Dysfunctional Equanimity

*

*campy soap-opera voice-over*

Previously, on "Dysfunctional Equanimity"

In an entirely deliberate move, Joey lowered his eyebrows, curled his lower lip upward, and bent his head like a charging bull. These combined aspects brought his face into the infamous Malfoy sneer-- the one that had been known to make grown men whimper in fear and pray for their lives. It had no bearing whatsoever on Dave Lawrence, however. Unbelievably enough, Dave's reaction was to raise his own eyebrows and offer up a smirk in his direction.

Joey could feel his teeth grinding independent of commands from his brain; this nervous habit was a common reaction to stressful situations of any sort that he came in contact with. Unconsciously, Joey reached over and grasped Linda's hand, oddly thankful for the fact that she was completely oblivious to everything around her. He squeezed it, hoping that Dave would receive the message he was attempting to convey.

This means war.

*

Of course, war didn't break out immediately. A combination of busy fifth-year schedules and Joey's own inclination to "laugh in the face of confrontational evil, and then hide under the covers until it went away" kept him far enough from Dave to pacify his temper...and to prohibit Linda from further contact with him. The latter was a thought that was shoved from his consciousness on several occasions and subsequently relegated to the most cobweb-strewn recesses of his brain, left to hopefully shrivel and die like a salted slug on the sidewalk. Although Dave failed to cross Joey's path, brief glimpses of another Slytherin-- the redhead that Rosalind had identified as Cassandra Clairsworth-- made his stomach drop in a way it hadn't since animation sensation Monique Etoile had appeared on the cover of Rolling Stone wearing nothing besides colored Saran Wrap and a smile.

Linda, on the other hand, was positively miserable of late due the fact that she had been denied the privilege of secreting large quantities of drool over the handsome Slytherin. The sheer disbelief that had flooded her senses upon realizing that he was staring at her, her of all people, had given way to an overwhelming desire uncharacteristic of Sisterhood member Linda-- to give him something even more appealing to stare at, up close and personal. And although Linda was far from an emotional sadist, the look of anger and jealousy that had appeared on Joey's face was worth, in her opinion, her limited-edition signed copy of Quinn Cassidy's best-selling novel Thoughts and possibly even her collection of Manolo Blahnik platform sandals. The former (but not the latter) feeling-- along with repeated statements based on sight and reputation alone that Cassandra was about as close to Natasha Badenov as they could possibly get in 21st-century England-- was one that she had no qualms about voicing to her new roommates.

Linda had always had difficulty befriending other people; for as long as she could remember, her social circle had been limited to Bobby, Joey, and various (male) members of the brass section in the marching band. Consequently, she had never had any sort of interaction with other females, and had always perceived them to be codependent morons who retained their shape by a mysterious combination of cosmetics, hair products, and the cheap glue that held the pages of Seventeen magazine in place. For all their disgustingly lax personal habits and tendencies towards mental flatulence, she much preferred the company of Bobby and Joey above that of everyone else-- and although she'd never admit it, the thought of having to share living quarters with people besides them frankly scared her more than VH1's Behind the Scenes with the Newly Reconstructed Britney Spears! ever would. (To further drive home that point, she had walked around in a zombie-like state for over a week after the remote had frozen on that particular channel, shuddering violently whenever the word "silicone" was uttered in her presence.) Not to mention the fact that the world-class bickering and combative behavior exhibited by Kaites and Persephone put the minor spats of Linda and Joey to shame.

However, this all changed when she met Rosalind Weasley and Amy-Beth MacNamara.

*

"And this is the bathroom- best to avoid it early in the morning, the seventh years tend to attack you, God help them if they can't spread that stuff all over their faces--"

"Oh, shut up, Kaites, you're going to scare the girl--"

"Oh, and I'm so sure that facing down the world's most powerful Dark wizard didn't do that already--"

"Would you just keep your pale little lips locked for about five seconds?"

"Pale little lips? This from the girl who's a better substitute for my mirror than anything else ever could be--"

Persephone glowered at her twin. "At least I wear lip gloss--"

"You wear so much of it, pray tell why that has not glued your lips together yet--" retorted Kaites.

