AN:/ This is easily the most ridiculous, and stupid thing I've ever written. Enjoy!
From the tired mind and rather unwilling quill of Star E. Thorne:
October 16th 1976
The strangest thing just happened.
Prongs came strutting over, not a moment ago, and shoved a piece of mangy old parchment and a quill in my hands. Then he sent an unidentified flying jinx straight at me and ran for the hills (er... Portrait hole).
Padfoot stuck around long enough to explain that James has cursed me with a writing-jinx and that I will have to suffer the whole damn day writing my every waking (and insane) thought onto this bloody piece of parchment. Or at least until Prongs decides to kindly lift said jinx. Did I mention that it's also my birthday today?
Conniving little shits I have for mates, right?
That warm thought became especially strong due to the fact I now also need the loo, and I look like a loon, and this day is just ridiculous! Right from the moment James rolled into the common room this morning - yes, literally rolled - did I mention that he is also a bloody loon? The lot of them are all a touch mad in the head (though I'm really not one to make comments either, I suppose).
Right. So. I just went to the loo and it was incredibly difficult, let me tell you. I can't put down the bloody parchment or the self inked quill and ended up having to do a very awkward little shimmy to-
You know what, never mind.
Moving onwards and upwards (literally) as I ascended the stairs and paid special mind to avoid the trick step. There's no way I would have gotten out of that one all by myself, sans wand or help. I would have been a helpless mercy spectacle for all to see, trapped in a bloody hollowed out step until the lads (or some other sorry sod) came to my rescue.
I wonder where those buggers went off to, anyways… It's almost as though they're hiding from me, the stupid berks. It's my bloody birthday and all that my mates have to show for it is avoidance of their favourite girly-mate and childish jinxes!
I'm going to kill James when I get my hands on him... if I can find him that is.
Well, ruminations of murder aside, it's been a rather peachy afternoon. I decided to go for a stroll through the grounds and search for the lads (as well as ways to ruin them all piece by piece for leaving me in such a state, today of all days).
They're definitely up to something.
Oh-ho, I've just spotted Remus up ahead - he looks quite surly and put-off, but has dutifully stepped beside me anyhow on my journey to find the rest of the missing Marauders.
I'm getting rather bored from writing. All afternoon. On my birthday. I told Moony as such and he just bloody laughed at me. Wanker.
I tried to stop writing over lunch and the mad, possessed quill just began scribbling with my hand still on it. It was all rather creepy in all honesty, so I've decided to just be at peace with the damn thing.
I tell you this, in the deepest of irritation, because of this stupid sodding jinx… and my daft friends.
I've never held any inclination towards documenting my every thought, but I am anyways because, yes you have guessed it, I am writing this. Yet again. No need to beat me over the bloody head with it.
Being a narrative is extremely taxing work, one I don't intend to do again as long as I live. Unless I'm being forced to do so against my will, much like the current predicament I find myself in. But nevertheless, I prevail.
So, I'm now finding myself along a beaten path (beaten, much like my pride) that I know will take me behind the greenhouses. I always knew Herbology would be the death of me, I've been saying it for years, but does anyone listen? No! And look at where it's bloody well brought me! Nobody in their right mind would be caught dead back here, other than a few chosen exhibitionists (ie: Sirius) and select shady individuals that chose to part-take in other illicit activities (ie: yours truly).
Ah, coming up ahead on the other side of the Greenhouses would be the Marauders' favourite hang out spot - nice and close to the castle, but far away enough from prying eyes that are all just gagging to know what we're planning next. Alright, maybe not gagging. Unless you're Alyssa Price, the seventh-year Ravenclaw bint - in which case, you'd constantly be gagging - if you catch my drift.
Do you, dear reader? I suppose I could explain-
\-\-
Sorry about that, Remus was looking over my shoulder and was quite horrified with what I had written thus far and tried to snatch my bloody parchment away before I could get a word in edge-wise on the topic of stupid gagging bints. Jokes on you, Moony, my parchment is stuck to my hands.
Shit. Remus just smacked me for writing that! Bloody brutality of the worst kind, I tell you. This boy is clearly in desperate need of some anger management therapy and Matron Star prescribes a healthy dose of spliffs and werewolf lovin'-
The bloody heathen just hit me again! This is abuse! Oh Merlin, I have half a mind to storm right up to the pitch (my next stop up ahead) and get the lads to knock some bloody sense into Moony!
