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Catastrophe by still_fly
Chapter 1 : Monochromatic
 
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[MESSAGE OF UTMOST IMPORTANCE: Okay, so I'm not sure how many of you are aware of this but...I'm like completely rewriting this story. The other version...just didn't cut it. In fact, it really sucked. But I couldn't let this story go. I don't know why I like it so much, I just do. So here I am. This is just a little warning. If the story seems to be going smoothly and then it completely changes, its probably because I haven't rewritten up to that point yet. As of right now (11/11/11) I only have this one chapter done. I'll let you guys know when the rest are ready to be read. Hopefully you guys read this...it'd be weird if you read chapter one and the next chapter too. But yeah...]

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Chapter One

Life is about the thrill; that’s why I do what I do.

Some people can’t seem to digest my way of thinking. It’s always the same questions. Don’t you hate always getting detention? Or, are you ever going to grow up, Dee? And my absolute favorite, people must really think you suck, huh? It’s like the very thought of breaking the rules is equivalent to shoving a spoonful of rocks down your esophagus.

To most, at least.

There are some who agree with me. There are some who tag along for the thrill. And there are some who don’t give a rat’s-hairy-little-behind what I do.

But the majority find my antics stupid or immature.

And that only makes the thrill ten times more exhilarating.

And a girl’s got to wonder; if I’m such a fiery-spirited adrenaline junkie, then why does the face I see in the mirror always look so bored? Logically, I should have the most stimulating life this Earth’s ever seen. Just look at the lunatics I surround myself with. But even through a present smile, my eyes will only ever sparkle monochromatically.

I stare at myself now—testing this theory. I summoned up my happiest thoughts and the memories of my greatest thrills, and zealously looked for that polychromatic shine. My hair, disheveled as it is, would constantly get in my way; it succeeded in effectively frustrating me. Pushing back the blonde locks for the last time, I huffed—welcoming defeat with open arms.

“I’m hopeless,” I muttered to myself. I turned away from the vanity, cluttered with makeup and bobby-pins, and collapsed on my bed. With a tiny smile of irony, I mumbled, “What a summer,” and then flew into a yellow-speckled sleep.



You know, I’m all for traditions; in fact, I love the damned things. My entire summer revolves around my favorite tradition yet—preparing for the back to school prank. The one Albus and I supply for the student body each year like royal clowns raised on high pedestals.

So yeah, I’d say I’m big on tradition.

But this is a tradition I can gleefully live without. And I don’t do glee.

I don’t even know why I bother. Every year, I remind Al that I’ll be at his house at nine o’clock sharp. And every year, I’m stuck sitting on his doorstep until at least eleven because the inhabitants inside like to snooze.

And this year, it’s raining.

“Bugger,” I grumbled, pulling up the hood of my jacket and tugging on the drawstrings. I already gave up on getting the Potter’s attention. I tried everything from ringing their obnoxious doorbell, to kicking the door as bloody hard as I could—I even threw rocks at their windows. I broke a couple, but it’s nothing a wand can’t fix. After a while, I decided it’d be best to reserve my energy—so I laid down on their welcome mat.

I feel like a homeless person.

But I guess I really am this year. All the summers before, I left for the Potters because I couldn’t stand it at home anymore. This year, my parents hauled me off and told me not to bother coming home next summer—at all.

Whatever.

I probably looked pretty strange, lying here in the rain with a huge trunk and an owl by my side. I’ve never been sure why the Potters ever thought living in a muggle neighborhood would be a good idea. They are far from inconspicuous. It doesn’t help much that half of the Weasleys live down the street or that I’m constantly over, parading through the front yard when no one will open the bloody door.

Annoyance trickled down my entire body; when it reached my legs, the muscles there flexed. With one last attempt, I kicked the door as hard as I could.

And it opened.

I stared, head lifted from the concrete, momentarily confused. For a proud second, I thought it had been my brute strength that had opened the door. But then a lazy foot stepped into view and I was greeted with a pair of glaring hazel eyes.

I sat up, glaring back from behind my exposed knees. The boy regarded me critically, taking in the state of my soaked clothes and hair and the beat-up shoes I had on my feet. My makeup had been smeared from the rain (but that’s the way I like it, anyways) and my lips were chapped from the rare summer-cold. It was safe to say that I probably wasn’t a pretty sight.

Without giving me a proper greeting, he turned around and called up the stairs to his brother, “Al!” His voice was masculine, and strangely condescending, “You left trash outside the front door again.”

I scrambled in the house, heaving the heavy trunk and awkwardly placed cage into the front entry-way. When my hands were free and the door was finally closed, I turned to the boy with narrowed eyes and a hand well-placed on my hip.

