Disclaimer: You should know this by now.
A/N: Ahhh it feels great to be back. And a little strange that WILAY has finally ended. But I read all your reviews and your responses to my little poll. And then I decided to pull a George Lucas and write a sequel to WILAY. Yes, you've read it right, this is the first chapter to the sequel of WILAY, making my little F/A romances a trilogy! Muhaha. You guys can't get rid of me THAT easy. Haha. Anyway, here's a little background:
This diary takes place a few years after the end of Angelina's 7th year. Although she and Fred were together at the end of WILAY, they broke up during Angie's college years (for reasons that will be later explained). She ended up going to Manchester, her dream school and played Qudditich. The war brokeout sometime between the end of her freshman year and sophmore year of college and ended just around the beginning of her first entry.
I'll leave everything at that, because I don't want to give away anything...Expect this diary to be a bit more grown-up than the last few, with a shuffling of the beloved F/A pairing and a few surprises along the way. Think Bridget Jones meets Jessica Darling (the heroine of Megan Mccafferty's novels) meets a mature Georgia Nicholson.
R&R if you want more!
I can't imagine all the people that you know
And the places that you go
When the lights are turned down low
And I don't understand
All the things you've seen
But I'm slipping in between
You and your big dreams
It's always you
And my big dreams -Something Corporate
Central (Wizard) London
Fact: This is the sad state of my pathetic and utterly boring life.
Everyone and their brothers are out celebrating the end of The Second War and I'm cooped up in my dusty flat, scribbling my narcissistic laments into an overpriced diary. Alicia invited me to the shindig at her newly renovated flat, which she also happens to share with George Weasley, the boy she's been with practically since birth.
It would have been the perfect excuse to get completely smashed from a cheap bottle of Fire Whiskey, while pretending to be remotely at ease. I mean, it's not like my social calendar is filled to the brim.
In reality, it's glowing with naked absence. I debated the issue and then realized there was no way in hell that I'd be abandoning the soft comfort of my 500 count bed sheets and the gallon carton of cookie dough ice cream in the freezer.
This logic isn't logical at all, but points to the underlying truth that I am both an idiot and a coward. Once I started the university, I soon discovered that I'd simply shed the habit of recording my cringe-worthy philosophies on life, romance and the opposite sex.
I mean, I was Angelina Johnson, university student and Quidditch player. I was a big girl now. Why did I need a pseudo dosage of imitation therapy?
However, old habits die hard. I was strolling past a calligraphy store the other day, inwardly moaning about my non-existent love life, when a pink and purple nightmare snagged my short attention. Yes, yes, I know the thing is a visual misdemeanor, but something appeared to latch onto my affections.
The blasted book was wailing my name, Angelina! Angelina! My tea party with Lady Misery took a rain check, as I was entranced by this silent scream. I couldn't very well ignore its feeble cries of distress, now could I?
Thus, I waltzed into the store, plucked the diary from the window display and promptly marched to the register. The cashier, some spotty pre-teen with a terrible lazy eye, took his sweet time ringing up my purchase and I thought my poor head would start to erupt in a series of destructive seizures. I mean, what would happen if someone from Hogwarts walked in and saw me, buying a furry contraption of parchment? I wouldn't hear the end of it, no doubt. Or what if Fr-
No, scratch that thought. See, this is WHY I need a diary in the first place. To get rid of all the garbage that festers in my head. If I keep everything bottled up, I'm guaranteed an eventual ticket to St. Mungo's. And let me tell you, a straight jacket isn't the most flattering outfit.
I haven't been this confused and bamboozled since….well, actually I've always been floating through one haze of choking confusion. But lately, I'm discovering that this psychological warfare is taking on a more violent edge. Watching Pride and Prejudice for the 210th time (God, watching Colin Firth gracefully glide out of the water, with a soaking wet shirt can be a very effective distraction), is not going to cure my apparent state of mental unrest.
During my Hogwarts days, I used to keep journals constantly. I'd always be scribbling in them like a loon, sometimes hesitating to start a homework assignment, because I felt this powerful urge to rant and rave to an inanimate object.
Merlin. No wonder why I'm so weird.
Anyway. Traveling down the rocky road of Memory Lane, I filled these journals with the most trivial and sappy tragedies, from exaggerated moments of adolescent embarrassment, to daydreams and simple-minded hypotheses about F-
THIS NEEDS TO STOP.
Ok, so, steering away from He-Who-Shall-Never-Be-Named (and no, I'm not talking about the late Voldy).
I stopped writing in them when I got to college. After….we broke up….Right before the war officially started. Writing in a diary was something from the past, a relic of youthful susceptibility.
As I helplessly viewed friends and family willingly march into the demonic arms of killing curses and Death Eaters, I knew it was time to really grow up. I helplessly witnessed death and destruction strangle the throat of security and safety, defacing the beauty of life with the exaggerated horrors of decay and finality.
I watched as my older brother; my rock, my pillar, brush the cold lips of the Grim Reaper and somehow, make it out alive. My world shattered, relationships were broken and I was left broken. Childhood and Hogwarts melted into afterthoughts, like colorless memories that rush back after a blackout. Happiness became a definition, rather than an emotion.
So the diary had to go.
I was a fresh-faced nineteen year old then, thinking that my biggest concern was matching my manicure to my high heels.
Now I'm twenty-five, with a weathered face and weary eyes, finally replacing fickle hope with stalwart relief, yet still knowing….feeling….that a large part of me is still missing. And I'm too damn stubborn to admit the reason.
