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Entry tags:
abc prompts; k+s: hogwarts
In the end, there was only one thing that really got on Kirsten Harper's nerves.
Well, besides Slytherin girls. She hated Slytherin girls. In the end, she was glad she wasn't sorted Slytherin, because the girls there were each the embodiment of everything she hated about girls everywhere — backstabbing, trash-talking, two-faced, untrustworthy, petty and interminably conceited harpies, every last one of them. Slytherin girls were the absolute worst.
They were even worse than Ravenclaw girls, who Kirsten hated because they all thought they were smarter than she was, and they were probably right. She never stood a chance of being sorted Ravenclaw. She wasn't stupid, not by a long shot, but she wasn't all that bright, either, and hard work was all well and good, but it didn't get you into Ravenclaw. Which was fine, because she hated Ravenclaw girls.
Even Gryffindor girls were, in their own way, insufferable, though Kirsten recognized that they were the same brand of insufferable that she was. They were insufferable because they really were better than everyone else, and though they knew it, they only lorded it over you in a subtle, holier-than-thou sort of way. The best part about Gryffindor girls was that you didn't have to worry about them stabbing you in the back. If they came at you, they did it head-on, and they only ran their mouths to your face.
She would've loved to have been sorted into Gryffindor. It was practically a sure thing. Gryffindors were her people, they were brave and soulful and courageous and didn't take shit from anybody, and they spoke their minds and followed their hearts and she absolutely belonged there, she was born to be a Gryffindor.
Her daddy was a Gryffindor, and everyone always said she was her father's daughter (thank God, because who wanted to be a Slytherin, anyway? Her mother had been a perfect Slytherin, and if Kirsten ever grew up to be like her mother, she hoped someone would have mercy enough to kill her). Her dad's best friend had been a Gryffindor, too, and his mudblood wife — also a Gryffindor — always told Kirsten she was a shoo-in.
Everyone, Kirsten especially, was so sure she'd be sorted after her father.
So when the hat crowed, "Hufflepuff!" it was only natural that she leap to her feet.
It was a perfectly reasonable reaction to shriek "What?!" at the top of her lungs, and no one could blame her for arguing with the hat and the professors who escorted her away once they got it off her head.
She sat at the Hufflepuff table, glaring daggers at every student around her, and some of them had the indecency not to even look off-put. A few of them even smiled at her, as if they were sympathetic to her indignation, or understood her plight.
But even that wasn't what really got under her skin. As she sat, stewing, she knew in the back of her mind that this was how things were supposed to be. The hat wasn't wrong, after all. And Hufflepuffs were good people; she'd met a few, and she'd always liked them, even the girls. She could be happy here, when she got over her vast disappointment.
Or she could have, anyway.
Until Shane Thompson was called up, and Kirsten sat up straight, watching and waiting and all but holding her breath. She'd been so busy sulking over her loss, it hadn't occurred to her to worry about where he'd be sorted.
They'd been friends and enemies over the years, played together and spatted and tussled, but they'd always been. And he'd be a Gryffindor, there was no doubt about that; both his parents had been, and he was even more — everything — than Kirsten was. She knew, with a sinking certainty, how he'd be sorted.
The hat was on his head for a mere ten seconds before it ruled, "Gryffindor!"
She watched him walk to his table, feeling her perfect posture yielding to unhappiness. Before he sat down, he glanced her way, and they met eyes. She was expecting a smirk, something triumphant or amused, and she steeled herself for the will it would take to toss venom back at him.
But all he offered was an apologetic half-smile, and then his face disappeared behind the heads of all the other Gryffindors already seated.
Kirsten wanted to cry.
It must have shown on her face, because when dinner began, a girl beside her leaned in close, voice low, and asked, "Hey, you okay?"
