I wrote this like a century ago and I was pretty young, like really really young so I thought I was a literary genius. I thought I'd attempt cleaning up the grammar and spelling and 1000 typos up, now that I'm 'older and wiser'. But I think somethings are better left untouched, and so basically: you can read it at your own risk. But I want to say a really massive thank you to anyone who has read this, reviewed this, favourited this, because it's essentially the first fic I've ever written (+ finished) and it means the world to me that people gave it a chance and it's given the confidence to keep writing! :)
made by the lovely amoretti.
Beta'd by the amazing Jacinta Jade.
It starts as a comment, a little infinitesimal afterthought. The small joke that everybody cracks, not realizing that their words wrap around your mind, and as the jokes keep coming, they keep swirling like a flushing toilet in your head. Around and around. Then, the idea flushes out of your head and latches onto your heart, like a parasite, unwanted, unwelcome but stuck like wet glue.
And before you've even noticed, you've come down with the heartbreaking disease 'tomber amoureaux avec estbay iendfray'.
He yanks my notebook from my hand and flies to the other side of the room, I try to manoeuvre my way to him. I decide to take a short-cut. Keeping my eyes on the prize, I squish my way between the desk and the chair.
For a moment I soar through the air, and then I plummet to the ground, only to fall on something... different. Adrenaline rakes through my chest and my eyes fly shut. Tentatively, I open my eyes and discover I am half-splayed on Louis.
Holy, cheesing shiznits.
My rock tumbler stomach chugs and lurches. Secretly, I get really nervous every time someone gets close enough to hear me breathe. My boobs squish against his chest and oh Merlin, my lips. My lips are on his. I squeal and giggle, trying to get up, only to wriggle against him.
My blue eyes swell like the ocean and I sit up on him. Looking at the damage, I realize what position I am in.
I am straddling Louis Weasley, my one-eighth veela best friend. As the look of horror on my face grows like a raging storm, he smiles sheepishly and sexily.
This cannot be happening, it just can't. This is unbelievably unrealistic. What are the odds of falling over and landing in such a ridiculous position?
“Casse-toi, pauvre con,” he jokes. Please excuse his French, because he said something like 'sod off, you bloody idiot.'
Before I can move, the door shoots open and all hell breaks loose.
"What ze 'ell do you think you're doing in 'ere?"
Lesson to learn from this: Never ever let anyone catch you in compromising position with your best friend. Especially, sa maman. It's just asking for trouble.
I slide my hands off of Louis’s chest slowly, embarrassed and stand up. Biting my lip to look as innocent as possible, I take a small step back and meet Fleur's gaze. I'm screwed, the last thing you ever want in life is your best friend's mother (who scares the both of you) to find you in a ‘position’ while you’re wearing his clothes and he's wearing yours. I close my eyes and dream. Dream that Merlin will pop out of his grave like the safe dude he was (back in his day) and give me an epic rewind spell to avoid my current fiasco.
Any minute now. Come on Merlin, you know what veela women are like when they're angry, save me. Please.
“Are you going to explain?” she asks expectantly. If there is one thing I have learnt spending time at Shell cottage, it is never mess with Fleur Weasley. This is because; I am like a daughter to her. Ergo, she will punish me. Therefore,cif I don't answer quickly, I am going to be in deep merde.
Her eyes widen and bore into mine. My fingers tremble and so does my tongue in my mouth.
“I fell over and sort of landed on Louis,” I say quickly, hoping she’ll believe me. She exhales deeply, preparing to shout as I slam my hands to my ears.
“Louis!” she yells.
He jumps up, pulling at the edges of my silky pink negligee which he’s wearing. You've got to love the annual gender-bender pyjama party. I am only wearing a bra, my undies (granny pants, for those who are wondering) and Louis’s boxers. With my indecent clothing I am beyond dead, Fleur will kill me. I can imagine my tombstone now, 'Here Lies Sophie Velma Finnigan, a neglected daughter (a product of a one night stand) and a totally awesome friend’.
“Patch is being honest, she was trying to get her notebook back,” he says.
She exhales again, massaging her temples and I take a sharp breath in and hold it, my cheeks bob like balloons. Fleur looks at me sceptically and summons a bathrobe for me to wear.
“Ecoutez!” she commands us to listen to her, we're both standing straight now, both our faces, a scarlet Gryffindor shade of red. “Zis 'as got to stop, we let you two frolic around when you were little, swapping pyjamas, but now you are far too old, Sophie, you are becoming a woman now. And Louis, you aren't a little boy anymore.”
We nod and gulp in sync. It's magical how we can still do that.
“Friends do not act like zis, like animaux, zis is the end, no more of zis behaviour, comprenez-vous?”
“Nous comprenons,” we chant just like when we were little, of course we understand. But seriously what's the harm of letting two clueless, celibate teenagers share a room and goof off? It’s not like we’re not even interested in each other. As a matter of fact, I've got proof.
