I Am A Slug

I am in love.

It always happens to those who don't want it. I know I don't. She doesn't either. She hates me.

That's why it hurts so much. She hates me and she always will. It's a cold feeling. I'm not suicidal, and it doesn't affect me in any way, but I don't like it.

When I first met her, I was a shit, basically. I won't say I was covering up my feelings, because I wasn't. I was letting them out full flow, but they were against Potter, not her. I jeered and laughed and pointed. But there was no real desire to hurt her, I was trying to hurt him. I felt nothing for her.

But she became one of the snorting, short-trousered Scooby Gang, and I started to make fun of her for her. I mean, I won't defend myself, but she was a scrawny little thing, and fairly plain. Who am I to say whether or not she still is? I'm in love with her, for God's sake.

I watched them all, trying to trip them up, to be honest. Potter... he was a prime target. He and his pals were the saddest bunch... but not her. As I watched her, at first trying to get to him, I began to like the way she did things. I admired her personality. It made me retch, certainly, but deep down I suppose I wanted to be like that myself. All generous and caring, and fluffy bunnies, flowers, you know the sort of thing.

She writes in lilac ink, and it's (gross) sort of endearing. Those little bobbles she wears in her hair, fluffy, for the most part. Now we're back to the bunny aspect again. She looks so (sickening) sweet in her uniform. The Miss Kitty T-shirts she wears over the weekends make me (want to throw up) go weak at the knees. Essentially, I love her, but she makes me feel utterly ill.

I have dreams about roasting them all over a bonfire (nice and crispy, just how I like them), but I also have dreams about kissing her. The rest of them can roast for as long as they want, and we can toast marshmallows (or eyeballs, depending on your gore preference) romantically. It's a delightful picture, Potter howling and screaming as I simper with his little girlfriend, licking chocolate off her stomach. (I do like chocolate)

Sorry, I have to stop for a second. I need to send Crabbe or Goyle to get some chocolate. I have a craving.

Ugh. Having looked that over again I realise it sounds like I'm craving Crabbe or Goyle and chocolate. Not so, I promise you. Heterosexuality is exciting enough for me. Ugh.

Ah, that's better. Now, back to my monologue.

The fact that... sorry, dramatic pause for my little shudder... that ugly little weed Potter is closer to her than I am makes me so furious. I struggle daily for her to like me, maybe just to look at me without scowling, and she's been in love with him since first year. It all comes so easily to Potter.

Fine, fine. I know he lost his parents, tortured upbringing, blah blah blah, but who are we talking about here? Me or him?

He's good without trying to be. His father doesn't hunt him with an air-rifle over the summer holidays. Admittedly that doesn't really count, as his father's dead. He's always been loved. He always does the right thing, and he always wins. I do try. So I bought my way onto the team. I'm still good at it. Father said he'd get out the Sniper rifle if I didn't get on the team by the end of the term. Next time Potter says something bad about me, maybe I'll show him that lovely deep cleft in my arm where the bullet skinned me last year.

Back to my love.

I have no plans as such. I don't know what I could do to get her to notice me. Well, I'm going to bed now. I'll have thought of something by tomorrow evening when I write next. So farewell, for now. I go to the land plagued by nightmares of Goyle's stomach.

I have returned!

Here you go. Juicy juicy.

I sent her an anonymous owl! I know, I know. The idea was crap, but my heart was in the right place. (Ugh.)

I told her how important she is to me, and asked her to meet me up the astronomy tower tonight at midnight. She'll probably scream and jump off when she sees me.

Oh well. At least it'll rid me of the problem I'm faced with right now.

I'll be all hooded and mysterious, then grab hold of her and kiss her before she knows it's me, then I'll jump off. How's that for a sneaky plan?

I know you're an inanimate object, oh diary mine, but what do you think I should do? Will that be okay? Or should I just do what comes naturally? (Ugh.) I'll go up there, and tell her exactly how I feel, deep down inside. Then I'll throw up all over her robes and ruin the moment completely. Alright. I've decided. I'll go up there, and see what happens!

Told you I was Master-Plan Guy.

Oh well, half-eleven. See you later.

Bollocks. Bloody fucking stinking crappy bollocks.

It went totally wrong from the off.

I went up there, and she was there waiting. When she heard me, she turned around and smiled. She asked if I was there to meet her, and I said no.

NO! Why the bloody hell did I say no?

I told her I was representing someone. Then she asked who. I told her it was Potter. She asked who I was. I told her. Her face hardened immediately, and she went all tight-lipped. She asked me why Potter had got me to talk to her. I said I had no idea. Then I had to make up some crappy message filled with nasty horrible shit, and get out as quickly as possible.

