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Chapter 3: ‘M’ For Marauder.


 


Pick up stitch, loop, drop stitch and tighten. Pick up stitch, loop, drop stitch and tighten. Pick up stitch, loop, drop stitch and tighten. Pick up stitch, loop, drop stitch and tighten. Pick up stitch, loop, drop stitch and tighten. Pick up stitch, loop, drop stitch and tighten.


 


Knitting; the best stress reliever ever. Honest. Try it out when you are practically shaking from pent up rage or many other things of that nature. Just try it; I know you will think it a miracle.


 


So here I am knitting. What? I’m not sure. The mass of wool seems to be turning into a sort of uneven and ruffled scarf. But who cares right? It’s not winter, I’m not about to need a scarf that desperately ever and this brightly colored      scarf will meet the rubbish bin by the time I take my leave of this rattling train.


 


Like many of the years that have past by I have had a compartment to my self and this train ride is no different. I think people like to leave me be so that when I come back from the summer holidays I have no jagged thoughts of them to remember. Instead, it’s just a haze of sunshine and summer romances.


 


No, I don’t go and have a fling every summer. I just added that in for affect. Perhaps make myself look more interesting? To be quite truthful, I don’t believe that I am old enough to even think about “love” and all that comes with it. The heartbreak, the worry, the stress and the tears. I’m only sixteen. I shouldn’t have to worry myself about those trivial things I barely understand. I mean, how can you break your heart? Isn’t it a piece of muscle?


 


Yeah, sure. It maybe a figure of speech, but I don’t understand why they put it in that sense. Hopefully I won’t ever find out. It’s supposed to be incredibly painful. Or so I have heard from those stupid nightly conversations.


 


Pick up stitch, loop, drop stitch and tighten. Pick up stitch, loop, drop stitch and tighten. Pick up stitch, loop, drop stitch and tighten. Tighten. Tighten. Snap.


 


I growl, glaring at the broken piece of wool just swinging there in front of me; taunting me. I throw the needles, wool and all at the compartment door and turn my eyes towards the window. I guess knitting can become stress as well. Gosh, I don’t know anymore.


 


The Stairs-Falling-Potter-Catching situation, predictably, is the main gossip around the train at the moment. I don’t know why people have to talk about other people’s business twenty-four seven. It is highly annoying. I mean, don’t they have their summer plans to discuss? Or even Potter’s new “Perfect Boyfriend” status? Pfft, no, of course not. Gossiping junkies, consisting of the entire student body and teaching staff at Hogwarts, latch on to any topic that has both myself and “The Prat” involved. Why? I guess they find it more entertaining that way. Gosh, I don’t know how their minds work!


 


I inspect my nails for a time, and then alternate from my nails to the view rushing past my window in timed intervals. Or that’s what anyone would see if they were to become obsessive and time the duration my eyes are fixed on one spot. Just the thought of that gives me chills. But I wouldn’t put it past them. Some students that attend Hogwarts aren’t all there in the head I don’t think. For one, Sally would have to be added to that list. How could she think I, Lily Evans, be jealous of anything or anyone?


 


Sighing, I check my watch. Only ten a.m. I hold back another sigh. Sometimes refusing to have friends is a drag.


 


On a sudden flash of inspiration, I throw my leg out awkwardly and hook my foot through the straps on my book bag, slowly dragging the heavy bag towards me. Sure, I am lazy, but this way works well. I then undo the string tying the opening in place and fish around inside the bag for the notes I scribbled down in the last week. Maybe I will make neater copies. You never know when this information could be useful.


 


Unscrewing the ink pot and ducking a hand into the bag for a quill I sit up straight and look down at the blank piece of parchment spread over my large History of Magic book; the book I use as a makeshift desk most of the time. Leaning down lopsided is a complicated thing to do, especially when you are attempting to do too much at once. I, for one, have never been high on the balance skills, that being said this task is made even more difficult for me. Both of my hands are occupied; one holding the ink pot steady and the other is frantically searching the depths of my bag. Then, as predictable as my life is at the moment… or is that unpredictable, the compartment door slides open with a crash and I jump about a mile. The ink from the ink pot jumps higher, coming down in a down pour of blue-black ink. I close my eyes quickly, trying hard not to laugh at the familiarity of the situation and what the spectator is currently seeing. Just imagine the gossip for this one! All I need now is Potter to come into it some where and it will spread like wild fire down the whole train.


 


I know I am a right mess; the ink was already starting to dry into my hair and onto my skin. But it’s nothing major; a simple charm will get this out no worries. What I am worried about is the permanent damage. What is that wheezing sound?


