Nuttier Than A Fruitcake
Book Two In The 'Lily' Series
Chapter Six - - Lack Of Subtlety
October 30, 1975
Gryffindor Common Room
Boys are bloody horrible. I hate them with every morsel of this lanky, kid-thin, underdeveloped body I have the misfortune of inhabiting. Forget 'benefit of the doubt.' Forget 'second chances.' Forget labeling and stereotypes and sexism. I was once a nice, polite, courteous person and, now, those days have come and gone. It is because of boys that I have endured a gradual transformation from a respectable human being into a bitter, cold, shell of a person. However, most of the blame is to be passed onto one boy - a particular boy. Three guesses as to who this boy could be? Oh, fine, diary, I'll give you that. 1) Stupid hair? 2) Stupid glasses? 3) Stupid ego? Oh, yes, you're one smart cookie, diary. James 'I Feel I Must Plague Him With An Awful Middle Name - How About Smarmy Bastard?' Potter. You may or may not recall a certain incident that, in a word, traumatized me. Let me recap for you : James Potter, who I have known since my very first year at Hogwarts, took it upon himself to give me the 'ride of my life' and help me 'face my fears' by luring me onto the Quidditch pitch, only to abduct me and send me zooming recklessly into the sky above. And, then, the prat allowed us to fall into the bloody mud. Sounds a little cruel, doesn't it? The workings of a potential madman in the making? My thoughts exactly. However, you wouldn't believe this, but the douche, for lack of better word, has taken it upon himself to ignore me.
Let me repeat : he has been ignoring me. It's not like I've been reaching out to him following that little episode, but to hear that James Potter feels that I am the one in the wrong is just - just - blasphemous! For the past two weeks or so, he's been deliberately hinting that he has, in his words and his words alone, washed his hands of me. Now, I don't know what kind of impression you've received of James Potter from my painfully honest portrayal of him within the past two years, but he is a great many things. He is egotistical, he is the most stubborn boy alive, he is extremely full of himself and would probably bathe in his own sweat if given the chance, and he is, of course, the most immature person to have walked the planet. However, he is not subtle. He is anything but subtle. I mean, I don't understand what kind of game he was playing by 'pretending to like me,' but he wasn't skilled in the stealth department (unlike myself) and made it blatantly clear that he was playing a game of cat-and-mouse. Whether he was the cat or I was the mouse, I can't be sure. I wouldn't object to being the mouse, as I've caught a few moments of that charming cartoon, "Tom and Jerry," and the cat is always portrayed as having a significantly lesser intelligence. So, hey, if he wanted to be the cat, I wouldn't be fussed. I'd just outsmart him each and every time and he'd lick his wounds and, hopefully, one day give up and find another mouse to chase. However, James Potter no longer wants any part in this whole charade that was, needless to say, initiated by him and him alone. As said, his subtlety is something he could do to work on. It didn't take me very long to catch onto the fact that he was - unfairly, mind you - upset with me for tossing dirt in his hair and kneeing him in the groin.
Evidence Of James Potter's Lack Of Subtlety
1) Later, in the common room, after Potter had, apparently, washed his hair about half a dozen times, he stormed down to the common room and launched into this huge tirade of how he was just trying to be some sort of 'Don Juan' and that romancing me was absolutely useless. I couldn't have agreed more. After I said such a thing, he seemed to get even more frustrated and took to throwing pillows at unsuspecting first years, all of which squeaked out of the portrait hole as fast as their little legs could take them, while he continued screaming at me. Holly, naturally, transcribed the entire ordeal and has taken to psychoanalyzing Potter. I don't know the details behind this, but I have been known to muttering, "Traitor," beneath my breath if I notice her scribbling away on the clipboard of hers. I discovered that he would blame the entire Quidditch Pitch fiasco on me when he said - and this is a direct quote - "Evans, this is all your ruddy fault." As I alluded to earlier, boys are just brainless gits. I, personally, think the Y-chromosome is to blame for the tragedy that was, as he pointed out, supposed to be our first date.
