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The Prime by losers_lurgy
Chapter 3 : Dazed
Rating: MatureChapter Reviews: 10

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[Potter, made by the amazingly talented our sea star at TDA]



One thing I’ve learnt from today?


Pubic transport + three adolescent boys = disaster.


It’s a sure fire formula, that can never go wrong. Arithmancy teachers around the world will agree with me. It’s as legitimate as Gawp’s laws of transfiguration, the twelve uses of Dragon’s Blood or even Einstein’s theory of relativity.


There are simply no flaws in the equation; it makes perfect sense. And the best part? Apply the formula to life’s biggest questions and it gives you a simple, straightforward answer. For example:


How do we really know if we’re dreaming?


Let's imagine that in your dream you’re in a bus (or any other mode of public transport that can house at least three adolescent boys) hurtling down an icy mountainside at so-fast-bogies-are-being-shot-back-up-my nose-per-second. But don’t worry, the thick snow that blankets the mountain side will break your eventual fall and minimise injuries. It just so happens that the three boys you came with don’t realise that. Under the illusion that they’re heroically saving your life, they grab your hand and push you out of the bus. Without the bus’ safety you speedily drop to the ground. Assuming you haven’t broken numerous bones and are possibly dead, then yes, it was a dream. If not, then I’m sorry but that really did happen and you really are buried in a grave/bed ridden and crippled at St. Mungos.  


Is there a God?


Tricky one there, but it can still be un-muddled. Let’s say you’re in a tram- which happens to be teetering on the edge of a ragged cliff- with three teenage boys. The odds are terribly set against you as the weight of the tram is far too much to stay balanced any longer. Everyone’s saying their last prayers (apart from the boys, they’re discussing the new Nimbus 3500) as your certain death awaits you. One of the boys decides to stand up and demonstrate the Hippogriff Hop (a country dance move renowned for the thunderous sound it makes). His sudden movements cause an uneven weight distribution and the tram plummets down the Cliffside. If you all magically survive the fall, you’re incredibly lucky. But if only you survive the fall and the three boys die a horrible, tragic death there is a God. 


What is the meaning of life?


Ah, good question, my friend. Suppose you are using public transport: a muggle train on its way to central London. You’ve abandoned the three adolescent boys you came with approximately fifteen minutes ago, (they were too caught up playing juvenile games to notice) and are now sat in an empty carriage, peacefully reading a crime novel. You are suddenly jerked from your thoughts by your moronic cousin flicking your scalp.


Insert name of your choice here,” he cries, eyebrows scrunched up worryingly.


You attempt to ignore his foolish antics and frenzied name calling but it’s hard when he’s thrown your book to the floor and is doing the moonwalk to catch your attention.


You finally ask the poor bugger what’s wrong and he goes on to spew a load of shit that goes a little like this:


“Charlotte, its Scorp! We-may-have-accidentally-pushed-him-on-the-platform- and-then-we-may-have-totally-accidentally-left-him-behind-so-we-might-just-have-to-go-get-him-in-case-he-gets-abducted…or even worse…gangbanged”. 


Translation: we are so screwed.


You are able to understand through the frenzy of rambling that your cousin has left his best friend (one extremely dim Scorpius Malfoy- dirty blonde hair, grey eyes, around 5ft 9, fairly prattish) at an unknown muggle station. After you quash the urge to slap him around the face, you ask the question on everybody’s lips: “HOW THE HELL DID YOU LET THAT HAPPEN, EH?”


“We were just playin’ a game of carriage hopping. You know that game where you jump off the train every time it stops at a station and then quickly jump back on using a different carriage door...all before the train closes," he gushes. 


Oh yes, that game. Or as I like to call it “creatively pleading for a death sentence”.


It really amazes me how these three boys have avoided Azkaban for so long. Surely they have a special cell reserved for dangerous threats to the general public’s safety and overall nasty hooligans?


Merlin, the ministry’s really letting standards slip.


“Scorp was the fastest out of all of us… but I wanted to beat him, you see. I wanted to beat him really badly, I mean really badly.”


It was at this point that I managed to guess what exactly happened next. You know something bad has happened when Ian himself is stressing his words; Ian can’t stress a bloody muscle let alone something as difficult and cumbersome as words to him.