Okay, okay. You don't have to tell me how thick I am. I already told myself.

Great thing about early February, is Valentine's. the worst thing about early February, however, is also Valentine's. I can't count the number of girls (and, frighteningly, boys) who send me cards on that terrible day. But now I will send one too. What day is it?

What?! How the hell do you expect me to know? I'm evil!

I'll compose some lovely poem for her. Yes, that'll work. Or I could do what my clinically insane father did while he was courting my mother. She complained about the fact that he hadn't sent her a Valentine. He asked her what one of those was. She told him it was usually red, gold, and expensive, with a heart. He went out and killed a Muggle, then gave its heart to her on a solid gold plate.

That's the thing (the only thing) I love about my father. His delightful sense of humour. And the lack of it. That wasn't a joke. Well, it was red, expensive, and with a heart. It was a heart. How much heartier can you get?

No. Maybe not. I'll send her a bunch of roses, a nice card, and a box of chocolate. I may have to siphon off the top layer of chocolates, though. I do like chocolate. Not Goyle, though. Or Crabbe. Ugh.

Yeah, anyway. Tired and stupid. I need sleep. I don't need beauty sleep. If I get any more of that, I'll be unbearable. (No pun about my current state of unbearableness intended)

Ah. At least that's over and done with. I sent her a dozen roses, a box of heart-shaped chocolates (minus a couple, but she'll never know), and a nice card with a poem in it. I think it went:

You are pretty

You are sweet

I think you are

Good enough to eat

Just like the chocolates.

I think I'm very talented, don't you?

I know. I know it sucks. I wasn't trying (no, seriously). I wanted it to seem like some illiterate like Potter wrote it. I watched her open it at the breakfast table. She showed it to all of them, and hugged the letter to herself. She smelled the roses, and ate some choccies. Then she stuck a rose through her ponytail, and looked absolutely lovely. I went past her, Crabbe and Goyle staggering behind me with my love letters. She glared at me, as usual, and I shared a private joke with myself. I think it's hilarious that she's happy I like her.

You see. I don't take myself too seriously. I can laugh at myself just as easily as I can laugh at Potter. I think it's desperately funny that I'm obsessed with her. Do forgive me if I upset my ink bottle while I write. Yesterday I was laughing so hard I slipped off my chair. Then I laughed at myself for that, too.

What was that saying? Laugh, and the world laughs with you. Cry, and you cry alone?

Bollocks.

Laugh, and the world laughs AT you. Cry, and the world laughs harder. (my motto, actually)

Am I abnormal to think that I am the saddest case, and then laugh at myself for being such a sad arsed freak? Well, that might be okay, it's just that, while I'm laughing, I feel superior to myself.

Maybe that's the key to it. Actually, I am a slug, but if I laugh at the butterflies, then I am making them just as much slugs as I am, and because I have been a slug for so long, I am better. Damn. I should have saved that as my fabulous deathbed statement. Although, it could be a little long. It wouldn't be too great if I choked off at 'I am a slug', would it? I can see it all now. My friends (or servants, or hangers on, or followers) are gathered around me in a white room. I'm all crusty, and bald. I clear my wrinkly throat. They all fall silent to hear the wise Guru's final words.

'Actually, I am a slug.'

No. I'll think of something much shorter than that. How about 'Chocolate is good for the heart... aaargh! I think I'm having a heart attack! Pass me those chocolates, will you?'

Maybe not. What about 'Nurse Dale has a lovely bottom.' At least then I'll be going down happy. And very wise.

She really hates me.

Her bag split in the corridor today. Having had good manners drummed into me by my father, I bent down to help her pick them up. She moved all her books out of my reach and continued to pack them up. Rather hurt, I went off. Then I doubled back to eavesdrop.

'Why did he do that?' she asked. she sounded really puzzled. I was so betrayed. Why does everyone think the worst of me? Come on. I'm batting my eyelids here. Why?

I weren't droppin' no eaves, sir! Honest!

Okay, now. My personality causes me to want to plot revenge, and I shall. But my fluffy bunny wants me to try and make her see that I'm not so bad really. I think I'll play more tricks on her.

Tee hee hee! What a jolly jest this is! I sent her a solid gold bracelet with her name engraved on it. She opened it at the dinner table again, and put it on straight away. She showed it to everyone. I forced a house elf that used to work for us to put notes on her pillow. I'm going to make him put flower petals all over her bed while she sleeps. This is so fun!

Oh, those petals were great. She came downstairs clutching my note, with petals in her hair, and told everyone about it. She thinks it's someone nice! That's the second best bit. The best bit is still that she hates me, but she's in love with me. I am a great lover of irony.

I need to know who she thinks it is to exploit the poor girl even further.

