Chapter 1



A bleeding welcome letter and a bleeding book list.

And that's it.

What the hell do they even send us welcome letters for? The train leaves on the same bleeding day every single bleeding year. And if we weren't expelled at the end of last term and didn't walk across that stage in the glorious graduation ceremony, it stands to reason that we'll be going back to school in the bleeding fall.

I mean, honestly. It's no wonder our environment is crap. The Muggles all think it's cars and factories and that sort of thing, but it's really the ridiculous wasting of paper in British wizarding schools. I should start a campaign against it- against wasting all that on stupid welcome letters to each stupid student every single stupid year. I don't know what I'd call it, though. Oh, wait. Stop Obvious Destruction Of Fabulous Forests.


Sod the fuck off.

Ugh. Seriously, I don't even know what I'm so upset. I mean, it's not like I even want to be a Prefect. They're stuck up and stuffy and all go 'round with their noses hoisted up in the air like they're some sort of bloody royalty or something. And I definitely don't want anything to do with that lot. So no, I'm not mad that I don't get to run about with that stupid badge pinned on my chest. I just don't think it's particularly fair that I'm smarter than all the rest of those twits in my year, probably my whole school, put together, and all I get is a bleeding welcome letter and a bleeding book list.

Still, though. Getting appointed Prefect isn't just about grades. Obviously. It's about being one of those perfect little yessirs and yessums that the professors all love and cream their knickers over. And obviously I am certainly not that. It's not my fault, though. The teachers hate me because I'm smarter than they are, and they pick on every single thing that I do wrong. I get in so much trouble, and it's really not even like I'm that horrible. I just refuse to be a sheep and agree with everything they say simply because they're employed by the school. Honestly, most of them aren't even that qualified, and very few of them are anything special at teaching. It's no wonder so many kids fail really. Of course, according to them, and by them I mean the faculty, it's because we students are slackers who don't study as diligently as we should and blah blah blah.

That's simply not the truth.

I, for one, study plenty. I make sure I always know the subject of the lesson before I even step foot in the classroom. I have pre-lecture notes and even usually take notes during the lecture, though often times it's completely pointless, as we have several professors whose idea of "teaching" is to read straight from the text. I revise thoroughly before every test and always, always do my homework.

But of course, they don't care about any of that.

They only care that I speak my mind and say what I think. They only care that I don't immediately believe each word that they say and take it as gospel. They only bleeding care that I'm not my bleeding mother!

But no. No, I am not upset, and I am certainly, definitely, 100 percent not jealous in any way, form, or fashion. So what if Al got a stupid badge? He's a good kid, right? He's not completely stupid. He usually follows the rules and doesn't get in much trouble. He certainly, definitely, 100 percent did not get awarded Prefect because his last name is Potter.

No sir. Not at all.


Ugh. Said bleeding mother is calling.


Ugh again. Does she think I didn't hear her the first time? That I've suddenly gone hard of hearing?

"I'm coming!" I yell back down. I know she is frowning at my tone and debating whether or not to scream back up that I better watch it, but she doesn't in the end. She figures it's not worth the effort. Ah, I know my dear mum so very well.

"We're going to be late!"

Christ on a cracker, woman! I grumble under my breath and purposely take as long as possible to lace up my trainers. I'm infinitely thankful that the hideous Velcro phase is over and that we're now back to nice, normal laces, even if Velcro is a bit easier. It's still hideous, and I can't believe we were stuck in that fashion phase for so long.

Glancing in the mirror, I try to make my hair as flat as possible. To no avail, of course. At least my outfit is okay, though I know my mum is going to comment on my choice of footwear paired with a skirt and my grandmum is going to comment on the length of said skirt. Oh well, both the old women can kiss my (rather flat, I note, glancing in the mirror) arse!

I take my time going down the stairs, humming to myself. I do this, of course, to annoy my little brother who is waiting at the bottom looking up at me with a glare.

"D'you think you could possibly be any slower?" he asks, frowning at me.

"I'm sure I could," I reply coolly. "Would you like me to go back up and try it?"