“So we got of at this one station and started racing down the platform, but then I decided to trip Scorp up.”


Ahha “decided”, never a good word when concerning Ian. If possible, Ian shouldn’t be allowed to decide anything. That’s like me lending the house keys of the world to a toddler; it’ll only result in sheer chaos and dirtied nappies.


“So then Al and I managed to hop back on another carriage…and I thought Scorp did too.”


“Thought”: another prime example why the ending of this story is bound to be disastrous. Ian and that word should never mix. Ever. It's not natural and just isn't right.


“So you see-,” Ian began.


“No I don’t see,” I interrupted.


He shot me a look of annoyance. “Okaaaay. Well, anyways, thinking everything was fine Al and I got on the train- only to realise seconds later that Scorp was missing! Disappeared! Vanished! Evaporated! We left him on that platform, Charlie. We left him on that platform to get trampled in the masses- nay - stampede of muggle commuters. He was battered to death by men who eat salads for lunch, for Merlin’s sake! Pansys! Flimsy feminine phoneys! Not even real men”. Ian finished his speech with an echoing despaired groan.


….Which could’ve actually been last night’s curry dad ordered.


Lost prat aside, the equation worked! Your meaning of life is to find the fourth member of your brigade before he’s forced to live on the cruel streets of London- which is surely too much for his pampered arse to handle.


I know, I know, I’m a genius and should be rewarded with baskets of fudge and a Prefect's badge.



I suppose we should now deal with the urgent matter at hand: the lost prat roaming the streets of London.


“Merlin, Ian! I knew you were dumb but this is big even for you. Leaving your own best friend behind because you wanted to beat his sorry arse at carriage hopping?”


“It was an accident!” Ian defended, covering his face with his already grimy hands. “It only started off as an innocent game …”


“I’m pretty sure that’s what Voldermort said the first time he unleashed the basilisk on the student population of Hogwarts,” I said vicously.   


Ian’s forehead crumpled and his lower lip jutted out guiltily. Maybe I shouldn’t have compared him to a raging psychopath credited for the biggest genocide known to wizard kind. I’ve heard that kind of thing can upset people.


But really people like Ian deserve to be frightened once in a while. The Victorians did it to their children – although I’m pretty sure using the cane and employing eight year olds to clean chimneys is illegal now- and it did absolute wonders for them!


“Well, what are we going to do now?” I demanded, bringing Ian’s wavering attention to the matter at hand.


At that very moment the carriage door slid open to reveal Satan’s child himself: Potter, ambling down the narrow walkway, looking as happy as ….well, not Larry. I mean this is Potter we’re talking about! The guy practically oozes depression and moonlit nights in which he arduously writes angsty poems about his tortured soul.


Okay, okay. Maybe that’s a slight exaggeration (yes, I have been known do that). Perhaps I’ve made him out to be a complete sulking emo (although in my opinion, that’s not far off) when he’s simply more of a Quidditch playing, annoyingly argumentative, sharp tongued, rich kid. I suppose the point I’m trying to make here is that Potter doesn’t exactly exude unicorns and rainbows. He’s always been more smarm and smirk than sunshine and salmon sweaters.


I narrowed my eyes at his casual demeanour: sleeves rolled up, hands in pockets, half smile as if he was completely at ease.


“I take it you told her about Scorpius going missing? Took it well did she?” he drawled, whilst swinging onto the seat opposite me.


I dearly hope the train jerks forward and lurches his annoyingly pretentious face into the ground.


Not that I’m sadistic or anything.


“Oh I’m fine! It’s not like we’ve lost Malfoy in the hustle and bustle of muggle commuters or anything. No everything’s just dandy,” I practically cooed (something I didn’t know I was capable of). However, my cavity inducing sweetness seemed to have no effect on Potter, who rolled his eyes, irritated.


Ruffling his hair (pity him folks, that’s pretty much the only thing he can do) he reclined back in his seat, stretching his arms leisurely.


Ian tutted sassily, “no charlotte, you weren’t listening! I just told you that we lost Scorpius at the platform. Did you not hear me?”


