On Self Preservation and Forgiveness
Really, I shouldn't be so soft-hearted. I am kind to the unforgiveably ignorant and helplessly moronic and what on earth does it get me? A set of ruined robes. Robes, I might add, that had been special ordered from Milan and were only available to those who could gain a private audience with the superb Wizarding clothing designer Mizwitchi.
Charms was heinously boring today. Professor Flitwick droned on and on, and his voice was like a sopoforic. He must have been taking lessons of Professor Binns. I almost dozed off, which would have been unforgiveably gauche of me, and I was having the loveliest daydream about birds and bees flitting happily through a meadow. I was just getting to the very best part, wherein I had discovered a most entertaining use for an Incendio charm, when I was most rudely interrupted.
"Pansy!"
It was Crabbe, and he had the unmitigated gall to spit on me. Most Slytherins learn to whisper without moving their lips by the time they are three.
I glared at Crabbe in return. He somehow took that as an invitation to continue speaking.
"Quiz!"
Crabbe is rather monosyllabic.
I looked at the center of the room. It was true. Flitwick was conjuring parchments with the obligatory swish and flick, and sending them flying about the room.
"Wasn't paying attention!" Crabbe spluttered. "Let me copy."
I sighed inwardly. Of course, I am all for house solidarity, but Crabbe was going to fail. He was going to fail without or without my help. He would have failed had Flitwick been standing behind him whispering the answers in his (extremely dirty) ear.
And then there was the fact that I hadn't been paying attention either. But here was Crabbe, looking like a congenitally ugly puppy begging for food. Never let it be said that I am not generous.
"Of course," I said wearily. Crabbe inched closer on the bench. Crabbe inching closer to you is a vile feeling, let me add.
The quiz began, and I was doing brilliantly. I have such a natural flair for Charms. Crabbe was moving closer and closer, breathing heavily and perspiring in my near vicinity.
Then the inevitable happened.
Crabbe's large, perspiring, congenitally ugly elbow hit my inkwell. Before I knew it the ink had completely soaked my new robes. It was Dragon's Blood ink, and it immediately turned a vibrant and permanent shade of red.
I glowered at Crabbe. Crabbe looked at me pleadingly. Then he tried looking at me intimidatingly, but I have not been intimidated by Crabbe since I was six and accidently-on-purpose conjured sweet little pink bows all over his Little Lord Faunteroy suit. Then he tried desperation.
"Tell him I was trying to hold your hand!" he said, indicating a rapidly approaching Flitwick. Things must have been n a desperate state for him if he'd rather admit to romantic feeling than cheating.
Flitwick took in the scene. Crabbe was practically sitting on me. I was livid and trying unsuccessfully to scrub ink out of my robes with my quiz parchment. Crabbe looked miserable, and was trying to hide his quiz with one enormous hand, while attempting to fumble for my hand with the other.
"What on earth is going on here?" Flitwick asked.
"Professor," I said, smiling sweetly, "Crabbe tried to copy my answers."
---------
Oh, don't worry, he'll get out of dentention. Eventually. And I wasn't about to get punished myself merely for trying to help the great oaf.
Besides, he deserved it.
Charms was heinously boring today. Professor Flitwick droned on and on, and his voice was like a sopoforic. He must have been taking lessons of Professor Binns. I almost dozed off, which would have been unforgiveably gauche of me, and I was having the loveliest daydream about birds and bees flitting happily through a meadow. I was just getting to the very best part, wherein I had discovered a most entertaining use for an Incendio charm, when I was most rudely interrupted.
"Pansy!"
It was Crabbe, and he had the unmitigated gall to spit on me. Most Slytherins learn to whisper without moving their lips by the time they are three.
I glared at Crabbe in return. He somehow took that as an invitation to continue speaking.
"Quiz!"
Crabbe is rather monosyllabic.
I looked at the center of the room. It was true. Flitwick was conjuring parchments with the obligatory swish and flick, and sending them flying about the room.
"Wasn't paying attention!" Crabbe spluttered. "Let me copy."
I sighed inwardly. Of course, I am all for house solidarity, but Crabbe was going to fail. He was going to fail without or without my help. He would have failed had Flitwick been standing behind him whispering the answers in his (extremely dirty) ear.
And then there was the fact that I hadn't been paying attention either. But here was Crabbe, looking like a congenitally ugly puppy begging for food. Never let it be said that I am not generous.
"Of course," I said wearily. Crabbe inched closer on the bench. Crabbe inching closer to you is a vile feeling, let me add.
The quiz began, and I was doing brilliantly. I have such a natural flair for Charms. Crabbe was moving closer and closer, breathing heavily and perspiring in my near vicinity.
Then the inevitable happened.
Crabbe's large, perspiring, congenitally ugly elbow hit my inkwell. Before I knew it the ink had completely soaked my new robes. It was Dragon's Blood ink, and it immediately turned a vibrant and permanent shade of red.
I glowered at Crabbe. Crabbe looked at me pleadingly. Then he tried looking at me intimidatingly, but I have not been intimidated by Crabbe since I was six and accidently-on-purpose conjured sweet little pink bows all over his Little Lord Faunteroy suit. Then he tried desperation.
"Tell him I was trying to hold your hand!" he said, indicating a rapidly approaching Flitwick. Things must have been n a desperate state for him if he'd rather admit to romantic feeling than cheating.
Flitwick took in the scene. Crabbe was practically sitting on me. I was livid and trying unsuccessfully to scrub ink out of my robes with my quiz parchment. Crabbe looked miserable, and was trying to hide his quiz with one enormous hand, while attempting to fumble for my hand with the other.
"What on earth is going on here?" Flitwick asked.
"Professor," I said, smiling sweetly, "Crabbe tried to copy my answers."
---------
Oh, don't worry, he'll get out of dentention. Eventually. And I wasn't about to get punished myself merely for trying to help the great oaf.
Besides, he deserved it.