Mastering the English Language

Austen,

Poppet is not an endearment. It's just not. It used by a guy with terrible grammar off of the streets of Muggle London with balding hair who defined the stereotypes of "the British have bloody terrible teeth." He uses poppet to seduce you into his bed. Well, he can't seduce you more than any living person can seduce a cucumber, but he tries. In which you run in fright to the safety of your dorm room and hide under those Godawful red comforters of yours.

See?

Bert.

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Keats,

So, let me get this straight. You are an old slimy prick with a bad toupee and in dire need of an orthodontist whose sole dream is to shag me senseless then send me on my way?

Well, in that case, this is my last letter to you.

Ever frightened,

Austen.

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Austen,

Of course not. I was just going to use poppet to freak you out. Worked didn't it?

Bert.

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Keats,

Of course it did.

I'm wondering something, Keats. I was wondering if I could confide in you. I mean, you don't know my name, and I don't know who you are. It works right?

And it's not like you're going to go posting around my letters on the walls of the Slytherin common room, correct?

Austen.

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Austen,

I'm not a good listener. Just to let you know. And if it's funny enough- I just might post it around the common room.

I'll make fun of you ruthlessly. Hold it against you. Make you feel like absolute shit.

But go ahead. Shoot.

Bert.

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Keats,

You're a very comforting kind of person. Oddly enough, I think that's what I need right now. I need someone who will probably judge me, but I won't even have to see the consequences. Coward, I know.

This is going to sound really stupid. And I'm probably talking to the wrong person, but no one will listen. Not that I've tried. I'm waiting for someone to ask. I guess I better let it go soon.

I feel as if something dramatic doesn't happen soon, I'm going to spontaneously combust. I've got too long until I graduate. I've got too long until I'm allowed to see the world. I have to long to come of age, to be old enough, to fly, to be whatever I want. Basically, I've got too for everything.

I've gotten to the point where I can't wait for the time to come when I can open my wings and fly. Hold my breath and dive into whatever awaits me at the bottom. I want the bottom, I want the top, I want all of the peripherals.

God, I want, and want, and want. And it's not like me to want. I get what I need. Not what I want. That's my philosophy. If you wait things out long enough, the desires you want will either go away, or become strong enough to need. I stopped wanting a long time ago. Wanting only creates disaster.

But I realized that I'm always wanting. And the one thing I want the most is to get the bloody hell out of here.

I don't want to become a housewitch. I don't want to bake cookies for my children. I want to make crème brulee for Parisians. And parfaits and hors d'ouvers, tiramisu and well...everything.

It's a silly passion. But mine none-the-less.

Austen.

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Austen,

That's it? I thought you were going to go on for another fifty paragraphs. I can tell you want to.

So...let me get this straight... you want to make French food for...French people...and spontaneously combust into a flaming ball of caviar and lady fingers if it doesn't happen?

You're right. It is a silly passion. But everyone has their own special way they want to die. If it involves ovens and sharp knives, then that's your prerogative.

Bert.

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Keats,

Hah, that's not exactly what I was getting at. But somehow- I think that was your way of being nice.

Thank you.

Austen.

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Austen,

I was not being nice. I told you to go and stuff yourself in an oven full of sharp utensils for Merlin's sake!

You have an awful interpretation.

Bert.

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Keats,

Well, you didn't say that per se. But if that's what your implications were.

That's how you react to my self-pity monologue? That's pretty mean if you ask me.

Austen.

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Austen,

Yes, that was what I implied. I didn't say it- but as I told you, your interpretation skills are bloody terrible.

I told you I was going to make fun of you. I don't lie. Alright, so maybe I do. But I didn't then. I'm a mean, selfish bastard. It doesn't get much worse than me.

But I suppose I do have something to say about your- whatever you called it.

You can't avoid wanting for one. I don't understand why you would want to. Want is natural. How can you not want?

I prefer want to need. Need is weak. When you need something, there's no altering it. You're just a pathetic mess who can't do anything about anything. It's just sad really. Need is not a necessity. If that makes sense.

Need turns you into a slug who just slithers around on hot pavement waiting for that moisture to return before he dies.

And that was Godawful. I'm sending it anyway.

Bert.

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Keats,

I'm impressed. The Slytherin is deep.

The slug thing was...off. But interesting. I think.

I understand. But then again- how can you help need? Need is need. That slug can't help the fact that he's going to dry up before he retrieves moisture.

Want is controllable. I'd rather do away with anything that I have responsibility over.

Austen.

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Austen,

I can't believe we're having a philosophical conversation. This is just too weird for me.

Bert.

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Keats,

Are you running away from our conversation? When I need (yes, need) advice the most, you run away?

Now, that's pathetic.

Austen.

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Austen,

I'm not running away. I just don't think a conversation like this is worth it. You don't need to hear my advice.

And honestly- my advice is- shove it and let it go. There's not much you can do about not graduating sooner. There's not much you can do about what you have set out for you. People plan your fate- and you just suck it up and take it. You can't fly, and you can't hold your breath forever. Why try so hard to live differently?

Why in Merlin's name would you even try?

Bert.

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Keats,

Why would I try? Because life means more to me that just sitting around and doing what I'm told. Life means more to me that just looking at things like they don't have meaning. They're not just there to be there. Life is not this shapeless thing that you lead without hesitation.

Austen.

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Austen,

Life isn't shapeless. It has exactly what people have planned out for you. You can't do anything about it.

It's not worth fighting.

Keats.

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Keats,

People shouldn't run other peoples lives. It's not theirs to run.

I think you're making excuses for yourself.

Austen.

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Austen,

And pray tell, what exactly am I making an excuse for? You going to give me the stereotypical Slytherin heir response? Because I've heard it before. Don't bother.

And maybe you're right.

What if I am supposed to become a Death Eater? What are you going to tell me what exactly I should do about that? Pour in as much passion into every blink, chew, scratch that I do?

Sure. I'll get right on that.

Keats.

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Keats,

I'll tell you that you should do what you need. What you need to do to make you happy. If becoming a murderous, baby-killing, parent-stealing bastard will make you happy, then by all means, go for it.

But happiness shouldn't be this mythical, unobtainable object. I don't understand what happiness seems so hard for people. If you work hard enough, you'll get it.

Austen.

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Austen,

Oh, please. This is coming from the girl who didn't know what she wanted to do with her life? This girl who isn't happy with what she's doing with life? The girl who can't wait to get out of here because she is so completely and utterly unhappy with how her life is going?

And not only that- but she's telling me that not only is she whining about her unsatisfying life, but she's not doing anything about it to change it. You're not working for anything. You're probably sitting in your window seat, staring at the snow-covered campus and wondering what it is to live and if you're doing right. Let me tell you something.

You're not.

Keats.

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Keats,

What am I supposed to do? Drop out of school? Go to a culinary school in Paris that I can't afford? Travel the world and see everything I want while underage and out of school?

And what the hell are you? Some disgusting controller of fate? Who the fuck do you think you are to tell me I'm not living?

You tell me that need is a weakness. That passion is worthless. That not trying is bravery. You have these false ideas of life. And I can't begin to describe how completely lackluster they are. Living a life like that is worse than murdering a child. You're murdering yourself.

You live in bravado, Keats.

Look it up.

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Austen,

You live in hypocrisy. You say that happiness is obtainable- but when someone tells you to go obtain your happiness you give all of the reasons you shouldn't. Now, if that's the life to live- then I most definitely want that.

You have no idea what I believe. Don't even try. Your arguments are mute and pointless.

Bravado does not exist in my dictionary, darling.

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Keats,

Then I stand by my point, love.