The term face-palm is no longer adequate. This level of stupidity calls for one thing and one thing only: a body-palm (jump up jerkily- convulsing while you do so - and repeatedly hit your face on your raised legs).


I was unable to form a coherent reply and simply resorted to guttural noise using my throat. “Arghhh, erghhh, nooo!”


Potter sighed wearily, “Scorpius can make his own way to Trick Lane. He doesn’t need a bleedin’ babysitter.”


“Are we talking about the same Scorpius Malfoy? Tall, blonde, only in possession of half a brain cell?”


“You’d be surprised at how clever he is, if you actually got to know him,” Potter said- no, practically preached! The self righteous idiot.


“When Hogwarts actually has a summer, that’s when you’ll know I’ve gotten to know Malfoy,” I muttered, referring to our beloved schools age old tradition of completely skipping the hottest season.




I've lived in England all my life, so I’m pretty used to the bi-polar weather and it's penchant for rain, but you'd think with all the wizardry known to man they'd at least magic up some heat. I practically spend my entire year at Hogwarts and the ruddy castle doesn't even have the decency to charm up a heatstroke once in a while. No, all we get is blistering autumn winds, icy hail topped with wretched snow and twenty seconds of sunshine. Yep, that's our lot of summer for the year done and dusted.


“Isn’t the saying when Hell freezes over?” Ian mused thoughtfully.


“Hogwarts, hell, what’s the difference?” Potter said irksomely.


I decided to ignore his statement and returned back to my book. Just as I picked up from where I last left off, Ian poked my arm.


Ignore him, ignore him, Charlotte.


“What stop are we getting off again, Charlie?”


“Shoreditch High Street,” I quickly answered, never failing to flaunt my knowledge of the muggle transport system. After all, you don’t get many magical folk who can navigate the underground, over ground and railway. Yes, it is a gift.


And coincidentally it’s another thing I can do that Maisy Greger can’t!


I decidedly returned back to my book:


Howard checked the bathroom, the bedroom, the kitchen and even the pantry…yet there was no sign of the intruder. As he anxiously searched through a beaten file cabinet, he heard an eerie squelching…coming from behind. Howard spun around, only to find-


“Charlie, is that book good?”


I repressed the urge to bash him with said book and instead ignored him. In my attempt to blot out Ian and continue reading, I couldn’t take in anything written. I was looking at the words but I just couldn’t register what they meant. It was like Ancient Runes with Professor Hopper all over again.


“Charlie. Charlie. Charlie. Charlie?”


“Yes, Ian, it’s a very good book so please just shut up,” I snapped.


“Why are you reading it?”


What kind of question is that? Maybe because I enjoy reading, eh? But I could never explain the idea of reading for enjoyment to someone like Ian, whose idea of heavy reading is a copy of Quidditch Weekly. The concept is simply beyond his puny brain.


“Because Emily recommended it to me,” I answered shortly.


“Emily, your dorm mate? Doesn’t she have bright pink and yellow hair?”


“Yep, that’s the one,” Potter affirmed. “Her hair’s positive aura is enough to send Avery into cardiac arrest every morning.”


Ian and Potter burst out sniggering to themselves but I steadfastly glared at my page; I was practically burning laser beams of death through the paper. No need for paper punchers, Charlotte Avery’s glare is enough.


Ignore them, woman. Just ignore them.


“Al, r-r-remember that time Charlie was choking on her toast and Ellie hit her so hard she dribbled it all down her chin?!” Ian asked between fits of sniggering.


This was followed by another bout of raucous laughter. Oh yippe, at least some people seem to be having fun.


“No, mate, listen. That’s wasn’t as good as the time Scorp forget to tell Avery that he booby trapped the Transfiguration classroom. She got that bucketful of tar and the canary jinx!”


“Oh yeah. She was coughing up yellow feathers days after!” Ian literally squealed and dissolved into a puddle of laughter, clutching onto Potter’s arm for support.


“That was a good one,” Potter said contently, with a reminiscent twinkle. “But the best one has to be that time we went to the Magical Creature Rehabilitation centre for that school trip. I let the rabid flamingos loose and they charged after Ellie and Avery, remember?”


