I don’t take this girl for granted
There’s no path I haven’t hewn
To her heart, no seeds unplanted
No flowers unstrewn.
But quite amazing to relate
She doesn’t want me for her mate
Which forces me to contemplate
The Maison des Lunes.
-- “Maison des Lunes” from Beauty and the Beast.
TWO WEEKS AND FOUR DAYS LATER
Yes, I’m a terrible diarist. I’m barely writing anything in this. But not much has been happening lately, so I doubt you’d want to hear it all. (Though I don’t really care what you think, as you’re only a book and don’t really have any kind of opinions.)
Now, you may ask why there’s a Haley’s Annoying Show Tune Du Jour when it’s patently obvious that we left Haley back in Hogsmeade. The truth is, I’ve gotten so used to having her around, complete with her constant singing, that it just doesn’t feel right to wake up to any noise other than show tunes. So I have commandeered her old musical alarm clock, which provides appropriately obnoxious music to keep things normal.
Well, the main reason why I haven’t written in ages is, Ivy hasn’t wanted to do much of anything, with one major exception”every morning when the owls arrive with the post, she jumps up like there are fire ants in her knickers and eagerly paws through the mail.
And, of course, in all of these two weeks and four days, Ted never did write. If he made it to the werewolf settlement alive, his new buddies would probably look down on human things like writing. I can’t help but wonder whether they wear clothes or not down there. Ted doesn’t exactly have the ideal body for the nudist lifestyle.
Nothing I suggested could come close to making Ivy relax and have fun, even on the rare occasion that she decided to come along. I found myself spending a lot more time with Jonathan and Holly than I would have otherwise”and a lot more time devoted to reading “Pride and Prejudice,” so you know I’ve been desperate.
So not much has happened around here for awhile, but today? Today was a different story.
After awakening to the perky, saccharine strains of “Beauty and the Beast,” I made it downstairs just in time to see my father dash out of the door like there were pumas hot on his trail. “Wow, mum, what did you say to him?” I said lightly, sitting down at the breakfast table.
My mother didn’t look amused. “He’s been called in for an emergency,” she said. “There’s been an attack… a really bad one.”
Ohhhhh, no. Last night was a full moon, and I seriously doubted that was a coincidence. “Werewolves?” I guessed, wincing.
If possible, my mum’s expression grew even more serious. “No,” she said. “Werewolf hunters. They attacked the wild colony where Ted went… apparently, it was serious. There were so many deaths, but they’re having trouble identifying the bodies, because they’re all in wolf form.”
For some reason, the first thought that popped into my head was, “Wait, so they waited for a full moon to attack the werewolves? As in, when they’re at their most dangerous? That seems a little… backward, don’t you think?”
Then the full realization sunk in, and the second thought that popped into my head was, “I need to get my bum over to Ivy’s house right now.” Still in my pyjamas, I ran out there and burst through the front door of the Potters’, uninvited and unannounced. It was one thing being cranky and unsociable to Mrs. Lupin when Haley was there as well, but when I was the only friend of Ivy’s in the area, it would be criminal not to at least be there with her if it did turn out that Ted had been killed. And given that Ted was never exactly the manliest, most aggressive guy in town, chances were slim that he’d managed to pull through.
I forced myself to think about it for a second. Ted may have been strictly Ivy’s property for the last several years, but technically, I’d already known Ted for eleven years the first time Ivy laid eyes on the boy. I’d known him since he was born. That was twenty-three straight years of laughing at his awkwardness, making disparaging comments about the ugly jumpers he always wore, stealing his food, rolling my eyes at his corny jokes, watching him eating weird things mixed into cottage cheese, pretending to gag at his overly sentimental interactions with Ivy, watching him run around on four legs, and getting covered in bruises after receiving one of frequent extremely tight hugs.
Ted may be completely ridiculous, but he’s also always been one of my very favourite people, and he’s like the sweet, dorky little brother I never really wanted. If anything happened to him, I’m fairly certain I'd completely snap. And I don’t even want to think about Ivy.
Which is not to say that I wouldn’t still hate Ted’s guts if he somehow managed to survive.
Ivy wasn’t up yet when I reached the Potter household. Aunt Ginny was sitting at the table poking at a plate of eggs without showing any signs of putting them in her mouth. “So,” she said dully. “You heard.”
“Don’t worry!” exclaimed Holly, bounding up from the basement with Jonathan floating along sleepily in tow. “If someone tried to hurt Ted, he could just chew the guy’s arm off.”
“I heard that werewolf jaws can crush a cauldron,” Jonathan added offhandedly.
“COOL!” shouted Holly. “Let’s make Ted show us next time he comes over!”
Ginny and I exchanged glances. “Maybe you two should, er, go in the backyard and practice flying,” she suggested, looking slightly panicked.
