The Annals of Terry Boot

Spaceboy, you're sleepy now

Your silhouette is so stationary

You're released but your custody calls

And I want to be free

Don't you want to be free?

Do you like girls or boys?

It's confusing these days

~David Bowie, from "Hallo Spaceboy"

April 10th

7:30-Breakfast.

I stare into my eggs and they stare back.

Life is ridiculously complicated.

My plan had been simple: win the heart of the girl of my dreams and live happily ever after. Now, however, said girl is dating what may or may not be the boy of her dreams, Zabini may or may not be under the delusion that I'm the boy of his dreams, Finnigan may or may not be trying to engage me in friendly conversation on a regular basis, and I have a list of items I was supposed to give to Uncle but didn't precisely, which Malfoy may or may not kill me for failing to do.

It hardly matters what he tells Hermione anymore, and Zabini already knows it all. So maybe that means Malfoy's no longer got any hold on me.

That would be nice.

7:33-Glance up from my staring eggs.

As usual, about seven boys look away very quickly.

Zabini doesn't, so I don't look at him.

Finnigan's passing by and I say, "Hey, Finnigan, do you want your posters back?"

He shrugs. "Only if you're sick of them."

If I am, it's only because they remind me of him. "Not really."

"Because I have more, anyway. I've got some new ones. Want to see them?"

"Right now?"

"Well, no, I suppose not. How about after Divination this afternoon?"

"How about during Divination?"

He smiles incredulously. "During . . . ?"

"Well, the class is a waste of time. And no-one gives a damn anymore."

Finnigan hesitates. "I-I suppose you have a point. All right. During Divination, then. Have you skipped class before?"

"Oh, loads."

7:46-Walking down the hall.

Some little Slytherin lackey runs up to me, his little face shining and just asking me to hit it with a Charms textbook.

"What do you want?" I ask.

"Professor Snape wants to see you in his office."

I regard the midget before me with suspicion. "Why?"

He beams impishly. "He just told me to find you."

Great. Just swell.

7:51-In Snape's office.

He dismisses the impish lackey with a "Pritchard, you may go."

Snape's sitting at his desk and gestures to one of the two armchairs sitting across from him.

As I slowly sink into it, I realize who is occupying the other chair.

Zabini.

He smiles wanly at looks at his hands.

Jesus Christ. What did he do?

"I'm told that the two of you were seen out after hours last night." He laces his bony white fingers and at us with a hard disapproving stare.

I shift uncomfortably. After Zabini made his fateful "I pretend it's you" statement and I didn't answer, so he left and I-

"Is this true? Zabini? Boot?"

We nod.

"But were you together?"

Zabini shakes his head.

I nod.

Prof Snape looks sceptical.

So I shake my head and Zabini nods.

Prof Snape's skepticism increases to a full-on doubting scowl.

Zabini gives me a very hard look, obviously trying to tell me telepathically to do something, but I don't know what. So I do nothing.

"For awhile, yes." Zabini says.

Prof Snape's scowl increases.

8:03-Entirely confused.

As we walk back up from the dungeons, I say, "I'm entirely confused."

Zabini smiles coldly. "I could tell."

"But you aren't, I take it?"

"Of course not."

"I don't suppose you'd mind telling me why?"

Zabini rolls his eyes and looks at me as if I'm either incredibly stupid or incredibly naive, and recites in a sing-song voice, "A pair of my alleged compatriots intimated rather blatantly to Professor Snape at breakfast today that you and I might have sneaked out and had a bit of a-"

"Why can't you talk like a normal person?"

He arches an eyebrow, inviting me to continue with that sentiment.

"Zabini, you could always just simply say, 'Nott and Malfoy told Snape that we snuck out to do strange and dirty things by the lake.'"

The Slytherin predatory smile returns. "And to think: If I hadn't left, maybe they could have been half right."

Oh, God. I live in a school of perverts and lunatics.

9:01-In the back row of Transfiguration.

I ought to be taking notes on turning footstools to schnauzers, but my heart's not in it. (Because I don't really want my heart in a footstool schnauzer.) I'll copy Mandy's later.

9:02-Soul-searching. Again.

I'm a bit overdue for it. If I don't search my soul, I might forget it's there.

I'll see if I can find any good points I've missed:

1) My teeth are all right. I mean, they're white and everything. (Are they? Let me check. Yes. Yes, they are. Well, white enough. And now Lisa's wondering why I took her hand-mirror.)

2) And as a stunning follow-up to that mind-blowing fantastic first good point, I think I might be growing older and wiser, as the saying goes. But I'm not sure what good that'll do me without a flat in London and a lot of money to throw around.