“How could I forget?” Ian chortled joyfully. “But I still think the time with-,”


And so it continued: the endless listing of embarrassing events, cringe-y catastrophes, mortifying moments and awful accidents. It was like a horrendous day trip down memory lane with a stopover at “childhood stupidity” whilst passing the flyover of “I hate life”.


Simply smashing.




“Is this is?” I asked, feeling rather anti-climatic. After suffering through the horrendous journey we’d finally reached our destination: Trick Lane. Now, like me, you may be sort of slow to hear about these new things so I’ll kindly explain what on earth Trick Lane is.


Trick Lane is like the youth of today’s very own Diagon Alley- except not as big and a lot dodgier. It’s where all the “cool”, “original” kids go, simply because Diagon Alley is “too mainstream” for their liking. However, Ian tells me that Trick Lane actually has some pretty “sick” shops with one of a kind magical items and clothing wares. 


Now if someone could just tell me where these sick shops are, that would be fabulous.


“Where the hell are all the magical shops and hoards of dumb teenagers?” I asked, voicing what I’m sure we’re all thinking.


Potter rolled his eyes. “It’s like Diagon Alley, you idiot. The Lane is hidden from muggles amongst this erm…”


“Hubbub?” Ian offered.


Hubbub was certainly the word for it. The tiny shops ranged from selling vintage clothing; antique furniture; succulent, spice filled food; artistic supplies; old, tattered books and even skating equipment. The list went on. Many cobbled alleys cut between them, filled with old record shops and “artistic statements” (whatever that means) decorating the walls.


“Right, so we need to find Ellie, the entrance to the Lane and hopefully Scorpius along the way,” Ian planned aloud.


Oh great, they don’t even know where the confounded entrance is.


“Well it can’t be too hard to find Ellie amongst this, just watch out for the girl crazy enough to bring customized hand sanitizer.” Potter said in what he thought must’ve been a helpful tone.


We began to aimlessly make our way through pop up shops and groups of muggle teens and young adults who all seemed to feel the need to pout and wear obscure clothes.


Merlin, I felt so out of place and normal. Well, I suppose there’s a first for everything in life. Next thing you know I’ll be smiling and then, Salazar forbid, I'll be one of those girls who giggle.


It didn’t take long at all to find Ellie; she was animatedly talking to a street artist who was adamantly ignoring her. Her delicate Hispanic features glowed as she chatted away to deaf ears, occasionally showing the artists one of her bouncy chocolate curls. Oh please don't tell me she's comparing which shade to dye her hair with him. 

“Oi Ellie,” Ian called out. Ellie’s gaze immediately shot up. Her hawk like eyes surveyed the crowd before resting on us. Her already smiling face grew wider as she waved at us, clumsily knocking over the artist’s grey beanie.


Grabbing her handbag, she bustled over, primping herself on the way. Without being able to get a word in, she tightly embraced me (which is rather uncomfortable considering how skinny she is). Her grip was iron wrought. After all my scarring experiences with public affection/close proximity (Ian’s dirtiness, Ellie’s boniness etc.) you can figure out why I’ve never been a huge fan of them.


“Guys! Oh my Merlin you came and you brought Charlie along too,” Ellie said excitedly, her tawny coffee eyes wide.


I narrowed my eyes at that, shooting her a “we shall talk about your betrayal look later”. Her mega watt smile slightly faltered before she swung her tanned arms around my neck. “All Slytherins together,” she announced cheerfully, pulling me down to her vertically challenged height.


Potter raised an eyebrow at her slightly stranger behaviour than usual. I merely shrugged, confused myself.


Ellie’s always been enthusiastic and bubbly (or over-eager and obnoxious, as I like to call it) but her smile just seemed too big for her small face. Don’t get me wrong, she’s the slightly more “people person” out of our duo, thanks to her miraculous gossiping skills and vast collection of clothes, but she has a strict set of moralistic codes to abide by. Around half of the code is about ensuring that hand sanitizer is always carried around, eyebrows are always plucked and clothes are ironed. But the other half is about making sure everyone conducts themselves in a “proper manner” with dignity, self respect and grace.


Yeah, we’re still working on the graceful bit.