Linda, head snapping back and forth like a Wimbledon spectator, could do nothing but blink. It had been less than five minutes since leaving the Great Hall after the Sorting Feast, and the two girls were at each others' throats already. She was beginning to wonder why the twins hadn't landed in Chicago to appear on the Jerry Springer show; she then realized that the respective IQs and ability of the twins to recognize a trap when they walked into one rendered them entirely ineligible. Her thoughts-- which were quickly drifting to the infamous episode of the aforementioned circus in which a large bisexual German man named Schlott Geitzburg had wept inconsolably over his lost love, a thin denizen of the Boston metropolitan area, while wearing nothing but pasties and a pink G-string-- were thankfully interrupted by a tugging on her purse strap.

"Escape route's this way," muttered Rosalind, motioning towards the stairs. When Linda offered a curious look in return, she pointed up the crimson hall.

"Oh..." said Linda, comprehending what it was Rosalind was trying to communicate across. Silently and feeling altogether out of her element, she followed the small redhead to a large, oak door.

"And this is where we live," chirped a voice from somewhere behind Linda. She turned around and was greeted by the smiling countenance of Amy. "It's awfully loud in here, between Oscar and Felix out there, but it's more or less acceptable living."

The interior of the room held no real surprises for Linda; after all, she had stayed in a similar dormitory over the summer. But the decor of this space was a bit on the eclectic side.

Staring upwards at the ceiling, Linda felt as if she'd been dropped into the middle of an apple pie-- one that had been liberally laced with LSD, that is. The circular room was obviously divided into five portions, each drastically different from the others. A continuous crimson-on-gold border was the only hint that this room was a dorm on Gryffindor Tower and not a reused set for the long-defunct Dawson's Creek, reruns of which Linda watched and subsequently mocked on Nick at Nite.

The slice closest to the left side of the door was decorated in pale pink, with enchanted flowers blown by invisible winds dancing across the wall and up to the ceiling. The bed was a canopy with a fluffy top layer, sheer cherry curtains, a pouf-like bedspread and a ruffled skirt; the effect reminded Linda of an unfortunate cupcake hit with an Engorgement Charm. The rug in this area was dusty rose in color, and a large pink trunk embossed with a "M-K" in script sat at the end of the bed.

The adjoining area couldn't have been more of the opposite if it had tried. Burnt orange paint caked the walls as if it had been sloppily applied with a spatula, dotted with several Sex Pistols posters. Atop a blazing orange rug sat a plain, hand-hewn bedstead, covered with a camoflage print spread that couldn't have belonged to anyone other than Persephone Longbottom, wannabe guerrilla. A huge vintage travel trunk was positioned at the foot, decorated liberally with travel stickers from Sweden, France, Iowa, Brazil, and Wyoming, to name a few. Every so often one of the Sids on the wall would look around furtively, remove something a package of something white and powdery from his pocket that definitely was not sugar, and disappear into the edge of the picture. He would come back a few minutes later visibly subdued, eyes coated with a glaze that could have rivaled the scones at the Hogsmeade bakery. Linda rolled her own eyes, and continued with her examination of the room.

The only way anyone could ever have missed the next area in the room would have been complete and total blindness, and even then the aura would have been difficult to sidestep. A shade of yellow that would have put Big Bird to shame was the predominant color, with black stripes to break up the uniformity. The effect resembled a grossly overweight bumblebee, several of which, incidentally, appeared on the furnishings. The logo of the Wimbourne Wasps underscored the corpulent insect. Leaning against the bed was a brand-new Asteroid 270, gleaming in the light of the hanging moon. The broom was quickly displaced, however, as Rosalind took a flying leap onto its supporting structure and began to flip through a magazine. Linda squinted to see the cover; a man wearing a resplendent robe of bright blue and a rather worried expression adorned it. Wood Strikes Again! read the caption.

The fourth section in line looked rather as if a tornado had hit it with fervent enthusiasm and left, only to decide that it hadn't done enough destruction and doubled back. The bed covering was indiscernable underneath piles and piles of denims and sweaters; books lay scattered on the shaggy carpet. The walls were decidedly a pale peach color, mostly obscured by a poster of staggering dimensions displaying the motto, "Don't Sweat the Small Stuff... and it's All Small Stuff!" The mess was further jumbled as Amy threw herself on top of a polo shirt and rummaged through the piles.

Turning, Linda saw that the final space in the room was entirely blank, and contained the sole window.

