James Potter has decided that he wants to be a cherry. Why, you ask? Why on earth would a perfectly normal seventeen year old boy want to be a cherry? Well, as they say, madness always has a reason. And usually, it is indeed mad.
Disclaimer: I wish the Marauders were mine.
I wish I was a cherry.
Just this once.
No, no. I don't want to be some random cherry sitting out on a bloody tree somewhere just wasting my life away being a fruit.
And no, no, I haven't gone mad, even though Sirius keeps suggesting that I have when he catches me staring at cherries. That's what mates are for, I guess. To remind you that you've gone insane.
Before you judge my obviously diminishing intelligence, let me explain.
More specifically, in case God exists and wants to grant said wish for me and transfigure me into a cherry, (I should have gone to Sunday church more often), I wish I were a cherry currently residing in one of the bowls on the Gryffindor table.
The bowls, which conveniently happen to be sitting in front of one Lily Evans.
Saw that one coming, did you?
And the bowls from which she, every breakfast, and I mean every breakfast, no exceptions, grabs the luckiest fruit/vegetable/herb (whatever the hell cherries are) on this bloody planet, and pops it in her mouth.
Just like that. Like no harm is done. Like it is perfectly and completely alright for her to just publicly eat cherries.
I hate her.
Because all I can do is watch.
My stupid eyeballs won't not watch. And it is much harder to pretend not loving someone when you're staring at them for a good portion of the day.
It's as if she's doing it to torture me. Honestly. I'm not paranoid. Slowly, painfully. I'm dying.
I am dying. And it's all because of a sodding cherry.
I wasn't always like this, you know. I was normal once. Relatively. Once upon a time, I would just stroll into the Great Hall, sit next to Padfoot, and just happily munch away at my own breakfast, at a time where my eyes were not the prisoners of some stupid bowl filled with stupid red things.
This all began when I knocked my fork off the side of the table one morning. As I bent down to pick it up, my eyes became ensnared by this monstrosity.
The first time I saw her eating a cherry, I simply supposed that my eyes were playing a trick on my brain. Gaped for a second, a second only, grabbed my fork, and all was right with the world again. The second time, I almost spat out my pumpkin juice over the table (I kept it in, though some dribbled out of my nose). I ignored it, again. The third time, Sirius kicked me under the table because I stood gaping at her for about thirteen seconds, and the fourth – I lost track.
That was around the time she became obsessed with eating them, and I no longer owned my eyes.
Don't cherries have a fruiting season? Like one week in a whole year? We have a cherry tree by our house, and my mum always pointed out that cherries grew in the summer. For about two weeks. Lily Evans doesn't care, obviously. She eats them all-bloody-year-long.
She has a never-ending supply somewhere. I must rig it to explode.
For one thing, I wish that watching her wasn't so fucking time consuming. I've dropped nearly twenty pounds in the last couple of weeks because I have forgotten -coughcough- that in breakfast, people eat. Actually, place food into their mouths, do a chewing motion, and begin the digestive process that provides nutrients for your body and stops you from passing out during Quidditch practices.
People should eat. People should not stare at their delicious, wonderful, corrupting, cherry-eating head girl.
Why must she like cherries? Why? Why? Why cherries? Why not an unattractive fruit, like peaches, or plums, or bananas…
Great, now I find all fruits attractive. Thank you, hormones.
And it wouldn't be such a huge problem if the only place she ate them was during breakfast. Oh, no.
She eats them everywhere. Constantly. Every bleeding minute, of every fucking day. I used to find it a blessing that we shared all of the same classes, now it is nothing short of a curse.
I'm serious. This can't be healthy for my puberty-stuffed head. This is beginning to mess with my…my…thinking-thing.
Breakfast, lunch, dinner, during class, during weekends, in the common room, out on the grounds, inside the stadium (oh, there have been crashes), in her room, in MY room. Where does she come off being so fucking liberal with her cherry-eating?! Doesn't she understand it … offends some people?!
I can only imagine what she would do if she saw me staring at her. Chop off my testicles, I suppose.
More to the point, she doesn't eat them like a normal human being, either. Oh, no. And you may think, maybe it's a girl thing. But no. I can stand to watch other girls eating cherries. I don't stare at them. Really, I don't. The monster inside me does not want to grab them and do certain things that would make father proud but would make Evans very angry and prone to killing me with cherries.
And I certainly don't want to become a fucking cherry when I watch ordinary girls eating.