“Are you… okay?” Ian asked hesitantly. Ellie’s bottom lip quivered and her grip on my neck tightened.


“No...I’m not okay, Ian”. She sniffled at the end, but immediately whipped out a hankie (embroidered with her initials: E.E.N) to dab her nose.


“C’mon then Nott, spit it out. We haven’t got all day,” Potter wearily said. Merlin, he’s so insensitive.


Ellie opened her mouth to respond but I quickly cut her off. “Do you mind just, ahem, letting go. My neck’s blood circulation has stopped, I’ve lost all feeling”.


Ellie dropped her arm with a dejected “oh” and instead clung on to her hankie childishly. “Well… it’s my mother; she’s got a new beau”. Ellie spat the last word out with such rage that even Potter jumped a little.


“Ahh,” I nodded understandingly. That would explain Ellie’s slightly off behaviour and thirst for affection. After around nine years of studying (and having to put up with) Ellie’s emotions I have found a direct correlation between her mood and her mother’s relationship status. Whenever Ms. Nott has a new man Ellie can be found in the nearest mall attempting to shop away her murderous feelings.


I certainly couldn’t be angry with her now. I may be many things (witless, too snarky, slightly argumentative, not the bravest, get sweaty palms far too easily etc.) but I’m certainly not dumb. It would be foolish to confront Ellie over her enemy inviting antics when she’s just undergone extreme trauma.


“…And how old is this one?” I asked, broaching highly dangerous territory. Wincing, Potter and Ian decidedly started walking ahead, in search of the entrance.


“Twenty five!” Ellie all but screeched.


I sharply inhaled. This was bad, and that’s saying something because Ellie’s mother- Magnolia Nott- is notorious for not being able to hold down a proper relationship since she divorced her husband seven years ago. I don’t know what’s wrong with the woman but she just can’t handle commitment…or the whole marriage malarkey. So since the age of eight Ellie has had to endure a plethora of men visiting her house.


Tall men. Bald me. French men. Short men. Bearded men. Artistic men. Rich men. Quidditch playing men. Ministry working men. Creepy, pervy men. The list goes on and on and on.


No, but seriously, there is a list. Ellie and I have given every boyfriend she’s had a fact file- complete with a one of a kind, original nickname- listing their weaknesses in case of future reference. We soon began to notice as our list steadily grew longer that the men steadily grew younger. Until we’ve finally reached the worst one of them all: twenty five.


“But do you know what the worst part is? She didn’t even tell me he existed until I walked into the living one morning! I just waltzed in- as oblivious as Haley Castellanos is about her body odour- to see him watching the cartoon channel. I mean, at first I thought he had the wrong house, and then I assumed he was the Wiz-TV guy, but wearing boxers instead of robes. Then he’s all like “you must be the kid” and I was-”


“He didn’t,” I interjected, shocked. It’s bloody hard to keep up with an emotional rant and attempt to navigate a traumatized female down a busy lane, whilst still keeping Ian and Potter in sight.


“Yes, he did! The very cheek of it! And then I was like “excuse me?”, but then it clicked. I realised that he was mum’s new boyfriend! I’m telling you Charlotte I tried so hard to stop myself from any unladylike eye clawing, so I screamed my lungs off instead. But do you know what the worst part is?”


“I, um, thought that was the worst part?”


“No, no, no! The worst part was that he wasn’t even that bad looking. I mean he looked mighty fine in those boxers that day, and the day after, and the day after that, and even this morning. I mean is it messed up that I can even think that?”


“Yes!” I loosened my hold on Ellie’s arm in disgust; I’m just taking the necessary precautions to make sure I don’t catch whatever disease is going around. Secretly finding your mum’s “beau” fit is wrong on so many levels!


“Girl talk over?” Ian asked nervously as we caught up with the boys. Ellie gave what sounded like a wrangled groan, so I just nodded.


“Emily told me the entrance was over here somewhere.” Ellie pointed to the brick wall obscured by a market stall trader.


“Please don’t tell me you asked Crazy Emily directions?” I groaned. We might as well be walking in blindfolded into a maze of soul parched Dementors.


“Have a little faith, Avery. People might just surprise you,” Potter lectured.


