I’ve heard Butterbeer is quite the acne clearer

I've heard Butterbeer is quite the acne clearer

I'm motionless and holding my plastic cup of Butterbeer somewhere between my mouth and chin, somewhat distracted from actual liquid consumption as I gaze at the other side of the common room. I'm sitting on one of the Gryffindor common room couches, my shoulders pressed up between the boys of Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew.

I hadn't chosen this particular seat. It was a mere last resort because the room is packed with merry partiers with no sense of sobriety. The boys who are occupying the other furniture are either too rude to give up their seat for me or too drunk to remember their manners. I mean, honestly, it works on muggle busses so why doesn't it have the same effect in Hogwarts?

I'm scowling. And not because Peter seems to be emitting some sweaty odour, but a certain person I claim to despise is doing a pretty good job on making me despise him even more.

As they dance, James dips the nameless girl back and she makes a sort of raunchy moan. Surely dancing cannot be that pleasurable, for Merlin's sake.

He twirls the girl out and her hair sort of dances as she turns.

Is it weird to want a strand of it to get caught in someone's jeans zipper and then rip her hair off from her scalp? Really, is it that odd?

…Yes, I thought so too.

He twirls the girl back in and she presses up to his chest.

He's smiling.

She's smiling.

Oh, will you look at that? Much smiling is happening. Many teeth are being shone. It can't be that weird to have the sentiment of pulling out every single sodding incisor, canine and molar in their gums and then stuffing them under my pillow and retrieving the money from the Tooth Fairy myself?

I'm watching their movements. Its weird, but minute things have suddenly been magnified and my eyes are widening and I look like one of those security cameras focusing outside some muggle corner shop.

His hand on her waist. Her hand on his shoulder. The finger intertwining. The close contact. The hip movements. The lingering looks. The cheeky grins. The licks of the lips. The curves of the smiles. The eyebrow raising. The eyelash fluttering. The skin brushing. THE CHEEKS BLUSHING-

Okay. Someone clearly needs to be put under sedation. (If you're unaware who I'm talking about, here's a clue; she has red hair and previous vicious thoughts of hair ripping and teeth pulling fellow classmates.)

Just, stop looking. Stop watching. C'mon, you have self control.

I'm currently taking my eyes off James and his dance partner who is a complete whore—wait, Lily, you don't have to resort to such foul language. This girl has done nothing to you.

She stole your man.

No, she didn't.

Au contraire, mademoiselle.

Since when have the thoughts in my head been French?

...And he's not my man either!

You'd like him to be though.

I most certainly do not! And they're only dancing, for Merlin's sake! She hasn't claimed him and he hasn't claimed her!

`Claiming', eh? Is that what they're calling sex these days?

WHAT DID YOU JUST BLOODY SA-

Désolé! Je ne parle pas anglais!

…Did my own brain just shun me off in French? Miss Evans, you're flying carpet to St. Mungo's is ready now!

Okay. New plan. Drink some Butterbeer. I've been trying to drink that same Butterbeer for the last half an hour and failed successfully, but I feel slightly more confident after having a conversation with my own thoughts.

Alright…sipping…See, this isn't so hard is it—OH GOOD MERLIN, HE JUST SLAPPED HER BOTTOM!

Oh dear. I have appeared to have spat out my Butterbeer in front of me like a water fountain. Maybe my reaction to James making a rather inappropriate and vivacious slap to his dancing partner whore—I mean, whatever her name is's bottom, a little over the top.

Even more wonderful Lily, you've appeared to have attracted the entire room's attention. Even James and his little fancy woman are looking at you.

I'll wave, shall I?

They aren't waving back. That's rather rude. And what's that look they're wearing as if I am out of my mind?

Wait, a little bit of Butterbeer is dripping off my chin. That's probably why they were looking at me weird. A little rubbing my chin with my handy sleeve should do the trick.

They're dancing again.