But she eats them differently. Gracefully, elegantly, almost like she loves – cares for the cherry. And she doesn't spit the seed out like Sirius does, either (who aims it at head of the closest Slytherin, and since their table is all the way across the room, the seed usually hits – ahem – the wrong target). She places it gently onto her plate, and takes another one. Is it crazy that I know how she eats cherries?
I think I've gone barmy.
Also, I'm beginning to notice that Alice, her best mate, eats them normally. Like a normal girl. Eating a normal cherry. Normally.
Then again, when it comes to Evans, nothing is normal.
Everything that is remotely sane goes out the window.
Including my brain. And possibly my pants.
Honestly, I'm seriously beginning to wonder if she wants to kill me. I really think it would be the perfect murder.
"Boy Killed in Cherry-Eating Incident, Head Girl States She Had Nothing To Do With It."
After all, she hasn't hesitated to show her feelings towards me every available second. Nobody would be surprised.
"Potter! Stop it! Potter stop touching me! Stop hugging me! Stop breathing! Potter, you disgust me! You arrogant, bespectacled toerag! Potter, Potter, Potter, Potter!"
AHA! So, this is her not-so-secret plan to kill me. Of course, she would love to kill me in a way that would be preferably, more aesthetically pleasing and graphic, such as jinxing my broom during a Quidditch match so I would plummet to my death or ripping out my internal organs and then feeding them to me (I actually did not think of this one on my own, she threatened to do it when I told her I would take her Charms book away if she didn't stop reading). But, obviously, I tell myself, whenever this thought comes to mind, she doesn't want to endanger her school life and future career as bloody Minister (what is the female version for Minister? Ministress? No…that can't be right. I must remember to ask Moony sometime) of Magic for going to Azkaban for the murder of a 17 year old boy.
And so, she kills me. By eating cherries. It's the perfect plan.
No one will believe me if I tell them that I am the victim of a monstrous plan that has me being murdered by cherries.
She's a clever little minx. A cherry-eating minx. Goddamn her and her brain-powers.
So, that is why I want to become a cherry. No, just because I want to become a fruit does not mean I want to be queer. And no, I didn't get the sudden urge to spend the rest of my life in a bowl waiting for someone to eat me. That would be a rather boring life.
I want her to eat me.
I've just realized that it sounded like something Padfoot would say. Ha. Imagine that. On second thought, don't.
And of course, if I were a cherry, she would pick me, because me being the best-looking of all cherries (because, well, look how attracted she is to me in my human form) would attract her attention almost immediately, and she would pop me into her mouth.
Stop taking over my brain Sirius.
I sigh. Never in a million years could I have imagined that someone could be this sexy while eating. Because, well, the only people I usually see eating are Padfoot, Moony and Wormtail.
Now, Padfoot eats like he's been starved for ten years, Merlin help you if you try to tell him apart from his scrambled eggs in the morning. It's a revolting sight, to say the least, and part of the reason why I've stopped eating. I did not know his mouth capacity was that large. Not that I've ever wanted to know.
Moony, on the other hand, eats like an eighty year old. I can almost imagine him popping his teeth out and dropping them in a glass of water like my grandmother does after every meal. Again, not even slightly attractive.
And Peter. Well, without getting into the gory details and upsetting my stomach, I think it would suffice to say that I do not like watching him eat cherries. In fact, the boy should just give up eating for a while.
My friends are pigs. The girl I love is killing me with cherries. My life is just swell.
Alas, my theory has been proven. The girl wants me good and dead.
Dead, I tell you.
She was eating cherries. Again. I kept reminding myself that I should look away. But I couldn't. My eyes ceased to do anything my brain told them to do. Those rotten bastards.
I got detention because of her stupid cherries. Her and her stupid, stupid, stupid, cherries.
Let me set the scene. Transfirguration classroom. Advanced animal transformations, part two. Requirements include: transfiguring cherries into kittens. And consequently: One Lily Evans with an endless supply of cherries sitting snugly by her left arm.
So, what did she do?
I ask you, what, oh, what did she do?
Every once in a while, she popped one into her mouth.
And ate it.
Ate it. Just like that. ATE IT! RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME! THE HORROR WAS UNIMAGINABLE!
She just ate them as if nothing was wrong with the world. As if the brain of boy sitting behind her did not suddenly turn into unintelligible mulch as she munched away on her nutritious and healthy snack.