“Since when have you become Mr. McRainbow-Lovin’-shits-out-bannana-bannoffe-pie huh?” I shot back.


“Actually I’m more partial to treacle,” Potter replied with a wry grin, completely ignoring my question.


“Well, anyways,” Ellie cut in, “Emily said it should be right here. She said there was some sort of gateway or guard to make sure no muggles find out. I suppose we should just wait here until something happens.”


“And Malfoy shows up,” I added sulkily. Bloody Malfoy, disappearing for hours on end, the very audacity.


We didn’t have to wait long at all, because a minute later a middle aged man approached us. He had a tangle of greying hair, baggy, frayed jeans and a large duffel coat.


Finally! It seems the ministry has learnt how to properly integrate with muggles- although the duffel coat is a bit full on for August.


“Oi, erm, are youse lot here for the um, y’know,” he muttered, gesturing to the wall behind him.


Potter nodded subtly, “yeah we were told this was the place to come.”


“Quite a lotta youse turned up, eh? So many of youse didn’t need to come.”


Well that’s one of the many interesting points about shopping: it’s usually a group activity.


Instead of actually saying this I frowned and let Potter do the speaking- might as well let him deal with idiotic ministry workers.


“Well we were told there was no limit."


“Youse was told wrong ‘cause I ‘aint got that many…” the man trailed off gruffly.


“Spaces?” asked Potter, slightly confused. Well I don’t blame the kid; if he’s slightly confused then I’m absolutely baffled with toppings of bamboozled.


“Yeah, suppose you could say tha’.” The guy started chuckling to himself and was soon in such a fit of laughter that he'd bent down on the floor. “Yeah, spaces, Hahaha!” He kept on winking, to the point we’re he looked like he was having some sort of facial spasm.


Ian then proceeded to poke the guardsmen with his foot.


Yeah, good move. Really well thought out, that was.


“Oi mate, careful! I got the goods stacked!” The guardsman protested, leaping to his feet and dusting himself down.


“Look, can you just give us whatever it is we need to go through?” I asked wearily. We’d been standing there for about ten minutes listening to his weird ramblings and it wasn’t exactly my idea of fun.


“Actually, maybe this-” Potter began, but the guardsman cut over him.


“Alright love, hold your horses. Here ya’ go.” The guardsman looked twice in each direction and snuck his hand into his large duffel coat, taking out a clear packet.


“What the hell am I meant to do with this?” I asked, taking it from his hand. It was just a small, clear packet…full of…were those plants?


“SHIT SON,” Ian exclaimed. Potter immediately snatched the packet from my hand. “Mate, we didn’t ask for your…horticulture.”


At that point I realised what was actually going on. “WHAT!? Oh Merlin, you-you-you? WHAT?” I repeatedly yelled, pointing at the horticultural dealer.


“Where’s my money?” The dealer demanded, ignoring my mental breakdown.


Potter exchanged a hurried look with Ian. With envying calmness he cleared his throat, “listen, mate, we think there may have been a mix up. We don’t have any money to pay for you’re home grown goods.”


The dealer was thunderous. What was an “angry drizzle” had morphed into “hurricane Katrina: the revenge”. He was fuming beyond words and seemed incapable of completing a sentence, so resorted to expressing his anger through fist shaking.


Huh. Similar to me then. 


“Although we wouldn’t mind keeping it. For, you know, fun?” Ian said quickly.


What the hell was he doing?! First we find out that the guardsman isn’t really a guardsman and then Ian and Potter start bargaining with him. I was so shocked at their actions that my throat decided to lose the ability to voice all my angry thoughts. It was like one of those scary dreams when you watch yourself walk into a pit of Blast-Ended Skrewts but can't do anything about it.

Potter nodded, “yeah we’d be happy to take this off your hands for-,”


“A cauldron full of hot, strong love,” Ian supplied.


It was evidently the wrong thing to say. The dealer’s face had turned an ugly shade of puce (which Potter later added, through a bout of hysterical laughter, was “just like uncle Ron”) and his yellowing teeth were bared like fangs as he practically foamed at the mouth.


“ARGHHH!” He yelled, lunging for Ian’s throat.


We took that as our queue to leg it.