2) The following note was passed to me on October 16, 1975 :
Ordinarily, I would refuse upon embarking on this rather despicable task, but due to my alleged loyalty to my best mate, I am under obligation to inform you that a certain James Potter has taken an oath of silence when in your presence. He knows that you have tried this method in the past when dealing with the four of us and has vowed to prove to you that success can be achieved. If you ask me, he seemed to be implying that you were an utter failure. Now, I would like to take this time to say that I am in no way affiliated with that declaration, as, personally, I've seen what you can do, Evans. Please respect the fact that I do not, in any way, support the aforementioned statement uttered by my imbecile of a best friend and stay as far away from my cash and prizes.
Apparently, due to his oath of silence, he is unable to send you notes, as well, even though I retorted cleverly that he wouldn't actually be 'speaking' to you. So, just know that he feels you've jeopardized his future as a husband, as a father, as a Quidditch player, and as an underwear model by kicking him in the groin. He feels you violated his personal space and is convinced that, this time, he is right and you are wrong. Just passing on the message.
Sirius O. Black"
I don't know what kind of twisted human beings instilled morals in Potter, or the lack thereof, as I'm having a lot of trouble understanding why he would feel a broom ride would be the sure-fire way to sweeping me off of my feet, especially since I have not given him any sort of inclination that I have interest in being romantically linked to him in any way, shape, or form. Obviously, when I kicked him in the groin, he lost any sort of manhood he'd ever had, as evidenced by the fact that Sirius Black has now become his bitch when it comes to dealing with me. Forget the fact that he completely ripped off my oath of silence from last year, which he forced me to break, but whenever he and I have been paired together in a class, Sirius has had to sort of stand in-between us and relay messages. It's completely childish and has come to irritate me even more than the ever-so-wonderful sound of Potter's voice.
3) He has acquired a rather large amount of what I would like to call 'groupies.' There is no other word for them. I don't really understand when this crazy hormonal revolution took place, but it would seem that in a span of one night, the entirety of Hogwarts' females have become infatuated with Potter. Maybe they've always been there, but now that he's not shooing them off, I suppose it's become more noticeable. It's rather hard not to notice, as Holly has been documenting his every move. She's always commenting in a completely clinical voice, "I wonder what could be the cause of this sudden promiscuous behavior. Patient #067 seems to be snogging anything that exhibits signs of life. Will bring this up during our next session. Must inquire as to whether his developed fear of the color red has anything to do with the unspeakable incident that occurred prior to our last session and whether this has affected his choice in women." It would seem that Potter deliberately informs Remus of where he shall be 'entertaining' his flavor of the week, as Lupin never seems to be the one having to kick them out. It's always me. Always. And, can I just say, I've gotten sprayed with spit far too many times to enjoy the task? Because, I have. Lately, patrols have been followed by baths, as Potter and his bimbos can't seem to keep the saliva in their mouths. I should ask Holly whether Potter's mentioned hawking lugies into the mouths of his admirers because, from what I've seen, that seems to be his way of laying on the moves. Of course, should I even bring up Potter in her presence, whether to complain about him or threaten to murder him, she seems to shriek, "CONFIDENTIAL!" I really think she needs to concentrate more on her running, as this whole psychologist bit is getting a little old. The point is, I think that the entire school has been slipped some sort of exotic drug or, quite possibly, a love potion. Slughorn is one crafty walrus of a man and, despite the fact that I have him eating invisible pineapples out of the palm of my hand, I could see him turning to the dark side and brewing up a couple hundred gallons of Amortentia for Potter in exchange for a little hand-holding. The man is a whore for attention. One bat of an eyelash from someone of the fairer sex and he's passing out O's and E's like a large, less graceful, wingless version of the tooth fairy. However, I digress. This particular rant is not against Slughorn, but rather, against Potter and his seemingly never-ending crew of faithful minions. A girl can't even step into the bathroom without hearing, "He copped a feel! He copped a feel! James Potter made a pass at me!" It's as if sluttiness has become all the rage. Potter truly is dim-witted if he doesn't know that I see right through this whole "I'm a man whore!" phase. Because, it goes without saying that I am just too clever for my own good and I do see! He thinks that by parading around me with nearly the entire school lusting after him, I'm going to somehow forget about the fact that he's done nothing but make my life hell from day one. The very last thing I could ever feel for someone as completely disgusting as James Potter is admiration. If he thinks that he's being sly by asking one of his blonde, oversexed fan girls to "wiggle down in front of Sir Prongs-A-Lot" (whatever that means) at the top of his voice in the common room - midday, mind you - then he is so very wrong.
