The Other Potter. Book Four.

FOOOOD!

Everyone was freakishly quiet as the rain pelted at our windows.

Did I say everyone? I meant everyone but me.

“BORN TO BE WI–I –ILD!” I shouted.

“How did we become her friend?” Hermione muttered to the others.

“Well, Harry and I were friends with you two after the troll...What’s your excuse?” Ron said smartly.

“Err...” Hermione said looking at me as I twitched around on my chair and mumbled llama to myself.

“What about you Neville?” Harry said as Hermione failed to make an answer.

“She was...umm...Willow.” Neville said oddly. “There’s no other word for it to be honest.”

“True that.” Hermione – the girl who was named- said.

Oh my god.

Harry the boy who lived.

Hermione the girl who was named.

Ron the boy who was a ranga.

Neville the boy who called me Willow.

Willow the girl who likes llamas.

“SANITY IS OVERRATED!” I yelled as we jumped out of our carriage. We dashed up the steps too, looking up only when we were safely inside the Entrance Hall. I was the least wet out of my friends and felt very proud.

“I’m not completely drenched, it’s a miracle!” I said just before a large, red, water-filled balloon had dropped from out of the ceiling onto my head and exploded.

I staggered sideways into Harry and started shuddering. I swear that’s more ice than water.

A second water bomb dropped onto Ron, and a third narrowly missed Hermione. Skinny bitch missed water bombs.

It’s because I’m a llorse isn’t it.

People all around us shrieked – including Crabbe and Goyle which was amusing - and started pushing one another in their efforts to get out of the line of fire.

I looked up and saw, floating twenty feet above us Peeves the Poltergeist, a little man in a bell-covered hat and orange bow tie, his wide, malicious face contorted with concentration as he took aim again. 

“PEEVES!” yelled an angry voice. “Peeves, come down here at ONCE!” Professor McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress and head of Gryffindor House, had come dashing out of the Great Hall; she skidded on the wet floor and grabbed Hermione around the neck to stop herself from falling.  “Ouch - sorry, Miss Granger -” 

“That’s all right, Professor!” Hermione gasped, massaging her throat. 

“Peeves, get down here NOW!” barked Professor McGonagall, straightening her pointed hat and glaring upward through her square-rimmed spectacles. 

“YOU TELL HIM PROFEssor....” I quietened down as she shot me an incredibly stern look.

It was obvious what she was thinking.

Not five minutes here and I’m already annoying.

Not my fault I’m fishing.

That’s right, I’m fishing.

Go figure that one out.

“Not doing nothing!” cackled Peeves, lobbing a water bomb at several fifth-year girls, who screamed and dived into the Great Hall.

Bad grammar peeves.

“Already wet, aren’t they? Little squirts! Wheeeeeeeeee!” And he aimed another bomb at a group of second years who had just arrived.