She looked up, surprised, and blinked back the dampness in her lashes. The inquiring party was a blonde girl, bright-eyed and pretty, the kind Kirsten would have assumed was a bitch, if left to her own devices. But she looked sincere and concerned, and when Kirsten summoned up a smile and a nod, her expression turned somewhat relieved.
"You guys can probably sneak around and hang out, you know. You'll still see plenty of him."
Kirsten laughed, a scoffing sound still edged with the tightness of tears. "I don't care if I ever see him again," she declared, waving a hand. "He's a jerk."
The lie threatened to make her mist up again. He was a jerk, but he hadn't been, not today. He was sorry for her. Maybe it was just because he knew how much she'd wanted to be a Gryffindor, but maybe it was because he'd wanted to be in the same house with her. Either way, that sympathetic almost-smile wasn't going to leave her anytime soon.
It stuck with her for a few nights as she tossed and turned in bed, homesick and lonely and uneasy. She learned to sleep again, and she made friends: that blonde girl from their first dinner, and others. Hufflepuffs were mostly agreeable types, but Kirsten was surprised to find that they weren't all pushovers like she expected them to be.
And the smile faded, relegated to her memories, only to resurface again when she spotted Shane in the halls or on the Quidditch field, or when her father inquired after him in a letter. It floated back, now and again, when she felt like she needed it, or when she missed him. (And she did miss him, much to her dismay.)
But missing him wasn't the worst part, either.
No, the worst part by far came on a cold day in March, two and a half weeks before her twelfth birthday. It was the weekend of the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff Quidditch match, and Kirsten and Shane were both on the pitch. She was one of Hufflepuff's better Chasers, though not the best by far. He was close to being the best player on Gryffindor's team, period, though their third-year Keeper (charismatic and flashy and oh-so-talented) was the star of the show.
It was late in the game, and Gryffindor was leading by a full hundred and forty points. Kirsten was starting to feel her exhaustion; she was athletic, but not built for stamina. The Snitch had been spotted, and the Seekers were inscribing crazed circles in the sky, divebombing periodically at a glimmer of gold.
Having just narrowly been missed by a Bludger (and the pursuant Beater, who called an apology as he zipped by), Kirsten dodged an oncoming Gryffindor Chaser and continued toward the goalposts. As soon as she was sure she could make the shot, she took it. The Quaffle sailed toward the hoop — and was nailed by Gryffindor's Keeper, right into the waiting hands of Shane Thompson.
"Oh, so close!" came the announcer's (possibly sympathetic, but still grating) voice. Gordon was a Gryffindor, but she kept her commentary unbiased. "Winchester heads it off at the goalposts! Thompson's taking off!"
Kirsten turned so sharply she nearly threw herself off, and was hot on Shane's heels as they crossed the pitch. He only glanced back once, and she saw the flicker of a smirk pass over his face.
Thirty feet from Hufflepuff's goal, he slung the Quaffle. It shot past their Keeper, whose outstretched arm passed just in front of it, and straight through the hoop. Quick as you like, it was picked up by another Gryffindor Chaser, and before Kirsten could even think about intercepting, it blew right by her, into Shane's hands, and passed through the hoop once more.
"What a play!" the announcer cheered, almost inaudible over the roar of the crowd. "Thompson and Brown team up for back-to-back goals, increasing Gryffindor's lead to—"
The exultant voice cut off almost mid-word, and the crowd suddenly increased in volume.
"The Snitch! Grayson has the Snitch!"
Kirsten twisted around to look. Their Seeker was holding the Snitch high above his head. She should've been ecstatic, but she'd already done the math.
"That brings Hufflepuff up to a sound three-hundred twenty points — just ten points shy of a victory. Gryffindor takes the match with three-hundred thirty points!"
Hufflepuff's Keeper had confiscated the Quaffle in the aftermath, and now descended to the pitch with it. Kirsten stayed in the air, hanging onto her broomstick with aching hands.
A breeze ruffled her hair, and she opened her eyes to see Shane headed down.