“Without dad?” asked Holly. Ginny sighed and nodded. “AWESOME!” yelled Holly, racing out the door and slamming it so loudly that I jumped.
“They can also chew through a door,” said Jonathan as he drifted out of the room, still characteristically stuck on the previous conversation topic.
Holly and Jonathan have always thought it incredibly cool to have a big sister married to a werewolf, maybe a little bit too cool. I don’t think they’ve ever actually seen Ted in his wolf form, because then they’d see the fluffy, harmless puppy he really is, but they seem to be convinced that their brother-in-law is a bloodthirsty beast out of horror stories. Usually, it’s just funny to see them suggesting Ted try crushing a cauldron with his mouth, but I had a feeling that this attitude would probably just upset Ivy today.
Speaking of Ivy, she came downstairs just seconds after Holly and Jonathan left the house, probably awakened by Holly’s award-winning door slam. I tried to gain control of my face and maneuver it into something that looked nonchalantly pleasant as she made her way toward the table.
“Well, well,” I said, as close to cheerfully as I could manage. “Someone’s starting to look a bit chunky.”
“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘pregnant,’” Ivy said with as much dignity as she could manage. I gave her subtly swelling belly a companionable little pat as she walked past. It was weird, I’d finally gotten used to the idea of Ivy having some alien being growing inside her, but now that the bump was starting to grow visible, the whole concept was hitting me all over again.
“So, what’s wrong?” Ivy asked quietly, sitting down at the table between me and her mother.
I gave her my most innocent face. “Wrong? What do you mean?” I chirped. I may have even batted my eyelashes.
“I do have eyes,” Ivy replied, and her tone was more grave than jocular. “You came over here of your own free will this early in the morning, you’re not eating anything, Dad and Holly and Jonathan aren’t here, you haven’t said anything insulting about Ted yet, and I think you just batted your eyelashes.”
The girl was good. I opened my mouth to explain, then realized that knowing me, I’d manage to tell Ivy the bad news in the most tactless, foot-in-mouth way possible. And as charming as this trait of mine usually is, I didn’t think this was the best time.
“Last night was a full moon,” Aunt Ginny said slowly, “and some werewolf hunters got a little bit overexcited and went on to attack as many werewolves as they could… and they found the colony that Ted was supposed to have made it to. They’re still sorting through the casualties, but it looks like more than a few people didn’t make it.” Ivy instantly turned as white as paper and she gripped the table as though she would float away if she didn’t. Ginny tucked a strand of her daughter’s hair behind her ear. “Ivy… it might be nothing. We don’t know if Ted is even at the colony yet. And””
“That’s right,” whispered Ivy, her face going tight and pinched. She looked as if she was going to throw up. “We don’t know anything about Ted, because he hasn’t written at all. For all we know, he might have died before he even made it to the colony.”
I was starting to feel incredibly, incredibly awkward being part of this scene. “Don’t… don’t start crying now,” I said weakly.
“I’m not going to cry,” Ivy replied in a very small, hard voice. Her expression clearly stated, I might need to save up my tears for later.
“Ted’s a Gryffindor,” Aunt Ginny said reassuringly. “He’s been through all kinds of battles before.”
Yeah, I thought to myself. And do you know what Ted always does in battles? He defends his friends until he’s sure everyone’s safe. He jumps in front of people to shield them from attacks. He carries people to safety. He’s a goner for sure.
Ivy’s gaze had gone hard and glassy, her face stony and impassive, and her expression tight. I could tell that she wasn’t listening to any of her mother’s reassuring words, that her thoughts were whirling at a thousand miles an hour behind that blank face.
“I’m going to make some tea,” announced Aunt Ginny, getting up to find the pot. The second she left, Ivy turned to me, and gave me a Look. You have never received a Look if you haven’t had one of Ivy’s. It’s not a dirty look, just a deep, probing look, like she’s taking a toilet plunger to your mind and dredging up things you’d rather she didn’t.
“I know you think Ted didn’t make it,” she said, so quietly that I could barely hear her.
I gave her a Look in return, this one a look of amazement. “I didn’t say anything,” I protested.
“Yes, that’s how I know,” sighed Ivy.
I was about to retaliate when an owl swooped in through the window and Ivy gave out a soft little cry and jumped to her feet. There were no letters today, but there was a Daily Prophet, and Ivy snatched it in a manner that reminded me uncannily of a cheetah pouncing on a gazelle.
I craned my neck to look at the newspaper over her shoulder, and saw the headline splashed across the page: AT LEAST TEN KILLED IN MASSACRE AT WEREWOLF SANCTUARY; MINISTRY OFFICIALS STILL IDENTIFYING BODIES. I skimmed a few sentences, but I didn’t see anything that I didn’t already know. I was just giving up on the article when Ivy gasped and suddenly burst into tears, instantly soaking the paper through.
“What is it?” I demanded, trying to get a good look at the paper. “Is it Ted?”
