o1. cockney trampitis and it's effects

Bon-fucking-jour.

Friday 9th November, 1943.

Beginning to swear like a cockney tramp. Which, coincidentally, is my chosen career path.

Much to the disdain of the loosely termed 'Professor' Slughorn.

"Such vulgarity is not tolerated at Hogwarts, Miss Snow. Ten points from Hufflepuff." My fellow Puffs nearly burst into tears when I smirked across the room at them. I refused point blankly to take any serious notice of this 'class' anyway. Seriously, "Careers in Magic"?

I can point out many things that makes this idea a shit one:

Numero uno: This is obviously just a desperate ploy from Dippet-el-Dick to get Hogwarts back into The Daily Prophet's good books after Myrtle-gate. As if eighteen chairs in a circle and the odd "Minister of Magic? Well let's hope you don't die an untimely, suspicious and undignified death in the girl's shithouses." is enough to redeem the school for passing off a healthy girl dying as the work of an overgrown spider and his furry owner. Give me a break.

Two: Slughorn? Really? Out of all the possible teachers that could be chosen to have this 'class' you chose Slytherin-till-I-die(an-untimely-suspicious-and-undignified-death)-Slughorn? Nine people had gone before me and the only ones he'd seen as worthy of anything other than tea ladies on the Hogwarts Express were Slytherins. Abraxas Malfoy for example, who does bollocks all ever, apparently has the required attributes of a Head of Magical Law Enforcement. Yet I barely qualify as a Troll Trainer. What utter shit.

The third reason is simply: "Crabbe, dear Boy, how about you?"

"Well... er... Sir... I er... I want to be Headmaster." Are you fucking joking?

And so when the crazy wagon hit me I had to peel my jaw off the floor and think of a snappy answer.

"What would you like to be when you leave Hogwarts, Miss. Snow?"

Seventeen pairs of eyes stared at me. Me, sat there like a man, with my foot on my other knee, lounging back into my seat.

"Well Sir, with your last report home to my dear Mama teamed with the fact I'm a lowly Hufflepuff, I should think a common street whore is my best, if not only option. What say you?" A sharp intake seemed to be the popular theme in our "circle of trust".

"Such vulgarity is not tolerated at Hogwarts, Miss Snow. Ten points from Hufflepuff." Slughorn readjusted his glasses and motioned for his floating quill to scribble something down. "Now. A serious answer, if you please, for the sake of my list."

Fine. You fat, lump of judgemental sh-

"Well if it's for your pointless list, how could I say no? Put down: Potions. Professor." I held the 's' and snuck my tongue between my teeth, ignoring the spittle flying from my lips as I did so. And for extra emphasis, "At Hogwarts." The quill scribed. "School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." Slughorn mopped his brown. "In the dungeons." His face was turning red. "Replacing..."

"Miss. Snow, that is quite enough."

"...You."

"GET OUT, MISS. SNOW. I WILL NOT TOLERATE SUCH AN ATTITUDE." He stood, bellies wobbling all crazy like in my direction. "That is a detention." As I gathered my stuff he was fixing himself and beginning to giggle. "Like a girl could achieve such a position- preposterous."

Needless to say, I slammed that fucking door.

Pathetic class anyway.

Half past one on a Friday.

What could a girl my age possibly do on a Friday when she has no lessons and an increasingly bad reputation?

Plus. What's so wrong with being a lady of the night? It's a perfectly apt profession. Saying that, Slughorn would probably find it a bit awkward if he turned up at Bertha's Big Burlesque and Bedroom for an afternoon of 'how's-your-father' and found me ready and raring to go. I bet that's his reason for getting so red faced about it all. If I was only really capable of the grades he often gives me it's hardly likely I'd even qualify for a prostitute. By no means had he predicted my 'O' in Potions. Unless of course he meant to write 'O' and accidentally wrote 'D'.

I made my way to the girl's bathrooms on the second floor, needless to say they were eternally deserted since the whole murder debacle, but I was less than bothered. Anyway, Myrtle's wails were enough to ward off any beasty. I'm all for her being able to rest in peace but please God could she have not rested in it literally? I slammed my bag by the sink, grinning at the succinct moan from the far cubicle. My eyes drifted there momentarily.