“It’s great to see you too, James.” I commented sourly.

He ignored me.

I heard heavy footsteps from upstairs, and then Albus stumbled into view. His eyes were—for the most part—still closed, heavy with fresh sleep. He was wearing nothing but blue-striped boxers and a t-shirt. Oh, sure. He hears James calling up the stairs, but he doesn’t hear me pounding on the door with all the strength my body possesses.

“What’chu talking ‘bout, James?” Al spoke, groggily.

James sent me a pointed look, one that answered Al’s question just the way he wanted it to: stinging me.

Al’s gaze shifted to mine, and then the annoyance etched out across his face—by a very cruel artist—morphed into a goofy grin. He slid down the railing, and engulfed me into a gigantic hug. I returned it, my own smile lighting up the moment—despite my current state of dress.

“Why are you all wet, Dee?” Al pulled away, using my shoulders as support for his hands. I could hear James shuffling around behind us, but I ignored him as best as I could. Instead, I focused on Al. With a furious glare.

“It’s raining.” I replied through gritted teeth.

“Well, yeah. But you’re soaked.”

I don’t think my lips have ever been pursed so tightly before in my entire life. I raised an eyebrow, “Do you remember what day it is, Albus?”

He winced at the use of his full name.

“Er, Tuesday?”

“It’s the twenty-fifth.” I growled, not bothering to inform him that it was actually Sunday, “You know, a week before we go back to Hogwarts. The day I’ve been coming to your house every summer since we were second years.”

His face paled. Aside from James’ constant shifting—what was he doing, anyways?—the room was silent. The kind of silent that smelt like matches and gasoline. I could see Al’s thoughts projecting across his green irises like a slideshow. He was waiting for the explosion so he could make a run for it. And I could feel it again. That monochrome flash, sprinting across my pupils. Judging by Al’s flinch, he noticed it too.

“Don’t kill my brother just yet,” James interjected. I flicked my deadly gaze to his indifferent expression, shoving Al’s arms off of my shoulders. James was now wearing a heavy jacket and held his broomstick in his left hand, “I need his help.”

“With what?” I asked, fists clenched.

“With what?” Al repeated redundantly, backing up a few feet. No doubt to put as much distance between me and him as possible.

“Hey,” James smirked ambiguously, “I save your skin, you save mine—when the time calls for it.”

“You haven’t done anythi—”

“Yes, I have. ‘Cause if Dee kills you, then I tell everyone her real name.”

I gasped. I wanted to wipe that stupid, smug smile off of his begrudgingly handsome face. Just reach over and wring his skinny neck—see if he has any witty comments to quip after that. “Dee is my real name, Potter.”

“Fine, then. Your full name.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

He would, and I knew it. Worst of all, he knew that I knew it. My lack of a response was all the proof he needed. I don’t think he realizes that he’s digging his own grave here. Because my full name is not a pretty one. I think, in my entire years as a student of Hogwarts, it was said once. Only once. When my name was called to be sorted. Fortunately, no one knew me at the time—the upside of being muggleborn.

It’s honestly the most disgusting name ever, holding three syllables of audio repugnance: Normandy.

I shuddered.

Who names their daughter after a beach?

“Whatever,” I bit out, scuffing the tips of my shoes across their tiled entry-way. It was my bitter way of showing that I was giving in but I was not happy about it.

“Good,” He replied, placing a firm hand on my shoulder for just a moment. I wanted to turn around, as he shuffled past me, and smack him for taunting me. But he was already mounting his broomstick. Before I could even take two steps towards the frustrating boy, he had opened the door and was zooming off into oblivion.

“Where’s James off to?” A voice from the top of stairs pondered.

I turned toward the voice, finding a young teenage girl with fiery red hair staring out the open door. She smiled at me, waving air of admiration around her petite locomotive-hand. Trying my very hardest to not grit my teeth, I smiled back. I wiggled my fingers in my own pathetic wave.

Lily is the one person who I feel obligated to show kindness towards.

Merlin knows why.

“No clue,” Albus shrugged, turning around and walking to the kitchen. I rolled my eyes.

“He left his umbrella,” Lily laughed, closing the front door and following her brother into the other room. I stumbled after them, the tension from my muscles relaxing now that James was gone.



“But you always have ideas.” Al whined later on that day. We were in his room, cluttered with clothes and old textbooks and Quidditch posters. He was sitting on the bed while I made myself comfortable on the ground, leaning against his wardrobe.

“Yeah well,” I quipped in agitation, “Now I don’t.”

“But we go back in a week!”

Really?” I asked sarcastically, “I had no idea.”

