The Annals of Terry Boot

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.

~W. B. Yeats, from "The Second Coming"

March 5th

11:30--Class.

I don't think I'm even sure which class. I look up. Oh, Prof Vector. Arithmancy.

I don't even take Arithmancy.

Hermione does. But, thankfully, not this period.

Prof Vector is looking at me strangely. "Excuse me, young lady, are you sure you're in the right class?"

Young lady. Oh, cripes.

11:34--Purple haze all 'cross my brain.

Or whatever it is. Anthony's Muggle song. Hahaha . . .

Damn. I was right. I am on my way to becoming a bonafide pothead, glamrockstar elegance notwithstanding.

And there's no-one to talk to. They're all in class.

Why does that depress me? I don't even like any of them.

12:30--Trying to read.

But the words have gone all funny. I'll have to try singing instead, I suppose . . .

12:36--Gilbert O'Sullivan!

I'm the very model of a maudlin Asian general!

Loony Lovegood comes in and asks me if I've been possessed by a Hobble-Toed Grummelflack.

I tell her I was performing comedic opera.

"What's that?" she asks. "It sounded painful."

And now I can't stop laughing . . .

12:39--Suddenly quite hungry.

Nicked a half-dozen eclairs from the kitchens.

1:20--Great Hall with Anthony and Michael.

"Where were you?" Anthony asks. "You missed both Charms and Herbology this morning."

I think for a minute. I'm starting to feel sick from all those eclairs. "Arithmancy. And then back in the Common Room."

Michael looks confused. "But you don't even take--"

"I know, ducky," I snap. "That's why I left."

He glowers. Something about me calling him "ducky" has always rubbed him the wrong way. I suppose that's why I continue to do it.

"Stuart Ackerly said he heard you were singing old show tunes," Anthony adds helpfully.

I moan. I didn't remember that part. "What does that little moron know?"

"He's not a moron," Michael says. "He's in Ravenclaw, isn't he?"

"So?" I smirk at him. "You're in Ravenclaw and that doesn't stop you from being an arse."

I miss hearing Michael's witty riposte to that, because I spot Hermione walking in with Weasley and Potter. They're talking far too loud.

"Well, Ron, I didn't have much choice," she was saying. "Since you and Harry automatically partnered up for the project--"

"But that left, er . . ." Weasley pauses as he works it out. "Well, Neville was left."

"Him and Lisa," Potter reminds them.

"Look, I don't like Terry any more than you do," Hermione tells them, "but I really can handle this."

"He's just weird, 'Mione!"

"Well, yes, Ron, but--"

"He wears makeup," Potter points out. "It's kind of . . ."

"Camp as a row of tents?" Weasley suggests brightly.

"Well, yes," Potter agrees. "Although I was going to say 'slutty.'"

And to think that I rather liked Potter.

Michael and Anthony hear that and begin snickering.

"And," Weasley continues dramatically, "he told me that he reads French poetry and smokes pot!"

"What's wrong with French poetry?" Potter sounds puzzled.

"He smokes what?" Hermione asks, alarmed.

"I do not!" I shout before I can tell myself not to.

Michael and Anthony laugh.

Hermione, Weasley, and Potter stare at me.

Where can I sink into a hole in the floor and die?

1:30--Skiving off Double Potions.

I should really take a deeper interest in my studies. But, you know, today I don't really feel like school.

I suppose I'll visit my favourite shelves in the library. Since Seamus interrupted my last visit and everything.

Oh, God, now Malfoy's hanging about there. He'd better take his hands off Lady Chatterly's Lover if he knows what's good for him.

Does Jesus hate me? Or am I just destined to live a miserable, humiliating life? Or, hell, why not both?

"Boot," he says.

"Malfoy."

"Can I have a word?"

"If you must. You can have 'logical.' I haven't needed that one recently."

"Don't try to be a wit." He glares.

"Who says I have to try?"

Smirking, he waves away my retort and says, "I've a favour to ask of you."

I shudder inwardly as all sorts of nasty possibilities cross my mind. "Was this why you did me one in Potions yesterday?"

"You're clever."

"I'm a Ravenclaw."

"That's nothing to do with it."

"So what's this favour, Malfoy?" I pause. "And why do I know I won't like it?"

He pretends to ponder. "Maybe because you don't much like me. Which only proves your poor taste."

"I have not got poor taste," I inform him coldly.

He sighs and begins counting off on his fingers: "First, you're wearing green eyeshadow. Even Pansy would have better sense than that. Second, you've dyed your hair electric blue, which looks terrible on you. If you're intent on weird, unnatural colours, I'd suggest a more dark red-violet, but that's just me . . . And third, and most importantly, I hear you've got your eye on Granger. If that doesn't prove your poor taste, I don't know what would."

"And Pansy's the epitome of good taste, I suppose?"

"I have not got my eye that cow."

"Cow? I'd love her to hear you say that." Why do I feel so cornered? It's just Malfoy. A scrawny little foul arrogant . . .

"About this favour. I can't tell you here. Anyone could overhear. Come on." He takes me by the arm and pulls me back out into the corridor.

"What, Malfoy, didn't want the library to listen in while you ask me to make passionate love to you?"

"In your dreams," he snaps back, and throws open the door to a broom closet, shoving me in before him.

It's very dark in here. Where's my wand when I need it?

Malfoy mutters "Lumos" and his wand lights up, casting a pale, bluish glow between us. "All right, Boot, here's the short and short of it: Your uncle is Burke, right?"

"Burke who?" I blink dumbly. Damn Malfoy, Damn him. If there was one thing I did not want to be reminded of at school, it was home.

"Don't play stupid. You live with him." He glares. "He's co-owner of Borgin and--"

"So?" I feel my hands clench into fists.

