So so so sorry about the wait, lovies. I promise to be better next time. I'm definitely trying to do tooooo much and my fics are suffering for it. The upside? It's REALLY long.
SPOILER!!: quotes and stuff
Quote:
Originally Posted by
Miss Evi3e <3 
Oh he's being kind, i likey
GREAT chapter, and i like Ally's way of thinking, Veela's hmm.. *thinks*
I wonder if she'll see Harry/Al again
PAMS!
I think sometimes Brad CAN be nice... very very occasionally.
And it wouldn't be much of a story if she didn't see him again, right?
Quote:
Originally Posted by
Lindzers This is amazing! I just read the first few chapters and I can't stop laughing. Especially when she first meets "Harry Potter".
I subscribed!
Welcome to the story! Hope you enjoy this chapter
Quote:
Originally Posted by
KatielovesHP Fabulous work!!!
The slime on the flip flop bit was hilarious. I thought about Veelas as soon as he mentioned French.
I'm glad you're still here! Hope you're still my fact checker. This was a hard one, so PM me if you catch anything.
Quote:
Originally Posted by
emilyblack Haha, loving the checklist
As soon as you mentioned French, I thought of Veelas! Sweetness!
Hilarious as usual and I loved the post! PLEASE PAMS!
Sounds like French = Veela for a lot of us, huh? Glad you enjoyed the post. Keep reading.
Quote:
Originally Posted by
Droo Fangirl cause he's the chosen one.... - check! LOL
This is how I talk to my brother. Toterly.
I must be channeling a mix of Jer's brother and yours for Brad.
Quote:
Originally Posted by
Grangerfn1 Hahahaha. MEN. That's all I've gotta say.
What a stud.
I like this story and I like you and I think you're BRILLIANT. Mmm. 
I like that you like this story, and I think you're precious. Mmm.
Quote:
Originally Posted by
IluvvDracoMalfoy Haha that made me laugh *maybe they're veelas* Love this, pams!!
See? Everyone knew they were veelas even before Ally did!
Quote:
Originally Posted by
buckeye_forever sheesh, you are hilarious. for realz.
Sister! HI! I'm glad I got you back on SS, even for a little visit. Keep visiting? Come stay in my house?
Quote:
Originally Posted by
Pottergrl101 omg i died at the hobbit comet,i almost hope it's Al but I would lvoe either!! ahahaha! Veelas! Ofcourse brad would go there
It would be SO funny to spot a hobbit, but... can you imagine how that would go? Although, there's a guy at work who's kind of short, and I make hobbit jokes all the time. Not that unusual.
Quote:
Originally Posted by
Pink Ninja I am like SO late on commenting on the last post. *kicks self*
Your stalker does indeed approve my friend
I have to agree with... someone... the hobbit comment was genius. It was giggle inducing indeed.
Bad stalker! Glad you're still enjoying the story, and I hope this meets with your approval. How were the s'mores?
Quote:
Originally Posted by
SenoritaMaxie LOL.
She should have unchecked 'glasses.' 
Yeah, but just because he wasn't wearing them doesn't mean he'll NEVER wear them. Maybe he was swimming or something.
Quote:
Originally Posted by Maxie
Harry!Al. That makes me think of Harry!Po, instead of Harry Potter. Which, in turn, makes me think of Kung Fu Panda. =D
I do the ! thing a lot... so Ally does it a lot. Hm. I might be channeling her.
Quote:
Originally Posted by Maxie
I was going to say he's sweet for helping her out, but two sentences into the paragraph, I decided against it. Never under estimate the power of older brothers. They are... fascinating creatures.
Quote:
Originally Posted by Maxie
ZOMG! HOBBITS! Do we get to see hobbits, do we, do we, do we?
*flailFLAIIIIIILS*
You figure out how to fit that in, and I'm all over it. Let's add some Mad Hatter and Anne of Green Gables, while we're at it.
Quote:
Originally Posted by Maxie
Good update, Eriinnnn.
