Chapter 1 : on the art of blathering like an idiot
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Credit to visenya. @ TDA for this brilliant chapter image!
Dead, Dead, Dead. In fact, I'm so Dead, the word 'Dead' is starting to look not at all like a proper word. Dead. Dead. Dead.
With a capital 'D'. Because it is extremely important, and I've been stupid, and pretty soon my head is to be severely detached. From my body, I mean. It's a nightmare. A frubilocous nightmare.
In case you are scratching your head, and wondering what exactly that word means, don't bother grabbing a dictionary. I made it up. But it does sound dramatic, so I suppose it works. Whatever. Use whichever meaning you want. That means extravagantly-dramatically-horribly-gruesomely in deep – for lack of better word – shit.
Delilah is going to kill me. And then dance on my grave wearing an awfully coloured headband. I don't like headbands. Especially when they are fluoro-green, or yellow. Or any other colour sufficiently bright enough to be worn by a tropical parrot on a Muggle TV advertisement, attempting to draw people in to buy those little shampoo bottles that hardly contain any actual shampoo but do smell really, really fruity.
Anyway, I guess I better start explaining myself.
Not to Delilah; not yet anyway. To anybody who happens to be reading this in future. When I'm Dead. Because I'm writing this down, just so people will remember me. And to provide evidence that my Death wasn't an accident.
So, it all started back when Delilah and I were three years old.
For the record, we're twenty right now.
Yes, I know that is a very long time to be friends with someone. You don't have to point that out. Enough people do already. It's annoying. I do realise how long seventeen years are.
Anyway, back to the whole thing.
That's what's difficult about writing these things – so many distracting semantics. And so forth. I remember this one time when...
Dammit. This could prove difficult.
Let's get some things straight, right?
First of all, my name is Molly. Molly Weasley. The Second. Molly Weasley the 2nd. Yay.
Yes, I am that Molly Weasley. Yes, I do know how famous the Weasley/Potters are (or, as most people call us, Wotters. Or Peasleys, which is my favourite, but out of habit I call us Wotters). No, I won't get any of my respective relatives to sign an autograph for you.
However, being famous right now probably isn't going to give my soon-to-be-severed head any leeway.
Second of all, the reason that Delilah is most definitely about to murder me in the most painful way humanly possible?
I've forgotten her wedding.
Yes, that's bad.
I'm aware of the implications. Hence me blathering onwards for a good half of a page about severed heads and fruity-smelling shampoos. You don't have to explain to me that her best bridesmaid; hell, her maid of honour – instead of showing up and being the most supportive friend possible, sitting in her London flat completely hungover and still wearing a seductive cocktail dress from last night's fiasco that's showing immensely inappropriate amount of skin is bad.
You really don't have to explain that one. Despite being a Hufflepuff, I'm not quite that stupid.
My head probably deserves to be severed, come to think of it.
Hey guys! I'm back, with another story (insert gasp here)!
This is a story I am so, so, so, very, very proud of....
I've actually finished this! I. Finished. A. Story.
Something I have actually never done before (well, and written it down).
Well, anyway, this is finished. I wrote it whilst on holiday overseas (I went to London and ran at the 9 3/4 wall!). I think it's quite good, probably needs a little editing, but hey, nothing's perfect.
So, please, please, please with a super pretty bow on top leave a review about it! (Though don't leave nasty comments. Constructive critism yes, but I may cry if you're mean ;) .)
I love everyone who reads this!