potterstinks: No subject.

As if it weren't bad enough to be sent on a field trip with Weasley as a partner and Finch-Fletchley and Brown and Bones to rely on in a safety group--which is, of course, some sort of sadistic joke--Lupin decided to up the ante of torture by forcing upon us the most despicable thing he would think of. He made us wear Muggle clothes. Muggles have no taste whatsoever in fabrics. My Mother would have been scandalised to see the sort of clothing--used, might I add, I've probably contracted a virus--I was forced to wear. Morgana is likely rolling in her impeccably tended grave. Pureblood wizards weren't meant to spend hours in denim. Not to mention that Muggles are too insipid to tell front from back and so insert irritating tags into the back of every item of clothing. A more offensive accessory put on a Malfoy, I cannot recall. I'm surprised my neck wasn't sliced to shreds. In any case there's no point denying that I took my wand along, so I did away with that.

And another thing. Why should we have kept our wands at Hogwarts? We were sent into Muggle London. It's a good thing I was prepared, or the whole class might have died. Of course, I am only one person, so I may not have been able to save the rest of you, but at least I would have lived to tell the tale. I borrowed a first year's wand and turned that in instead.

In any case, the Ministry was a real hoot. Due to being partnered with Weasley, I got to spend a brilliant amount of time with Arthur 'Combover' Weasley. The man is just as banal as My Father always said. He kept going on about some stupid Muggle thing called a stapler. He actually had the nerve to ask me to pick one up for him when we went into London. Then he gave Weasley a pot of stew. It smelt. I should know, as I had to walk around next to it all day, and I assumed that Weasley's already unpleasant odour could not get any worse. Weasley also received a paper sack, which he kept trying to make me carry. I am hardly a house-elf. My skin isn't green. I don't wear linens and you'll never spot me crying into a bottle of butterbeer. And yet, Weasley entertained the notion of handing me spare parcels.

In a stroke of as much fortune one can find when one is travelling with a circus, after Weasley's nose stopped swelling we were granted permission to return to Diagon Alley or roam Muggle London in the afternoon. I, of course, voted Diagon Alley, but Weasley and the majority of the group seemed genuinely interested in Muggle London. I tried to alert them of their mistake, but by that time, me, my stupid 'jeans,' Weasley's sack and the scent of stew were already being swept away.

It was at this point that I realised Finch-Fletchley was watching me with alarming closeness and clenching his fists repeatedly. I, of course, thought it a tad odd, but was far more concerned with getting as far away from Weasley as possible. Herein lies the mistake, as Finch-Fletchley seized the opportunity to seek glory and revenge for having to put up with Bones' smiling breasts. He got me lost and ditched me in a novelty shop.

Well, I certainly don't like to say I told you so, but I told you so. I told you Finch-Fletchley was an incompetent group lead. Now he's just gone one step further to prove his malevolence. Clearly the boy is deranged. In any case, he led me to a shop, laughed like a hyena, and ran off, leaving me with no guide and uncomfortable clothes all by myself.

Naturally there are more Weasleys than non-Weasleys, so it was only a matter of time before I recognised the stench of burnt hair and spotted A Boy and His Stew, also lost. Being the clever lad that he is, Weasley accused me of losing the entire school, and then forced me to get my wand out in public. I don't even know how he knew I had my wand, but he was incensed. 'Draco Malfoy,' he said to me, 'you have shamed my family with the class you possess that we simply do not for the last time. I do not have one minute need to take this lying down. It is killin' time, boy. If only I had a switch. Take out your wand, my more handsome enemy, or it's stew for you.'

He was so crazed, I had little choice but to stand there holding my wand in public view. Finally, after a few minutes passed, he was satisfied that it was enough to get me in trouble, and began throwing sanitary pads at me.

It's good to know that Weasley keeps a calm head in a situation where the both of us were likely to die. Of course, being as malnourished (and yet, still remarkably thick-skinned) as he is, Weasley would have dropped off first. As I don't fancy uncooked meat with ringworm in it, I doubt I'd have resorted to eating Weasley to stay alive, so I would have perished. I could have become a skeleton lying in the middle of the pavement, and Weasley was busy throwing little pink bandages.

Eventually I convinced the Weasel that name-calling was foolish and sent him into a shop to find directions to the Toque. He had to buy something to get them, and of course he said I had to pay for it. My pocket money for the week seems to have disappeared. Probably petit larceny. In any case, I had no Muggle money, nor the pound of flesh Weasel wanted, so he decided to scratch off the lottery ticket he'd purchased on his own.

And he won.

Weasley, who owes My Family about 5,000 Galleons for MURDERING my owl, won the sodding lottery. And the little flea tried to make off with it! Of course, I simply couldn't let that be, so I took the ticket myself. Since I'd been left in the savage Muggle wilderness to starve, also known as die, I also took his stew. It was only fair.