"So my father's in Azkaban." Malfoy is giving me a horrible look: like he's torn between bashing my head in and bursting into tears.

"Tell me what that has to do with my uncle," I say slowly, choosing my words to make sure that I didn't accidentally say, "Fuck you, Malfoy." So his father's in Azkaban. My father's a ratfink drunk who disappeared twelve years ago and didn't leave a forwarding address, but you don't see me complaining, do you?

"I want to sell some of my father's things off to him."

"That's not my problem. Don't get me involved." Please. Please don't get me involved with Uncle.

"Well, I have to do it. But I can't get to Knockturn Alley anytime soon, can I?"

"Easter holiday in three weeks. Go then." Over and over in my head, I'm repeating: You hate him, don't feel sorry for him, he's a bastard, you hate him, don't feel sorry for him . . .

"I'm not going home for the holidays. You, however, are."

I wince. "I still won't talk to him. There's nothing you can do to make me, Malfoy."

He smirks. "Isn't there? I could always resort to blackmail."

Why was this so important to him?

As if reading my mind, he pulls a tightly folded bit of parchment out of his robes and hands it to me.

I unfold it and skim over the list of items written in Malfoy's flowing, elegant script. "God, Malfoy, this stuff is sick. You don't mind me saying that your father was a twisted, sadistic perv, do you?"

"Now do you see why I want to get rid of it?"

Passing the list back to him, I say sarcastically, "Oh, the third one looks like it could be fun."

He glances at it. "Sure. If you're into bondage with venomous fangs."

"I dig it." I am not going to ask Uncle Ernest to buy those . . . things . . . off the Malfoys. But then again . . . "What was that about blackmail?"

He grins, triumphant. "Oh, it's just that there are a few things you've done that I'm sure you wouldn't want Granger to hear about."

I stare.

"It's just that I seem to remember something about a certain Knockturn Alley slut being seen in the . . . company . . . of a certain Theodore Nott." Oh, God. He can't. He's not that evil . . . is he? "Not to mention a few others of that persuasion . . ."

"You mean the gay young sons of Death Eaters?" I spit the words at him, trying to kill him with my glare. "Well, then, you'd better include yourself in that particular 'persuasion,' hadn't you, Malfoy?"

He mutters "Nox" and his wandlight goes out, drowning us in darkness. He puts both hands on either side of my face. I can feel my heart pounding against my ribs. I feel sick, I feel sick . . .

Malfoy shoves his mouth roughly against mine and forces his tongue in.

I think of Hermione with a sort of panicky desperation. If I kick Malfoy where he deserves it, he could tell her everything, but . . . but . . . I can feel those six eclairs I ate this morning churning in my stomach, fighting to come up the way they came.

I hate him, I hate him, I hate him!

One of his hands goes down across my chest, my stomach, and . . . I make a strangled, choking sound, and realize that I'm crying.

I hate him.

He pulls away, satisfied with my reaction. "It was a lovely afternoon, wasn't it? What was it, last August? Do you remember that now, or would like another reminder?"

"I . . . hate . . . you . . . Malfoy," I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

He sighs. "Well, you won't want me talking to Granger, will you?" He shoves his sheet of parchment into my chest. "So you'll be having a little chat with your uncle for me."

2:04--Still Recovering.

"Terry? Are you . . . all right?"

I spin around.

Hermione. She looks worried.

"I'm fine!"

"Have you been crying?"

"No!"

"Well, your eyeliner's running and your lipstick's smeared, so . . ."

I probably look like a melting clown. "I'm telling you, 'Mione, I'm fine." 'Mione. That's what Weasley called her this morning. How did that slip out?

She glances down the hall to where Weasley is waving to her. "Well, if you're sure . . . Listen, could you have your half of our report finished by Saturday? We'll meet at noon in the library to go over the whole thing, and we'll be ready to present on Monday." She's talking very quickly. "I've got to go now, but I'll see you on Saturday, then. Um . . . bye!"

She ran to catch up with Weasley.

The lucky stiff.

2:07--In the boys' room.

I'm bent over the sink, scrubbing my face off. When I'm relatively certain that I'm rid of all traces of melting clown, I look in the mirror. I hardly recognize myself anymore. My face is red and raw, and my eyelashes are stuck together in wet clumps. My long hair drips and clings to my cheeks, and my fringe is soaked and plastered to my forehead. (Wow. I really do have girl's hair . . .) And for once, I'm not just a pair of purple lips and heavily done-up eyes. I look normal. Ish.

Well, apart from wet and red-eyed and scrubbed raw. I snatch a handful of paper towels and bury my face in them.

Someone comes into the lav behind me. "Hey, Terr."

Seamus. And just when I thought I'd dealt with all the people I could possibly deal with today. "Please, Seamus, not you too."

"Not me too what?"

I toss my paper towels and glare at him. He looks mildly surprised. "I don't want to talk to you."

"I only said 'hello.' Your face is nakeder than usual. I mean . . ." He sort of looks embarrassed. "Are you are all right?"

"Hermione just asked me that."

"Oh, then she told you about . . . ?"

Goody. More bad news. "Told me about what?"

"Er. Well. If she hasn't . . . You'll find out soon enough, anyway."

"Seamus!"

"You're calling me by my first name now?" He smiles.

Was I? But he always calls me "Terry," so I don't see the problem. "That's beside the point, Seamus. Tell me what I'll bleeding find out soon enough, anyway."

"It's just that this morning, over breakfast, Ron finally worked up the nerve to tell Hermione that he liked her, you know, as more than a friend. And--I'm sorry, Terry, really I am--now they're kind of . . . sort of . . . together."

"Together?" I repeat.

He nods sadly. "And I was trying to get her to like you, you know. I'm sorry."

Well, this proves it.

God really does hate me.