Ah, well. Onto my newly-found bad points:

1)I haven't got a flat in London (because I'm not counting Uncle's) or a lot of money to throw around. Or even any money to do anything with.

2) Nowadays I think that I only like Hermione out of habit, instead of really liking her really liking her. Because, with all the people I hate, I've got to like someone. I'm not sure this is an actual fault, but it bothers me nonetheless.

3) I have, however, been thinking on Zabini off and on. You know, only every couple of hours or so. All right, more like every twenty-five minutes or so. Just enough for it to be a mild mental disorder. And it's all theoretical, of course. Like, for instance, what if I were to go back in time and actually say something in response to his proclamation of "I pretend it's you?"

4) I skip class more often than I go. It doesn't bother me, but I'm told the youth of the world the world oughtn't do such things.

5) Speaking of things the youth of the world oughtn't do, I've still got my glamrockstar pothead thing to deal with.

Sheesh. I have only two good points and one is stupid beyond belief and the other is dubious at best. And all my merde bad points are angst-driven and hormonal. (Except for the whole flat-and-money thing. That's because I'm a Boot living with a Burke and am therefore poor, because the Boots and the Burkes have always been the bottom-feeding scum-suckers of the wizarding underworld. Now there's a heritage to make a kid proud!)

The Zabinis are, of course, the ones lording the underworld like Solomon and Midas and all the kings of old, and have been doing so for at least five generations. They'd better watch it: Even the Roman Empire collapsed eventually.

And Zabini himself-Blaise, I mean-gets to sit in his little shell of Galleons, smiling like a prince of cats, ready to pounce.

Because no-one would dare touch him.

Because anyone that does touch him get touched back-with a few choice poisons and a couple of deadly curses.

Wish some of that protection would rub off on me.

Maybe it would, if I became his exclusive snoggee, or whatever he's after.

Bit of a price to pay, though, and then I really would feel like a whore.

But that would be good practice for Zabini before he goes into the family business.

Haha.

I really shouldn't go into this kind of reverie in the middle of Prof McGonagall's class.

9:07-Still not listening to Prof McGonagall.

One thing soul-searching teaches me is that I'm sixteen years old to an amazing degree. In fact, I'm probably more sixteen-year-old than every other sixteen-year-old in the school.

Speaking of other sixteen-year-olds in the school, by telling Prof Snape that we had been together, Zabini certainly wasn't trying to quell the rumour his housemates had apparently passed around.

Unless it was Zabini that started the rumour, and Nott and Malfoy merely relayed it to Snape.

After all, he's practically said straight out that he fancies me.

And, really, who would blame him?

I'm bloody gorgeous.

12:06-Eating my lunchtime eclair.

Lord help me. In an hour, I'll be meeting Finnigan to take a gander at his stupid new posters that I could care less about.

I would skip out on our rendezvous, but then where would I go? Divination? Ha. And I'd feel guilty, because I've got to make up for it somehow. I've got make up for the fact that-pathetic as I feel admitting it-I was kind of flirting with Finnigan at breakfast.

12:07-Choking on my eclair.

Flirting with Finnigan?

God, that makes me sound both gay and desperate.

My life may well be over.

1:01-Following through with my poster-viewing appointment.

Also referred to as Terry's Date with Death in Irish Clothing.

Death in Irish clothing. Yum. There'd be a way to go.

I smack myself in the forehead and tell myself in a firm-and-authoritative voice, "Terrence Boot, you do not fancy other boys."

Would you believe my name "Terrence?"

I don't know who to blame for that-my DOA mother or my AWOL father.

1:02-Enter Death, stage right.

Death with shaggy sandy hair, sparkling green eyes, and a Gryffindor tie hanging loose with the top two shirt buttons undone.

"All right?"

"Hello, Finnigan."

He sort of smiles. "I notice I'm just 'Finnigan' again, Terry."

"Well, then." I rock back on my heels and try to find an excuse. "Well, then, now I'm not on first name terms with anyone."

"Why the sudden hostility?"

I shrug, toss my hair over my shoulder, and try to look very cool and nonchalant. "I wouldn't call it sudden. Nor would I call it hostility." I pause. "So these posters are special enough to warrant us skiving off Divination?"

He grins crookedly. "Not in least. But come on."

'Not in the least' . . . But the posters were never the point, now were they, Seamus?

You know, he's sort of attractive in an all-right and blokey sort of way. (Blokey? He ought to; most people would agree that he is one. . . .)

1:04-Smacking self in forehead.

