Dysfunctional Equanimity

a new found glory, "dressed to kill"

*

"John, are you sure I have to have my leg all the way up here? This doesn't seem right. In fact, I'm entirely sure that this has to be illegal somewhere..."

"Mr. Malfoy, I'm totally sure of it," replied the young, lithe yoga instructor seated before him.

In return, Draco Malfoy gave the man a look that could melt solid steel. "Really."

"Although, yes, ordinances have been passed against it in certain sections of rural Pennsylvania," the trainer added hastily. "However, it's so... freeing, don't you agree?" He shot Draco a cheeky grin, adjusting his spandex bodysuit in nether regions best not mentioned here.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Yes, if you take 'freeing' to mean 'my bloody balls are hanging out in the open for the entire Northeast to view at leisure', that is."

To the untrained and entirely uncorrupted mind, it would look as if Draco was doing his best impression of a human pretzel, if human pretzels wore their sons' abandoned Adidas running gear to yoga classes. To a different sort of folk, images of late-night cable movies from the 1970s with spangle-clad men and sitar music playing softly in the background were those that sprung-- pardon the pun-- to mind.

He was seated-- if you could call it that-- on a spacious expanse of blue gym mats, surrounded by twentysomethings twisted into contortions that he wasn't aware were possible or even legal outside Red Light Districts and the privacy of Adult Home Video outlets. The twentysomething that was instructing him in his "quest for inner peace" was a college student by the name of John Walton, a cheerful sort of fellow with an unhealthy love of all things Lycra. John was a fan of techno music, frappucinos, his philosophy courses at Northeastern University, and, it seemed, his newest (and only) enrollee in the "Thursday Thirties" class.

"Now Draco." John's usually smiling face contorted into a frown. "If you want to relieve yourself of all these stresses and feel younger and alive, you're going to have to listen to me closely." The grin reappeared. "Now, I want you to take ten deep breaths, and imagine yourself in a white room."

"With black curtains?" muttered Draco, but he obeyed John's command.

John smiled even wider. "Atta boy!"

*

Seventeen blocks away, another Northeastern University student was being victimized by another temperamental resident of Carlton Boulevard. This situation, however, was far more tricky for the collegiate than in the case of John Walton; Draco hadn't been happening to be standing directly left of a large selection of cutlery with a look on his face that could send an NFL quarterback crying to his mommy.

"Janice, I'm going to ask you one more time," said Lavender Weasley in a surprisingly even tone for a woman whose left eye was twitching as it was, "where are the crepes?"

Janice Glickman, a rail-thin brunette wearing a white shirt, black skirt, apron, and terrified expression, gulped audibly. "Er, I believe they were brought to this location by catering van, Madam." She nervously eyed the various knives and cleavers near her boss, praying to the ceiling tiles that Lavender wouldn't be as quick to notice them as she had.

Lavender cracked all ten knuckles at once. "And where do you think this location is, Janice?"

"F-f-four Yawkey Way?"

Lavender drummed her talon-like fingernails on the bleached-white, sterile countertop. "No, Janice. We are at 14 York Street. Those crepes, if you're correct, are three miles away. And do you know where exactly they are, Janice?"

"No..." she whispered, rightly anticipating the worst.

"I do, Janice," continued Lavender, approaching her employee in the same manner that a hungry lion approaches a disabled wildebeest. "Janice, if the information you have given me is correct, those crepes are currently ON THE PITCHER'S MOUND IN FENWAY PARK!"

"Squeak," replied Janice astutely.

*

Excerpt from the battered journal of Joey Malfoy, 8 October 2016.

I swear to God, if one more girl asks me to find out if Bobby likes her or not, I will cut off my ears and hand them to Linda on a silver platter. (Cover them with enough mustard and she might eat them. Who knows?) It's so obnoxious, especially since it's plain to see that he's head over heels for both of the twins. He's been suffering from serious withdrawal, though-- he refuses to pay forty bucks to have the American edition of Variety shipped over here, so it's his own damn fault.

Excerpt from the chocolate-covered diary of Linda Potter, 8 October 2016.

Excerpt from inside back page of 8 October, 2016 issue of Rolling Stone (advert for Chiclet Teeth, the newest Hugh Grant movie), property of Bobby Weasley.

Hugh Grant bothers me. Really. You'd think that by now, the man would have given up on acting and pursued a profession he'd be more suited to, like... pimping. I swear to God, if he comes out with one more romantic comedy with his lopsided grin, I will personally eat my Terry-Gilliam-signed copy of the Monty Python and the Holy Grail script in protest. Sean Connery he is not, I can assure myself.

And how come he gets to be with that dishy Sabrina Sorenson? He's got to be pushing sixty, and she's barely twenty-five. Sure, maybe it's only on screen, but hell, I'd pay a decent amount of money for a handshake, let alone what he gets to do in this film. Daaaaamn.

*

"Potter! What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?"

Another rainy English morning, another Quidditch trial. Linda was quickly becoming sick of both; the former for obvious reasoning, the latter because it was growing quite clear to her that she frankly sucked at the sport. Linda sighed at the sound of her name, and stopped in the middle of a wobbly loop-de-loop.

With the way her luck had been going lately, it didn't surprise her one bit that she promptly fell twenty feet into a mud puddle and, if she wasn't mistaken, had done so in front of roughly thirty people, all of whom were having more success at the sport than she was. This included "Wheezy Weasley II", a smallish redhead by the name of Curtis who also happened to be the younger brother of Rosalind and Al Weasley, and a rather fat little boy called Regis who, in spite of the fact that his broom was caving underneath his massive girth, was deflecting balls from the goal posts left and right.