And if you have been successful in following my extremely long-winded and complicated tyrant of words, then I applaud you.
Basically, my anti-social favoritism is not the direct result of outside circumstances. Rather, I'm choosing to be alone, because I'm too afraid to pop on over to Alicia's…I'm terrified of facing him again.
After everything that's happened, all the words that were never spoken, the malicious attacks that were fired….I don't know if what's left of me is ready to put a flimsy patch over our self-induced gun-shot wounds.
I still need him. Probably more than ever. But I've lied to myself so many times, that I cling to the idea of stability. A piece of me has always loathed depending on others; the disappointment of the disintegration of this trust is unbearable. And I let my guard down with him. Now I'm finally paying the price.
So here I am, a single twenty something witch, living in the bustling and beautiful city of London. And instead of going out and drinking myself silly, like most normal people of this age bracket, I'm loafing around in ratty pajamas, listening to my old CD's, in lame attempts to recapture the awkward magic of that Purgatory-mimicking event, otherwise known as adolescence. I should be out around the town, laughing with Alicia and Katie and Lee and the rest of my friends.
But I've chosen to punish myself, because I can't stand the thought of bumping into him. Because I know once I look up into those eyes, I'm just going to fall all over again. Except this time, I've lost the armor to break my impact.
Here I go again, rambling with poetic glitter and unnecessary, literary jazz. I think that's a sign that I'm effectively journeying back to the days when I was only Young And Very Confused, rather than my present state of Borderline Young And Borderline Insane.
Great, now Mrs. Parker is throwing her bowling shoes against the wall, because she thinks I'm playing my music at an inappropriately high volume. Well, she can eat my shorts.
Ok, now she's threatening to bring up the landlord. Maybe I'll turn it down a notch.
Maybe if I show up at Alicia's for like 2.5 seconds, then I'll evade any chances of running into Mr. Nameless.
….On second thought, I prefer the neatly sculpted cave of my Ralph Lauren sheets, rather than smearing on some makeup and making a painful appearance at the party.
It's like that quote Billy Shakespeare said…something about avoiding the slings and arrows of fate? Or what not?
I don't know the exact phrasing, but I never thought I'd live to see the day that I'd be in a state of taking sincere advice from a rotting, dead bloke.
Fact: I am making Bridget Jones look like a Super Model. Eat your heart out, Jones.
The Loft (Sadly)
Central (Wizard) London
Dear Ms. Angelina Johnson,
You are cordially invited to attend the matrimonial ceremony of Miss. Katie Bell and Mr. Lee Jordan. The beloved event will commence at promptly 3 PM, June 20th. Please RSVP in the upcoming weeks as to secure your place as a bridesmaid.
Katie Bell and Lee Jordan
AHHHHHH. SQUEEEE13843849869669! I can't believe it. Katie and Lee are finally getting married! Those two are like Romeo & Juliet...minus the messy death scenes. They give me a small yet needed dosage of optimistic bliss to cleanse my naturally pessamistic nature.
I think to myself...if people like Katie and Lee can find each other and stay together, then maybe a nut case like me has a teeny chance. Then again, the last time I went on a date, in truly despicable attempts to erase a certain ginger-haired Beater from my head, the Ewan McGregor look alike turned out to favor his own revolting BO than a stick of deodorant.
Anyway, let's forget about my disasterous tales. Kates and Lee are meant for each other. They've been engaged since the end of Katie's 7th year, but they wanted to wait until the war was over. I was genuinely excited for about 5 minutes, when I was slapped with the devious hand of reality.
If Lee and Kates are tying the knot, then George will show up. And if George shows up, then…YOU KNOW WHO will pop up like a twitching gopher.
I'm starting to hyperventilate. I can just see the headlines now: YOUNG GIRL DIES OF HEART ATTACK IN HER OWN ROOM.
You know, the more I tell myself that I'm all right, the more things get worse. I am a psychologist's wet dream. Honestly, I just can't face him. Seeing as how the last time I saw him, I heaved a five pound chocolate cake at his flaming red hair, I don't think our little reunion would be pleasant. Our relationship had always been stormy, from the very first day he made my acquaintance by playing a prank on me.
But somehow…I still can't bring myself to hate him…I wonder, do people only have one true love? And once that happens, you can never experience anything like it? Gosh, I sure hope not. If so, then my time has been expired. I wonder what he's been up to.
I know the boys have opened up a few other stores, although the original joke shop still stands in Hogsmeade. Apparently, the Weasley Twins are rolling in the dough. Not like that matters to me. I can guarantee that if the bloke was living out of a paper bag on the side of the road and begging for sickles, I'd STILL fall for him. I'm such a sod.
Breathe Angie, Breathe. I can't very well reject Kate's invitation, now can I? Especially since she's been one of my best mates since Hogwarts. But I really, really, really DON'T want to crash into F-R-E-D.
As my Mum would say, I'm stuck in between a rock and a hard place with a broken leg. Or was it a broken wheelchair? I don't know. She's always been a little off her rocker, since she's been somewhat tainted by primary school children.
Oh bugger. Should I floo Alicia and vent? But she's probably snogging George in a dark corner. And she's probably still ticked off that I didn't make an appearance at her party. But she's always good with advice.
Must locate that box of double chocolate chip cookies I bought last week. Then a full-blasting of Aretha Franklin should commence.
Must. Find. Cookies!