"Stop it, you two." Mum rushes into the sitting room carrying my youngest brother, Landon. He's two and well able to walk on his own, but Mum insists on carrying him whenever she's in a rush. Landon's missing a shoe, and she seems in a tizzy to find it. And she was yelling at me to hurry up?

Speaking of shoes, of course, she glances at mine. "Rose, don't you have any sandals to wear? You look like something out of a grunge catalogue or something."

A grunge catalogue? Seriously? What the hell is a grunge catalogue?

"What the hell is a grunge catalogue?" At first, I think I've spoken out loud, but then I notice that it's Hugo who's asked the very obvious question.

Mum, of course, whips her head around and narrows her eyes at him. "You watch your language!"

She is so predictable.

"Seriously, though, Mum," I urge, spotting Landon's missing shoe under the bookshelf. "What is a grunge catalogue?"

"Oh, I don't know!" she says, clearly exasperated. "Help me look for your brother's shoe."

Well, no ma'am, not after that tone.

I leave the spotted shoe alone and don't point it out. Instead, I make my way into the kitchen to look for my dad. He is leaned over the counter with his ear pressed to wireless. Quidditch, of course. It is, after all, Saturday. He jumps up when I come in, clearly hearing the door and thinking that it's Mum. He relaxes and goes back to the match when he realizes it's just me.

"What's the score?" I ask, grabbing an apple from the display bowl and hopping up onto the counter. My mum insists on having a fruit display with real fruit. She won't use the wax kind like normal people, and she gets seriously angry if someone eats a piece and messes up the count. So the fruit just sits there, and then when it rots, we throw it out and put up a new one. My school wastes parchment, and my mother wastes fruit.

Lovely. Let's destroy the earth and take food right out of starving African children's mouths.

"120-40, Puddlemere." Dad's voice sounds glum, and I wonder why he always gets so disappointed. Chudley's never, ever going to win, so I don't know why it's always a surprise when they lose.

I chomp into the apple, and Dad looks up. "You know you're not supposed to eat that," he says lazily. I shrug, and I can tell he's too caught up in Quidditch to care too much.

"Finally!" The door to the kitchen swings open again, and Mum comes in, pushing Landon's foot into the apparently located stray shoe. She stops short when she sees Dad fumbling to turn the wireless off and pretend like he wasn't just listening to a Quidditch match instead of helping her find the baby's shoe.

"Honestly!" She shakes her head furiously, and some of her hair flies straight into Landon's face. "I've been looking all over this bloody house for the baby's shoe, and you're in here listening to Quidditch?!"

I told you. Predictable…

"Here," she thrusts Landon into his arms. "See if you can manage to get your son to your parents' house without getting sidetracked and winding up at a Cannons' game."

Dad rolls his eyes (when he's turned away from Mum, of course) and carries Landon back into the living room. I know he would much rather be at a Cannons' game than be going to his parents' for the afternoon. Hell, so would I, and I don't even support that god-awful team.

Mum finally seems to notice me and snaps at me for sitting on the counter. "I just cleaned it! And did that come from the display?!" She is eyeing the half-eaten apple in my hand.

I toss it into the sink and wipe my hands on the front of my skirt. "We don't even have any other apples," I point out.

She looks at me like she wants to slap me, but, of course, she doesn't. She just tells me to go to the Burrow as she removes the apple from the sink and places it properly into the bin.

I reluctantly do as she says. Dad and Hugo are already gone, so I grab the Floo Powder from on top of the fireplace and toss it in. The flames go all Slytheriny green, and I step in to say, with as much enthusiasm as possible, "The Burrow!"

Stumbling into the sitting room of my grandparents' house, I try to wipe the soot from my face. I hope that I've accomplished this and haven't just succeeded in smearing it 'round more, but, of course, I have no mirror and cannot say for sure. Grandmum accosts me almost immediately, wrapping me in a bear hug so tightly that I'm not sure I can breathe for a moment. She lets me go, of course, and helps me at wiping some of the ash away from my cheeks.

"Oh, Rosie, dear," she says sweetly, knowing fully well that I despise being called Rosie. She's beaming at me in the fake nice way only grandmothers can, "You look absolutely lovely. Don't you think, though, that your skirt might be just a tad short?"