Since I knew I'd likely been left for dead, I decided to rely on my survival instinct and faced the wild alone. Of course, it's still rather cold out, so I could have frozen, what with the pitiful layers of protection I was provided with. Fortunately, I got Sally-Anne to return my lip balm before she fled to Durmstrang, so at least my lips weren't destroyed by the bitter, polluted air. It was a harsh day, indeed. As I was saying, relying on my survival instinct, I found myself in a sporting goods shop. Their selection of broomsticks was virtually nonexistent, so I couldn't fly off. Instead I found a sack of clubs used for beating people called Golf and/or people swimming in a Gulf. Actually I can't see what they're for, but they're evidently called golf clubs, so you can draw your own conclusions. At any rate, they seemed like reasonable protection. A bit modernised, but rather staff-like. However, the clerk, a Mr Bill Oldham, who rather stupidly gave me his name, refused to accept my lottery ticket for trade. First he thought I'd stolen it. As though I look like I need to steal. Then he became very nervous, probably intimidated, which he then took out on me by shouting like a buffoon. I try to do the man business and he threatens to 'ring' My Parents. Honestly.

At this point, I suppose, someone has finally realised I am missing because Potter, such a bloody ray of sunshine that he is, shows up and steals my golf clubs. Actually, he bought them, but I doubt he'd have thought of it on his own, so they're mine. Of course, as it turns out, no one has noticed I am missing, as Potter seems to be looking for Weasley and I just happen to have got in the way. Then, apparently Potter realised I was the one in charge and started following me around with my golf clubs. I'd hoped to find a Muggle named Golf, and I suspect we passed at least one, as a few Muggles looked slightly frightened at the sight of the Golf clubs.

I thought it best to try to cash my lottery ticket, but how am I supposed to know where to do that? The only thing I know of in Muggle London is the Tomb, and I doubt they have that kind of money on Muggle trains. I doubt Muggle trains were even built with that kind of money. So of course I couldn't cash it in, as for some reason they wouldn't allow me into any information desks with my stew.

Of course, my day was positively wretched. I was feeling absolutely faint throughout the entirety of it. My toes have barely healed from Millicent breaking them, and now I'm sure they're irreparable. You'd think Potter could have bothered to get us a cab well before he did, but instead he seemed intent on making certain that my toes were crushed into smithereens as we crossed the entirety of England from one end to another. After all that, the stupid stew wasn't even good. I'm surprised I didn't pass out for lack of real food. My Father would not be pleased to know that I was subjected to this sort of torture, I am certain. Surely he will have an objection to this.

This all could have easily been solved if Lupin had taken my intial advice to allow me to go without a partner. If I'd never been stuck with Weasley, my toes wouldn't have got more broken then they already were, and I wouldn't have had to spend the day listening to Potter clank along with those stupid golf clubs. Incidentally, I've kept them, but I haven't figured out what to use them for. Crabbe suggests throwing them at Queenie. I imagine their day was better than mine, so I can't see what he's complaining about. Queenie sitting on Crabbe's chocolate frogs is of no comparison to the blisters on my ankles and the frostbite I could've got.

Once Diagon Alley was found and Lupin and Weasley's father discovered the truth behind my lottery ticket, of course they decided to take it to Dumbledore instead. Evidently the money owed to My Family will be sent to My Father's account at Gringotts, and the pitiful remainder will go to the Weasleys to make sure their house doesn't fall down, I suppose. I, on the other hand, haven't seen a red Knut as of yet. Of course, it's only been about an hour, but you'd think that after I carried it all that way, I'd at least be entitled to part of it. I'm sure My Father will see to it eventually.

Of course, I'm now entirely exhausted from all of that leadership and ended up falling asleep in the cab on the way back to Diagon Alley, only to wake up to find that the side of my head feels rather sore. In fact, I think I'm developing a lump. Potter must have shoved my head into the window while I was resting my eyes. I may be suffering a brain haemorrhage. In any case, I still have to meet with Professor Flitwick. Lord knows why. I'm fairly certain he just wanted to join in on the 'Let us argue over which of us is best suited to choke Draco Malfoy with a pastry' contest and will probably suffocate me with a loose croissant as he's missed that the game is over. It's only suiting, anyway, that I should die at the hands of Flitwick after the day's atrocities. Perhaps they'll even bury me in denim.

Oh, and Professor Vector, I'll be expecting those points now.

arithmantra @ 2003-04-14 11:02 pm UTC

Of course, Mr. Malfoy. I am dreadfully sorry to hear your excursion was so trying. As per our agreement, that would be ten points for allowing someone else to buy your golf clubs, ten points for allowing them to pay for the cab fare, and ten points for letting them escort you safely back to the other students. All in all, thirty points to Slytherin, and I think 30 points to Gryffindor as well, for Mr. Potter's good will. Were there any other specific instances where you accepted help from another student during your day?

potterstinks @ 2003-04-14 11:14 pm UTC

Actually, I let Potter carry around some Golf clubs all day as well as buying them. Oh, and I let Weasley give me 7,000 Galleons.