I think it's needless to say I couldn't concentrate. My mulch of a brain stopped working (that's a bit of an understatement, I was barely able to regulate my own drooling, much less any part of my brain that controlled my attention span.)
My lack of concentration wasn't missed by McGonagall, of course. She gave me detention, in a spectacular style, one that could only be expected from the likes of her.
She declared to the entire classroom that I should stop staring at Evans. She then threw her head back, stuck her nose in the air, shrieked "DETENTION!" and proceeded to strut to my table and insult my kitten (to be fair, it's ears were red and spherical and it's legs were made of leaves, but as I said, I was not at all focused. Hence the detention. See the inescapability of my situation?)
At the comment, an outburst of whistling, shouting and laughing ensued, of course. I would kill her if I wasn't so bloody terrified that she'll transfigure me into a urinal. (She threatened Padfoot with that once. Was not at all pleasant. Padfoot was almost completely quiet throughout the whole lesson. Credible threat, that.)
I couldn't see Evans's face when she heard the news, but I doubt that she was very happy with it. I bet she was thinking about how she could cut off my testicles without me noticing.
I sincerely hope she didn't come up with anything.
I have to go to detention now.
Well detention was enjoyable.
Aha. What a funny sentence.
I got to clean the trophies in the trophy room. Pure joy, I must say.
And as an added bonus, I had Filch standing behind me, commenting every once in a while about "old detentions" and how I would be hanging by my thumbs in the dungeons if I was in school in Dippet's time in his wheezy, I've-been-a-chain-smoker-for-eighty-years voice. Music to my ears.
I'm walking back to the common room. My hands hurt. I hate cleaning. No wonder my mum complains about it every living moment.
Thank Merlin McGonagall pitied me and allowed me to leave early. I imagine I looked like I was in pain as I shined the stupid "Services to the School" trophies. Or maybe she let me go because I accidentally-on-purpose almost broke one of the glass medals.
I do hate those things. They should have a trophy for something that is actually worthy of an award. Like "Most Detentions Within School Career." Padfoot and I would tie for it. And probably would get another detention for fighting over it in public. I must pitch the idea to Dum –
I think I just stepped on something.
Oh, hell, it's squishy. What the –
You've got to be joking.
What the hell is that?
It smells like –
It looks like –
Oh, fuck no.
Is that…a cherry?
You're curious aren't you? You want to know what happened? Why there was a cherry in the middle of the hall?
There wasn't just one cherry. There were millions. All in line. Like a mini army.
I followed them. The genius that I am. I followed them for the whole fucking landing. And it led me to my head tower. Straight into the lair of the she-lion.
I was terrified.
I was sure that this was how Evans was planning to kill me. By luring me with cherries. That gorgeous mastermind.
I pushed open the portrait, careful not to step on the cherries, and walked in. The cherry line ended. There were no more cherries. I almost ran back out, screaming for my life and Dumbledore.
Not that I was scared, or anything.
I slowly crept into my own room and shut the door behind me. I could feel that she was going to jump out, holding a chainsaw to end my sorry excuse for a life. My brain began to create excuses:
"My eyes were open, but I was sleeping. I was in no way staring at you."
"It was Sirius disguised as me. He drank Polyjuice potion. Go kill him insead."
"PLEASE DON'T KILL ME I LOOOOVE YOU!"
And finally: "Voldemort made me." – Which was sort of a last resort.
No sooner had I closed the door, I jumped in my own skin, because something creaked behind me. I whipped around to find a sight I had never in a million years expected to see.
She was sitting on my bed.
On. My. Bed. And looking at me. Just casually, as if she belonged on it. As if her gorgeous butt print had been there, resting on the covers for centuries. As if everything was totally normal, and I shouldn't expect flying piglets to come soaring through the windows singing Mermish songs.
I think she could tell I was horrified because she let out a small laugh. A small, maniacal, murderous laugh…or so I thought at the time.
She walked toward me – I know this because I distinctly remember not being able to breathe properly. I also remember thinking that her lips were smeared red. She said, "You like cherries don't you?"
I remember nodding. I think. I must have nodded, because I felt my head bobbing up and down. Out of body experiences had never been so very potent.
So, she took one out of her pocket and popped one into her mouth, and ate it in front of me.
The last thing I remember was the sight of the seed between her teeth, and her cheeky smile at my response.
I could not stand it anymore. The monster inside me took over. Father would indeed be proud.
Her lips taste like cherries.
What a surprise.