water around. Merlin, I feel like one of those wet dogs with masses of untameable, drenched fur that never bother to use a doggy drier and aimlessly stumble through life relying on “au natural drying”.
It’s sort of frightening how accurate that metaphor is.
Wasting no time to apologise for the wetness, I practically teleported to the other side of the door and into the reception. After slamming the kitchen door in their faces I breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed. I’d finally escaped from those three idiots; I was safe and sound until they next decided to drop a line.
Just as I was about to climb up the marble stairs, the trio burst through the kitchen door and hollered my name. “Oi Avery,” Malfoy called to grab my attention. Yes, I can hear you, thank you very much. It’s not like your standing five metres away from me.
“Yes?” I wearily asked, still keeping my back to them.
“But Ellie’s coming with us…” Malfoy said, stopping me in my tracks.
No, no, no. That’s just not possible. Surely my only best friend wouldn’t betray me like that…would she? She knows not to associate with the blithering buffoons, doesn’t she?
Waaaait, back it up Charlotte. This is the girl who told everyone chubby Rose Weasley was pregnant. This is the girl who achieved an O in divination, and has now convinced professor Trelawney and herself that she’s a seer. This is the girl who cannot travel anywhere without guava scented hand sanitizer. This is the girl who dated Robby Chapman. This is the girl who crochets and embroiders in her spare time. This is the girl who-
Need I go on? This is exactly the sort of thing Ellie would do. The bloody bitch.
The situation had turned sour and it was now a matter of pride. Do I play it suave and pretend I knew about the whole situation? Or do I take the honest, Hufflepuff route and confess that my best friend had invited the enemy for a day out and dumped me to watch re-runs of cringe-y sitcoms and become a lonely, hair-singed, minger?
Well this was an easy choice.
“But I thought you said you were meeting her? But then you said you weren’t coming with us?” Ian’s thick brows where scrunched up in confusion and his mouth was hanging ajar- his typical “I’m really, actually, physically confused” pose.
I quickly plastered a big watermelon-eating-shit-devouring- grin, and opened my arms out in a wide, welcoming gesture. Apparently, my gesture wasn’t all that “welcoming” because the three boys simultaneously ducked, as if I was about to throw razor-sharp daggers at them.
“I was just joking, boys! Ellie told me about this whole Trick-Lane-meet-a-bob-thingy a week ago, I was just unsure if today was the day. So, you know, I’m coming.” I finished of my long ramble with a shrug of the shoulders as if to say “what can I say? Imma popular bitch.”
Malfoy and Ian looked so completely baffled that I almost felt sorry for them; their eyebrows were furrowed, their eyes narrowed and lips scrunched up.
They were utterly mind fucked. I mean who wouldn’t be after that ridiculous excuse?
Apparently, Potter. His eyebrow was raised elegantly and his mouth was cocked upwards as he shook his head. The message was pretty clear: that’s complete bullshit, Avery.
Okay mister high and mighty. Kudos to you, kudos to bloody you.
“Righhhhhhht. Okay. Whatever. Dandy. Cool beans. See you in a minute then bitchacha.”
Wait. Was I just called bitchacha? Ian has been spending way too much time with Ellie and her “learn Spanish in a day” videos.
“Yeah I’ll just go and well, you know, go get changed…” I trailed off awkwardly and continued making my way up the stairs. As soon as I raced down the carpeted corridor and into my bedroom, I relaxed. Now I was definitely safe from their antics and nosy questioning (until I had to descend back into delirium and accompany them on their stupid outing, of course).
My quick relief was suddenly shattered as I heard a massive crash downstairs. Great, don’t tell me they’ve broken another one of my mother’s possessions.
It was followed by a muffled “Fuck…Avery’s gonna kill us…hide the evidence under there. Yeah, just sweep it under the rug. That’s it; the dizzy bint won’t notice a thing.”
Yep, It’s gonna be a long day.
yo, yo. So that was chapter 2 of The Prime! I know this chapter is a bit of a filler but how do you like everyone so far? Any favourite characters/ quotes emerging? Did anyone pick up on my cringe-y "puns" and hidden refrences.
Just in case anybody didn’t know…
Ushkanas= you know, those big, furry Russian hats that peeps wear in winter. Search it m’deary.
Trick Lane (the place the crew are visiting next chapter) is an oh-so-imaginative pun on Brick Lane the “hip” place for “cool” youngsters to visit in London. Great for kewl new food and vintage-y, obscure hipster folk (actually, it’s probably not obscure enough for the hipsters of today.)
Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me. I am simply borrowing. Hp is owned by JK Rowling, Barbie belongs to Mattel and Mario is Nintendo’s. Basically I am the homeless hobo who owns nought.
p.s: Sorry for any typos/grammar issues/mistakes. I wanted to get this in quickly before the staff hols.
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