Give us another one, soon? ^__________^
*huggles*
Took a long time, didn't it? Sorry about that.
***
Day 1, Part 5
A point of interest. The reason the store on the opposite shoreline didn’t look much like a store is because it is not, in fact, a store. I’m not sure if it even qualifies as a proper building, having no roof and dilapidated walls, but the 'building' is some sort of miniature castle with a crumbling wall that stretches out a few hundred feet before giving up and collapsing into the lake.
And it is really really old.
When we say stuff is old in the US, we could be referring to that crazy old house down the street that’s 30 years old or, sometimes, to some log cabin where the logs and daub have been replaced over and over for the past 200 years and there’s nothing very old about it except the way it smells and the speech they give you about drying herbs and making your own butter.
It’s sort of lame. Actually, it’s really lame when you realize what ‘old’ means here in England. A castle that’s 200 years old would be a little baby castle. Not even historically significant. 500 years. 1000 years. That’s old. And old castles, even without ceilings and with rubble all over the ground, are very NOT lame.
I would be willing to forget about Brad and the store in favor of climbing all the stairs leading up into the wreckage, except that my extremely well-spoken and intelligent brother pauses at the point where the weathered boards of the dock met a sidewalk leading around the castle-thing.
“What
now?” he sighs. I’m so sorry if my falling down and injuring myself is SO inconvenient for you, Arm Pit. My bum and I apologize profusely.
But rather than my pithy reply, I simply hurry to join him on the sidewalk. “You are such a Drama Mama, Brad. Do you need some smelling salts before you swoon again?”
“I…” Any retort is replaced by the forehead-wrinkle-of-confusion of which my brother is so skilled. Kat, the best friend from home, says he looks like a confuzzled little puppy when he makes that face. I maintain that he looks like evolution skipped back a couple models to regurgitate him. “I have no clue what you’re talking about. Can we just GO?”
“They have a castle,” I point up at the pile of rock. From up close, the slanted masonry is covered with a fine web of ivy that climbs right up to the rampart. Tufts of leafy plants poke through the stones wherever the stone has crumbled away. Or maybe the stone crumbled away because the plant was poking through?
“There are more than 1000 castles in England, Ug. I’m not sure this one even qualifies,” Brad doesn’t seem overly impressed by the castle. Bet he WOULD be impressed if it was female or made of donuts or something.
“What do you know about castles? It isn’t like we have them all over back home.”
“Did you even open the guidebook Mom bought you?” Is it possible my idiotic brother just channeled Hermione Granger for a moment?
Haven’t you ever read Hogwarts, A History? The world goes upside down.
“Can we just… ice cream?” More than anything, I would just like to pretend the thought never entered my mind. Arm Pit Cope ≠ Hermione Granger.
The sidewalk ends at a road that curves through a postcard town and disappears between several stone buildings. They aren’t nearly as old and crumbly as the castle, but they have a quaint appeal. Across the street is a block of narrow storefronts, each with a roof like a pitched tent of straw. The whole effect is just
charming, as Mom would say.
Brad gestures to what has to be some sort of grocery store, easily identifiable by the bins of produce lining the sidewalk and the bright red Coca-Cola machine just visible through the plate glass window, and we cross the road in that direction.
As we approach, three blond girls leave the store, and within the space of a moment, Brad manages to make the twelve inches between us seem more like twelve feet. Twelve COUNTRIES. I no longer exist in the land of Brad and The Veelas. They aren’t uncommonly pretty, or anything… just the regular kind of pretty. But I’m a girl, so maybe it doesn’t work on me.
“Get lost, Ug. I’ll find you later,” he somehow orders me away without moving his lips, and then he’s surrounded by the veela girls and I’m left alone on the pavement. This… is abandonment. People go to JAIL for stuff like this.