What caused this rather long-winded rant against that awful excuse for a human being, you might ask? Well, it would seem he tried sicking one of his groupies on me during dinner and, now, I've only just gotten the egg salad out of my hair. He was having a jolly good time laughing and squirming around in his seat as he watched Candy or Trixie or Lulu go ballistic on me for no apparent reason. Oh, wait, in-between her rather annoying wails (how dare she disgrace the female sex by crying over James Potter?!), I did manage to catch onto a bit of it. I guess she heard Black muttering on about how Potter 'used' to fancy me and that for the past two weeks, he'd refrained from speaking in my presence. Guess I'm not the only one disturbed by the situation. I imagine Black's sick of playing the part of messenger. Blondie was obviously the jealous sort and was feeling just the slightest bit territorial. In the end, it was Holly who kicked the nutter in the face and got me out of there. She got detention for it, but she insisted it was completely worth it. Holly may be a bit unhinged, but she is dead loyal. Anyone who would kick some slag in the face for me is alright in my book. Covered in egg salad and sporting a scratch beneath the eye, I could honestly say that my loathing for Potter seemed to just intensify by the second. It would seem that he has a thing for girls in need of anger management. He must be attracted to the abusive sort. I only hope that the bimbo kicks his sorry arse sometime between her visit to McGonagall's office and her untimely expulsion.
November 2, 1975
Collapsed On The Castle Steps
Kill Holly. Kill Holly. Murder Holly. Strangle Holly. I don't know why, but for some reason, I'm having rather murderous thoughts about my best friend. Oh, wait, I do know why. In case you didn't notice, it's 6:25 in the morning. In the sodding morning! I didn't know there was even a six to speak of in the AM hours. I thought, hey, morning must not begin until at least eight o'clock. Ordinarily, I would be snuggled up against my demonic one-eyed cat, Jules, fighting her in my sleep as she mauled my arm to pieces. A nice, thin strand of drool would probably be hanging from my mouth, primarily due to the many dreams I have of that foxy Quidditch player, Ernando Pivens. Holly turned me onto him. Hung one poster of him above her bed and, since then, I've been hooked. I could have been dreaming of the deliciousness that is Ernando and, yet, here I was, collapsed on the stone steps of Hogwarts, sniffling a bit, as I tend to get rather weepy when I'm feeling particularly weak, awaiting the inevitable blindingly bright light that was sure to shine my way sometime soon. You see, Holly dragged me out of bed this morning to go jogging. And, considering the fact that I am unaware of how to use my motor skills before 8 AM, I couldn't object. I sort of just hopped into some trainers and hoped for the best. Two and a half miles in, I died. Literally. Or, well, I'm pretty sure I died. I saw a lot of stars, but then again, that wasn't so strange, since it was still pretty damn dark. November, early morning .. resembles the night hours a little more than one might think.
When my knees gave out, Holly didn't even hesitate. She sort of just lifted me from the ground and put my arm across her shoulder and ran us back to the castle, giving me a slight 'breather,' as she called it, before she headed off to complete her run. That girl must be on some sort of performance enhancers because her endurance is just not natural. Apparently, there's something in the Spinnet genetic code that permits them to just run and run and run like the little circus freaks they are. Some families gather round the dinner table for a little family bonding. Not Holly's family. She and her mum and her dad and her older brother set out on hikes and kayak adventures and sky diving adventures. They're nuts, the whole lot of them. It's a wonder that her mum, a plain Jane psychologist, is such a bit thrill-seeker. Her father is an attorney, too, which makes the whole situation even more trivial. Their risk-taking must not apply to their source of income.
So, right now, just hoping to go peacefully. Maybe when I reach those pearly white gates, an old chipmunk I saw get hit by a car (my grandmother's car, as fate should have it) will be there to greet me. Then, at least, I'll have something to look forward to.