I had to forcibly yank Ellie by the arm as she always seems to register things a minute later than everyone else- especially in the post-beau stage. We dodged through hoards of pedestrians, shoppers, stalls and shops. My only guiding light throughout the throng of people was Ian’s head of raven black curls bouncing ahead. You know you’re in serious trouble when Ian’s leading the way out of danger.


I think it’s a mark of just how unfit I am when a few minutes later I felt a stitch burning through my chest and the age old urge to drop dead was re-awakened. But not to worry folks, my urge was soon quenched, as we all collapsed after running the whole length of the Lane and down a back alleyway.


Potter and Ian – who seemed to find the whole situation hilarious- were doubled up laughing. I was also buckled forwards, but in a painful attempt to steady my ragged breathing, not because of the hilarity of the situation (i.e. none. What’s so funny about being chased by a psychotic drug dealer, who could’ve been armed, through the street of London?)


“That wasn’t the entrance then?” Ellie said, completely dazed and out of it.  


“You think!” I spluttered. My face was flushed red after running for the first time since I had to make that epic race to my mother’s ovum fifteen years and nine months ago.


“What the hell were you two thinking?” I’d finally regained enough breath to resume my favourite activity of yelling and blaming Ian and Potter. “You bloody wankers. Asking him to keep his goods?!  Are you two insane? You need to throw that, that, that thing into the nearest bin!”


“No can do Charlie, it’s got our finger prints on it now,” Ian explained, with a deadly serious expression. “The po-po would definitely track us down.”


“Mhmm. Ian’s right, you know. We can’t let the feds on to us now,” Potter solemnly agreed.


“So how are you going to dispose of it?” Ellie asked confusedly. Aha, just the question on my lips! I knew I was best friends with the girl for some reason.


Besides her sticking with me since the age of eight and whatnot.


“Oh I have a pretty safe way of getting rid of it, per se; nobody will be able to track it down after I’m done with it.” Potter was again doing that thing he always does. That stupid smirk. It was as if he knew something oh so very important and mind blowing-ly hilarious that we didn’t. That irksome expression was the epitome of superiority: the lethargic rise of his lips at the edges complete with an amused glint in his eyes was far too languid for the situation.


It was as if he was arrogantly declaring “oh no, I haven’t just run for my life from a very angry, possibly armed, drug dealer who will most definitely come after me for stealing his drugs.”


It makes me want to scrub his mouth with an iron clad toilet brush so badly.


“Wait...SCORPIUS, IS THAT YOU OR ARE MY EYES DECIEVING ME?!” Ian yelped, leaping to his feet as if an electric shock had zoomed through him, frying his innards in their own blood.


We all turned to see Malfoy sauntering down the alleyway with…wait- were those two women on each arm?!


Ian, forgetting all rules of that silly little thing called social etiquette, barrelled onto Malfoy, arms out, ready to embrace him. “YES! THE PUSSY POSSE HAS RE-UNITED!”


Wait, what?! The Pussy Posse?! Oh mother of Merlin, please tell me it isn’t so.


Lurching off the ground, Ian swept up Malfoy and his two new friends into a hug, only to hastily let go a second later. “And look, Al! He’s bought us Puss-,”


“Don’t finish that sentence,” I threatened, stopping Ian mid-way.


Malfoy then went onto to bro hug Potter and gave a friendly nod towards me and Ellie. “Guys, this is Sylvie and Erica; they’ve been guiding me all the way here."


Sylvie and Erica looked about twenty; each had a luscious head of glossy blonde hair; doll like features; dazzlingly, oblivious smiles, and were blessed with a bountiful upper chest.


"Because as you all know," Scorpius continued, "I have no home to go to and it’s hard living it rough on the streets. After all, I couldn’t possibly return back to the abusive orphanage,” Scorpius cheerfully explained.

Oh of course, that's just common knowledge.

“Hallo! We are Dutch!” One of the girls enthusiastically greeted us.


“What the hell is Dutch and where can I get me some of that?” Ian asked dazedly. I rolled my eyes, really how ignorant can you get?


“Hello, I’m Ellie.” Ellie introduced herself warmly in a flurry of handshaking (we all know she’s going to furiously use hand sanitizer the minute they leave).