Remus is scowling now, and it's bloody hilarious because he knows he isn't going to like what I write, but the sodding lunatic can't help himself from reading it either. What a predicament, dearest Moony. I am ever sympathetic to your cause. I wish I could stop writing too, but alas, I'm trapped in this endless trance between my quill and parchment and nothing can stop me (short of James actually lifting the bloody curse).
Now we are approaching the pitch. Remus is presently sulking though, so he's walking ahead of me and pretending he can't hear me. I called him a furry little wanker when he tried to snatch the parchment away again (which he didn't get very far with the second time, seeing as it's still stuck in my hands. Merlin, Moony certainly is slow with the uptake sometimes). I wonder what will happen when I run out of room on my parchment? Will I start writing all over my arms and legs and face in a desperate writing-curse filled frenzy? Maybe I'll just write on Prongs, serves the treacherous git right for leaving me in such a state (and I must stress) on my birthday - while he goes off to play Quidditch.
Do you hear me, Prongs? You haven't heard the end of Star Thorne, and you would do best to dodge that berserk Bludger that's zooming straight for your head!
Yes, I actually shouted all of that to James just now, who I startled immensely, much to my satisfaction. There was no bludger, but that didn't stop the look of pure terror to creep up his stupid face before he wised up. Silly Prongs.
Sirius is laughing hysterically now, gripping tightly to his broom so he doesn't fall off and plummet to the ground like some useless paper-weight twit. That wouldn't be funny.
Alright it wouldn't be that funny.
Remus is scolding me again. I can't take much more of this bloody mistreatment, and I am going to give James a piece of my mind once he gets back down to the ground. I'm sitting along the sideline with a very disgruntled Moony and watching the lads (and two ladies) swirl around the air (which is very very boring).
Peter spotted me and is now rushing over to sit with us I presume... unless his goal was to actually trip down three rows of seats and land squarely on his backside (which just happened, much to my delight). Moony actually growled at me just now because I couldn't stop laughing and walked off in a strop to go help poor Wormy - who appears to be stuck. Today is just brilliant, writing-curse aside. Note to self: definitely need to throttle James soon, that will be my birthday gift to myself.
It looks like rain today. Hm. That would be rather unfortunate, wouldn't it? It would be just terrible business if the heavens suddenly opened up and a big horrible bolt of lightning struck James down in his path of smugness and righteousness.
Alright, alright, I guess that would be terrible. I can't very well throttle James if he's dead now can I?
Note to self: must ponder my terrible ethics later.
Peter and Remus have returned and the latter looks furious with me, but I must not regress. There is much to say and plenty of time to kill before said throttling can take place. Maybe I should use this time wisely and concoct an elaborate scheme in which James Potter will be at my mercy.
Oh, buggering hell.
Remus has just stalked off to the pitch, presumably to warn James of my undealt wrath. Sodding treacherous, I say.
Perhaps Moony should be added to my hit-list. Hmmmmm, indeed.
Looks like practice is all finished, the time for revenge is nye and fast approaching. I can practically taste my sweet, sweet victory already.
Nevermind. Peter, ever the helpful sort, has just shoved a small handful of Bertie Botts in my mouth (seeing as both of my hands are otherwise occupied with said writing).
Oh Merlin, I'm going to get Prongs good, but I will NOT write my idea, lest my plans get foiled once again by conniving werewolves and the like.
Sirius and Remus are walking this way now, talking in hushed voices. But James-
Shit!
James is flying away to the castle, the bloody coward! Curse you, Remus Lupin; you are definitely on my hit-list now!
Sirius is both gross and muddy and has placed his sopping wet head on my shoulder to read what I've written thus far. At least someone enjoys my ill-advised humor, Prongs throttling and all. I knew I kept Padfoot around for some insane reason, and this must be it. He's the only one who will put up with my innate buffoonery as much as I put up with his.
Never mind.
The cheeky wanker just pinched my bum, sniggered and then ran off before I could even berate him for it! Oh yes, he goes on the list too. I'll hex that poncy little tashe off his upper lip so fast that he won't even have time for a weepy little goodbye (which he undoubtedly would - weep that is, he's oddly proud of the stupid thing. I personally think it looks more like an underdeveloped caterpillar).
Why is the whole bloody universe against me today? It's my birthday (which is supposed to be both a glorious occasion and an ill-advised-plotting free day as Moony put it (on the second account at least)).