“We can’t just not pull a prank at the feast. The thought is practically blasphemous.”

“Well I don’t see you pulling out any bright ideas!”

Al rolled his eyes, “That’s because I’m not the one who does the bright ideas.” I raised my eyebrow in demand of elaboration. Al continued sheepishly, “You know. I’m the one who supplies the witty comments and looks dead sexy doing it. You’re the one with the bright ideas and sour—er, I mean sarcastic personality.”

“So basically, I do all the work and you take all the credit for it?” I replied dryly, deciding to ignore his slip-up.

“That’s not what I said!”

“That’s what my brain heard.”

Al pouted like the three-year-old he is on the inside. I hate kids, see. Growing up with four little brothers does that to you. So I don’t really know why I decided it would be a great idea to be best friends with the biggest, most annoying kid out there. A sixteen-year-old kid, at that.

“You’re lame.” He decided after a moment of silence.

“That the best you got?” I laughed, monochrome sparkles lighting up my eyes again, “I thought you were the one who supplies the witty comments.”

“Shut it.”

I rolled my brown eyes.

“Let’s do something else, yeah?” I suggest, no longer in the mood to plan our big prank. I stood up, dusting off my knees, “Do you think Rose is home? I feel like bugging her.”

All blew the air out of his mouth, waving his hand in motion to stop me in my tracks, “It’s not fun bugging her anymore. She takes it the way any adult would nowadays—by pretending that we’re not there. What’s the point if we don’t get a reaction from her?”

“Just because she chooses not to react doesn’t mean it doesn’t annoy her.”

Al raised his eyebrows, “I didn’t think of that—okay, let’s go.”



So here we were, after spending an entire day annoying the snot out of Rose.

Al was passed out on the couch, a smile still on his face. I had fallen asleep on the ground, having laughed myself into dreams from Al’s ridiculous antics. We had dragged Rose from her home, book in hand, to the Potter residence. She was asleep on a big old chair, the book’s pages pressed against her chest. The same as every year on the twenty-fifth of August.

I smiled.

The lights were off and darkness poured into the room like a cloudy gas. I caught a glance of the clock on the wall—one o’clock in the morning. The perfect time to sneak a snack out of the Potter’s pantry. So I slinked into the kitchen quietly. I flicked the lights on and nearly screamed. The silhouette of a person, invisible in the darkness, couldn’t hide now that the lights were on. Jumping at the unexpected visitor, I flew back into the wall and knocked my shoulder into it.

“Careful,” James muttered sarcastically.

“What are you doing?” I nosily inquired. To see him, the jacket he had on earlier hanging off of his arm and the broomstick still in his hand…well it made me wonder if he had just gotten in from wherever he flew off to this morning. Yesterday morning, I reminded myself, glancing at the clock again.

“About to go upstairs to sleep, actually.” He replied simply, walking over to a small closet at the end of the hallway connecting to this room. It creaked open and he threw the jacket and the broomstick inside wordlessly.

My curiosity kicked in just before he could leave.

“Where did you go?”

His back, which was turned to me, tensed. He looked at me over her shoulder, eyebrow quirked. I stood in silence as he turned himself around to analyze me critically for the second time since I’ve seen him this summer.

“Why so interested?”

I snorted, “Is it a crime to be curious?”

“It ought to be.”

“Well,” I smirked mischievously, “You haven’t gotten very acquainted with adventure then, have you?” I laughed at his expense, leaning against the counter so I could place my head in the palm of my hand. James hates it when I get this relaxed around him. Is it because he usually makes me so tense?

“And you have?”

The question caught me off-guard.

“What?” I asked stupidly, straightening up and locking my arms in place at my sides, “Of course I have.” A haze of reds and oranges clouded my eyes. How dare he imply such a thing to me. I live for adventure. I wouldn’t do what I do if I didn’t yearn for rush trouble gives you.

“Why do your eyes do that?” He changed the subject, suddenly calm.

“Do what?” I asked in wonder.

“Change colors.”

That was unexpected.

“What are you talking about?” My voice sounded almost hopeful. Without really realizing what I was doing, I scrambled to the mirror that hung from the wall. They had changed. They were…almost auburn, instead of brown. As I slowly regained sense, the color drained from eyes and they were brown again. I turned back to James, expecting to see a smug smirk on his face.

But he was gone.

 

How weird...

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[A/N: Hey so, in case you didn't already read that big, honking author's not at the top of this chapter...I'm rewriting this story. As of right now (11/11/11) this is the only rewritten version I've got. So yeah. Sorry that it was short-ish. The next chapter will be longer, promise!

Don't forget to reviewwwwwww!

-still_fly]


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