She's almost as predictable as my mother.

"It's not my fault, Grandmum," I reply back, with innocence as fake as her back-handed compliment. "They just don't make skirts for girls with long legs." I shrug hopelessly and frown a bit for measure.

"Oh, dear," she says, shaking her head. "Well, I'm sure I could make you something if you like!"

"Sure!" I reply happily, hurrying off.

Like hell.

The kitchen smells good as I pass through it, and I realize that I'm not too upset about being forced over here for the afternoon. After all, nobody cooks like my grandmum, and there is something to be said for her home-cooked meals. It makes the torture of putting up with The Family almost worth it in the end.

I head to the backyard, desperate to find someone besides my parents or grandparents to talk to. Actually, I really only want to talk to one person, but I settle for Lily and Hugo who are already sitting together under a tree. They're hunched over a book and seem quite suspicious…

"What're you two up to?" I ask, trying to get a glimpse of the book they're engrossed in.

Lily, though, snaps it shut and holds it close to her the second I speak. "None of your business," she says hatefully.

"Oh, piss off, Lily."

"Don't tell me to piss off!" Lily stands up furiously, and I wonder when she turned into such a bitch. There was a time, not so long ago in fact, when she idolized me in every way. She used to think I was the coolest person on earth, but now she's every bit as annoying as Hugo.

I liked her much better when she worshipped me.

"Oh, what're you going to do?" I ask, feigning terror. "Run off and tell Mummy and Daddy?"

I know she hates to be spoken to in that tone- that babyish tone. It irritates her to no end. Dad told me once that Aunt Ginny was exactly the same. She was the youngest girl in a family of boys, too, just like Lily, and Dad said there was no easier way to wind her up than to speak to her like she was a toddler. It works wonders on her daughter, as well.

Lily just glares at me, still clutching that stupid book. "C'mon," she snaps, to Hugo, though she's still looking at me. He gets up quickly and follows her obediently. It's a shame that they're cousins really because Lily is never going to find any other bloke to mindlessly follow her commands as readily as my dear brother. No matter how obnoxiously pretty she is.

I watch them hurry off to another area of the yard and disappear behind some hills. They're so much fun to torture I can't even feel bad about.

The sound of the back door opening and closing again draws my attention, and there he is. The one person I came back here searching for in the first place. Al is walking with his older brother, and they seem to be deep in conversation about something. It's annoying, I decide, that everyone seems to be having deep conversations, and I'm all alone. I put my foot out just as they obliviously pass me, and Al trips and stumbles, though he doesn't actually fall.

"Fuck, Rose!" he says, straightening up and glancing around nervously. There are no adults in our midst, so he is safe.

I grin at him. "Now, that's not very appropriate language for a Prefect, is it?"

James snorts, and Al turns red. It makes me feel better that even though he managed to escape the curse of the Weasley red hair, he couldn't escape the Weasley blush. It's only fair after all.

"Stop," Al says seriously. "I didn't ask for that crap, you know?"

James laughs again, and I roll my eyes. "Oh, it's okay," I say with sarcastic sweetness. "You'll be brilliant, I'm sure."

"Ah," James speaks up, a knowing (and annoying) glint in his eye. "Methinks thou dost protest too much. Not jealous, are we?"

I want to slap him. Of course, that is nearly an automatic reaction every time I see him, so it's not really a surprise. "James, don't say shit like methinks. It makes you sound even queerer than you really are."

It's a good thing I've got loads of practice dodging him because the punch that goes flying through the air right where my head just was would probably hurt quite a bit. I straighten up and smirk. "You know, if you were really comfortable with your sexuality, comments like that wouldn't bother or affect you."

"Oh, I'm not bothered," he shoots back immediately. "I just thought I saw some sort of horrible rodent on your shoulder and was trying to squash it. Sorry, I didn't realize it was just your face."

"James Potter, I hope I didn't just hear you call your cousin a rodent."