"That's where you'll kip." Persephone clomped rather indelicately into the room and settled herself on her bed. "Rather drafty, what with the window and all, but I suppose that's what you get for being five years late in choosing your area."

"Once again, the Tact Fairy missed her target by a long shot," muttered Kaites sarcastically.

Linda nervously chewed the edge of her lip. "Er, question..." she motioned to the entirely empty space. "Am I supposed to sprawl out on the floor, or prop myself up against the wall?"

Rosalind drew her eyebrows together in concentration, threw the magazine against the wall (a faint "watch it girlie, you're a Seeker, not a Beater" could be heard), and jumped up. "Oh! How'd we forget?"

"Apparently, very easily," murmured Amy. "Linda, just stand in the middle of the rug. It'll all be taken care of."

Linda looked around nervously. "Er... all right..." she replied, stepping into the indicated space.

Fourteen seconds later, the area looked less like a hospital, and more like a green Tribble. A green shag rug lay on the floor, topped by a mahogany bedstead with a green velvet covering. The walls had instantly transformed from blank white sheets to vivid slates of vines and leaves, and Linda was happy to note that her prized Piccolos poster was hung on the ceiling directly above her bed.

The other four girls in the room watched quizzically. Finally, Rosalind spoke.

"Are you sure you aren't supposed to be in Slytherin?"

Linda grinned. "Completely."

"Good." This time, Rosalind threw herself onto Linda's bed. "As we all know, too much snake scum has slithered into this tower for my own personal comfort."

To Linda's bewilderment, a groan rose from the other three girls.

"Ros. For possibly the umpteenth time, Aaron Barrett might be a pain in your ass, but he's definitely not a Slytherin," sighed Amy, rolling her eyes. "He's a Gryffindor, through and through."

"Are you forgetting who his father is?" chimed in Persephone. "None other than--"

But before Persephone could utter the name of the boy's father, the door swung open and a most decidedly unpleasant air filled the room.

"What the hell are you doing, Longbottom?" barked the waiflike figure that had traipsed into the room, hair disheveled and robes dragging. "You know damned well that nine o'clock is lights-out on the first night."

Persephone rolled her eyes. "Yes, Daize, I know. Excuse me for trying to ensure that the newest Gryffindor doesn't sleep on the floor."

Daize shot a look at Linda, who was immediately chilled to the bone. The girl's eyes were grey, like Joey's, but held none of the warmth or sparkle that her best friend's held. Instead, staring into this girl's eyes felt like if you did it long enough, you'd turn to stone. Linda took the distinct impression that she knew this girl from somwhere... but where?

"Ah, little Linda Potter," spat Daize, hocking each word onto the floor as if they'd been laced with arsenic. "Of course. Princess Potter couldn't have anything wrong, could she?"

It was at that moment that Linda realized where she knew this girl from.

"Daisy Mae Sanchez," she said evenly, eyes narrowing. "Your cousin..."

"--is Felicia Sanchez. Very good, but who would expect less from perfect Linda?" snarled Daize-- or was that Daisy Mae?-- rolling her eyes.

Linda returned the gesture. "Just when I thought I'd rid myself of Felicia forever, I get Daisy. Felicia never stopped talking about her 'great English cousin', especially after you visited."

"It's Daize," shot back the other girl, venom in her voice. "By the way, got the gum out of your hair yet?"

"Probably about the same time you got that giant stick shoved up your ass," broke in Persephone. "Daize, get out of here. Now."

"And just who do you think you are, talking like that to a prefect?" retorted Daize.

It was Kaites who finally played the trump card. "The daughters of the man who can ensure that you will be flying out of this school on kicking power if you ever do that again. Leave, Sanchez."

With one smirk tossed over her shoulder, Daize left.

The occupants of the room turned to stare at Linda, slack-jawed. "How on earth..." trailed off Rosalind. "And I thought she was a bitch to me..."

Linda shrugged. "Her cousin, Felicia, was in my class from kindergarten on back home. Needless to say, we got along like... well, like Alexis and Krystle on Dynasty."

The other girls gave her a blank look.

"Er...Christina Aguilera and Marshall Mathers?" tried Linda.

Still no response.

"How about the Boston Red Sox and the New York Yankees? No?"

Raised eyebrows all around.

