That's the sound of me deflating. A sad, limp, empty balloon.
Yeah. So. Anyway. The Boy Who Lived showed up just a bit ago. Started making some food, and I was doing something in the kitchen. Shuffling stuff around but not really getting much cleaning done, the usual.
"So," he says, in a get-down-to-business tone. Then proceeded to ask me if I really wanted to go to Las Vegas with him later this month (it's his birthday). Well, duh, of course I want to. I've never been to Vegas, and I've never really traveled anywhere with non-family sorts before, except for a couple quick jaunts to Kansas City. I'd love to go to Vegas, especially with him, especially to celebrate his birthday...but he pressed on. Wanted to know if I could guarantee that Voldemort wouldn't cause any problems while we were gone.
That's when my heart sank through the heels of my feet and landed somewhere in my downstairs pot-smoking wannabe-rapper neighbor's apartment.
The Chosen One says he's been looking forward to this for so long, doesn't want to worry about Tom Riddle screwing things up. Point taken. I can understand that. But I can't control Voldemort. He may as well have just asked me to stay home.