Aunt Ginny has appeared, as she tends to do quite often whenever James is getting up to stuff he shouldn't. She doesn't even spare him a glance, though, as she bustles past us with a stack of plates. She carries them over to the picnic tables that have been conjured and begins setting them out. I smirk and raise my eyebrows defiantly at James.

Rose One/James Zero.

The thing about James, though, is that he knows perfectly well that I know he isn't gay or even remotely interested in the ol' John Thomas. He is, for lack of a better term, the biggest manwhore in our entire school, and I swear I'm nearly the only girl in my entire year who he hasn't got off with or at least come close. Not to mention, of course, the years above me. Hopefully he doesn't try to have it off with the ones below me this year, as that'd just be verging on disgusting. Not like he'd need to anyway. There are loads upon loads of girls always willing to give him a second (and third, fourth, and fifth) spin on the Ferris Wheel. I don't know why, honestly. He's a complete and total bastard, and he treats every last one of them like shit the moment he's done with them. But it doesn't hurt, I am very sure, that his surname is Potter and that he oozes the kind of ooze one would expect from the heir to a ridiculously rich Savior of the Universe.

But Al isn't like that. Al used to be caught up in all things Potter when we were mere Firsties and relished in it a bit, but now I think he is annoyed by it. He doesn't say that, of course, for fear that it might seem like he's denouncing his dad or some bollocks. But it bothers him, I know. He doesn't like introducing himself to new people and tries as often as possible to leave his surname off completely. He cringes whenever people tell him how remarkably like his father he looks. It doesn't help that people who say this always seem to think they're the very first person in the world to make this observation. It's true, though. They look damn near identical, though, of course, Al is much younger obviously. But pictures from the 90s don't lie, and Al is undoubtedly Uncle Harry as a teenager made over.

James does not look like Harry Potter. James is taller and not as scrawny as his father apparently was as a teenager (or as his brother is currently). He's got dark red hair that's not quite traditional Weasley red but definitely nowhere near jet black. It does tend to be a bit out of control, but it's longish and mostly just flips out at the ends instead of being all over his head like his dad and brother's. And, lucky for him, his very normal brown eyes are equipped with perfect vision.

Their personalities are night and day, too. Al is quiet and polite and tries desperately to blend into the wallpaper wherever he goes. He hates confrontation and always tries to avoid it all costs. James, on the other hand, is loud and thrives off of confrontation. He loves to be the center of attention and has a mouth that gets him in trouble more often than not. James and I are actually just alike (at least according to everyone we know). That's probably why we can't stand each other.

That and he's an insufferable bastard, of course.

"I don't even know which girl they picked," Al breaks in, completely ignoring the momentary spat between his brother and me. He's back on the Prefect thing.

I grin, knowing the answer and knowing the effect it's going to bring. "Meghan did," I say promptly. "She owled me."

Al, almost on cue, turns pink again. I can tell he's trying very hard to stay a normal color, which only makes the whole thing funnier.

James, catching on immediately, smirks widely. "Good on you, mate!" he says enthusiastically as he slings an arm around his younger brother's shoulder. "You might even get 'round to snogging her!"

Al shrugs him away angrily, growing from pink to an even red. He glares at both of us, and I can't help but laugh at the look on his face. James laughs, too. We don't normally get along, but there are moments like this- moments when we're torturing members of our family- that we get on rather splendidly.

"I hear the Prefects get loads of alone time together," James carries on smoothly, not even phased by his brother's embarrassment. "You can take her up to the Astronomy Tower. They really like that."

"And if it's any consolation," I pipe up, not wanting to miss out on an opportunity to take the piss out of my cousin (granted the only one I can stand), "I think she probably fancies you a bit, too."

"If you heard her muttering Potter in her sleep, she was probably talking about me," James quips. "But in respect of our brotherhood, I'll stay away from her." He winks at Al who narrows his eyes and glares back at us.

"Oh, sod off," he snaps. "Both of you."

He is very, very easy.

As expected, Al stalks off away from us. He doesn't take well to teasing. It goes with the whole hating to be the center of attention thing, I guess. He's "sensitive." Or at least that's what Aunt Ginny said last summer when she was yelling at Fred and James after they made him their teasing target and he ended up all red-faced and sullen.