I stomp into the store. Gracefully, though. I stomp gracefully. Outside the door, the weather is beginning to feel muggy and oppressive, but the air conditioning is on full blast inside. My wet toes immediately freeze into ten mini popsicles. Toesicles. Whatever.
The state of my toes and the fate of my brother don’t really bother me at the moment, though, because I spot a familiar dark head of hair examining a rack of postcards. There are lots of shots of the village at twilight, a few with those straw roofs covered in snow, and more than one postcard has a herd of sheep standing in the middle of the main street I just left behind.
That one might be my favorite.
I am fully prepared to launch myself at Harry!Al, just to see if he always shoves away completely hot girls who are hugging him, or if he only does that when they show signs of a mental disorder… but I realize something. He isn't alone this time.
There's a girl with him. That red-haired girl from the dock.
Ginger, I remind myself. Call her a ginger.
At the dock, all I noticed was the peculiar color of her hair. 'Red' always refers to a whole range of colors, from strawberry blond to auburn to that fake orange-red rock stars use to the nearly maroon you see on TV vampires. But the ginger girl's hair is actually red. Not red-blond or red-brown or red-orange. Dark red and completely straight past her shoulders. Wonder if she dyes it.
But here in the store, and now that I'm totally used to her hair color, I notice other things. Like the fact that she's got a pretty sun-freckled face that is almost completely hidden by the sulky look permanently glued to it. Or the fact that she keeps touching Al on the arm like they're absolute besties. Or like she's his girlfriend.
Girlfriend.
Which brings us to an interesting ethical dilemma. If, in fact, Al is actually Harry Potter, and we know without a doubt that Harry Potter is destined to be with Ginny Weasley, then... is it wrong to want to stab her in the face with a fudgesicle? Am I stepping on the toes of the fiction gods or the literary powers that be?
I totally don't want to step on any toes, but sending Harry Potter to my British vacation and then not letting me have at him is sort of like taunting nifflers with leprechaun gold and then letting it disappear as soon as they get their little sniffley paws on it. It's cruel and unusual. I don't know the laws over here in the UK, but that is NOT COOL in the US.
So I play it dumb as I sidle up to Al and the Ginger, giving him a little flirty finger wave. Trust me. It is a KILLER move. He sort of quirks a half smile at me and raises his hand in return, which earns a hard glare at us both from the Ginger.
I am feeling very unkindly toward you, Ginny Weasley.
"Al. You said you'd buy me something," she whines, and it is suddenly very clear that I have ceased to exist.
"Shut uuuuuuup," he rolls his eyes at her before planting a hand in the middle of her back and propelling her down the aisle. Away from us and toward the freezer cases in the back of the store
Yay. He wants to be alone. With me.
“I’m TELLING,” she hisses before disappearing at the turn in the aisle. That didn’t exactly sound like the lovey dovey language one would expect from a devoted Weasley girl, who has loved him since they first met.
Al shoves his untidy hair off his forehead, leaving it in a sweaty spike. In this air conditioned icebox, it’s likely to freeze that way. “Sorry about my sister. She’s kind of permanently cranky. I’ve told Mum it’s a glandular disorder, but she swears Red’s just suffering from hormones.”
I zip right past the sister part. Wait. Red? WHAT HAPPENED TO GINGER? “What’s her name?”
He does one of those long, slow blinks, like he can’t believe I’m asking questions about his sister when my typical intense focus is usually on him. “Uh. We call her Red? ‘Cause she has that…” He points to his hair and make curling motions.
“Why not call her Ginger?”
And I’ve officially lost his interest. Boys. Sigh. If you’re not paying attention to them, you aren’t worth their time. “Gilligan’s Island, right? Why all the questions about my sister?”
“No reason,” I go for the distraction and reach in front of him to give the postcards a vicious spin, making the rack rattle until it tips over. Glossy photos spill across the shop floor, drawing the attention of everyone in the place. “Uh. You want to go see that castle?”
“Absolutely,” Al grabs my hand and jerks me toward the door. “I don’t think it’s a castle, though.”