Utility.

That's what my pretty bag was all about. I'd cast an Undetectable Extension Charm on it at the beginning of the year for extra clothes in case of emergencies. Well what's the point of Wizard space if you can't bloody use it?

"Stop using my bathroooooooooooooooooom."

"Say 'please', Myrts'." I felt a heavy rush of freezing air as I changed out of my robes and into a pencil skirt. I could see the icy blue of her dismal being drifiting in and out of the corner of my eye.

"Are you sick? A girl died in here. I was murdered. It's dangerous." She paused when I gave no reaction, crossed her arms and then hissed out. "You look like a dirty harlot."

I leaned into the mirror and applied more cosmetics, hiking up my bra, "Myrtle, we could have been very good friends."

Her mouth opened and shut twice before she leaned right into me and spat (well, tried to), "I would never be 'friends' with somebody so promiscuous."

"Wow... Wow. Ouch, Myrtle. You should have been in Slytherin." I winced comically, tipping everything back into my bag before turning to her and bending my knee in a pose. "Be honest, do I look too living in this outfit?"

Her screech made me laugh as I left the bathroom and ran up to the fourth floor. It was hardly running, to be utterly honest, because of my whore-worthy skirt. It was knee length and black, for propriety's sake, just also impossibly tight.

There was a passage way behind the mirror upstairs that led to Hogsmeade, it all just depended on whether or not anyone was skulking around as to whether I could use it. If they were I'd probably be fucked anyway, seeing as though I was wearing such 'promiscuous' clothing.

But, if I did get caught I'd go on a huge rant about Slughorn's unableness to help me plan a proper career and burst into heaving great big sobs.

But alas, I didn't. Because I am fantastic and stealthy.

Destination of choice, you ask?

The Hog's Head.

I'm a little more adventurous than my fellow students, who tend to opt for the light hearted Three Broomsticks. No. Hog's is the place for moi. Mainly because it's full of middle aged men who appreciate me for me. And see my potential.

As a hooker.

And there's also the fact they'll serve me as much Firewhisky I need to kill several murderous arachnids.

But I don't tend to attack insects, so my liver will suffer instead.

The Hog's Head, in all fairness, could be seen as cosy. If you... scrape out all the sawdust and ignore the ripe stench of failure and faeces. No, it didn't smell of the latter. The former was more than pungeant, however. I took my usual seat under the guise of a lady just finishing a day of work at some shop on Diagon Alley. "A shot of Vodka in some pumpkin juice, when you're ready, please."

Muggle vodka is literally the nicest thing since- since ever. I had it at my mum's annual 'Xmas Gala Funday for Family and Friends'. Mother was thrilled at this being the first time she met one of my 'special' friends, read: another Witch. May have been the biggest mistake ever, taking Lucinda Braun to a gathering of Muggles and then funnelling spirits down her throat. Her vomit had a whole chocolate frog in it that started leaping around, shouting the odds. I had to call in an Obliviator and got severely 'told off'.

Needless to say I was off the wagon for the next... week?

And then I found the Hog's head. Since September I've just been coming in every now and again, having a few too many and then holding my churning stomach as I stumbled back to the passageway.

Tonight would be no different and I would be incredibly excited for it.

Maybe it's the feeling, as I would lay in bed, watching the roof wobble and my curtains cackle, of utter sensibility that caked my brain that I loved so much. Maybe it was the light feeling in my toes, the softness of my bed, the-

"Ayt' sickuwz'."

I handed over the eight sickles I think the halitosis suffering barmaid asked for and began to nurse my tumbler, arching my back till I looked like a disfigured old man. Less likely to be asked for some form of I.D if you looked too unapproachable.

And so there the story goes, one sixteen year old girl, sat on her own in a run down old taverna, supping away at very strong liquers till she could feel her stomach pulsating.

Until the clock struck ten.

Or eleven.

Or twelve.

I can't actually remember what the time was, but at some point I was falling through the passageway and flat onto the stone floors of my 'beloved' school. I know some people go on about how much it means to them and sure, it's nice and pretty. But it's school. School. I was a mediocre student, so I didn't await deserved awards like my life depended on it, nor was I allowed- having a vagina- to partake in any Quidditch competitions.