 


Opening my eyelids with a little bit of difficulty; they’re sticky from the ink, I immediately spot someone in the compartment with me, bent double and convulsing slightly. I raise an eyebrow at the black hair and the hand made patch of material sewn crudely onto the forearm of the student’s robes. ‘M’ for Marauder.


 


My heart goes insane at that moment. All this boy has to do is flash his head up, show his identity and my fate will be decided. I can’t tell who he is! Is it Potter? Or is it Black? The idiots get their hair cut at the same salon!


 


“Get out now!” I bark immediately, out of fear for my privacy. If someone gets wind of this happening, there will be students with their faces plastered against the glass in the effort to see me better for the rest of journey home. Not what I would call traveling in peace.


 


The boy seems like he is ignoring me. My eyes narrow. I hate been ignored! My anger sweeps all inclination of ridding the ink from my skin.


 


“GET OUT Marauder!” I scream, knowing that no one in their right mind would ignore that tone.


 


The Marauder in question immediately swings his head up; a brilliant white smile engulfing most of his face, an ordinary Muggle camera covered the rest. With his identity hidden and his finger poised on the ‘capture’ button, the smile widened some more.


 


Before I could arrange my face into at least a more pleasant expression or reach for my wand to curse the camera from his grasp there is a blinding flash, a strange plume of purple smoke and a bang of a compartment door.


 


When the pretty colored smoke clears, I am left alone, covered in ink and wondering how long it will take before that picture is copied about a thousand times. Oh, and which black haired Marauder is to be personally killed by yours truly.


 


~*~


 


A few hours of unsuccessfully searching the trains’ compartment for the Marauders, I fell back into the squishy red long booth seat of my own compartment silently seething. How dare they…? I know it wasn’t completely their fault; they hadn’t planted the ink in my hand nor made me permanently unbalanced from birth. But it was easier to blame everything on them in one hit, instead of dividing up my hate which could become slightly messy and unfair.


 


I have attempted to remove the majority of the ink, but there were still a few tell tale signs I had been at war with it. The tips of my hair are slightly purple-black which I don’t find all too attractive and there is a few flecks and speckles that stubbornly refused to leave my face, clothing, shoes, and my entire body. The charm I had used didn’t work very well on dried ink, and that was what I was dealing with. And now I couldn’t remember the charm for dry ink, which caused me to become even more infuriated.


                                                                                                                                                                           


My mother is going to kill me.


 


Oh yes, I should inform you of my mother before we get any closer to King’s Cross Station. Don’t worry, it’s nothing to be overly worried about, but I think I should just caution you. She is a lovely woman, with a big heart, big bust and an even bigger purse bag. Yep, she’s rich. ‘Rolling in it’ is the term that some of the neighbors use. And she knows it. Err, very well. Sure, she earned it after many years of scraping the bottom in her small personal finance business. But now, or more importantly in the past few years, her business has been booming and she is finally able to kick back and reap the rewards her employees dig up for her. Meaning mother; as she insists my sister, Petunia and myself call her, is always at home. This makes summer holidays a little trying and hard to get used to. And makes life a constant irritation for our working class neighbors who work harder than she has in her entire life to just pay off their houses. Oh another thing that makes mother a formidable and unlikable character is the fact that she chooses low-brow, low-earning, and low-tolerant neighborhoods as her choice place of living. Buying up the biggest plot of land in the area and building a massive house on it. No wonder the neighbors hate us.


 


She constantly is changing the furniture in the living room, adding to her collection of pots and pans in the kitchen and enjoys collecting crystal figures, finely cut and sculptured for the guest rooms.


 


She is very particular about where everything is placed and the types of flowers are to be in the vases. No notes or assessment results are to be attached to the refrigerator, nor posters of favorite bands to be pinned to the walls in our bedrooms. No clothes on the ground or unclean smells are to linger in any of our rooms. Our clothing is to be clean and pressed at all times, our hair sleek and soft.


 


To say the least, I don’t feel like been perfect every day of the holidays, but she expects it. There is no way of telling her that perfection doesn’t exist and that however much she likes to believe that she is perfect, she is far from it.


 


The train begins to slow and I close my book bag with a flick of my wand, relishing in the last time I will be able to use magic until my seventeenth birthday. I haul the bag onto my back and float my trunk from the luggage rack above my head and on the ground before me. Taking a deep breath while casting a look around my compartment for the last time, I force my way out the compartment door and into the train’s corridor. Students make way for me as I walk towards the exit applying the smile mother enjoys seeing on my face at all times. I then hop off the train, not noticing the sudden flash of a muggle camera as a picture of my departure is taken, and head towards my ‘other’ life amid a cloud of purple smoke.


 


~*~


 

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