“Well, Scorpius we have to go back to ze holiday hotel, ya? We hope your brother is freed from labour camp. It was lovely meeting you, have fun with your other homeless friends, goodbye!” They chorused in unison, jiggling, woops, I mean giggling off into the distance.


“Really? You told them you ran away from an abusive orphanage only to live on the streets and have a brother imprisoned in a labour camp. Oh and let’s not forget we’re all homeless too. Have you no, oh wait, what’s it called? Morality,” I heatedly asked.

“Morality? Nope never heard of the word. Foreign is it? Maybe Sylvie and Erica will know,” Scorpius cheekily retorted- grinning from ear to ear.


As we made our way back to the muggle station- with Ellie and Ian excitedly reciting our little escapade to Scorpius- I slipped ahead next to Potter.


“I’m not dumb, Potter. I know you’re not going to throw that away”. I gestured to the troublesome packet which was safely stored in his back jean pocket.


Potter rolled his eyes. “Well done Avery. Complete Genius. Child Prodigy. Would you like a medal with the knighthood you will surely receive for such a ground breaking discovery for mankind?”


Wow, that was quite something. Even by Potter’s regular sarcasm standards.


“Right. Well not only are you slowly harming yourself at the ripe age of fifteen, but you’re also being a twat.”


“I thought I was already a twat?” Potter asked, curiously, with an amused lilt. If only someone could tell the poor child being called a twat isn’t a compliment.


“You are,” I frowned. “But this just makes you an even bigger twat.”


“Says who?” he challenged.


“Says me.”


“Of course, I’m meant to take a socially impaired fifteen year olds opinion as law. If Charlotte Avery says it then it must be true”.


I curled my lips into a scowl. “Look Potter, I have simply had it up to here with yo-,”


“-No, you listen, Avery, we’re all just having a bit of fun. Is that so bad?” Potter interjected.


I frowned. What an utter wanker, but oh well, I did try my hardest. Sort of. Maybe. Partially. But it really makes no difference, we all know Potter's dying an early death due to bigheadittus- a rare illness that inflates your head (and ego) until it's thrice the normal size and you’re forced to kill yourself for the sake of society.


“Okay Potter, I’m done trying to convince your sinful arse. Just don’t get Ian mixed up in your twisted idea of “fun”, okay?”


I know, I know. It’s a bit rich of me to call Potter’s idea of fun “weird” when mine is consecutively watching all the Gossip Ghoul episodes all the way to season 6. But hey, at least my Saturday nights aren’t spent immersing my lungs in tar and Merlin knows what else.


Potters smirk grew more prominent, his eyebrow cocked upwards. “Shocker, for a second there, Avery, it sounded like you actually cared.”


I caustically bristled. How very dare he accuse me of such falsities! What am I? A bloody Hufflepuff.


“Oh I don’t!” I quickly amended. “Be sure to remember I don’t. In fact, you three can all smoke your lives away, leap off cliffs and jump into Grindylow infested waters for all I care. ‘Cause guess what? I don’t... Care, that is. I don’t care…at all”.


With that final proclamation of my selfishness, I slowed down letting Potter walk ahead with that amused smile still smeared on his face.


“I suppose that’s why you freaked out when Scorpius went missing,” Potter mused aloud, so quietly that I barely caught it.


And even then I don’t quite believe I heard it.


After all, who can hear a bloody word with Ian yelling “HER BOOBIES, HER BOOBIES, oh they’re the size of Hagrid!” behind them.


Yeah, that’s what I thought.





So chapter 3! Sorry for a bit of a wait. Opening chapters are always the hardest, plus my holidays started really late. Sigh.


Favourite quotes? Favourite bits? Favourite characters? Favourite cheese? What do you make of Ellie? Anything will do because the review box is really lonely. It’s crying, seriously




Because it loves you, yeah I said it, okay.


Po-po= police

Feds= police


Listen to Charlie and stay away from illegal things. They’re bad for you and will totally kill you and then you’ll be dead. That would be bad.


Disclaimer: nothing belongs to me. Any brands mentioned belong to their respective owners. JK rowling owns Harry Potter and it's universe. I own my beloved OC’s and that’s all.          






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