Post by Deirdre Irons on Jan 25, 2012 21:58:24 GMT -5
A small piece of parchment fluttered in the breeze, tattered from its long journey and worn from the rain. There was nothing particularly special or eye-catching about this parchment. It had no writing on it or any beautiful illustrations on it to recommend it. In fact, the only thing on it was a phrase, one small enough to have been almost washed away by the rain which often plagued the countryside. It was blurred and written in a child’s hand, shaky and uneven—the first time really using a quill…
Well, now you’re just being stupid…
A small frown appeared on pursed lips, brow furrowed in concentration, eyes gazing at nothing though the parchment was held right in them, unseeing and trying to wade through the fog that filled her mind. There was something, almost a spark, a trail, she wanted to follow. It reminded her of a particularly fickle butterfly—almost caught, almost not. It pulled at something in her mind, dragging it out from the darkness, but not unwillingly so…
In the middle of an archway with dozens of other anxious children stood a small girl, her hair glinting a light rose as the torches flickered nearby. The other children tittered nervously among themselves and looked around; fear and excitement and anticipation and expectations all wrapped into one. She smiled a small smile and kept her mind on the beautiful hall she was in, eyes flitting around, corner to corner to crevice to doors to torches to the ghosts who deigned to scare them for tradition’s sake.
She giggled and covered her mouth lest she be too loud in this room where you were supposed to be afraid of the ghosts and your upcoming fate. She couldn’t help it, the ghosts were nice and she wanted to know more about them but before she could ask—though her mouth was open, ready with questions—the door opened and she and the other children were escorted into the Great Hall.
It was huge and glittering from above were stars that she assumed were fake but couldn’t be certain and brightly lit with floating candles and more torches and cheer and curiosity that seemed to drag all the children into it and demand they enjoy themselves. At the end of an impossibly long walk stood a stool with an old hat on it. Silver eyes narrowed thoughtfully and widened with surprise as its song filled the hall. By the end of it, she was grinning and applauding with the rest of the children.
Eventually, finally, her name was called and she walked quickly down to the hat, a nervous skip in her step. She twirled happily and sat, waiting until the hat was upon her head to ask, or think as it seemed to be, questions. She’d figured out that the hat had to be rummaging through each student’s thoughts and—judging from the expressions of her fellow year mates—not all of them could be hidden. The questions fired through her mind with a rapidity that would’ve shocked a snitch had such an inanimate contraption been able to feel such things. As it was, the hat had forcibly calmed her down—she wasn’t certain how but she kept pushing her questions at it, one by one, as it went about shuffling through her mind. It then told her, quietly, that Gryffindor would be a good place for her, for all her badgering and poking and bloody tenacity to get her answers. ‘Well, now you’re just being stupid…’
The hat chuckled—as much as one possibly could—and proclaimed Ravenclaw was to be her home.[/size]
“What are staring at, Irons?!” a gruff voice snapped from inside the small shop tucked into a corner. She jumped and, in the process of jerking backward, lost her hold on the parchment. It fluttered down and was quickly whisked away by the small stream of rainwater flowing through the streets.
“I don’t pay you to stand there and think, girl! Back to work!” With that, the small old man shuffled off, his bad leg causing him to limp and curse the entire time. Still, Deirdre smiled. Mr. Simmons was an old, grouchy man with a bad temperament and a worse outlook but he took care of her when she had no one else. Besides, she figured it was the gnome blood he had to have in him acting up. Made one crotchety....
Well, now you’re just being stupid…
A small frown appeared on pursed lips, brow furrowed in concentration, eyes gazing at nothing though the parchment was held right in them, unseeing and trying to wade through the fog that filled her mind. There was something, almost a spark, a trail, she wanted to follow. It reminded her of a particularly fickle butterfly—almost caught, almost not. It pulled at something in her mind, dragging it out from the darkness, but not unwillingly so…
In the middle of an archway with dozens of other anxious children stood a small girl, her hair glinting a light rose as the torches flickered nearby. The other children tittered nervously among themselves and looked around; fear and excitement and anticipation and expectations all wrapped into one. She smiled a small smile and kept her mind on the beautiful hall she was in, eyes flitting around, corner to corner to crevice to doors to torches to the ghosts who deigned to scare them for tradition’s sake.
She giggled and covered her mouth lest she be too loud in this room where you were supposed to be afraid of the ghosts and your upcoming fate. She couldn’t help it, the ghosts were nice and she wanted to know more about them but before she could ask—though her mouth was open, ready with questions—the door opened and she and the other children were escorted into the Great Hall.
It was huge and glittering from above were stars that she assumed were fake but couldn’t be certain and brightly lit with floating candles and more torches and cheer and curiosity that seemed to drag all the children into it and demand they enjoy themselves. At the end of an impossibly long walk stood a stool with an old hat on it. Silver eyes narrowed thoughtfully and widened with surprise as its song filled the hall. By the end of it, she was grinning and applauding with the rest of the children.
Eventually, finally, her name was called and she walked quickly down to the hat, a nervous skip in her step. She twirled happily and sat, waiting until the hat was upon her head to ask, or think as it seemed to be, questions. She’d figured out that the hat had to be rummaging through each student’s thoughts and—judging from the expressions of her fellow year mates—not all of them could be hidden. The questions fired through her mind with a rapidity that would’ve shocked a snitch had such an inanimate contraption been able to feel such things. As it was, the hat had forcibly calmed her down—she wasn’t certain how but she kept pushing her questions at it, one by one, as it went about shuffling through her mind. It then told her, quietly, that Gryffindor would be a good place for her, for all her badgering and poking and bloody tenacity to get her answers. ‘Well, now you’re just being stupid…’
The hat chuckled—as much as one possibly could—and proclaimed Ravenclaw was to be her home.[/size]
“What are staring at, Irons?!” a gruff voice snapped from inside the small shop tucked into a corner. She jumped and, in the process of jerking backward, lost her hold on the parchment. It fluttered down and was quickly whisked away by the small stream of rainwater flowing through the streets.
“I don’t pay you to stand there and think, girl! Back to work!” With that, the small old man shuffled off, his bad leg causing him to limp and curse the entire time. Still, Deirdre smiled. Mr. Simmons was an old, grouchy man with a bad temperament and a worse outlook but he took care of her when she had no one else. Besides, she figured it was the gnome blood he had to have in him acting up. Made one crotchety....