The Hat Paradox
Title: The Hat Paradox
Characters: Neville Longbottom, Minerva McGonagall
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1218
Summary: Neville is very prone to accidents, and sometimes Harry Potter just has to let someone else save him and be the hero. Who knew it would be Professor McGonagall?
Author's Note: I have no idea where this came from. Don't even ask.
Before he’d boarded the Hogwarts Express in his very first year, Neville Longbottom received a long tirade of good advice from his gran about what he should and shouldn’t do when he was at school. Among the list of rules and items he ought not forget (which he inevitably did), his personal favourite was her anecdote about mealtimes - that they were not to be missed for any reason, not even trolls. It was the one lesson he felt he could truly take to heart, as he was no better or worse than any other student at stuffing his face with fudge and treacle tarts. He was, however, very prone to accidents.
The day had begun like any other. He’d tripped over his sheets trying to get out of bed, put his pants on backwards and not noticed until Potions class that his vest was inside out. The Slytherins made fun of him and Snape called him an imbecile. He quivered and shook and apologized, and of course, knocked over his cauldron, right on to the professor’s foot. Thankfully it had been empty, but that didn’t prevent Snape from deducting a solid twenty points from Gryffindor for his carelessness.
It was horribly embarrassing, being taunted by one half of the room and given pitying, irritated glances from the other - more than enough to make him flee the scene immediately after class and hurry through the corridors to the Great Hall. He’d often found that if he scurried away before his classmates, he could avoid the congestion - and therefore several incidents of tripping and toe stubs - in the halls just before lunch.
Hurrying along to the Gryffindor table, he dropped his bag and slid onto the bench. The savoury aroma of meat pies was instantly apparent, and quickly calmed his nerves - like chocolate after a dementor attack. The soothing nature of food was simply remarkable. If only there were a way to combine his love of mealtimes and his talents at Herbology - he could live a very happy life.
As he mused, the Great Hall quickly filled up around him - students dropping in beside him and professors regally taking their seats. Even Seamus seemed more content to calmly eat his food than to blow anything up, which was truly quite rare.
“Oi, Nev.” Dean’s voice brought him reeling back to the world at hand.
“Yeah?” he asked, glancing several seats down at his classmate.
“Parvati says you might recognise this? It’s for our Herbology assignment.” Dean held out a book with pictures of wrinkled, puce flowers.
Without thinking, Neville leaned forward, standing up slightly as he reached for the book. He put his hand down on the table to brace himself - or tried to - only to find himself up to his elbow in a shepherd’s pie. With a horrified look at his friends, he slipped and disappeared altogether.
It took several moments for the other Gryffindors to realise what had happened. They were all quite accustomed to Neville’s accidents. Frankly, they expected him to reappear from under the table, spluttering and covered in potatoes, but when he didn’t - and after Ron had checked, just to be sure - chaos ensued. Lavender’s shrieks alerted the staff table to their predicament, and immediately Professor McGonagall swooped down to help.
“What is going on here?” she demanded shrilly.
Harry pointed at the plate quickly, taking the lead and talking over rest of the frantic Gryffindors. “Please, professor, it’s Neville! He’s slipped through the plate!”
“He’s what?” Sweeping her tartan robes tightly around her to keep them out of the food, she peered into the gap in the middle of Neville’s meat pie. “My goodness!” she cried. “Potter, your hat!”
“My hat!?” But his protests went unheard at McGonagall swept his hat off his head and plunged her hand inside. When she withdrew it again, a large, black squirrel whose fur stuck up at odd angles peered about quizzically from her palm.
“Really, Potter… you must comb your hair more often.” Dropping the squirrel in Ginny’s lap, she reached in again, and hauled out a ratty-looking scrap of cloth. Tossing Harry’s hat back to the table and dramatically plucking her own from her head, she plopped the Sorting Hat down in its place. Deftly, McGonagall pulled the hat snug around her ears and tied it tight to her head with a large, floppy bow under her chin.
“Hang on, Longbottom!” she called out, and promptly parachuted into the pie.
The Sorting Hat inflated, slowing her descent as she plummeted through the magical tunnel. Far beneath her, the sound of gurgling roars and broken dishes echoed amid Neville’s horrified screams. Pointing her tartan slippers, she sped down the chute to his rescue.