He still hasn't lived it down…

"So, Rosie Posie," James says, his voice laced with fake sweetness as he now slings an arm over my shoulder. Rosie Posie is even worse than plain Rosie. "You're feeling the sting of being passed over quite heavily, aren't you?"

"As a matter of fact, Jamie, I couldn't care less." He hates Jamie almost as much as I hate Rosie.

"Is that so?"

"Yes." I nod for good measure. Obviously because it's the truth. I don't care- absolutely, positively 100 percent don't care. James is staring at me all knowingly and annoying-like, so I prattle on mindlessly. "As a matter of fact, I'm happy even. Like I really want to associate with Fiona Enkleton and that lot. Right." Fiona Enkleton is in James's year- Ravenclaw Prefect and damn near shoo in for Head Girl. She is annoying and bossy and one of those types who thinks her Prefect badge makes her God's gift to the flat earth. Everyone despises her.

James doesn't seem deterred, despite the fact that I so clearly proved the very true point that I do not care one bit about getting made Prefect or any of that crap. "It must really be a blow to your ego," he said smoothly. "I mean, can't even get promoted to Prefect and all that bit."

"Excuse me, but I don't see you with a badge, either."

"Ah," he smirks, and I have to twist my fingers together to keep from punching him, "see the difference is that I don't care. You, on the other hand, can't stand to lose at anything."

He's right, of course. And it's bloody fucking annoying is what it is. Sometimes I wonder how I've made it fifteen full years without murdering James Potter. Never, though, will I ever admit that he's right. The world will end before that happens.

"I don't care, either," I retort, lying through my teeth. "I am sure I can think of a million better way to spend my year than in Prefect meetings."

This isn't entirely true, of course. There really aren't that many things to do outside of class, save the occasional Hogsmeade weekend and that sort of thing. Life is actually pretty boring at school, so it might actually be kind of nice to have something to do besides sit around in the Common Room every single night.

But I'm never, ever admitting that.

My shrink says I repress feelings and emotions. She told me once that I have trouble "admitting reality" to myself. Now… whether or not that's true, I don't know. After all, I don't have the fancy Psychological Healing degree, do I? But what I do know is that whenever I catch myself doing that, I always have a really, really good reason. I don't really consider it lying because there's always a very good excuse, so it doesn't really count.

I promise I'm not crazy.

James is giving me that stupid look again- the one that I hate because it usually means he is successfully performing Legilimency and knows everything I'm thinking. Except he's totally not because he is nowhere near talented enough to do Legilimency. I can't even do it, and I'm pretty much the smartest person I know (and no, I'm not be conceited, it's just the truth). But James is James, and he has a habit of driving me completely mental by always knowing what I'm thinking whenever I don't want him to.

I hate him.

"And anyway," I go on, pretending like I don't notice his smirk, "there was no way they were going to give me Prefect. My parents got called to school twice last year, if you recall. Your parents haven't even been called twice in one year!"

In fact, Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny have only ever been called once. That was in James's fifth year when he "accidentally" flooded the entire Slytherin Common Room with manky fish guts after losing the Quidditch final. James gets in trouble a lot, but he usually manages to squeak by with detentions and that sort of thing; not me, though, I'm nowhere near that lucky. My parents really were called twice last year. They were called first because I called my Potions professor "an idiotic , blubbering imbecile who couldn't get laid if he was the last wizard in Oz." Needless to say, that probably wasn't my smartest move. They got called a month later because I got in a fight with Marianne Robbecks and turned her hair into earthworms. That was actually pretty funny, especially since I've wanted to hex Marianne for as long as I can remember. But she ended up in St. Mungo's, and I ended up in detention for two months. My parents weren't too thrilled either time, but after their second trip, they were absolutely livid. My mum even purposefully humiliated me by blessing me out in the middle of the Gryffindor Common Room before she literally dragged me up to my dormitory and really let me have it. She even threatened to yank me out of school and bring me home if there was one more "infraction," as she called it. I guess it worked because I was scared enough by that point to try and make a conscious effort to stay out of trouble for awhile.

