Dear Diary (part 3a)
Eight-oh-nine p.m.
Cracking storm out! Can’t see the stars worth anything, and my new indestructible bra is filling up with rainwater, but a horde of Slytherin sixth years nearly got struck by lightning a minute ago, and I will never forget the joyful sight of Malcolm Baddock screaming like a girl and leaping into a passing Hufflepuff’s arms.
Oh good, the carriages appear to be heated this year! Apparently they haven’t been feeding the Thestrals, though, as one attempted to eat my hair as I passed by. Although to be fair, I didn’t actually see it happen; it could have just as easily been one of the other invisible horse-like creatures Hagrid keeps handy to the pull the carriages.
Skin-and-bones, the poor beasts. Ha!
I find myself in a disgustingly good mood.
~*~
Eight-twenty p.m.
Disgustingly good mood ruined in a trice.
I was in the Great Hall less than three minutes - the Sorting hadn’t even begun yet - and already I was being brutally accosted by manhandlers (well, just the one for the moment) and forcibly dragged behind a drapery.
Usually these things didn’t start happening until at least October.
“I have to talk to you. In private,” a familiar voice said by way of explanation, their breath hot on my face.
I blinked at the pungent blast of it, then immediately dropped my chin - I hoped imperceptibly - trying to breathe mainly through my mouth. It seemed somebody had got into the garlic sausage early tonight.
“Erm…” I cleared my throat, glancing over my shoulder. “We are only standing behind a wall-hanging, Zacharias. Directly behind which… is a wall. And it doesn’t even reach all the way to the floor, I think you can see our legs. I’m actually fairly certain you’ve only drawn more attention to us - yes, listen, I can hear Dean asking about the pair of twats getting off behind a tapestry. Which means if he can see us, then McGonagall can see us, and if McGonagall can see then oh my God what do you want from me?”
Bother, bother, bother…
Memories of the traumatising variety were resurfacing… my face was becoming hot… I could feel my tights getting a run in, too, bloody perfect…
“I miss you,” Zacharias breathed, reaching out to place a hand on my shoulder and giving it a comradely squeeze.
I stared at his hand.
Well. That part of it, at least, hasn’t changed. Even Ron touches me with more sexual context than Zacharias Smith ever did, and we used to… er… actually it was only that one time. Well, two times. Which were lovely.
I think.
“You do not miss me,” I informed him, somewhat shrilly.
“But I do,” he protested, then went on accusingly, “You said you were going to write to me over the summer.”
“Right,” I murmured evasively, not meeting his eye. “You know, that’s not really true, what I said was I’d send you all the necessary papers, and that was in accordance with the restraining order - ”
“It doesn’t matter, I forgive you,” Zacharias interrupted, adding his other hand to my other shoulder, and stepping forward two inches.
Oh God, he was out of his mind with passion!
“I think we should try again,” he continued eagerly. “I still don’t understand why you finished with me in the first place.”
“Zacharias…” I removed his hands from my shoulders, perhaps a bit forcefully. The fact he had to catch himself on the wall to avoid tipping over might’ve been a clue. “You know why.”
“Well, it seemed your main reasoning was my dust allergy -”
“Precisely that!” I leapt on this easy explanation with alacrity. “I live in a world of dust, what with my occasional visit to the library and annoying tendency to go round freeing all the house-elves. Do you plan on doing all the tidying up yourself? Because I do.” I waved my hands, stepping backwards twice quickly, feeling a little sick. “I’m not going to tell you again, Zacharias, I explained this all quite clearly back in June.”
“But we were in love!” he cried, following me out from behind the tapestry.
“Don’t be so stupid!” I cried back, incredulously, glancing around for something to throw. “How lonely was your summer, seriously? Please don’t speak to me anymore.”
“But -”
“I still have the lawyer’s phone-number taped to the inside of my shoe, Smith, don’t make me use it!” I threatened.
“But -”
“Harr-eeeeeee!” I wailed, finally breaking down and calling in the cavalry.
Zacharias’s eyes widened and he froze where he stood.
“Wot!” Harry shouted back, through the milling crowds of our fellow students. His call came from somewhere near the Ravenclaw table. Ah yes - there was a distinct one-sidedness to the ratio of simpering females around that area; I ought to have guessed.
“Zacharias Smith is trying to engage me in conversation again!” I yowled in hopeless frustration to my unseen friend.
“Oi, Smith, run out of skin mags to engage yourself with?” Ron’s voice cracked cheerfully from somewhere to Harry’s general left.
“Sit tight, I’ll be along in a minute!” Harry’s voice assured me, with overly casual airs. “I’ll just take along some cheesy-whatsits, shall I?”
“Cheesy-whatsits,” Zacharias repeated, blanching.
“Oh God,” I said miserably, dropping my forehead into my palm.
If there is one thing Zacharias Smith has in spades, it’s allergies. Apart from dust, plant spores, sunlight at the Spring Equinox and unfiltered water, he is also severely lactose intolerant. Something that Ron and Harry seem to find hilarious to no end.
Personally, I fail to see the humour in public bouts of explosive diarrhea, but they’ve been threatening him with dairy products since at least fourth year, claiming only to be having “a bit of a laugh” with him.
Except neither Harry nor Ron ever laugh very much when their jokes are successful. It’s actually more of a sympathetic cringe followed by a sound that, if written phonetically, can only be described as “orrggkh.”
A clump of stuck-together, pre-feast cheesy snacks flung from the Ravenclaw table struck Zacharias in the centre of his ever-reddening forehead. It left a dusting of bright orange crumbs just between his eyebrows and started him trembling violently.
“Stop it!” he moaned uselessly, clenching his fists.
The response was a veritable shower of cheesy snacks, followed by the bowl they were served in, which made a resonant dong! sound when it bounced off his shoulder.
I don’t know what the point is, honestly, it’s not as if there’s any real cheese involved.
~*~