“Yes,” Ivy responded through her tears, sobbing softly in a really unrealistic, fictional sort of way. She pointed at a small picture of a wolf at the centre of the soggy article, captioned ”Unnamed werewolf stands guard over critically injured companion.” “That’s him! He’s okay, Emma, that’s him right there!”
I squinted doubtfully. The picture that Ivy was pointing at certainly resembled Ted in his furrier state in that it had four legs and a tail, but the same could be said of any of the other wolves pictured. “Ives,” I said gently, “Not to burst your bubble or anything, but that could be pretty much anyone.”
Ivy looked up at me with that same hard, stubborn expression. “If your picture was in the newspaper, don’t you think I’d recognize it?” she whispered.
“Well, of course you w””
“This might sound strange to you, but I’ve been with Ted for eighty-eight full moons, and by now, I would recognize him anywhere. He just looks like… Ted to me now.” She studied the picture more closely. “He’s so skinny,” she said under her breath. “I hope he’s eating all right.”
I laughed, suddenly feeling weirdly giddy. “Erm, Ivy, you might’ve forgotten one or two things about your husband while he’s been gone,” I said. “This is Ted we’re talking about here. It’s physically impossible for him to get any skinnier than he was before.” Even Ivy let out a little chuckle, looking a thousand times more relaxed than she had just moments before.
Could Ivy really recognize a picture of Ted in wolf form? It all seemed a little hard to believe. Sure, if she saw a werewolf roaming around her house, she’d automatically know it was her husband”what else could she expect?”but in a lineup of fifty werewolves, would she really be able to confidently pick out which one Ted was? But she sounded so sure, so completely positive that she’d found him, and I didn’t want to believe otherwise.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. “Well,” I said. “I guess now the question is, if your mangy, flea-ridden husband’s all fine and dandy, why hasn’t he written yet?”
Ivy’s expression didn’t change. She looked as serene as I’d ever seen her. “I think the question is, where are those ceramic kittens when you need one?” was all she said.
LATER, SAME DAY
Well, Ivy’s been in a refreshingly good mood all day”we even got her to come on a picnic with the rest of the extended family, and we all had a great time. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to eat much at the picnic, because I was too profoundly disgusted”see, Ivy’s been having cravings lately, and these cravings involve taking a bowl of cottage cheese and pouring ranch dressing, ketchup, vegetables, and white beans all over it.
If this sounds familiar, that’s because it’s Ted’s favourite food. The best thing about Ted’s absence has been not having to smell that horrific cottage cheese monstrosity, but I guess I don’t even have that advantage anymore.
Speaking of Ted (which is pretty much all we’ve been doing lately… and I thought we took this trip to get away?), I noticed there was a hole cut out of the newspaper when I was clearing off the table today. It doesn’t take a Seer to realize that Ivy’s holding onto the clipping of Ted’s picture in the paper (if that was indeed Ted, as she claims). I guess that’s kind of cute, but it seems a bit desperate to me. If she starts sleeping with it under her pillow or something like that, I’m definitely calling the psych ward at St. Mungo’s.
Anyway, Ivy was so happy that she and her mum decided to go off for some kind of mother-daughter spa outing, which is great; Haley’s pestered her way into giving Ivy dozens of unwanted makeovers over the years, but when Ivy actively decides to actually take care of herself, that’s always a good sign. My mum volunteered to take Holly and Jonathan to some museum or something to get them out of Aunt Ginny’s hair (though I’m not sure that’s so wise… they’re good at breaking things, and museums are traditionally full of breakables).
So what was I up to during all of this? I was gardening. My parents have many, many talents, but taking good care of our front garden is not one of them. Really, I have to wonder how mum managed to get an O in Herbology when she can’t even take care of a couple of everyday flowers. My green thumb has been going pitifully to waste back in the flat I share with Haley, so it was nice to be able to put on my dirty old gloves and resuscitate the old garden.
Some people are really surprised that I like to garden so much. I’d think it’d be pretty obvious”after all, it’s really just glorified, grown-up playing in the dirt, which has always been a hobby of mine. And pulling weeds is surprisingly therapeutic. But the real reason why I have so much fun in the garden? My mum is notoriously, illogically compassionate toward pretty much anything alive (except, apparently, plants). This means she refuses to do anything about our garden gnome problem, so my dad and I have always de-gnomed the garden on the sly whenever Mum left the house. You’d think she’d figure it out, but it’s worked for the past twenty-three years. And in case you’ve forgotten, de-gnoming means swinging the little guys around and throwing them as far as you can. Sometimes, they make really satisfying splatting noises, though they’re also annoyingly resilient.
Anyway, I was cackling quietly to myself, having hurled a gnome a good fifty feet and into an open manhole, when I heard a twig snap behind me. I instantly froze into something that tried to resemble a ninja pose, and my head whipped around as disconcertingly as possible. This, incidentally, is my gnome-catching stance.