The House Cup, obviously, was not really of any consequence whatsoever to me. Hufflepuff have won it exactly zero times in the past, what, century? I doubt they've even got that to be quite honest. In fact, I make it my civic duty to make sure we get a record low on points every year. I'm aiming for minus numbers What other types of special awards would I never recieve or partake in recieving?

That one Tom Riddle got for exposing Big Foot as a mad mass murderer.

Special Award for Special... Something.

It was some long vague alliteration, the type this place is synonymous with.

But, anyway, I didn't deserve one. Apparently.

Dumbledore often grinned at my misbehaviour, simpering out, "You, my dear, are from a different time."

Alien, I suspect he means, because I'm certainly not old fashioned.

I think the way I am (total drunkard) is really just the fault of my parents and I am the lowly result of their out of marriage copulation. In all fairness, though, we were indeed a jolly holly happy fucking family. One of those bordering insanity with the right amount of wit mixed in. For example, on receiving my Hogwarts letter my mother actually let her bowels cover the entire dinner table. My dad stealthily removed his plate beforehand and continued to munch his potatoes cooly, simply murmuring "Wonder if you can bloody magic that bedroom of yours tidy." I like to tell myself I am more his daughter than the psycho covered in her own vomit screaming at me about Joan of Arc probably being a real Witch after all.

I gurgled out a very distasteful burp, sliding along the wall, back pressed firmly against the rock as I did so. Whatever it took, I was not going to be discovered by prefects nor teachers. There had only ever been one time I'd been discovered, by Gorgsprout, the astronomy (not a real subject) teacher. I pretended I was jinxed by a Slytherin and oh man, she fell hook line and sinker.

The sheer memory made me grin, grabbing my hips and doing a champion's lunge. I don't quite know why I was filled with such a feeling of triumph through one single movement, but I was.

I seemed to tumble my way down a few flights of stairs, constantly scaring myself by promising as I crossed the bit where the steps met the landings that I would most definately plummet to my death. That was always one thing that baffled me. Why had no one ever fallen into the deep, black hole? Probably some type of enchantment on the edge of the staircases but EVEN SO, scary. Scary shit.

I heard some footsteps as I reached the Entrance Hall and quickly hid in an alcove with a massive stone statue. Where the fuck had this come from? I swear to God this huge thing was never here before. What the fuck was it? Was it an owl? Was I stood behind a gigantic statue of an owl? Who the fuck, Wizard or not, keeps a bloody owl statue?

"I swear to Grindelward, his parties are getting more boring everytime." A small, blonde girl was stomping down the corridor with a brunette in tow.

Ah, the elusive Slug Club nights. I would assume the two girls were Ravenclaw seventh years, they were headed toward the common room anyway. But swearing to Grindelward? Bit extensive.

Shit.

My head lolled forward onto the wing of the weird deity, jaw falling open because I didn't have the effort to keep it shut anymore. My arms hung down like cooked spaghetti strips and my knees bent inward. What a glorious sight of teenage angst I must have appeared. Swallowing down a whole load of spittle, I edged out of my cove about twenty minutes after the two girls went past, deciding it would be 'clear'.

Wrong.

"Snow."

I tutted loudly, rolling my back against the wall and closing my eyes. How bloody typical. What was the fucking point of hiding behind an oversized bird for so long, only to be caught as soon as I stepped- How the fuck did I end up in the kitchen?

A house elf peered up at me frightfully, yanking hard on the rag covering his body. "Please... Miss... You're on me..."

"Oh, shit! Sorry little buddy." I stumbled back, guilt flying into me at his big watery gaze, "Go... Go get yourself a nice big plate of... Little person food... What do you people eat? Well... Nothing, it looks like. Emancipated. Starving. Needy." I sniffed loudly, pushing gently on his shoulders and unleashing a whole load of vodka breath onto his little pointy nose. "Go, run, eat." I watched his scrawny person swarm back over to his little friends. "Prosper. Live long and prosper...ous. Prosperous. Preposterous." I moved in a small circle till I was facing the door and-

Tom Riddle.