But still. One little bout of good behavior can't erase my entire record, can it?

James rolls his eyes. He does this because he's secretly jealous of the fact that I've managed to get into more trouble than him. I think he tries to get in trouble sometimes, but people always tend to look away, I guess, when Harry Potter is your father. I think that's the only part of the Potter legacy that James dislikes, which obviously is completely stupid.

But… okay, no, I can't think of a better way to describe James Potter than completely stupid.

There's a loud screech from inside, and James and I both look toward the kitchen window to see what the commotion is. It isn't hard to figure out. It's one of those squealy screeches that signifies something incredibly girly and usually ridiculous. Of course, James and I both find out the source as the back door flies open, and Victoire comes outside, flanked by both of our mothers, Grandmum, and Lily, who has somehow managed to get back inside in the time since she stomped away from me. Victoire is very swollen around the middle, probably about eight months pregnant, I think. The baby's supposed to be here by October. It's silly how everyone fawns over her and how they act shocked every time they see her, like they haven't known she's pregnant since forever. I will admit, though, that she does seem to get bigger every time I see her. But still. Is being pregnant really that much of an accomplishment? I'm surprised Vic even allowed herself to get that way, seeing as how it's making her incredibly fat. Mum says there's a very big difference between being fat and being pregnant… the only difference I see, though, is the very big part.

The pregnant girl looks absolutely miserable, but everyone else is positively giddy as they usher her over toward the picnic tables and start fawning over her even more. James, for what it's worth, is the only other person around besides me who doesn't seem to think that being pregnant is worthy of some sort of parade or something. We roll our eyes at each other knowingly and reluctantly join the rest of the group at the tables.

Of course, it takes us all of about two seconds to wish we hadn't.

"Oh, James," Aunt Ginny says, waving at him dismissively, "you and Rose go and get the food. We can set it up out here."

This, of course, is completely stupid. I'm one of about five people in the vicinity who can't legally do magic. Everyone else could just Summon the food plates without even standing up. But oh, no, I have to walk all the way back to the house and carry the food by hand. James, on the other hand, can do magic, but he seems to forget this as he grumbles under his breath and kicks a stray rock on his way back to the house.

"You know," I say snidely when we finally reach the door, "you could have just Summoned your part…"

James, thick as he is, realizes I'm right and glares at me. "You could have told me that about two minutes ago."

"I could have," I agree, nodding solemnly for good measure.

The food is all set up and ready to be transported. Al's in there, sitting at the table with his dad and my dad. Landon's in there, too, playing under the table by himself. He crawls out and runs to me as soon as I get there, though. He loves me, if I do say so myself. I'm his favorite person, and he makes no secret of it.

Seeing a very easy out to my problem, I bend down and scoop my baby brother up into my arms. He is actually getting quite big and is starting to be rather heavy, but I make the sacrifice because I know no one is going to make me work when I'm tending to the baby. Landon hugs me and tugs on my hair, he really loves pulling on my curls. Sometimes I think it's sort of weird how much I can adore one little brother and despise the other… but then I remember that Hugo can talk and I remember why I hate him.


Landon, as though reading my mind, reminds me that he can form a few words as well- my name being one of them. Of course, he doesn't get the difference between R and W… but he's two, so I'll let him slide. He's also the only person who can call me Rosie (or Wosie) without making me want to scream.

"Oi! You going to help me with this or what?" James is looking at me expectantly as he motions toward the stacks of food on the counter and stove.

"I'm taking care of my brother," I answer swiftly, as though this settles everything. "Just use your damn wand."

James glares at me but then follows my advice and sends a pot roast and a plate of potatoes flying out the open door. He tries to send the chicken, but he only succeeds in getting it about two inches off the counter before it falls back with a loud clank.

Frustrated, James groans and looks to his father for help. "Dad, do this." Okay, so it wasn't really a request for help, more so a demand for assistance. Uncle Harry just stares at him before (to my own horror) obeying him and sending the rest of the food flying outside. It's done almost instantly, and James, for some unknown reason, looks rather proud of himself as he pockets his wand and dusts his hands off. Al rolls his eyes so far back in his head that it's a miracle they don't get stuck. He has a habit of doing that- it's sort of like his signature or something.