Upon turning around, I ascertained two things: first of all, the figure behind me was definitely not a gnome, and second of all, despite this fact, I still wished I could grab him by his head and throw him into a manhole.
“Erm, hey…” said Tyrone, burying his hands in his pockets in the universal sign language gesture for ‘AWWWWKWARD…’
“Oh,” I said cleverly. “You again.”
Tyrone chewed on his lower lip. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “Er, I came to pick up my toads, so if I could just go inside and get them, that would be great…”
Wow. He could not have picked a worse time if he tried. “Well, neither of my parents are home,” I explained flatly, keeping my eyes trained on the flowerbed. “So I don’t know where they put all your toad stuff. And I don’t really have the time to look all over the house for all the different toys and stuff you brought for them, so I think you’ll have to come back later.”
“Mmm.” There was a long, long silence. For some reason, Tyrone did not walk away. I was looking down at the flowerbed, yanking out stubborn weeds with particular ferocity, but I could see the man’s shadow looming down over the yard. He had the kind of build that was good for looming. “So,” he said at last. “Gardening, huh?”
I blinked. Not exactly a brilliant conversation starter from someone who was supposed to be so cool. “Yeah. Just, you know, de-gnoming and digging up some things. It’s something I like to do sometimes.”
“I know,” blurted Tyrone. “I mean, I used to come over and help you out sometimes, remember? I once threw a gnome all the way across the street and it hit that annoying old bloke that used to live there?”
“Actually, that was me,” I informed him coolly. His memory would be skewed that way. I scrabbled hopelessly at the roots of a horribly intractable weed. It was impossible, even with gardening gloves. “I’m, er, very busy,” I said, not exactly winning any prizes for subtlety.
Somehow, Tyrone still didn’t seem to get it. He was standing there with his head cocked, just watching me play tug-of-war with the weed. “You want a trowel for that,” he said. “You’ve got to dig up the roots.”
“No, I think I can pull it,” I insisted, beginning to feel very annoyed indeed.
Tyrone plopped down right next to me, in the middle of the dirty yard and yanked on a spare pair of gardening gloves. They were my size, so they were hilariously tiny for his humongous hands, and they also happened to be covered in a print of pink hearts and watermelon slices.
I think now’s the best time for me to paint a picture of what we each looked like. I had on a grubby t-shirt in the worst possible shade of green for my complexion, reading “BIG JAFAR’S KABOB SHACK,” and a ragged pair of hideously baggy grey cut-off sweatpants. My hair was rapidly bursting free of its lumpy, lopsided ponytail, and I was barefoot, extremely sweaty, and covered with dirt.
On the other hand, we had Tyrone, who had clearly just gotten back from some big Quidditch-related media tour or something, was wearing very expensive-looking cream-coloured dress robes and nice brown leather shoes. His hair was all sleek and shiny with some kind of fancy hair product, he was wearing rather strong cologne, and he had on sunglasses. He certainly looked head-turning, especially since the Muggles in the neighbourhood would probably assume that he was cross-dressing. So in his dressy, expensive togs, the famous Tyrone Thomas just sat down in the middle of a flowerbed like he did it every day of his life.
“You can’t just pull that,” he stated matter-of-factly, giving the weed a good, hard tug. “Look, it’s not going anywhere. No offense, Emma, but I think I’m a lot stronger than you are. If I can’t get it, you know you can’t. Just get a trowel.”
He was right, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t offensive. Of course the boy is stronger than me; he’s paid for clubbing flying bowling balls at people’s heads, for Merlin’s sake. There was no need to rub it in. “Well, you may be right,” I conceded, “but there’s a slight flaw in your logic. We don’t have any trowels. My dad buys like three a year, but they’re always gone whenever I need to use one. They just keep disappearing. So no good smirking about it now.”
“That is really weird,” Tyrone stated. “Maybe the gnomes steal them or something? No idea what they’d want with trowels, though.”
“My dad’s always said he thinks Trowel Trolls get them,” I said. “Don’t ask me where he gets that name, it’s just--- wait, there’s a gnome over there, grab it”quick!”
“What gno”AAARGH!” I stifled a laugh. Tyrone had jumped to his feet, a gnome ferociously clinging to his finger by its teeth.
I shook my head. “You’ve gotten rusty,” I said, prying the gnome off of his hand and giving it a good toss. “You’re out of practice. You come in here all high and mighty, and you can’t even grab a gnome. What, do you have special servants to catch your garden gnomes and neatly dispose of them for you?”
“Well, I’ve got a fence to keep them out,” Tyrone explained bashfully, grimacing as he shook his hand. “Eurgh, this thing is bleeding.” He stuck his finger in his mouth.
