uniqueirreplaceable
I don't know if it's greedy to want this. Selfish is the word my mother uses. Unfair on the poor innocent masses who don't have half as much as us. But I want. I want to sing in front of an audience of ten thousand, or ten. I want to sing all of the classics, loudly and brashly on a spotlit stage, with a handsome male lead singing by my side. And I want to sing in bars that are tight and crowded, where I'm only half-head over the din. I want all of that, but I can't have it. Because it's greedy to want more than what I already have - which is so much. But I do. Sometimes, at night. Often in the day. Always in the shower or the bath or when the radio plays and every time we go to an opera I know it could be me on that stage. But it isn't. And can never be.
Molly Weasley was not amused. In fact, she was furious. How /dare/ her boys run off with that damn car (how the twins managed to drive the thing in the first place was a mystery to her). And now she was supposed to sit here and wait for them while they went gallivanting around the countryside, possibly falling out of the air anywhere from here to ruddy Privet Drive of all places (though she couldn't blame Harry, poor dear), and honestly if she didn't spank the whole lot of them as soon as they walked through that door then she may have to reassess her priorities.
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