The magical tunnel emerged in the kitchens; the house elves had forgotten to close it after delivering Neville’s pie - and the reason was evident. At the opposite end of the room, rearing up out of a rubbish bin, all the morning’s leftovers had come to life - spewing mixed meats and old porridge onto the floor. Neville cowered in the corner, white from shock and the bits of potato coating his hair, as the creature seeped closer.
The house elves swarmed, squealing and squeaking and trying to beat the rubbish monster back with pots and pans. Long, slimy tentacles of bacon lurched from the mound of howling leftovers, seizing the house elves one by one and hauling them back into its goopy, oozing carcass.
“You naughty beastie!” McGonagall shouted, drawing the creature’s attention. It squelched angrily and splattered the wall with rancid pumpkin juice. Two dripping eggs bubbled up to the surface, focusing on her like a pair of jaundiced, melting eyes.
“Bits of toast and jam have no business eating the cooks!”
The monster gushed towards her. “Enough, I say!” Untying her bow, she brandished the Sorting Hat like a weapon. It paused for a moment, confused by her actions. A rip opened along the hat’s brim, much like a mouth, immediately followed by an ear-splitting screech of banshee proportions.
Neville screamed, closing his eyes and covering his ears. The remaining house elves keeled over, begging her to make it stop. It caused the monster to shake, squelching and slurping furiously at the horrific sound. The rubbish creature flailed, tentacles lashing out and clawing at the walls, groaning in agony until the screeching was so loud and painful that the monster burst open, coating everything in slick, putrid goo.
Slowly, the sound died off and McGonagall lowered the hat, wiping leftover splatter from her face.
“Are you alright, Mr. Longbottom? So much magic in the air, nasty things are always coming to life.”
Frightened though he was, Neville nodded.
“Good. Up you get then.” She helped him to his feet as she continued. “Oh, dear - I think you’ve got a bit of it stuck to you.” A chunk of egg wiggled unhappily on Neville’s nose until McGonagall flicked it off. “There now. See that you don’t slip through any more plates, please.”
“Y-yes, professor.” He answered.
He didn’t care what his Gran said. He was never trusting a mealtime ever again.
Characters: Neville Longbottom, Minerva McGonagall
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1218
Summary: Neville is very prone to accidents, and sometimes Harry Potter just has to let someone else save him and be the hero. Who knew it would be Professor McGonagall?
Author's Note: I have no idea where this came from. Don't even ask.
Before he’d boarded the Hogwarts Express in his very first year, Neville Longbottom received a long tirade of good advice from his gran about what he should and shouldn’t do when he was at school. Among the list of rules and items he ought not forget (which he inevitably did), his personal favourite was her anecdote about mealtimes - that they were not to be missed for any reason, not even trolls. It was the one lesson he felt he could truly take to heart, as he was no better or worse than any other student at stuffing his face with fudge and treacle tarts. He was, however, very prone to accidents.
The day had begun like any other. He’d tripped over his sheets trying to get out of bed, put his pants on backwards and not noticed until Potions class that his vest was inside out. The Slytherins made fun of him and Snape called him an imbecile. He quivered and shook and apologized, and of course, knocked over his cauldron, right on to the professor’s foot. Thankfully it had been empty, but that didn’t prevent Snape from deducting a solid twenty points from Gryffindor for his carelessness.
It was horribly embarrassing, being taunted by one half of the room and given pitying, irritated glances from the other - more than enough to make him flee the scene immediately after class and hurry through the corridors to the Great Hall. He’d often found that if he scurried away before his classmates, he could avoid the congestion - and therefore several incidents of tripping and toe stubs - in the halls just before lunch.
Hurrying along to the Gryffindor table, he dropped his bag and slid onto the bench. The savoury aroma of meat pies was instantly apparent, and quickly calmed his nerves - like chocolate after a dementor attack. The soothing nature of food was simply remarkable. If only there were a way to combine his love of mealtimes and his talents at Herbology - he could live a very happy life.
As he mused, the Great Hall quickly filled up around him - students dropping in beside him and professors regally taking their seats. Even Seamus seemed more content to calmly eat his food than to blow anything up, which was truly quite rare.
“Oi, Nev.” Dean’s voice brought him reeling back to the world at hand.