"Don't start, Riddle, I can't be bothered to pretend to listen to you."

Tom Riddle despised sluts.

The epitome of the term "wanton" currently stood shakily in front of him. He'd administered a quick shot of legilimency on her when she was talking to the elf vermin but all he could find was empty space and pathetic giggles. The stench of alcohol radiating from her form was vile in itself.

Tom rarely drunk, if he did it was a single shot of something strong after training his followers, to calm his bones. It was pitiable, he thought, to be in such a sorry state as the parasite lurching back and forward in front of him.

Her type was the extinguishable.

At this moment in time, Tom really had little effort to deal with such a case. He had spent the better half of the night trying to explain the necessity of the Cruciatus Curse in the Room of Requirement. He was beginning to doubt the ability of his chosen few, something he really didn't need right then. Dumbledore was becoming far too suspicious, the talk on the stairs at the end of last year all but proved the fact. And to top it off. the Basilisk was becoming restless, it wanted out. But for now, his meagre prefect rounds were becoming unnecessarily troublesome.

"Why aren't you in your dorm, Miss..." He trailed off, sneering down at the smaller female. He didn't bother with the false, pleasant Prefect act he'd perfected, she wouldn't remember this conversation come the morn.

"Snow, Riddle. It's Snow."

Tom knew her name, how could he not? It was his job, after all.

"The elusive Miss. Snow. Now I am not so surprised by your condition."

The blonde only grinned back, smoothing down blonde curls.

Tom felt a familiar and favourite anger threading through his veins at her complete lack of respect. Not only was he a prefect and a hero but he was also a male.

"Whoever gossips about little old me? Was it a teacher who informed you of my corruption? Or am I the talk of the Slytherin common room?" She tumbled back in what looked like high heels, falling into the moonlight coming through a tall window.

"As a prefect I am learned as to the troublemakers within my year group." And to their fate. "Your name is one I am synonymous with."

"But my face was not." Her reply was quick but the dozy smile that accompanied it, surely booze fuelled, quelled any wit within.

"Do you realise how many rules you are breaking, Miss. Snow?" She opened her mouth but he cut her off immediately, "Four. Serious regulations that can result in, not only suspension, but expulsion."

Pleasure whipped through him as her cocky smile fell.

"The first, being out of bed past hours. The second, being intoxicated on school property." He stepped closer to her form. "The third, being dressed in inappropriate Muggle clothing and-" His palm closed over her wrist and yanked her body toward him. "Speaking to a prefect in such a vulgar and disrespectful way."

Fury flew across Snow's face and she whipped away, grabbing her arm where he had and hissing. "And what about psychical assault, Riddle, where in your rule book is that?"

"Don't be pathetic child. You will struggle in life if you think being grabbed is all your kind will have to cope with."

Confusion scratched its way across her expression. "My kind?"

Tom Riddle took a second to stare down the girl.

In the bluish light that bathed her again. Her features were pretty, to an extent, in the regularly acknowledged sense of the word, her eyes had a yellowish tint within the greet, her pupils dilated through the Muggle drink. Her waist was small and tight, her breasts almost too large for her small form but balanced with big hips. Agreeable, in the eyes of his peers perhaps, but all Riddle saw was the crudeness of her character.

"My kind, Riddle?"

He was pulled back to recognise a sobriety occurring in her gaze and slipped into his usual persona. "Females, Miss. Snow. It's not easy for females."

His smile was almost blinding and I felt a tingling in the bottom of my stomach. In my defence, I highly doubt any female could really look at the killer grin and not want it between her thighs. I gasped for air to prevent a enormously repulsive burp and instead tilted my head.

"Riddle, do me a favour and let me off this time?"

"Fine, Miss. Snow. But if I catch you again I will have to report you to your head of house." He nodded toward the door, "I trust you will find your way okay?"

I grinned at my small victory, rolling my palm across his shoulder and obtaining his eye contact as I snuck by, "Cheers Riddle, this won't be forgotten."

A sigh of relief crackled through me as I reached the steps down to the dorms.

No more alcohol.

...

Dear me.

disclaimed uuvryythannng