The Other Potter. Book Four.

Blargh. Chapter that is crap.

The storm had blown itself out by the following morning, though the ceiling in the Great Hall was still gloomy.

Nothing could change the bad arse mood I was in.

I felt like hitting things, punching things, killing people, stabbing things. ROAR!

And I had a strange urge to bake cupcakes.

Please explain.

We examined our new course schedules at breakfast. A few seats along, Fred, George, and Lee Jordan were discussing magical methods of aging themselves and bluffing their way into the Triwizard Tournament. 

I could have shot George then and there.

“Today’s not bad… outside all morning,” said Ron, who was running his finger down the Monday column of his schedule. “Herbology with the Hufflepuffs and Care of Magical Creatures… damn it, we’re still with the Slytherins…” 

“Double Divination this afternoon,” Harry groaned, looking down.

“HA!” I said feeling like rubbing in the fact that I had magical Drama to do.

 “You should have given it up like me and Wil, shouldn’t you?” said Hermione briskly, buttering herself some toast. “Then you’d be doing something sensible like Arithmancy.” 

“You’re eating again, I notice,” said Ron, watching Hermione adding liberal amounts of jam to her toast too. 

“I’ve decided there are better ways of making a stand about elf rights,” said Hermione haughtily. 

“Yeah… and you were hungry,” said Ron, grinning.

“Yeah, I could hear her stomach growling all night.” I said mockingly. STOP BEING A BITCH!

“You’re in a charming mood this morning.” Hermione snapped.

“I FEEL LIKE KILLING EVERYONE!” I shouted. Quite a few heads turned my way. “I shouldn’t have shouted that out, should I?”

There was a sudden rustling noise above us, and a hundred owls came soaring through the open windows carrying the morning mail.

Instinctively, I looked up, but no one sends me owls anyway. I should just eat my cinnamon toast. I WANT TO MAKE CUPCAKES AND STOP BEING BITCHY!

NOW I FEEL LIKE BREAKING DOWN AND CRYING!

OH MY GOD!

WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME?

I’d say its hormones.

PMS BULLSHIT!

I was preoccupied with trying to not talk and be nice to people.

In Herbology, I was distracted from being a bitch by Professor Sprout showing us the fugliest plants I had ever seen. Indeed, they looked less like plants than thick, black, giant slugs, protruding vertically out of the soil. Each was squirming slightly and had a number of large, shiny swellings upon it, which appeared to be full of liquid. 

“I’m not fricking touching that.” I snapped.

Puswillow. What?

“Bubotubers,” Professor Sprout told them briskly. “They need squeezing. You will collect the pus -”  “The what?” said Seamus Finnigan, sounding revolted.  

“Pus, Finnigan, pus,” said Professor Sprout, “and it’s extremely valuable, so don’t waste it. You will collect the pus, I say, in these bottles. Wear your dragon-hide gloves; it can do funny things to the skin when undiluted, bubotuber pus.”