“You do realize that was just in the gnome’s mouth?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “You pretty much just effectively snogged a gnome. Wait ‘till the tabloids hear about this.” I gave the finger a closer look as he hurriedly pulled it out of his mouth and grimaced. It really was starting to bleed.
“You know, I don’t think this shirt can get any worse-looking,” I said, and used my wand to sever a strip of cloth from the hem of my t-shirt. “Here, tie this around your finger for a bit ‘till it stops bleeding all over the place. You owe me.”
Tyrone looked surprised, his dark eyebrows skyrocketing up to his hairline. “Hey, thanks,” he said.
“Ehh, don’t mention it. Just try not to bleed on the garden. Mum’ll think I’ve been torturing the gnomes again,” I muttered, giving the evil weed another go. The thought was suddenly entering my mind that I was having a chat with Tyrone Thomas, a regular conversational chat. And he was being perfectly friendly, if more than a little bit annoying. It was slightly weird.
Tyrone knotted the green strip of cloth around the cut and then, looking at me sideways, said, “Actually, I’ve got a lot of garden stuff lying around my house. You can borrow a trowel or something if you want”it’s just right around the corner. I have loads of extra ones, so if you lose it, that’s okay.”
I tried for one last futile tug, then sighed. I certainly didn’t want to look like an incompetent gardener, particularly after laughing at him for getting bitten by a gnome (which, honestly, still happens to me all the time). “Well… okay,” I said. “Thanks. Why so friendly all of a sudden?”
Tyrone shrugged. “You know, I figured we broke up five years ago, and we have some friends in common and we were working at the same place for awhile, and now we’re in the same neighbourhood, so I figured we might as well just try to get along. I’m not asking you to be my best friend or anything. But your parents are always really nice, so I thought it’d be stupid if I kept letting you scare me off. So, what do you say? A truce, just for now? Try to be just sort of civil? I mean, we are neighbours and all.”
“I guess,” I replied, rolling my eyes. I took off my garden glove and spat into my palm, mainly to gauge his reaction. He didn’t even blink, but went right ahead and spat a huge glob of saliva into his hand and held it out to be shaken. Maybe he hadn’t changed quite as much as I’d thought.
“Great,” said Tyrone. “Now I have gnome spit on one hand and yours on the other. I can’t wait to go wash now.” He glanced over at me. “So, do you want to come and pick out a trowel? Might as well just get it now when we’re both free.”
“Whatever.” I tucked my wand back inside the pocket of my horrid old sweats and wiped my disgusting hands on the front of my shirt. I might as well have blown my nose on my hair at the rate I was going. That was when I saw Tyrone’s back, and burst out laughing. There was dirt all over the back of his nice cream-coloured robes from where he’d been sitting.
Tyrone’s eyebrows did that TWING thing. “What?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.
“Tyrone,” I gasped, “don’t look now but… it looks like you’ve got a serious bowel problem.”
He grimaced and made a hopeless attempt to brush off the back of his robes. “Well, at least I don’t look like I took a bath in a septic tank.”
“Touche. Well, we’re certainly a good-looking pair. This’ll be fun for the neighbours to watch.”
Tyrone led the way to his house, while I kept up at his heels. If I tried to block it out of my head that this fellow was, in fact, Tyrone Thomas, it wasn’t so bad to be in his company. Every now and then, he would make some comment that would absolutely make me cringe, casually dropping some celebrity’s name or making some kind of baldly boastful statement, but that’s Tyrone for you.
“So,” I said, “Do you still like films?”
“Kind of obsessed, yeah,” he replied. “Do you still like… er… do you have any weird hobbies I forgot about?”
I thought about it for a minute. “Other than gardening? Erm… making fun of people? Rooting against your Quidditch team? Training to fight dark wizards? Eating food that someone else made? Pretending to hate musicals?”
“Yeah, that’s pretty much how I remember it,” he said, nodding. “Do”” But he never got to finish his sentence, because all of a sudden, someone in heaven emptied his chamberpot on us.
“AGH!” I screamed. “Where did the rain come from?” Somehow, we’d managed to get ourselves trapped in the middle of a torrential downpour. The dirt that was smudged on my face and crusted on my clothes was rapidly turning into slippery, sludgy mud, and I did not enjoy it one bit. The only consolation was that Tyrone looked just as bad--his creamy robes were plastered to his skin, accentuated by a not inconsiderable amount of mud, and his hair was deflating.
Somehow, we were able to make it to Tyrone’s house, thoroughly soaked to the bone. “Well, this is it,” he said, unlocking the front door with some sort of nonverbal charm and stepping inside. I came in behind him, fully aware of the mud I was tracking onto the carpet. Honestly, I rather enjoyed doing it.