What?! She deserves it for making me fall in love with her in the first place.

What do you mean, that's not her fault?! Of course it's her fault.

I know it may seem like I don't love her at all, playing all these terrible (terribly funny, more like) tricks on her, but I do. I'm just a bit of a schizo. The difference is, I know I have two personalities, and that I'm a social retard, and I think it's funny.

Right, now I know you didn't believe me about my poetic prowess, so I've decided to prove it to you. I'm a little scrambled right now, so this isn't my best attempt.

Her eyes are the colour of forget-me-nots

(forget-me-nots that got shat all over by a dog with diarrhoea, but forget-me-nots, nonetheless)

Her lips are the precise shade of blood clots

(mmm, kissy kissy)

Her skin is as soft as a baby's arse

(Johnson's baby ®)

Her... spit is as clear as a chunk of glass

(I warned you. I'm fishing for rhymes, here)

I want to hold her in my arms

(Ugh, I got a rather unpleasant trace of WESTLIFE in there. I'm severely disappointed in myself)

And enjoy all of her womanly charms

(It's only dirty if you're sick minded)

Her hair is like wine

(red, not white. I don't go for blondes. Makes me think if mum. Ugh. Sorry Pansy, Crabbe. It's not you, it's me)

I wish she was mine

(Having already used the WESTLIFE comment, I have no smart-arsed remarks for this one)

But she wants me dead

Boom-boom.

What do you think? Come on, this is only a draft. Don't judge me on this. I'll come up with something really good for tomorrow. Any way, I have to go to the kitchens and get them to make her a special breakfast. All lovely and... pink. See you.

That was totally priceless. I don't know how long I can keep this up for, but hell, it's fun while it's lasting! She bursts into tears every time I do something now. I've sent her another message asking to meet me, but I'm going to send a first year to pass on what I want to say. I'll make sure he doesn't say my name. I think there's some kind of dark curse that means he'll be torn apart by a black cloud with trolls in it if he says more than I want him to. I'll just go and look it up.

Ah, here it is. The Mangle Curse. An old favourite of my father's. I've employed an unimportant first-year to have it put on them and take the message to her in the charms classroom at midnight. I'll just go and perform it, then give him my note, and come back.

All done. He's left. I can't wait to hear this!

I'm in quite a bit of trouble. They don't know it was me who cursed the poor boy, but they're using Veritaserum to find out who was responsible for him being torn to pieces. It's a murder enquiry, but actually it was suicide. I told him what it did.

'Now, don't say my name, or you get mangled. That's why it's called the mangle curse. Very messy and unpleasant.'

Maybe he didn't understand 'mangle'. That would be a fatal error, considering the nature of the curse. At least he paid most dearly for his torturous mistake in TELLING HER THAT IT WAS ME!!! Bastard!

So now she knows. My little game is up. She sent me an owl asking to come and see her in the hospital wing, where she's being treated for severe shock. I have to go up there tonight. I can't wait to see her of course. I love her so much, but unless she's evil and barbaric, I don't quite think she'll take an exploding first-year as romantic. Well, you never know. I would.

I guess this counts as tomorrow. It's fine to put in the tomorrow slot, right? I'm disgustingly happy, right now. I suppose you want to know why? I could send you packing, if I so wished. Oh well, in this sickeningly cheery mood, I may as well tell you.

I went up there to see her, broke into the hospital wing, and sat by her bed. She looked perfectly fine, and smiled when she saw me. That was when I realised they'd memory-charmed the explosion right out of her head, and she could only remember up to being told it was me.

She sat up and held one of my hands. I perched on the end of her bed, like you do with a sick person. She thanked me for all the things I had sent her, and written her. (I am so glad I didn't get a chance to send her the most recent poem) she said that it made her really happy whenever she got something, and she had been compiling a list of who it could have been, asking questions, then ticking people off. She said I had never been on it in the first place.

Then she started telling me how attractive I was, and how she'd always been really upset when I was mean to her, because she fancied me. That made me very happy. Being a real Action-Guy, at that point I grabbed hold of her and snogged her senseless.

Now I'm covered with lipstick, dating her, and grinning like a madman. Uh oh. Mirror has just revealed that in fact, I have lipstick on my teeth, and my tongue. Miss! It's all resolved, but completely secret. I being a Slytherin and she being a Gryffindor, it would be hard to walk around arm in arm.

Well father, you had fears of my being homosexual, and then incapable of producing an heir. I'm not. You may however be just as disappointed in my choice of girlfriend. Tell you what. I don't care. Just to prove how little I care:

I'm dating Ginny Weasley!!

So you can go boil your head, and fuck your hunting dogs, for all I care.