"Liam and Noel Gallagher?"

"Ah!" yelled Persephone. "Fabulous! You had a feud!"

"Right," said Linda, relieved. "So, anyway..."

*

Throughout the next month and a half, adjustments were made; students settled into their schedules, friendships were made, and points were lost (courtesy of Professor Snape). However, one morning, something kept Linda and her crew from settling into a routine...

*

To the immense relief of Bobby and the others in their year, their one class with the Slytherins- Defense Against the Dark Arts- had been repeatedly postponed for approximately a month and a half; the official explanation was that Professor Branford had taken ill. However, if one listened to Dan Regan's stepbrother, seventh year Aidian Kipper, the explanation was slightly different.

"Really, the man's a gone a bit mad in the head," he had reported cheerfully one mid-October morning at breakfast. It was ritual for him to say hello to the fifth years-- a group comprised of Linda, Joey, Bobby, Kaites, Persephone, Aaron Barrett, cousins Rosalind and Al Weasley, Amy, and Dan-- before rushing off to sit with his quasi-girlfriend, Nadine Finnigan. Aidian was a short, stocky, brown-haired boy of seventeen whose clothing was usually in some sort of deliberate disarray, with mismatched socks, rolled-up pants and the like. Today, he was clad in a bright blue blazer, matching bowler hat, oversized blue denims rolled to mid-calf, and a beaten pair of running sneakers with glowing blue laces. His jolly disposition and helpful nature made him an ideal Head Boy and popular with every student in the house but the acerbic Dan. This, of course, being the same Dan who had reportedly managed to find fault with every person in the school from the infamous Cassandra Clairsworth ("obnoxious, reprobate little bitch") to his little stepsister Sally ("annoying in that adorable sort of way"), Aidian really didn't put much stock into it.

Bobby swallowed a particularly large piece of toast. "Elaborate, please."

Aidian grinned widely, adjusting his headgear. Everything about Aidian was bright-his clothing, his personality, even his huge teal eyes. Linda had never seen anyone with such color eyes before, but as heir of the illustrious Evans irises, didn't feel qualified to comment. "Well, see, I was waiting to talk to Professor Dumbledore yesterday, and couldn't help but overhearing--"

"Eavesdropper," Dan muttered.

"--what McGonagall was saying to him," Aidian continued, ignoring Dan's interruption. "Apparently, Branford's been behaving a bit funny lately-- they think it's best for him to stay confined to his quarters for now, but he'll be returning sometime this week." He paused, relishing the attention.

"What's he been doing?" asked Rosalind, sipping her orange juice.

Aidian grinned mysteriously. "I suppose you'll have to wait for his class to find out, Ros, you're scheduled to have it on Thursday--"

"Ahem!"

The entire portion of the table that had been listening intently to Aidian turned their heads in the direction of the angered cougher in question. Nadine-- more commonly referred to as "Nay"-- was staring at them all with a look of unrepressed anger contorting her features.

"Er," said Aidian. "Must be running along. Oh, and Ros-- don't forget to tell them about Operation Overlord." With a mysterious grin, he hustled off to sit next to Nay.

"Operation Overlord?" asked Joey. "What are we, storming the beaches of Normandy? World War Two's been over for quite some time..."

Rosalind smirked. "No, nothing like that. Actually, Operation Overlord is the code name for tryouts for a certain popular sport..."

Dan's eyes shot up. "Quidditch tryouts? About bloody time. God knows we've been waiting since forever."

Ros nodded. "Well, what can you do? It's up to Madame Hooch when we have tryouts. Bad enough that the first game's but two weeks away."

"Quidditch?" Linda's eyes lit up; she'd been desperate for a sport to engage herself in. "Tryouts?"

"Yes, Linda," sighed Joey. "Quidditch. Tryouts. Now let's see if you can make that into a sentence."

"Shut up, peon," retorted Linda. "You want to try out as badly as I do, and you know it. You're just upset cause you can't fly."

"Bite me."

"Bend over."

Thus, another day at Hogwarts began, Linda and Joey had a new fighting point, Rosalind was left with the task of scheduling tryout times, and Aaron recorded a belch of record magnitude after wolfing down six hash browns.

In other words, it was a perfectly normal day, under perfectly abnormal circumstances.

Or so they thought...

*

.to be continued.