Is it karma for putting itching powder in all of the lad's beds? Or for accidentally lighting Prongs's trousers on fire and then laughing hysterically? Or maybe the elaborate booby trap that I set up with Padfoot last week...
Only Wizard-God himself could know that I suppose. Although there probably is no Wizard-God. Hm. I shall delegate with Padfoot later when we go out for a puff, perhaps he knows if a Wizard-God of sorts exists.
...Now I really do hope that Wizard-God does exist, so he can smite down James Potter right where he stands (or wherever he went, because I have no buggering clue) and restore me to my former non-writing glory... and pause the rain for a few moments so I can make it back to the castle without getting soaking wet.
Oh, bless Peter's sweet heart. He has graciously conjured an umbrella (seeing as my wand hand is still otherwise occupied) and is sheltering me back to the castle! Wormtail, you are my savior and I'm sorry (sort of) for laughing when you hilariously rolled down the stands earlier. Wormy says it's okay and Merlin, am I glad that I have at least one true friend (the other three can go rot in Wizard-Hell for all I care).
Ah, I made it back to the castle mostly unscathed but a tad drippy and snivelly from the rain.
This ink is bloody marvelous by the way, not a smudge to be seen! I must get some more next time we go down to Hogsmeade for supplies. I'd make a note of that, but I suppose I just did, so I'll just hope that I remember to check this again once James lifts the curse. That doesn't seem terribly likely however, so I told Wormy to remind me later on.
Oh no, my hand is starting to cramp up (bloody miracle it hadn't happened already, actually). Well this is no good. How am I supposed to throttle Prongs with a wonky, cramped up claw that looks suspiciously like my Gran's?
Yes, maybe a new plan should be put in motion.
By the way, Wormtail, I know you're reading this: So, don't tell James, or you'll be in my bad books forever and will lose 50 friend points.
Good lad.
By now I'll have to throttle James at least ten-fold (though I'm too lazy to go back and count).
But thankfully we've successfully completed our journey to the portrait hole and are now climbing through to the... suspiciously quiet common-room.
That's odd.
Where the hell is everybody?
...
...
HOLY MERLIN ON A SOGGY TIT CRACKER!
It's a bloody surprise party! For me! Though now I have an extra reason to kill James: for nearly giving me a coronary.
...and he knows I hate surprises!
Though I suppose I can't stay too cross with him, or the others. It's a rather sweet gesture now that I've calmed down my panicked heart enough to think about it.
...
Prongs finally approached a throttling distance but the bastard managed to talk his way out of it. For now.
As it turns out, this was why he struck me with his blasted little jinx this morning. He reckons that I'm rather hard to distract and keep occupied for more than a few minutes at a time (extremely true), so this was genius, really. Who would have thought Prongs actually has a real working brain?
Oh, bleeding hell.
It turns out it was Padfoots idea all along. I should have known. Although I don't really have the heart to throttle him thoroughly, so perhaps I'll let him off the hook just this once. Prongs is the one who executed the jinx after all.
Thank Merlin, James is freeing me from my horrid writing-jinx HELL.
SWEET CIRCE, IT'S FINALLY HAPPENING.
Hurrah! Happy birthday to me, indeed!
X
Hello again.
I have exacted my revenge (and no longer hold the itching need to write my every waking thought, but alas - I've grown quite fond of it now and felt that an update was in order). James was unceremoniously shoved face first into my cake and remerged equally furious as he was dripping frosting from his glasses.
The best part was when Padfoot stuck his foot out (the sneaky little bugger) and James went flying backwards onto the drinks table (Sirius charmed all of the drinks to float beforehand) and landed backwards in Evans's lap. She turned bright red and screamed and cursed his very existence, so now Prongs is sulking and holding his assaulted cheek and shooting death glares over at us from the corner of the room.
Pads agrees that while it was indeed a very spectacular show, we should still apologize because Prongs has a very delicate ego, and he did work rather hard with the others to pull off this shindig. So reluctantly, l shall - but only because it's my bloody birthday and I want to spend time with all of my mates. On all other accounts, I'm rather pleased with myself.
So I shall now bid you adieu, for Padfoot is whisking me away to the drinks table so we can all have a round and make peace with the day - Marauder style.
Ps, I've already thought of how I'm getting James back. Let's just say his birthday will go off with a bang (and it may or may not involve a tutu and a comically large spatula).
Ta-ra!
-Signing off with my no longer unwilling, though still slightly reluctant quill,
Star E. Thorne
AN:/ Please review!