“Wow… nice place you’ve got,” I said, though this was an understatement. It was hard to wrap my brain around the concept that Tyrone had managed to buy a house just as big as my parents’, there in the middle of Godric’s Hollow, and at the age of twenty-three. I’d pegged him as the kind of guy who, once he’d made some money, would furnish his house in the most ridiculously ostentatious way possible, but I was wrong”the furniture didn’t really match, and it was obvious that no decorator ever set foot inside the place. Still, everything looked a lot more comfortable and inviting than I would have expected.
“Thanks,” replied Tyrone. “I’m still saving up for a giraffe. Well, sit d”actually, if it’s okay, could you not sit down?” He rubbed his chin. “Yeah, this isn’t going to work. Give me five minutes to get changed, okay?”
“What about me?” I asked, looking down at my filthy self.
Tyrone looked thoughtful. “I think a lot of my sister’s stuff is still here. You could probably fit into her clothes.”
“Oh no, I don’t””
“No offense, but this isn’t a favour to you,” Tyrone said. “You’re… kind of messing up my carpet.”
Ah. I got the point. A couple of minutes later, Tyrone was back, wearing clean clothes and way too much cologne and bearing a t-shirt and some shorts. By the time I was done getting clean and changed, the storm outside was already letting up. Though my appearance was drastically improved, I still didn’t look great next to Tyrone, who seemed to pick out clothes based on how well they accentuated his pecs. Though the little green shorts he’d given me fit just fine, the shirt was so huge that it fell down to my knees”I might as well have not been wearing any shorts at all. The shirt was white and slightly wrinkled, with a dark blue logo reading “SUPER MOTTS” across the front in fancy cursive.
“Sorry about the shirt,” said Tyrone, who apparently had not missed my critical expression. “I couldn’t find anything of Tabitha’s that I didn’t think she’d miss. That’s mine.”
“Ah,” I said. “And what is a ‘Super Motts?’”
Tyrone laughed. “I got it from this amateur film thing I went to forever ago. Some guy made a video about his pet dog, Motts…it was probably the worst thing I’d ever seen. When the dog was supposed to fly, you could see the guy’s hands holding him up, and the bad guy was a rubber hedgehog, and the backgrounds were all done in crayon. Well, the bloke who made the video said that the first person to run onstage and yell ‘SUPER MOTTS IS THE BEST THING I’VE SEEN IN MY ENTIRE LIFE!’ would get a free Super Motts t-shirt. So, of course I did.”
I squinted at him. I can’t say I really followed his logic. That’s like saying “I hate broccoli, so I entered a contest to get a free life’s supply of it!” But then, since when had Tyrone ever been accused of making sense? I changed the subject, remembering the real reason why I was here after all. “So,” I said. “Where are the trowels?”
“What?” Tyrone’s brow wrinkled. “Oh, trowels, trowels, trowels, right. They’re down in the basement. Sorry. This way.”
I followed him down the stairs to a basement that looked an awful lot like a sporting goods store. This was definitely a guy’s house”a rich guy with a lot of weird hobbies.
“What colour do you want?” asked Tyrone as I surveyed the vast array of gardening implements that he had lying around.
“Godric, just how many do you have?” I asked.
Tyrone shrugged. “Hey, I like to garden.”
“I think I know what’s been happening to our trowels now,” I said, picking up one of the assorted tools and waving it around experimentally.
Tyrone help up his hands in mock surrender. “Don’t look at me,” he insisted. “I only moved here a year ago. I’ve barely stolen any of your parents’ stuff yet.”
I grabbed a trowel at random and said, “Okay, I’m ready.”
“Ooh, Chudley Cannons orange,” grinned Tyrone. “Good choice.”
“I hate orange,” I said stiffly.
Tyrone shook his head. “It’s my favourite colour,” he informed me.
Suddenly, I wanted to be anywhere but there. The pleasant denial that I was actually hanging out with Tyrone was starting to wear off. Yes, he had been civil and courteous and generous. Yes, he’d helped me out a lot. But wasn’t this how Tyrone always was when he was trying to make a good impression on someone? He’d sucked up to my parents to an extent you wouldn’t believe when we’d been dating. One day, it would be lending me a trowel and a t-shirt, the next it would be paying for dinner, the next day, who knew? To use Tyrone’s own metaphor, I didn’t want to open up that can of worms again.
He had his good points, but then there were all those annoying little aspects of his character that made it fairly impossible for me to spend much time with him. He was so concerned with people’s opinions of him, so obsessed with trying to make absolutely everyone in the world adore him. He couldn’t stand criticism, inflamed at the slightest insult. He tried so hard to be macho and chivalrous and heroic in a time period where that didn’t really apply to real life. He wasn’t content with what was good and comfortable”he had to pursue fairy tales and fantasies. And he never, never stopped in his pursuit of whatever he wanted, however impossible.