Maybe, just maybe, if I stare a hole through James Potter's crotch, something will disappear…

“Lily?”

It could be possible, right? My glares are pretty menacing. Making genital parts disappear with the power of my mind could just be one of those hidden talents I haven't discovered yet…

“Lily?”

Nothing seems to be happening. I'm not seeing any less, er, package under his jeans. It still appears to be quite bulgy…it's rather big now I'm looking at. I mean, wow…

“Lily?”

Oh, wait. I think someone just called my name.

“Why are you staring at James' crotch?”

…well, bugger me.

I turn to my left and discover Remus leaning to one side of the chair arm rest with an amused expression.

“Ahahahahaha!” I exclaim. It's fairly noticeable that the laughter was forged. “I…I wasn't glaring at his crotch!”

“You know,” -Remus drums his hands on the arm rest at a regular beat, eyeing me with a look which says `You do know' and I indeed distinguish- “Glaring is normally focused on the upper part of the body, the eyes or the back of the head, for instance.”

I mimic what he says childishly with ugly faces into my cup of Butterbeer.

“The plastic cups are clear, Lily.”

I instantly suck my tongue back into my mouth and shine an innocent smile at Remus.

“Wormtail,” Remus addresses the other marauder beside me, “What do you like to glare at?”

“The abdomen.”

“Oh shut up,” I snap.

I hate boys. The lot of them can be dumped into the sewers for all I care. So what if there may not be a little thing we call reproduction. I mean, it's not as if we can't live witho—oh wait, we actually can't.

“Do you have some sort of fascination with the word `abdomen', Peter?” I hear Remus ask. “You've said it at least eight times today.”

“I haven't got a clue what you mean, Remus.” I observe Peter and he begins to rub his -do you need to even guess? - Abdomen. “Suddenly my abdomen feels tight…”

Did I mention I hate boys? Speaking of hating boys, there is one boy I hate the most right now. James Pott—wait, what do you mean you saw that coming? Well, can you blame me? It's just odd what he's doing! Normally at common room parties he'd be kneeling at my feet like a lap dog. He'd hit on me, I'd call him a toerag, a big commotion would happen, and I'd storm off.

It's only expected from us, I swear. If the school doesn't witness this on a daily basis, I can guarantee everyone will faint of shock, impale their heads into the hard Hogwarts school floor, therefore making their brains bleed internally and dying. Death will happen if they don't see this routine.

Death will happen if James does not stop dancing with that whor—nameless girl, I predictably do not know the name of, who I have absolutely nothing against.

“Would you like some chocolate?”

“What?” I ask absentmindedly. They're slow dancing now. They are dancing much too close and intimately for a slow dance…

“Would you like some chocolate?”

My head jerks right at the sound of chocolate being broken. I'd know that sound anywhere. I watch Remus pop the rest of the chocolate bar into his conveniently placed shirt front pocket and hand a square piece to me. I guess that pocket of chocolate is replaced regularly. “I find it cheers you up,” he says.

I am not going to make it clear that I find it quite worrying, and rather feminine, that Remus -a boy- has just offered me chocolate.

“Are you a woman, Remus?”

Well, er, I tried, didn't I?

“Sirius likes to think so.”

Well, of course Sirius thinks Remus does. Sirius thought I was having pregnancy cravings -obviously with James as the father, cue my dramatic eye rolling- because I took a midnight outing to the kitchens for mangoes. Evidently, not everything Sirius says is correct.

I nibble on my chocolate.

Silly chocolate addict werewolf…

Yes, I do know he's a werewolf. I was quite insulted to discover his `furry little problem' only recently and stopped having Arithmancy conversations with him for a week. Oho, did that werewolf pray for my forgiveness…

I'm sorry I keep saying the word `werewolf' repeatedly, it's because I've never had a reason to say it before and now I do. Werewolf. Werewolf. Silly chocolate addict werewolf.

“Moony!”

