(TSN/HP) the continued narration of harry the douchebag
[ part ii ]
Classes begin and Harry has nothing to do. The muffled half-silence of the library is beginning to crawl under his skin and the stink of fresh ink and parchment simultaneously stings and itches at his nose. He can't even take his broom out for a spin; it's been thunderstoming the past week.
Hermione and Ron are still, presumably, where he left them in the library, where Ron had been going on about 'The systematic regulation on the spread of information' and 'This is exactly why our culture will never operate on a level of transparency that befits a real democratic system.'
('You don't even have anything you want to read in the Restricted Section!'
'Yeah, but it's the principle of it, innit?')
Hermione hadn't been much better, moaning again about the first-years who had been let into her arithmancy class, something about 'lack of respect' and 'no one let me test into arithmancy as a first-year' and 'bloody upstarts, think they can just bust into my class and score better than me on the first assignment.'
So having had enough of that, Harry makes his way back to Gryffindor tower, kicking at his essay as he goes. He'd pick it up, but it's potions. Thirty inches, and it's only the second week of school. Just proof that Snape has it out for him personally.
Rounding the corner, Harry stops to let whatever idiot it is coming out of the portrait hole not hit him in the face. 'Hi Harry!' Neville greets him, coming out of the portrait hole.
'Hi Neville,' Harry replies. Neville is plump and far too cheery. 'Where you going?'
Neville shrugs on his cloak and fiddles with the hood. 'Oh, just out, you know. Professor Sprout says she's got a whole new inventory this year, and she said I could--'
'That’s great, Neville,' Harry tells him distractedly. Neville’s voice has a tendency to make Harry's brain switch off and start contemplating cheese sandwiches.
'Y-yeah, I guess it is.' Neville's face smiles clumsily. He's still holding onto the portrait's edge, like he's intent on letting in a draught. 'Em,' he says. 'So what have you been up to?'
'Snape's paper from hell,' Harry sighs. 'Can you believe it? Thirty inches.'
Neville replies brightly, 'Oh, that was easy! I mean, all it is is a summary of what you remember from last year. If you still have your notes, you can just--'
Gouda on rye, Harry's brain supplies, which comes out of his mouth as, 'Sounds fun, Neville, you do that now.'
'Um. Yeah.' Neville's laugh is awkward and stupid and his eyes dart from side to side. 'I, erm, guess I’ll see you around then?'
The portrait swings shut as he scurries down the corridor. 'Password?' the fat lady asks. Harry rolls his eyes and provides it, privately wondering if Neville’s rudeness is just a result of his having been raised by purebloods, or if he's naturally just a bit of an arsehole. Harry knows he'd never dream of closing a door in the face of a fellow Gryffindor.
'Wait, hey, hold the--' he hears, just as he lets the portrait swing shut behind him. Ah, home, he thinks, making his way down the corridor towards the common room. Warm fires, cushy chairs, the sounds of hushed admiration from all the first-year girls when he stretches himself out on the couch to study, the smell of--
'--Chris, Chriiis! Mark’s taken my agrippan tables and he's writing all over it! Make him give it back!'
Harry's peaceful fantasy is interrupted by the shrill sounds of whining first-years. The same ones Hermione had been complaining about, if he's absorbed anything from her arithmancy rants. He rounds the corner into the common room where a group of four of them have sprawled across the carpet, books propped open on pillows that belong on the couches. Harry feels a twinge of irritation at the sight. He hates it when people put the pillows on the floor. Some people want use those to cushion their feet!
Then he notices the coloured stripes on their ties. Only one of them is Gryffindor. The blond one by armchair wears Ravenclaw colours, and the one leant up against the ottoman is decked in yellow and black. And the one by the fireplace --
'You,' someone hisses next to his ear. Harry turns to see the boy who had followed him in through the portrait hole, shoulders hunched and hackles raised like a startled cat. He's tall and wiry and has a slightly damp look about him, but more importantly, he's pointing to the first-year boy in Slytherin green. 'How did you get in here?'