And that was only the Tyrone I’d remembered of five years before, the eighteen-year-old boy. Now he was a big-time Quidditch player, established in the world, inflated with pride, free to be rude and uncaring toward the trifling little people so long as he impressed where he so chose. With his big house and his excess money and his successful Quidditch team, he probably fancied himself some kind of minor god. Give a boy a set of six-pack abs and a fan girl or two, and he thinks he’s the king of the world.
“Look,” I said, “I think I’ll get going now. Thanks for everything.”
He smiled. “Anytime. Anyway, I’m stopping by your house later today to pick up my toads and stuff, so I guess I’ll see you then. Make sure everything’s ready, okay?”
And with that, I stepped out of Tyrone’s house, casting a charm around me to protect me from the rain and feeling slightly, inexplicably angry while somehow managing to be relieved at the same time. After avoiding and dreading Tyrone for so long, it was nice to finally get past that. But if he thought he was going to replace Wolfgang’s friendship, now that I was banned from speaking to him”
Oh, wow. While we’re talking about Wolfgang…. Well, the second I got inside my parents’ house, I saw an envelope with my name on it, addressed in vaguely familiar handwriting. Curiously, I sat down and ripped it open.
Hey, Emma,
It’s Wolfgang. I just thought I’d send you an owl. It’s weird, the other day, I was talking with the rest of the team, and I said, “You know, I haven’t seen Emma Weasley around for a really long time.” And Gregg”you know him, the Seeker”he says, “Didn’t you hear? She got sacked!” Gregg’s probably the brightest player on the team, and he ends up knowing everything, so he explained it all for us.
I had no idea, and I’m really sorry I didn’t write to you sooner. I feel kind of bad, because it’s my fault. Do you have a chance of getting your job back? I know I’m not supposed to talk to you, but I don’t think an owl counts, do you? Vaultz is pretty insane, but I doubt he’s so far gone that he’s following your mail.
I tried owling your house, but I didn’t get anything. Then, I saw your cousin Haley at a game the other day. She was there with Anatoly, I think, doing some kind of thing to promote their show, and she ran up to me after the game and she told me that you were here with your parents and Ivy. Then she told me about some weird ducks she saw outside the stadium and how she likes cherry lollipops but NOT LIME, but I don’t think you need to know that. Haley’s great; you must really miss having her around!
Anyway, I feel really bad for Ivy. Tell her this stupid joke from me, and see if it cheers her up: “What’s brown and sounds like a bell? DUNG!” I have no idea why Tyrone thought it was such a good idea to volunteer Ted to go stay at that werewolf colony place right when his wife got pregnant. I told you, Tyrone wants the Quidditch season to continue no matter what, and I guess he thought Ted would help get this werewolf thing over with sooner than later. I don’t know Ted myself, but I’ve heard a lot about him, and he doesn’t sound like someone who’d turn down a proposition if he thought it would offend someone.
Speaking of Tyrone, you’re out in Godric’s Hollow, aren’t you? Tyrone lives there now”hope you don’t run into him! That’s all you need, eesh.
Good luck”and hopefully, see you later,
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart Dionysus Willoughby Quinn
P.S. Yeah, that’s my real full name. Shut up.
P.P.S. I mean it. I see you laughing there.”
I stared at the paper in furious disbelief, and not just because Wolfgang had the most ridiculous name known to mankind. I should have been happy, getting a letter from a friend who I missed, getting to hear his stupid dung joke, knowing that he felt bad about Vaultz firing me. But then that name, Tyrone”of course it had to be followed by something bad, didn’t it?
It didn’t make sense. Tyrone, volunteer Ted? He’d lost both of his parents. What was he doing, trying to make sure no newborn babies had any, either? I was certainly no defender of Tyrone’s, but could it have been possible that there was some mistake? After all, Wolfgang hadn’t even found out I’d been sacked until weeks after it had happened, and he hadn’t known his own brother’s full name (though if B.C.’s name was as bizarre as Wolfgang’s, then I guess that bit made sense). Wolfgang may be many wonderful things, but I have a feeling he’s a bit out of things sometimes.
But recruiting Ted”that really was the kind of selfish thing that Tyrone would do. He’d think that as long as Ted agreed, he couldn’t be responsible for any kind of unhappiness. He wouldn’t take into consideration that Ted is the kind of cheery little chap who would gladly do anything that someone asks, just to do an acquaintance a favour.
I like Wolfgang, I really do. But how come whenever I interact with him at all, the main emotion I always seem to feel is anger? It seems like all that ever happens when I talk to him is me getting even angrier with Tyrone.
I threw down the letter, planning to change clothes as soon as humanly possible and never spare a second glance at that stupid Super Motts t-shirt again.
EMMA’S AMAZING PRIDE AND PREJUDICE SUMMARY, PART FOUR
So, in those days, there really wasn’t anything to do except for go to balls and in between balls, people kept themselves busy by trying to find people to go with to those balls, and gossiping about who was going with who to those balls, and trying to decide what to wear to those balls.