Speaking of the little progeny of Beelzebub.

Sirius appears to be wobbling -looking quite smashed, might I add- in front of our front row seats of James and his dancing partner. He is blocking my view.

“Shift!” I command, booting him in the kneecap.

It seems he is quite immune to knee cap booting. He fumbles back a little and surprisingly doesn't fall. He sticks his tongue out at me as if he won a game.

“Moony,” Sirius wags a finger at Remus, misdirects and nearly pokes me in the eye, “You didn't save me a seat!”

I eye him as he wobbles even more unsteadily. “Sirius, before you even think of sitting on my lap and squishing my thighs with your gigantic arse, I would just like to mention that I am sitting here—AAAARGH! You just misjudged me for couch cushions, Black! GET OFF!”

“Sorry, Evans. Didn't see you there.” Sirius quickly removes his buttocks from my lap, and to my relief, I can breathe again. “You should wear a fluorescent shirt or a cone on your head.”

“Because my red hair isn't noticeable enough!”

I watch his eyes pop to my hair and he jumps back as if he's been scorched.

“Christ!” he exclaims. He's pointing to my tresses. If that smelly, dirty little finger moves once inch forward to touch even one strand: he will die. “When did that get there?” -Well, I've had hair from quite an early age actually- “It's like some bloody red squid's jumped on your head!”

He did not just say that. He did not just compare my hair to a squid.

I'm personally sorry, Beelzebub. Your little spawn, Sirius Black, is going to be massacred.

“Thanks, Pete!”

I'm suddenly aware of my view of James Potter not being obstructed anymore and I'm quickly distracted from maiming Sirius. James and the nameless girl are dancing so vulgarly that it just screams, “SEX!” Grumbling, I look away.

Judging from the peeved look on Peter's face, he does not look pleased that Sirius had pulled him up and stolen his seat.

Whilst the boy is standing, he might as well be useful. I shove my empty Butterbeer up in his hand. “Get me another, Pettigrew.”

“But why do I-”

“Do not argue,” I warn him, “Or I may experiment with this plastic cup and see if it's bendable enough to shove down one's throat-”

“Sheesh, I'm going, I'm going!”

I watch Peter waddle away and continue back to staring at James and the nameless girl.

They look happy.

Spork my eyes out, why don't you.

“So,” Sirius slaps his knees, “What we looking at, people?” He follows mine and Remus' gaze at his prat of a friend. “Prongs, then,” he says. He looks back and forth between me and James before grinning, “It's working then.”

“WHAT IS?” I demand.

“Nothing, nothing,” he bats a hand. I want to rip of that hand and smack him over the head repeatedly with it, grab his balls with it and pull them off, and then make the hand walk around on its own accord on two fingers like that muggle movie I saw once.

“He doesn't even know her name,” Sirius speaks in what he thinks is a comforting tone. Personally, I'm not sure how to take that. Has he stopped liking girls he knows the name of now? Is that why he isn't attached to me anymore, because he knows my name is `Evans' and that girl is just `The nameless girl' which is about as cleanly as I can possibly say. Aren't I mysterious enough for him?

Not that I like him or anything. Heh heh…heh…heh…

“Hey, Evans.”

Whilst I was deep in my thoughts, I didn't even notice James in front of me. His dancing partner appears to be out of sight, and has one arm behind his back and one reaching out for my hand, appearing quite chivalrous.

With a grin, he asks, “Want to dance?”

Dance…ahahaha…

DANCE?

Peter suddenly arrives with my drink. It's quite expediently unplanned. I grab my cup of Butterbeer from him and hurl it in James' face.

The party music stops with much slow distortion, followed by gasps. Gasps, I mean, c'mon, this kind of liquid throwing happens at every Gryffindor party!

I watch the Butterbeer drip off his face. A particular drop creeps down his cheek and into his left nostril.