Firstly, I have a quasi-almost boyfriend. An almost boyfriend who is actually made of awesome and cuteness, therefore my best friend is not worthy of my romantic love. Actually, he is way out of my league. (You know it bothers me deep down, really.) He calls me Patch; I would never go out with someone who taunts me because of a physical condition. That's bullying, who has friends that's bully them? I do. I am immune to his French veela charm. How? Years of experience and witnessing things you don't want to see. I've seen him pick his nose and I've been inside his bedroom. Disgusting. Did I mention I nearly have a half-boyfriend? Our relationship is fantastic.
Fleur storms out of the room, her feet clicking and cracking against the wooden flooring. Witch.
And I thought I was a drama queen.
We're silent for a while, trying to process what has just happened. I am not clumsy whatsoever, it just happened to be a chase for my precious notebook. It contains my -insert nervous stutter and clunky moment here- notebook filled with my poetry. I am, behold my modesty, a brilliant poetess. I have mad rhyming skill, don't believe me?
Proof: Orange to Challenge. I guess that depends on accents and what-not, but it works with mine (a slightly irish/cornish/jeordie god-knows-wherelse accent), so ha. Love to glove, above and dove, I rest my case.
“You know, when your mum is angry she looks like she just got hit by a muggle lorry,” I say, opening the challenge arena as I pull my bathrobe tighter around me.
“My mum is so scary when she is angry, she looks like the fail boat of last century, Moldyshorts,” he says, one upping me.
“Your mum is so scary when she's angry, she looks like your Aunt Muriel,” I say, tasting victory on the tip of my tongue.
“My mum is so scary when she's angry,” he pauses in thought, “got nothing, you win, Patch,” he admits defeat. I flail my arms about in true winner style.
Glancing at the time, midnight, I retreat to my bed, being careful not to trip over (again) on my treacherous journey across Louis’s filthy room. He is such a pig.
“Gross,” I mutter and I turn round to stick my tongue out at him, already predicting that he has his tongue stuck out at me.
“Patch,” he says softly.
“I have this plan,” he says.
Interested, I roll over to face him and prop my head up with arm.
“This year is our seventh year-.”
He glares at me. “As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, we need to complete four tasks before the end of our seventh year, make sure we have fun, you know not just quidditch, NEWTs and the same stuff like Hogsmeade and dry parties.”
“So, what's the plan, Fred?”
He looks at me weirdly, not getting my pun, my double-entendre, my extended metaphor. Get it; it's a Scooby Doo reference. Because my middle name is Velma and Fred is the one who always comes up with the plans. Wait, that gives another reason for why a relationship between us is improbable. If I am Velma, he is Fred. Velma and Fred aren't a couple, that would be wrong, even if Velma has a weird unrequited crush on Fred, Daphne and Fred are together.
I speak this strange foreign language, it's called incoherency.
“One, skinny dip in the black lake, two, pull a prank on Filch like no one before, three, camp out in the chamber of secrets, four, throw a party in the actual dungeons that Harry Potter defeated the fail boat of last millennium.”
For those of you who are wondering, the fail boat of this millennium is Roger Davies, the second. Have you met the guy? He's an arse with a capital A.
“You're on your own, sucker,” I say, not remotely interested in trying any of those, especially three. I can just see that going wrong; I'll end up possessed with Salazar Slytherin's spirit to do his evil bidding.
“C'mon Patch, it'll be fun.”
I put my fingers in my ears.
"Lalalala, I can't hear you,” I repeat over and over again, as I watch his mouth open and close, in his best attempt to convince me that this was good idea.
Then ,Dominique saunters in, like a princess.
“So, what happened?” she asks, sitting by my feet. Nosy.
“Nothing happened,” I counter, using the same girly prolonged gossip tone. Squeaky.
“Oh, so my mother yelled at you two for indecency for nothing?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.
Now feeling tired, I shuffle and roll a bit in the bed, so my face is now facing the ceiling as Louis says, “of course.”
Dominique doesn't sound impressed as we aren’t giving her the gossip she wants to hear .
“Sophie,” she says, pulling me away from the precipice of sleep and my poetic freedom, “your patch is gone.”
I throw my hands to my face, feeling for the renowned patch of eczema that lay under my right eye, I feel rough skin, but it's soft, not like it is usually. I launch out of the bed to Louis’s mirror and he jumps out as well to see.
“I've lost my patch,” I say, thinking aloud. Losing control, I feel my eyes brimming with tears.
And then crying and drama ensues because I, for all intents and purposes, just lost a limb.
A/N: Hey! So..., it's a bit crazy. This is my first piece of fan fiction I am posting at HPFF and I would love some feedback.
I hope my french wasn't too bad :p
Some junk-a-tronic stuff, you'll actually want to know:
-tomber amoureaux avec estbay iendfray means 'to fall in love with', which is french and then 'estbay iendfray' is best friend in pig latin. Which is supposed to be a mix of seriousness and silliness, a romantic-youthful stuff. It's probably me trying to hard with my writing. 0_0
-Also 'Porca Vacca!' is an Italian expletive literally meaning pig cow, actually meaning crap or damn. :)-Merde means shit
Disclaimer: Scooby Doo also belongs to Warner Brothers, what are the odds? And Harry Potter is a creation from the super mind of JK Rowling.
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