Lagger McCormic, or something bizarre like that? Harry's not sure he can remember his name, but he approves of where McLagmic is going with this line of questioning. He nods, sagely, to show this approval.
The Slytherin looks up from his chart. 'Me?' he drawls. He’s small and slightly mouse-ish, a head of tight brown curls and thin, quick hands. 'I was let in. How did you get in here?'
McLorger's lips draw back in a snarl. He definitely has an air of something cat-like about him. Harry thinks he might like cats. 'I live here.' Then McJorger's eyes scan the room. Harry follows his eyeline. When they find the Gryffindor in the group, McJagger accuses 'You.' The Ravenclaw knocks the boy with his elbow, and he emerges from where he's ducked behind him. 'You let him in?'
The boy peeks up reluctantly. 'Er, me?' he asks. 'Yeah, I mean, we had this thing we had to work on, and we were closest to Gryffindor Tower so I kinda just...' he swallows. 'Cormac--' That's it! Cormac McLagafrasa whatever '--I’m sorry if we've done something wrong, but honestly, we were just working on this assignment. You know. You.'
The boy pauses. 'Wait, do you even know my name?'
Cormac snorts. 'That’s not the point here, Justin, what you should be worried about here is --'
'It’s Dustin.'
'Dustin then. You should think twice before you get involved with the likes of him.'
'He’s got a name too.' Oh, a Hufflepuff in the process of growing a spine. Harry turns to watch the disaster unfold. This boy is slightly taller than the others, his colt legs gangly and drawn up tight underneath him. 'It’s Mark--'
'-Zuckerberg,' the Slytherin interjects, but the Hufflepuff continues. 'And I’m Eduardo, and that's Chris.'
They've attracted something of a small crowd now, fellow Gryffindors both whispering and silent. Harry surveys them, casually, and goes to stand between two worried-looking first-year girls. His presence will reassure them of their righteousness. Which they are full of.
'None of you should be in here,' Cormac continues to insist. 'This is the Gryffindor common room, and it's for Gryffindors.'
'You’re a dick.' Harry's smile at his new first-year fans freezes and he whips his head around and finds Zuckerberg staring at Cormac with blank, pale eyes.
'What did you say to me?'
Zuckerberg blinks. 'You heard me,' he says matter-of-factly. 'You’re no better than me. You’re, what, a third year? You’re not even that much older than me. You’re just a dick whose mother probably didn't hug him enough as a baby, or whose dad--'
'You leave my mother out of this!' Cormac's face has taken on a violent red hue, like a pimple squeezed and about to burst.
The girls clutching Harry's arms gasp. One of them whispers, 'Are they going to fight?'
Harry thinks so, as Cormac takes a step towards Zuckerberg. The little snake needs a good thrashing, show him his place, where he belongs--
But then Eduardo lunges to his feet, shouting, 'Leave him alone!' His wand is drawn, some sort of weak, Hufflepuff magic sparkling at its tip.
'Is there a problem here?' Harry turns and finds himself face to face with Oliver Wood, broomstick in hand and dripping with rain. Cormac blanches faster than snow peas in a boiler.
'No,' Dustin pipes up from behind him just as Zuckerberg says, 'Yes.'
'No, there really isn't,' says Chris the Ravenclaw, gathering up his things and with a look, getting the other two to too. Zuckerberg continues to watch Cormac, motionless and creepy. 'We’ll be leaving.'
'Come on, Mark,' Eduardo says, holding both their books under one arm while he tugs at his friend with his other hand. Zuckerberg stands, still staring at Cormac. Cormac stares back, though his eyes have started to redden and water from not blinking.
'You’re no better than me,' Zuckerberg repeats, and then Eduardo drags him out of the room.
Oliver pushes past Harry to tap on Cormac's shoulder. Cormac turns. 'What was that about?' Oliver asks cautiously.
'Someone needs to remind the first-years of the house rules,' Cormac snaps. He storms out of the room.
Harry finds that he agrees. Impertinent twats.