“Well,” -James takes off his glasses and begins to wipe it on his sleeve- “I've heard Butterbeer is quite the acne clearer,” he jokes in a dry tone, “Really good for cleansing the face…”

I stalk out of the portrait of the Fat Lady.

“Lily!”

Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Just keep on stomping down that corridor, Lily.

“Lily!”

His voice is becoming considerably nearer. Stomp faster, Lily, stomp faster.

“Lily!”

I feel him grab my hard and he whirls me around.

“What do you…?” He trails off and winces, blinking hard. His glasses are off and he looks quite soggy. With a tender expression on his face, he begins rubbing at his eyes.

“Fucking, sodding Merlin!” he curses, and rubs with more vigour. “The Butterbeer, ” he hisses. “Aaargh! It burns…”

Woops.

Maybe I'd thrown a little too forcefully at his face if he'd managed to get Butterbeer in his eyes despite the fact that he wears glasses.

Way to make a girl feel guilty, James.

“Fuck, fuck, ow!” He's even resorted to stomping the floor because of the pain. Good God, I am a monster.

I'm about to ask if he's alright, but with a final blink of the eye, managing to get the Butterbeer away from his cornea, he asks, “What do you think you're playing at?”

Oho. I wish I had blinded him with that drink.

“What am I playing at?” I echo indignantly. I take a step forward but he doesn't take one back in return. Oh, so my anger doesn't scare him. Maybe if I flash some teeth...

Okay, only receiving odd looks at flashing my choppers. I plan not to do that again.

“Are you gonna get in a mood every time I take a notice of a girl other than you?” James says.

Take notice! I don't think there's a need to repeat his dim-witted words.

“Take notice!”

Ah, well. I never agree with my thoughts.

“You were practically bumping uglies with her, for Melrin's sake!” I yell.

“You're overreacting.”

“You're unbelievable.”

“God!” James exclaims. I ponder if he's actually addressing a 'Holy One', but he carries on talking so I take it as a curse of frustration. “I honestly give up on you! I chase after you and you insult me! I ignore you and you insult me! I become a better person, and you insult me! I flirt with other girls to make you jealous, and here we are,” -he waves a hand- “Are you seeing a pattern here? Don't you think you're being a little repetitive?”

I did not like his speech. There may be some truth behind it, but I am clearly in denial at the moment.

“How do you think I would react?” My tone's wavering slightly but I'll carry on. “I'm used to you bothering me! I enjoy you bothering me! You hit on me, I turn you away! You grope me, I slap you! It's routine! You shouldn't be dancing with other girls at parties! I should be sitting on that couch and you should be trying to make me drink butterbeer you spiked with love potion!”

I'm breathing heavily after so much shouting. James is looking at me with concern.

Wait...I think someone just spat on me. I can feel something wet on my face. What in Merlin's name...? Okay, following hand to cheek...where the hell is it coming from? Aaargh! Bloody hell! This is rather annoying.

...Oh Good God. It's coming from my eyes.

No no no no. This is not happening. I am not crying over James Potter! Ahahaha!

...Aaah! They're watering faster! There are actual tears rolling down my cheeks! WHAT IS GOING ON? I'm not crying over a boy, I'm not crying over a boy...

I've become my sister. I'm crying over boys and I've become my sister Petunia.

I've become Pet-Tuna. (I tell her she smells like fish. She calls me freak. It's a mutual sister loving relationship.)

Curse you, James Potter! A plague on both of your bloody Potter houses!

Of course, that's what I should be screaming at him. Instead, I just make a disturbing sort of titter, cover my face with my hands, and run off down the corridor, ignoring James' calls of my name.

Pathetic, Lily Evans, just pathetic.

---------

I've discovered there is no where to be alone in Hogwarts, unbelievable for a bloody castle so big. I tried the Owlry but the owls scare me, turning their heads in the dark like that. I tried the library but apparently it's too late for reading and the librarian finds it suspicious that I want to retrieve to a corner and sob my eyes out to Hogwarts: A history. I even tried the Astronomy Tower but found Sirius Black fumbling around in the dark with a girl or someone that looks very similar to Remus Lupin.

