Delicate - eng version

A Long Night

Sometimes it's better not to throw up on someone after they tell you they want you to keep your baby – especially if you're on your way home from a funeral. But since when do I do what's better?

At least it distracted him, I suppose. I didn't have to give him a straight answer. I could tell he was trying really hard not to be too repulsed by my sudden vomiting, but his disgust appeared on his face. After all, I did throw up on his fancy leather shoes. It could have been worse. At least it wasn't projectile vomit that went all over his face. That could have been seriously awkward.

Scorpius cleaned up my mess with his wand, but I felt terrible the entire way home so stayed quiet. He didn't say anything because he thought I'd just vomit on him again. When we got back to the school, I went straight to my dormitory to have a lie down. That's where I am now. It's past dinner time, but luckily the dorm is completely empty. Because I really need time to think about what Scorpius said to me before the whole vomiting fiasco.

He wants to keep the baby. He wants us to be parents. He wants us to do the whole nappy-changing, feeding, bathing, raising thing while we're still at school? I mean, does he realise what he's committing himself to? Kids are nice to talk to from a distance of ten metres, but when you have them up close and have to look after them every minute of every day, they're not so fun. What if he or she got sick? I panic in situations like that. When Hugo got the chicken pox, I rang Mum and told her that Hugo was dead just so she'd hurry up and come home so I wouldn't have to deal with it. I got a fair bollocking for that one. What if I don't bond with him or her? What if I end up with a severe case of post-partum depression and end up never wanting him or her?

What if I fail as a mother?

I'm only sixteen. Well, I'm nearly seventeen, but that's not really the point. My point is that I'm too young for this. I'm not saying that sixteen year olds can't be good Mum's – I know they can. What I'm saying is I'm too young for this. My mental age is about seven years old, which granted is much older than James's or Fred's, but it's still pretty young. So when my child actually is seven, my mental age will be fourteen – what fourteen year old has a seven year old kid?!

See, this is just further proof of how not ready I am for this. I can't even make a valid point without going off on some ridiculous, nonsensical tangent. I miss the old days, the days when I was normal. Okay, so I was never really normal. I mean, apart from the fact that I've had a crush on Teddy Lupin since I knew he wasn't related to me, I used to eat books (like actually tear out the pages and eat them – Mum wasn't happy. In fairness I was only three or four. Oh lord, what if my kid is a book-eater too?) and I chained myself to the Herbology greenhouses on several occasions, I was still pretty normal. Well, more normal than I am now. Now I'm just an ex-book-eater, I still have a tiny crush on Teddy, I'm pregnant, my parents are breaking/broken up, my brother wears more make-up than I do, my cousins are slowly becoming just as messed up as me and I apparently go around vomiting on my friends. What is wrong with me?

"Where were you all day?"

I didn't even notice Laura Phelps coming into the dormitory, but she's throwing her schoolbag down onto the floor beside her bed and brushing her hair. She's in her usual stuck-up mood, but it seems a bit odd that she actually cares where I was all day.

"Funeral," I say.

"Oh," she says, "Sorry." She doesn't really sound sorry at all, but I suppose it's nice of her to say it. It's not nice for a normal person, but it's nice of her.

"It's okay," I say, "I didn't know the woman."

"Then why were you at her funeral?" Laura asked, furrowing her perfectly plucked eyebrows. Why can't my eyebrows be that perfectly shaped? And my lips that plump? And my cheekbones that sharp? And my hair that straight and dark?