November 2, 1965
Fifth Year Girls' Dorm
I didn't die. I still have the will I wrote last year when I was planning on running away, but I guess that'll just have to be used another day. I'll probably end up revising it, as well, since I'm bound to experience a great deal more near-death situations. My life tends to be that bloody awful. Today, of course, was no exception. As I laid there, awaiting death, or rather, awaiting Holly to finish her ungodly morning run, someone stumbled across me and took pity upon my poor lifeless form. Who, you might ask? No, not James Potter. Damn him and his repetitive nature. However, the person I speak of isn't supremely superior to Potter, either. Logan Johnson - I remembered his name! - happened to have been out for his own morning job (those Quidditch players are nuts) and found my pathetic self murmuring my last wishes. My legs had gone a bit numb, as they were definitely not used to any sort of physical exertion. I have no muscle, mind you, so running has never been my thing. People automatically assume that because I am tall and thin that I'd be a perfect marathon runner, but, alas, I seem to be lacking in every aspect of the athletics department. I tried playing tennis once, got whacked in the head with the ball, and, since then, I've never even so much as looked at a racket. Had I been more than .001 percent awake this morning, I might have pointed this out to Holly, but, seeing as time was not on my side, I sort of just nodded a bit and obliged to her every demand. My eyes didn't even properly open until we were midway through our run.
Now, Johnson, as you may recall, was the object of my alleged affection last year and, I assure you, he has not forgotten my stalker tendencies. However, he was nice enough to stop and express some concern towards my health and, ultimately, save me from having to run some more with my loon of a best friend. This kind action of his just proves that he is just that much more of a better person than myself, as I highly doubt I'd even give Potter a second glance if I saw him collapsed on the steps. He may be a boring bloke, but at least he's not completely ignorant of the needs of others. I sort of felt awful worrying him so much, since he was extending such generosity my way by even stopping, but I think that he mistook my numb legs for a serious injury of some sort.
"Lily, what're you doing out here? It's still dark! And why are you howling in pain? Are you injured? Oh, blimey, better get you to Madam Pomfrey's pronto. She'll know what to do."
And, to my immense surprise, instead of running off for his own job, Logan Johnson scooped me right up and carried me back into Hogwarts. I'd never been carried around before and, despite the fact that it wasn't Ernesto Pivens, it was still rather nice. Looking at Johnson, you wouldn't think he was a strong fellow, but I guess I'm just that child-like that it didn't matter. I'm sure Holly could bench-press me in a heartbeat, what with all of those performance enhancers I suspect she's been sneaking into her protein shakes. Personally, it was that moment that made me reconsider all of my negative feelings towards the bloke who I once allegedly stalked for my own personal gain. I mean, he must have picked up on the fact that I was just using him as a means of ending those rumors about myself and Snape. Or, maybe, he didn't and he still is under the inclination that I'm desperately infatuated with him and want to bear hundreds of children with his DNA in them. At that moment, I didn't really care. I was just happy to be back within the warm, comforting walls of Hogwarts and far, far away from the lunatic I have sadly been calling my best friend since first year. I could have easily told Johnson that there really was nothing medically wrong with me, but the tingling sensation was still lingering in my lower calves and I highly doubted I could have walked if I tried. Not that I was willing to try, since it is a very rare thing that I receive pampering and I was insistent upon enjoying every second of it. Of course, the pampering didn't last long as, need I remind you, diary, my life sucks in every way imaginable. I wasn't even given the chance to over dramatize my lack of running abilities and have a good howl. I guarantee you that had Holly been in my situation, none of the following would have happened. She'd have been able to just rest her head against Logan Johnson's shoulder and feel like the privileged little princess that she is in comparison to me.