I didn't stick around to find out.

I look a mess. My hair is dishevelled in a bad way (there is only one person who can carry off dishevelled in a good way and he will not be mentioned because he made me drip horrible little wet things from the corner of my eyes.) My make up is also running and I look like...I look like pee. Yes. I look like urine. The kind of urine you find on the Hogsmeade streets left by drunken men from the Hog's head.

There's only one place I can go to.

The Head Tower.

Sodding poo.

----------

“Is the Head Boy in there?”

The portrait to the Head Tower entrance looks at me with a vague expression. “Hmm?”

“Head Boy, in there, answer yes or no,” I say slowly.

I don't want to bump into James after that particular escapade earlier.

“I don't know.”

…He doesn't know…HE DOESN'T KNOW? Urge to massacre…rising…

“You must know! You're the portrait!”

“I can't remember.”

Stupid oil painting, he better keep one eye open when he sleeps because I may decide to do a little late night paint smudging and he'll wake up to tomorrow with no legs.

I say the password and the portrait swings open. I poke my head in slightly to see if James is in there.

The portrait is laughing at me because of my odd behaviour.

“Ahahahahaha!”

A very fine example of his laughter.

Inspecting the common room, James appears not to be in there. I sigh with relief and step into the Tower.

I collapse on one of the common chair couches and put my head between my legs.

…either I've sprouted an extra pair of hands or those particular hands resting on my knees belong to the Head Boy.

“Hi,” he says.

Thankfully it's the latter because having four hands may cause much staring directed at me by the public, but really I'm quite freaked out by how he suddenly appeared crouching before me.

Heh…his hands are still on my knees. This is rather uncomfortable.

“Awkward…” I squeak, wondering why he's still just crouching there.

He's taking something out of his pocket. For the love of Merlin, I hope he doesn't do a `Lupin' and offer me chocolate because now is not the time.

A hanky?

It appears that I still have wet tears on my cheek I was unaware of because he's now wiping them with that handkerchief he just got out.

“You have a hanky?” I say.

“Yeah,” he answers barely above a whisper and holds an unusually embarrassed expression, “It was my grandmother's. Don't tell Sirius, he'll call me a pansy.”

I let out a chuckle and do nothing to stop his hand still cleaning my cheeks. It's oddly soothing.

“I got you something.”

So now he's going to do a `Lupin' and give me the chocolate. I talked too soon, didn't I?

Just when I'm about to protest that I've had enough chocolate for one night, he covers my now dry eyes with the palm of his hand. I try to calm down my fast heart beat. This isn't going to be one of those cliché moments where he kisses me as some sort of `gift'? Really, that's sad…but if it happened I wouldn't object.

He takes his hand away and I'm met with a cup of butterbeer in front of my face.

Oh no, he wants to retaliate by hurling butterbeer in my face, doesn't he? I cover my eyes and wait for the sogginess I will endure.

“What on earth are you doing, Lily?”

I separate my fingers enough for an eye to peek through. “Aren't you going to chuck that at me?”

“That's a fine suggestion, but I'd rather not.”

Huh?

“I'm doing what you said. You're sitting on that couch,” he gestures to the furniture, “And I'm trying to make you drink butterbeer I spiked with love potion.”

He did do exactly what I said.

Maybe I'll follow my French thoughts.

“I don't think I need it,” I murmur.

“You're not thirsty?”

Read between the lines, James…

“I don't think I need it spiked with love potion,” I tell him, accompanied by a momentous look.

And then, I'm strikingly aware of him kissing me as he cradles me back on to the couch, and earlier sickened thoughts of late night snoggings I've unintentionally witnessed between younger students in the Gryffindor common room leave me, because now it's actually happening to me, I really, really cannot blame those tiny Lilliputians…

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