“Yeah?” he asked, glancing several seats down at his classmate.
“Parvati says you might recognise this? It’s for our Herbology assignment.” Dean held out a book with pictures of wrinkled, puce flowers.
Without thinking, Neville leaned forward, standing up slightly as he reached for the book. He put his hand down on the table to brace himself - or tried to - only to find himself up to his elbow in a shepherd’s pie. With a horrified look at his friends, he slipped and disappeared altogether.
It took several moments for the other Gryffindors to realise what had happened. They were all quite accustomed to Neville’s accidents. Frankly, they expected him to reappear from under the table, spluttering and covered in potatoes, but when he didn’t - and after Ron had checked, just to be sure - chaos ensued. Lavender’s shrieks alerted the staff table to their predicament, and immediately Professor McGonagall swooped down to help.
“What is going on here?” she demanded shrilly.
Harry pointed at the plate quickly, taking the lead and talking over rest of the frantic Gryffindors. “Please, professor, it’s Neville! He’s slipped through the plate!”
“He’s what?” Sweeping her tartan robes tightly around her to keep them out of the food, she peered into the gap in the middle of Neville’s meat pie. “My goodness!” she cried. “Potter, your hat!”
“My hat!?” But his protests went unheard at McGonagall swept his hat off his head and plunged her hand inside. When she withdrew it again, a large, black squirrel whose fur stuck up at odd angles peered about quizzically from her palm.
“Really, Potter… you must comb your hair more often.” Dropping the squirrel in Ginny’s lap, she reached in again, and hauled out a ratty-looking scrap of cloth. Tossing Harry’s hat back to the table and dramatically plucking her own from her head, she plopped the Sorting Hat down in its place. Deftly, McGonagall pulled the hat snug around her ears and tied it tight to her head with a large, floppy bow under her chin.
“Hang on, Longbottom!” she called out, and promptly parachuted into the pie.
The Sorting Hat inflated, slowing her descent as she plummeted through the magical tunnel. Far beneath her, the sound of gurgling roars and broken dishes echoed amid Neville’s horrified screams. Pointing her tartan slippers, she sped down the chute to his rescue.
The magical tunnel emerged in the kitchens; the house elves had forgotten to close it after delivering Neville’s pie - and the reason was evident. At the opposite end of the room, rearing up out of a rubbish bin, all the morning’s leftovers had come to life - spewing mixed meats and old porridge onto the floor. Neville cowered in the corner, white from shock and the bits of potato coating his hair, as the creature seeped closer.
The house elves swarmed, squealing and squeaking and trying to beat the rubbish monster back with pots and pans. Long, slimy tentacles of bacon lurched from the mound of howling leftovers, seizing the house elves one by one and hauling them back into its goopy, oozing carcass.
“You naughty beastie!” McGonagall shouted, drawing the creature’s attention. It squelched angrily and splattered the wall with rancid pumpkin juice. Two dripping eggs bubbled up to the surface, focusing on her like a pair of jaundiced, melting eyes.
“Bits of toast and jam have no business eating the cooks!”
The monster gushed towards her. “Enough, I say!” Untying her bow, she brandished the Sorting Hat like a weapon. It paused for a moment, confused by her actions. A rip opened along the hat’s brim, much like a mouth, immediately followed by an ear-splitting screech of banshee proportions.
Neville screamed, closing his eyes and covering his ears. The remaining house elves keeled over, begging her to make it stop. It caused the monster to shake, squelching and slurping furiously at the horrific sound. The rubbish creature flailed, tentacles lashing out and clawing at the walls, groaning in agony until the screeching was so loud and painful that the monster burst open, coating everything in slick, putrid goo.
Slowly, the sound died off and McGonagall lowered the hat, wiping leftover splatter from her face.
“Are you alright, Mr. Longbottom? So much magic in the air, nasty things are always coming to life.”
Frightened though he was, Neville nodded.
“Good. Up you get then.” She helped him to his feet as she continued. “Oh, dear - I think you’ve got a bit of it stuck to you.” A chunk of egg wiggled unhappily on Neville’s nose until McGonagall flicked it off. “There now. See that you don’t slip through any more plates, please.”
“Y-yes, professor.” He answered.
He didn’t care what his Gran said. He was never trusting a mealtime ever again.