Johnson was trying to either soothe me or shut me up, as he kept going, "Sh, Lily, calm down," as he walked towards the Entrance Hall. His efforts were fruitless, however, as I did not calm down and considering the fact that I hadn't had a good cry in quite some time, there was no stopping the tears from flowing, even if I had wanted to calm down. Soon enough, quite a few people stuck their heads out the door of the Great Hall to see what all the commotion was all about. And, my luck, James Potter is one of the few who lives by the phrase 'early bird gets the worm,' as he spotted me and Johnson, a piece of bacon hanging out of his mouth and his hazel eyes looking more quizzical than I've ever seen them. He was groupie-free, I noticed, and had I not been sobbing my eyes out, I probably would have taken the time to shoot him a nasty look. However, I probably wouldn't have even had the spare moment to do so, as within the blink of an eye, that piece of stray bacon was gone and Potter was stepping out of the Great Hall and cornering Johnson and I. It was the first time he seemed to acknowledge me in two weeks and, let me say, it was this incident that made me miss the immature behavior he'd been exhibiting since I'd kneed him in the groin. Potter ignoring my existence is definitely a step-up from the green-eyed monster he turned into once he saw Logan Johnson carrying me about. I swear to you, the air literally thinned. I saw Potter puff out his chest and there were about half a dozen eyes on us and, strike me down if this is a lie, but I literally saw Sirius Black mouth, "It. Is. So. On."
"Johnson," Potter said coldly, as if Logan had suddenly become the scum of the Earth in the 0.04 seconds we'd all been standing there. If you ask me, Potter probably takes his fair share of performance enhancers, as well, as his short-term memory is absolutely shot. In that short span of time, he forgot that he was to be ignoring my presence and seemed to forget that Johnson was the Keeper of his team (although I also tend to forget this fact, as Johnson isn't the most memorable person in the whole wide world). The glare he was giving him was enough to stop my howling, I'll tell you that much. "What business do you have in carrying Evans around?"
"She's hurt. I'm just taking her up to -"
"Hurt? Hurt? What'd you do to her, you oafish prat? I've seen you handle those Quaffles. I can only imagine what you've been doing to Evans. Evans, has he been tossing you around? If he has, you can tell me you know."
At this point, it would seem we all started shouting at one another. It was complete and utter chaos. And, since Potter found it in his power to break out his fists in the midst of this funfest, Johnson sort of set me down and I was left there, screaming at the two of them from the floor. My legs were still numb, mind you.
"Potter, mind your own sodding business!"
"I was just trying to help her out!"
"She's not your responsibility, fool. And, I should know. I am your captain, buddy."
"I'm not your bloody responsibility, either! Go back to ignoring me, you ignorant wanker!"
It would seem anything on my end was completely useless. They ignored me. Flat out ignored me. The testosterone seems to have overpowered their ability to properly hear. Instead, as they were busy duking it out (from what I heard, Potter broke Johnson's nose and Johnson kicked Potter in the shins). As I crawled up to the Hospital Wing, I was joined shortly after by those two nimrods and, well, we had a nice lovely chat in which we cleared a few things up with Potter and made him look and feel like a complete arse. Madam Pomfrey pretty much stuck her nose up as me as I explained my 'injury' to her. She pretty much sent me off immediately after she'd finished tending to Potter and Johnson. Now, I'm back up in my dorm with Holly, who was pretty concerned about me after she'd finished her 8 mile jog.
It's absolutely true that you can learn a few things every day :
1) My body can't handle physical exertion - at all. The words 'Lily,' 'loves,' and 'running' will never be able to exist in the same sentence. I swear to Merlin, if Holly ever tricks me into following her out the door at six in the morning ever again, I will set her trainers on fire.
2) Logan Johnson is still as boring as ever. I mean, he, too, gets up at the most ungodly hours of the morning to run around the grounds and stay in shape. While I may complain about Holly and her craziness, she is very lucky to at least have some distinguishing characteristics about her. Johnson, on the other hand, does not. As boring as he may be, however, he is seemingly generous and forgiving. It takes a pretty nice person to forget that I once passed him a note that said, 'I know where you sleep, Johnson.'
3) James Potter has no determination whatsoever and, quite obviously, ought to be beaten to death by Hagrid and Bigfoot's lovechild.
4) And, furthermore, he is the least subtle person alive and can't seem to sulk in jealousy when another guy whisks me off to the Hospital Wing and, instead, has to resort to violent measures. He is, in one word, a caveman.
Maybe, just maybe, Madam Pomfrey will medicate him too much and he'll turn into some sort of vegetable. Ah, I'm such a sadist where Potter is concerned. Don't you love it, diary?