Landon laughs loudly, though I'm not sure what he finds so funny. Maybe it's the magic or James's stupidity or Al's disappearing eye trick. Maybe he's just two and laughs for no reason. I don't know. I don't remember being two years old, so I have no real way of knowing what goes on inside their tiny little heads. Actually, Landon's head is rather big, but that's a whole other story…

"Where's Teddy?" James asks, grabbing an empty seat at the table and slumping down into it as though he's been doing manual labor all day. He doesn't seem to realize that his entire day's work amounts to watching his father perform one spell. He's such an idiot.

"He went off somewhere with Hugo," Al replies. He is still miffed at us, I can tell. He isn't going to let on, though, because he doesn't want his dad asking any questions. Or my dad for that matter. And he certainly doesn't want either of our mums asking. They all coddle him to a certain point, and he hates it. He tries to act a lot tougher than he really is so that people stop thinking he needs to be handled with kitten gloves. The truth is, though, Al really is a bit overly-sensitive. He gets his feelings hurt really easily, and he is really unsure of himself on a lot of things, which makes it more than a little difficult to live in his father's shadow. To make matters worse, he also has to live in his brother's shadow, and I would shoot myself in the face if I had to live in anything associated with James Potter. But Al manages well enough, I guess.

He'll get over being angry with us by the end of dinner, I'm sure.

"Why isn't the match on?" James asks, leaning forward to talk to my dad. They're actually really close, and James gets on quite a bit better with my dad than he does with his own. My dad's his godfather, and he's brainwashed James into supporting the Cannons, much to Aunt Ginny's great chagrin. Aunt Ginny used to play for the Harpies a long time ago before James ruined her life and ruined her career. She obviously wants her kids to support her old team, and Al and Lily pretty much do for the most part, though I think Al mostly likes their uniforms and Lily mostly likes that they're all girls because she's all Girl Power!Woo! But James is about as anti-Harpies as it's possible to get. He doesn't even enjoy them on the same sexist level that Al does. He absolutely despises them. And for some ungodly reason, he supports the bloody Chudley Cannons who never win anything and who are about as nearly awful as a team that calls itself professional is allowed to be.

So, of course, my dad loves him.

I personally don't really give two shits about professional Quidditch, but I would much rather be inside listening to the boys' talk sports than outside with the women cooing over Victoire's baby bump. So I shut up and listen as my dad Summons the old wireless from the living room and tunes it up to the match. The score is now 380-60. The Cannons are getting their arses handed to them (big surprise), and Dad and James both insist on pulling awful faces and hissing boos each time Puddlemere makes another goal.

It's so stupid.

The only amusing part of this entire thing is when Puddlemere intercepts the Quaffle from McLeary and makes a half-pitch goal. The crowd goes wild at the stadium, and you can hear it over the commentary. As all the invisible people cheer and yell, Landon claps his hands happily and cries, "Yayayayay!!"

I think Dad might keel over.

As I don't want my baby brother to become a victim of child abuse, I smartly carry him outside and away from the madness that is Saturday afternoon Quidditch at the Burrow. If the rest of my uncles were here, you wouldn't be able to hear yourself think the way they'd all be shouting and carrying on. Of course, they'd all be cheering Puddlemere and ragging Dad and James to no end (that would be the nice part)…

"Don't ever support the Cannons, okay?" I ask Landon, looking him straight in the eye as we duck into the hot afternoon sun.

He nods and giggles before head-butting me. I love this kid.

Now if only the rest of my family didn't drive me crazy….


A/N: For those of you who don't know, this is a sequel to my last story, "Lost." There's not too much you need to know about the other story at this point, but that will change so it might be helpful to check it out if you're interested in this one.

This one has a completely different writing style and will switch narrators each chapter. It's sort of modeled after the book Doing It by Melvin Burgess (which is an awesomely amazing book), and that will definitely be a theme for all these insane teenagers…

I'd really appreciate honest feedback on this- let me know if you liked it, hated it, whatever. I want to know, so please, please review!!