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Who wants a Hufflepuff? - some mistakes were built to last

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April 10th, 2004

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07:03 pm - Who wants a Hufflepuff?
Brigid O'Malley, Ravenclaw, 7th Year

I have to admit it. He's handsome. Who would have thought? And it isn't just because he's Irish. It can't be. If that is the reason, I have a horrible lack of imagination because no one pines for a Hufflepuff. Gryffindor boys are loved for their showiness, like peacocks really; Slytherin boys are admired for the fact that they'd correct you to call them Men if you don't mind; Ravenclaw boys are mostly multilingual, and what girl isn't turned to mush by a little Russian? But Hufflepuff? They are a little dorky, a little strange, perhaps even boring would be a good word. They are the boys who snort a little when they push their glasses back up their noses, or the ones who chuckle to themselves in the back of History class. They are not desirable, they don't make you clumsy or stupid with a glance, and they are not handsome.

But he is.

It all started in Divination. It seems silly Hogwarts would force it on us again in our seventh year, so most of the students don't take it seriously the second time around either. I can't stand the class, not because of the subject material but mostly because of the room. The top of the tower is intolerably stuffy and hot, and the students have no proper chairs. We are forced to crouch on fluffy little bags that rise no more than half a meter off the ground. By the end of the period, my legs and back are stiff from trying to find a position that is halfway comfortable. Professor Trelawny is also slightly intolerable, but for no other reason than her slopiness. She must have had some natural beauty once, but isolation in the tower has gotten to her and she reminds me of an old, nervous ferret. I mused for an entire class about what a world of good a simple makeover would do for her. Perhaps some notes on etiquette, as well, just to put a stopper on that spit that forms on the corners of her mouth when she lectures. I was in the middle of imagining some mascara onto her weak little lashes, the ones visible behind her ridiculous glasses, and he climbed up the ladder.

He looked suprised to see everyone, including Trelawny, staring at him, and then he was embarrassed. He stumbled a little on his own feet and ended up on a nearby poof. He was unsettled at having to sit on a pink satin ball of fuzz, but he tried to seem at ease. I think he pulled it off marvelously.

He was beautiful; dark hair, perfect bone structure and hands that I could already feel myself kissing. I was happily staring at him, and putting him in all sorts of situations he certainly would have objected to, when he sensed he was being watched. He turned to find the culprit, and instead of smiling at him, I tried to look as if I had been doing something else. Idiot. I reached for my quill, but the horrendous sweat on my hands made it slip every which way. I grabbed for it, rather frantically, and ended up writing all over my palm and a little on my wrist. Horrified, I tried to wipe the ink on my black robes so I could pretend none of it had happened, but I missed entirely and smeared it all over my innocent yellow poof. My entire face was on fire. I was desperately afraid that Trelawny would notice and make a scene, so I tried to repair the downtrodden poof with my other, unsoiled hand. The sweat just set the stain, and I thought I was going to die of despair when Trelawny yawned and dismissed the class.

I leapt up, through the hole in the floor and was racing down the corridor when I heard him calling me.

"You forgot something!" He cried.
"It's fine. I'll get a new one." I had no idea what he was talking about, but I wasn't going to turn and investigate.
"Are you sure?" He pressed.
I conceded, and turned to see that he had copied the assignment for me on his own piece of parchment. I swooned.

"I...well, that's...it's nice." I scanned the floor to find a gaping hole I could climb into.
"It's no trouble. Are you going to lunch?" He handed me the parchment, and I tried to grab it as quickly as I could so he might miss my ink-spotted hands. He didn't.
"Maybe we should stop at the lavoratory first?"
"You don't have to, I'll meet you at lunch, I, it's," I stammered, hoping he didn't feel as awkward as I did. I was an elephant, blocking the corridor with my black hands that felt as big as bowling balls.
"It's fine, it's fine."

After I scrubbed my hands, we walked to lunch and on the way I found out that his name is Sean Donaghue, he is from Belfast and he was sorted into Hufflepuff. I couldn't believe the last bit, and I giggled when he said it, convinced he was making a joke. He didn't seem to understand, so I avoided the topic, thinking perhaps he should find out about the houses himself. Where has he been? Why did he come to Hogwarts? He didn't seem willing to talk about himself at lunch, so I prattled on about nothing at all (as usual) and am left with my intense curiosity.

We'll see.
Current Mood: contemplativecontemplative

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