"Better luck next time, Princess," he called up to her.
That was the only thing that really got on her nerves.
Well, besides Slytherin girls. She hated Slytherin girls. In the end, she was glad she wasn't sorted Slytherin, because the girls there were each the embodiment of everything she hated about girls everywhere — backstabbing, trash-talking, two-faced, untrustworthy, petty and interminably conceited harpies, every last one of them. Slytherin girls were the absolute worst.
They were even worse than Ravenclaw girls, who Kirsten hated because they all thought they were smarter than she was, and they were probably right. She never stood a chance of being sorted Ravenclaw. She wasn't stupid, not by a long shot, but she wasn't all that bright, either, and hard work was all well and good, but it didn't get you into Ravenclaw. Which was fine, because she hated Ravenclaw girls.
Even Gryffindor girls were, in their own way, insufferable, though Kirsten recognized that they were the same brand of insufferable that she was. They were insufferable because they really were better than everyone else, and though they knew it, they only lorded it over you in a subtle, holier-than-thou sort of way. The best part about Gryffindor girls was that you didn't have to worry about them stabbing you in the back. If they came at you, they did it head-on, and they only ran their mouths to your face.
She would've loved to have been sorted into Gryffindor. It was practically a sure thing. Gryffindors were her people, they were brave and soulful and courageous and didn't take shit from anybody, and they spoke their minds and followed their hearts and she absolutely belonged there, she was born to be a Gryffindor.
Her daddy was a Gryffindor, and everyone always said she was her father's daughter (thank God, because who wanted to be a Slytherin, anyway? Her mother had been a perfect Slytherin, and if Kirsten ever grew up to be like her mother, she hoped someone would have mercy enough to kill her). Her dad's best friend had been a Gryffindor, too, and his mudblood wife — also a Gryffindor — always told Kirsten she was a shoo-in.
Everyone, Kirsten especially, was so sure she'd be sorted after her father.
So when the hat crowed, "Hufflepuff!" it was only natural that she leap to her feet.
It was a perfectly reasonable reaction to shriek "What?!" at the top of her lungs, and no one could blame her for arguing with the hat and the professors who escorted her away once they got it off her head.
She sat at the Hufflepuff table, glaring daggers at every student around her, and some of them had the indecency not to even look off-put. A few of them even smiled at her, as if they were sympathetic to her indignation, or understood her plight.
But even that wasn't what really got under her skin. As she sat, stewing, she knew in the back of her mind that this was how things were supposed to be. The hat wasn't wrong, after all. And Hufflepuffs were good people; she'd met a few, and she'd always liked them, even the girls. She could be happy here, when she got over her vast disappointment.
Or she could have, anyway.
Until Shane Thompson was called up, and Kirsten sat up straight, watching and waiting and all but holding her breath. She'd been so busy sulking over her loss, it hadn't occurred to her to worry about where he'd be sorted.
They'd been friends and enemies over the years, played together and spatted and tussled, but they'd always been. And he'd be a Gryffindor, there was no doubt about that; both his parents had been, and he was even more — everything — than Kirsten was. She knew, with a sinking certainty, how he'd be sorted.
The hat was on his head for a mere ten seconds before it ruled, "Gryffindor!"
She watched him walk to his table, feeling her perfect posture yielding to unhappiness. Before he sat down, he glanced her way, and they met eyes. She was expecting a smirk, something triumphant or amused, and she steeled herself for the will it would take to toss venom back at him.
But all he offered was an apologetic half-smile, and then his face disappeared behind the heads of all the other Gryffindors already seated.
Kirsten wanted to cry.
It must have shown on her face, because when dinner began, a girl beside her leaned in close, voice low, and asked, "Hey, you okay?"
She looked up, surprised, and blinked back the dampness in her lashes. The inquiring party was a blonde girl, bright-eyed and pretty, the kind Kirsten would have assumed was a bitch, if left to her own devices. But she looked sincere and concerned, and when Kirsten summoned up a smile and a nod, her expression turned somewhat relieved.