As Mark Wood, the Gryffindor Quidditch captain, had been watching Linda's attempts to hone her depressingly mediocre skills for well over two weeks now, her fall did not startle him, either.

"Linda." The voice that beckoned her held no malice, only disappointment and pity. Linda rather thought that she'd rather encounter an angry Ginny Malfoy than to be pitied by a boy who, in spite of his spectacular Quidditch skills, lacked the intelligence to meet his two unknowing girlfriends at the same place, same time. However, she had no say in the matter as the owner of the voice walked over to her.

Sighing, Linda hauled herself out of the murk, pulling her Asteroid 270 along with her. "Yes, Mark?"

"Linda. Linda, Linda, Linda." Mark sighed, shaking his head. "Just what the hell were you trying to do up there?"

Linda squeezed her eyes shut, partly to keep the mud from trickling in, partly out of sheer embarrassment. "I was trying to get the Snitch, I guess." She fruitlessly tried to wipe the drying mud from her once-oversized but now quickly tightening warmup pants and jacket. "And Rosalind seemed to be doing it just fine..."

Mark exhaled. "Rosalind has also been a member of this team since her second year, and it goes without saying that she was born on a broomstick. You, however, were not."

Linda said nothing.

"Linda, you know this is the last day I have to observe everyone before I make the choices about who goes and who stays," continued Mark. "And we already have a Seeker. I know about your family, your dad and all that, but..."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know," broke in Linda dejectedly. "I have about as much talent as a Sri Lankan kumquat when it comes to this. I have the broom, I have the genes-- I just happen to suck."

"I wish I could disagree with you, but you're spot on."

Linda scowled. "Thanks ever so much for the encouragement."

"Linda, if there's one thing I can tell you, it's that your keen powers of observation aren't wrong when it comes to your assessment of your abilities," said Mark. "Listen. You have one day left. Why are you trying to do something that you just can't?"

"Because I can," replied Linda stubbornly. "Isn't there any way I can get on this team? I'll be the equipment manager. I'll wash your dirty playing robes. I'll provide X-rated services to the male members of the squad, if it helps them win a match. I just need to be on this team."

Instantly, Mark Wood-- son of the world-famous Chudley Cannons keeper Oliver-- recognized an emotion he knew all too well: the need to follow in the footsteps of one's parent. His heart-- previously reserved solely for Persephone Longbottom and certain parts of Cassandra Clairsworth-- went out to the pitiful sight before him: the short, stocky, tangle-haired daughter of a Quidditch legend, trying desperately to succeed at what was plain to see she could not.

"All right, all right." He sighed, pushing a hand through his already-disturbed hair. "Get back on that broom, and back up there. As of now, you're the reserve right-hand Beater for the team. Don't ask me why. You just look the part. And I don't want to hear another word about it, understand?"

He didn't receive an answer-- Linda was already high above him, joining the wielders of Beating clubs. Her flying still looked a bit unsteady, but it was obvious that she was going to be quite more comfortable with a stick in her hand rather than without, from the look on her face.

Mark groaned, almost immediately regretting his decision. Mark Wood, the ultimate practitioner or nepotism, allows Quidditch-impaired Potter offspring onto defending champion squad. Fantastic, he thought, before calling out to the person he next needed to see.

"Malfoy! Joseph!"

Mark watched as the beanpole blond he wished to speak to handed his club over to Linda and zoomed down to meet him on the pitch. "Yeah?"

The captain quickly surveyed the fifth-year before him. Tall, lanky, and with a glint of insubordination in his eyes-- but also with a hunger to succeed. Which, Mark reminded himself, he was doing, and quite well. He didn't think that one Quidditch hopeful on the pitch had escaped the Beating skills of Joey Malfoy over the past two weeks; the sheer number of bruises displayed by some attested to just that.

"Malfoy." Mark tapped his own Thunderbolt broomstick into the ground. "I think we all know by now what you can do-- which is a lot-- and what you can't do-- which is rather little."

Joey nodded. "Hey, violence and clubs. What more could a guy ask for, besides naked women and the Olive Garden buffet table?"

"Save the wise remarks, Malfoy," retorted Mark. "Or else I might not be as willing to list you as the reserve left-hand Beater."

Joey's jaw dropped. "You mean it?"

"Hell, I'd have you on the starting line if the Casper twins--" Mark motioned to a pair of ghostly pale team veterans, clubs in hands-- "weren't seventh years. As it stands, both are pretty injury-prone. Good chance you'll see some action on the pitch this year."

"Wow," Joey breathed. "Awesome."

Mark cleared his throat. "There is, however, one catch."

"Damn."

The captain chose to ignore this. "Your counterpart on the reserve squad-- well, she has dedication, that's for sure. But she doesn't have the skill, at least not yet. I'm going to list her as the right-hand reserve Beater because of what I think she can do, with practice. Your job is to get her up to speed."

"No problem." Joey smacked his gum. "Who is it?"

Mark groaned inwardly. "Er... Linda Potter."

Mark had expected every reaction-- temper tantrum, moan of irritation-- anything besides the smile of complete, undisguised, malicious glee on Joey's face.

"You got it, Mark," he smirked, zooming off into the sky, presumably to break the news to Linda.

On the ground, Mark buried his head in his hands. "What have I done?"

*