Well, Mr. Bingley was going to have one of those balls, so naturally, everyone was all in a tizzy. And Elizabeth Bennet (our heroine, remember?) was especially thrilled because she was all eager to get funky with the dashing Mr. Wickham (remember him?). The only problem was that pesky long-standing feud between him and the emo Mr. Darcy, who always seemed to hang around Mr. Bing-Bing’s bachelor pad a little more than was suitable.
So by the time Elizabeth got to the ball, Mr. Darcy had already scared Wickham away, and there was nobody cool to hang out with. It was pretty much the worst ball ever. Elizabeth’s boring sister Mary insisted on singing and playing the piano constantly, both of which she did so terribly that several refined gentlemen were stricken with an attack of the vapours. Elizabeth’s skanky sisters, Kitty and Lydia, hit on anything that breathed and a few things that didn’t. Elizabeth’s mum went around talking extremely loudly about personal matters and the shapeliness of Mr. Darcy’s bum, while Elizabeth’s father stood in the corner getting as drunk as possible.
Oh, and worst of all, the insufferable Bilbo Collins asked Elizabeth to dance, and she was so distracted by her hideously embarrassing family that she accidentally said ‘yes.’
So here was Elizabeth, who’d been so looking forward to this ball, having what was probably the worst night of her life. And Bilbo, by the way, was the worst dancer on the face of the earth, worse than Ted Lupin.
Well, after the first couple of dances and several broken toes, Elizabeth was ranting miserably to her best friend Charlotte, who didn’t seem to be particularly sympathetic, seeing as she was as ugly as a gargoyle and had never been asked to dance in her life. When suddenly, a dark sinister figure appeared out of nowhere. You guessed it, it was Mr. Darcy!
“Mwahahahaha!” said the diabolical Mr. Darcy, swirling his black cape and twirling his evil mustache. (I don’t think he has a mustache…) “May I have this dance?”
Well, Elizabeth meant to say ‘go kill yourself,’ but it accidentally came out as ‘yes’ instead, so she was stuck. And now Bilbo was starting to look mighty attractive all of a sudden.
Darcy and Elizabeth somehow managed to get through two terribly awkward dances. And yeah, admittedly, Mr. Darcy was pretty fly for a white guy- he could dance better than just about anybody there, but it was slightly spoiled by the creepy way he was staring at Elizabeth, like he wanted to rip her to shreds and eat her on a bun with barbeque sauce. Also, Mr. Darcy was not much of a conversationalist. Every time Elizabeth tried to ask him a question, he said something like, ‘Mind your own business, vile woman-creature. Do not drag yourself into the deep, unfathomable mire of my misery.’
Oh, and Mr. Bingley’s sisters kept hanging around talking smack about Mr. Wickham, saying vaguely insulting things about his family background and his romantic history and his sideburns.
So by the time the ball was over, Elizabeth was just glad to get out of there and eager for the day to end. Ah, but the worst was yet to come! (It always is.) Because she was busy raiding the fridge or something when BILBO COLLINS ambushed her! The bloke did everything short of grabbing a piece of rope and lassoing her.
“Hello, Elizabeth,” lisped Bilbo. “I have some great news for you.”
Elizabeth’s eyes lit up. “Are you leaving?”
Bilbo thought that was just hilarious and laughed for a little longer than was socially acceptable. “No, silly! You’re going to be a dreadfully lucky woman! I’m asking you to marry me! Because, you see, marriage is an institution that I strongly approve of, from a religious and domestic standpoint, and for moral reasons, and to set an example in my parish, and I want someone to wash my soiled underthings and make me sandwiches. And you’re just the one to do it! Aren’t you thrilled?”
Strangely enough, Elizabeth wasn’t particularly. And when she explained this to Bilbo, he thought that was just hilarious as well. So Elizabeth tried unconvincingly for awhile to convince him that she was serious, culminating in getting a restraining order. This was around when Bilbo started actually taking her seriously, and he was seriously displeased. He gave her a long speech about how she was making a grave mistake, but she couldn’t hear him, on account of that restraining order.
So Bilbo Collins, at loss for something to do, ran across the street, grabbed the ugly spinster Charlotte Lucas, threw her over his shoulder, and ran off into the night for a Vegas wedding.
GODRIC, GODRIC, WHAT IS UP WITH THIS? This is ridiculous! So Charlotte couldn’t find a man and so she went off and married the first guy who asked her, in a heartbeat? And here I thought she was cool! Okay, there is absolutely nothing attractive about Bilbo Collins, and even if there was, he just asked Elizabeth to marry him five minutes before. Not to mention that they barely know each other… I mean, I wouldn’t even date someone unless I knew I’d liked him for years, let alone marry him.
I know things aren’t going well when even Pride and Prejudice is making me angry. I think I need my nap.