"You guys can probably sneak around and hang out, you know. You'll still see plenty of him."
Kirsten laughed, a scoffing sound still edged with the tightness of tears. "I don't care if I ever see him again," she declared, waving a hand. "He's a jerk."
The lie threatened to make her mist up again. He was a jerk, but he hadn't been, not today. He was sorry for her. Maybe it was just because he knew how much she'd wanted to be a Gryffindor, but maybe it was because he'd wanted to be in the same house with her. Either way, that sympathetic almost-smile wasn't going to leave her anytime soon.
It stuck with her for a few nights as she tossed and turned in bed, homesick and lonely and uneasy. She learned to sleep again, and she made friends: that blonde girl from their first dinner, and others. Hufflepuffs were mostly agreeable types, but Kirsten was surprised to find that they weren't all pushovers like she expected them to be.
And the smile faded, relegated to her memories, only to resurface again when she spotted Shane in the halls or on the Quidditch field, or when her father inquired after him in a letter. It floated back, now and again, when she felt like she needed it, or when she missed him. (And she did miss him, much to her dismay.)
But missing him wasn't the worst part, either.
No, the worst part by far came on a cold day in March, two and a half weeks before her twelfth birthday. It was the weekend of the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff Quidditch match, and Kirsten and Shane were both on the pitch. She was one of Hufflepuff's better Chasers, though not the best by far. He was close to being the best player on Gryffindor's team, period, though their third-year Keeper (charismatic and flashy and oh-so-talented) was the star of the show.
It was late in the game, and Gryffindor was leading by a full hundred and forty points. Kirsten was starting to feel her exhaustion; she was athletic, but not built for stamina. The Snitch had been spotted, and the Seekers were inscribing crazed circles in the sky, divebombing periodically at a glimmer of gold.
Having just narrowly been missed by a Bludger (and the pursuant Beater, who called an apology as he zipped by), Kirsten dodged an oncoming Gryffindor Chaser and continued toward the goalposts. As soon as she was sure she could make the shot, she took it. The Quaffle sailed toward the hoop — and was nailed by Gryffindor's Keeper, right into the waiting hands of Shane Thompson.
"Oh, so close!" came the announcer's (possibly sympathetic, but still grating) voice. Gordon was a Gryffindor, but she kept her commentary unbiased. "Winchester heads it off at the goalposts! Thompson's taking off!"
Kirsten turned so sharply she nearly threw herself off, and was hot on Shane's heels as they crossed the pitch. He only glanced back once, and she saw the flicker of a smirk pass over his face.
Thirty feet from Hufflepuff's goal, he slung the Quaffle. It shot past their Keeper, whose outstretched arm passed just in front of it, and straight through the hoop. Quick as you like, it was picked up by another Gryffindor Chaser, and before Kirsten could even think about intercepting, it blew right by her, into Shane's hands, and passed through the hoop once more.
"What a play!" the announcer cheered, almost inaudible over the roar of the crowd. "Thompson and Brown team up for back-to-back goals, increasing Gryffindor's lead to—"
The exultant voice cut off almost mid-word, and the crowd suddenly increased in volume.
"The Snitch! Grayson has the Snitch!"
Kirsten twisted around to look. Their Seeker was holding the Snitch high above his head. She should've been ecstatic, but she'd already done the math.
"That brings Hufflepuff up to a sound three-hundred twenty points — just ten points shy of a victory. Gryffindor takes the match with three-hundred thirty points!"
Hufflepuff's Keeper had confiscated the Quaffle in the aftermath, and now descended to the pitch with it. Kirsten stayed in the air, hanging onto her broomstick with aching hands.
A breeze ruffled her hair, and she opened her eyes to see Shane headed down.
"Better luck next time, Princess," he called up to her.
That was the only thing that really got on her nerves.