Terrence Boot, you do not fancy other boys!

You merely flirt with them. . . .

Finnigan looks at me funny.

I suppose I should refrain from anymore public forehead-smacking.

1:10-Sixth year boys' dorm, Gryffindor Tower.

Finnigan was right-His posters really are nothing special.

Two of his guy-David Bowie.

One Rocky Horror Picture Show. Mine just has the lips, the titles, and the words "a whole different set of jaws", whatever that means. Finnigan's, however, has a guy reclined in my lips-

Oh, I don't mean my lips. I mean the same lips as the lips on my poster. And I'm only supposing it was a guy, but because I get the same sort of confusion, I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. He also lacked breasts, which is a good clue.

And below him, the words "25 Years of Absolute Pleasure!"

I tell you, Finnigan is weird.

1:13-Still in Finnigan's dorm.

On his bed, nonetheless.

But it's not an uncomfortable situation, despite the potential for uncomfortability.

I mean, he and Thomas were an item for what had been on almost a year, so it's not as if he's what I'd call straight as an arrow. (Then again, look at Thomas. Only the deaf, dumb, and blind would call him anything near straight.)

This school seems to have an inordinate number of blokes that like other blokes-Zabini, Thomas, Finnigan (who also went with Lavender Brown for a year before he was with Thomas, so if therefore beyond confusing) and all the boys that look at me at mealtimes, like Ernie Macmillian, who is probably in denial and will end up screwing a lot of women without enjoying a minute of it. And Malfoy, but I suppose he really shouldn't count.

And Zabini and Finnigan and the only troublesome ones.

Malfoy shouldn't be anymore. I've owled his stupid list to Davie Merridew at the shop next to Uncle's. For an unadulterated nutjob and Knockturn Alley denizen, he can be almost decent(ish). Anyway, his nutjob status has earned him a certain amount of respect (read: guarded fear) from Uncle. Davies sort of vaguely aware of my existence, I think, but, you know . . .

He's not a social worker.

"Terry?"

"Yes, Finnigan?"

"Just checking. You didn't answer my question, so I thought maybe you were asleep."

"What was your question?" I sound very patient. Good for me. Not everyone lying on a bed with their eyes closed is asleep.

"Do you want to listen to some music?"

1:19-Listening to David Bowie.

Not half bad . . . "For a Muggle."

"What's that mean?" Finnigan asks.

I shrug "'Not bad for a Muggle' means just that." Just to bug him.

A song starts with a piano and the words: "People stared at the makeup on his face, laughed at his long black hair, his animal grace . . ."

"Sounds like Zabini," I mutter.

"Zabini?" Finnigan looks quizzical.

"Well, the black hair and animal grace bit." Except Zabini's hair is just really dark brown and isn't that long.

Finnigan rolls his eyes and chuckles in a sort of "I think you're a loon, but whatever you say" manner.

I stare upwards as if nothing could be more fascinating than the canopy of a four-poster.

Finnigan sighs and stares as well. "Doesn't remind me of Zabini at all. I've seen Zabini."

"No?"

"No, Lady Stardust, not really."

God, first Madame Blue, now this!

I do some more canopy-staring and listen to the song-

"Lady Stardust sang his song of darkness and disgrace . . ."

Oh, so that's it. Peachy. Just peachy. I'm the one with the long black hair (electric blue, really) and animal grace. And people staring at the makeup on my face.

I yawn. Could be worse. It could really be worse . . .

2:35-Wake up to some highly unpleasant yelling.

"Why is he here? What were you two-? You two! You! And him! And-And-" Weasley sputters as he runs out of things to say.

I don't even remember falling asleep. Especially not with my head on Finnigan's chest. Eurrghh.

If Weasley mentions this to anyone, it'll mean the second rumour started today about me being with a boy. How accomplished I am! Let's see if we can make it three!

I sit up and regard Weasley for a second, before smacking Finnigan on the forehead and hissing, "Wake up, Finnigan, before the redhead explodes."

When I said no more public forehead-smacking, I didn't mean Finnigan's.

He props himself up on his elbows. "What is it, Ron?"

Both Weasley and I stare at Finnigan's unbelievably calm smile.

"I came in," Weasley explains slowly, "and you were sleeping together. I mean, you were asleep and you were together, but not actually, you know, sleeping together. And there was some crap song about kooks and-What exactly were you doing?"

"Nothing!" Seamus looks genuinely surprised.

"And it wouldn't be any of your business if we had," I add, giving Weasley a very saucy half-smile.

Because now I seem to flirt with boys.

Hello, Suicide!