Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I don't own it.
It was one of those days where there was no rain, but the sky sure looked like it would all day long. Big, dark, ink stains of clouds hung in the sky above Hogwarts castle. Wind teased the students' hair, blowing it in front of their face, tangling it hopelessly. The air seemed as if it were hovering over a frozen lake-it was frigid cold, and that cold seemed to permeate from the rock-hard, ground, still highlighted with frost. It was the mid-January, and while Hogwarts had received a break from the heavy snow it had been getting, the air was still cold.
A lone figure, decked out in one of those big, snug coats that just react past your knees, the bottom hem of the coat writhing about in the wind, hurried towards the doors to the school.
Hermione Granger had woken up this morning, looked out her window, and seen that enough of the snow was finally gone that she could take a morning walk. On this little jaunt of hers, she had quickly lost track of time. But if she hurried, she could still make it to class with a minute to spare.
Breathing hard, producing puffs of clouds that hung in the air in front of her face, she hustled up the stairs and breezed into Transfiguration.
She sat down; catching her breath, looking around to see which house her and the other Gryffindors would be sharing the lesson. Apparently, they would be sharing with Ravenclaw. A nice bunch-Hermione smiled to herself.
Professor McGonagall entered the classroom seconds before the start of class, and sat down, quieting the students.
The lesson that day was on transforming snakes into rope- an "easy lesson" as McGonagall put it. (Some Gryffindor students were a little overzealous in their attempts, stopping just short of harming the snake. Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalry was still alive and well). It was slightly challenging, (though not for Hermione), but easy enough that everyone could do it, even Neville.
It was the perfect lesson.
Until the last ten minutes.
Five minutes until the end of class, and Professor McGonagall called for the student's attention.
"I have an announcement. The school has decided on a new project that they wish the students to carry out."
The students in question groaned in unison. This was about "inter-house loyalty" and "the end of rivalry between houses"-basically, the goal that all of the teachers worked for, but knew was not a probability.
"Students, students! That will be enough. Now. The school has decided that the main cause of hostilities between houses is a lack of communication."
At this the children snickered. Every week the school came up with another "main cause" for the rivalries every week. The main cause last week had been "Unfamiliarity." The week before that had been "differences in opinion about Quidditch." Many theories such as those had been tried, but within seven days were discarded. With each new "main cause" they came up with a project for the students to do that would supposedly help end the house rivalries. Most of these projects were dropped after a week when a new "main cause" was thought up, though some of them remained in practice. As of last month, there was one day of the week set aside for enforced mingling in the Great Hall at lunch. Students would be required to sit somewhere different, away from people they normally sat next to. Teachers were forced to circle like vultures, each with a clipboard, making sure that no one broke the rules. It was hard to say who hated the arrangement more-the students or the teachers.
Another such torment for the student body was Quidditch Discussion. Once a week, usually on the same day as the great Mix-It-Up lunch, the students were forced into groups of four, one student per house to a group. They were then supposed to talk about Quidditch. More often than not, less than ten words were said, and the four students ignored each other. Sometimes fights broke out. Sometimes friends were put together and the two whispered to each other, making the others in their group feel left out. Sometimes the students talked about something completely unrelated to Quidditch, usually when four girls were put together and there was something to gossip about. One way or another, everyone had yet to actually discuss Quidditch.
The students in Professor McGonagall's classroom awaited this week's new ordeal, and hoped that it wouldn't be added to their week permanently.
"It has been decided that you will all be assigned pen pals with someone in another house."
The students practically jumped for joy. Pen pals! Basically, writing to someone! That was something they could do for about a week, get away with writing barely anything, and by the end of the week just drop it! Even if the teachers did declare that this exercise was to continue, they could quit if they wanted to-teachers had never been successful at tracking every letter that moved throughout the school.
"I would like you to come to the front please. You will be receiving your assignments."
Students filed up to McGonagall's desk, expecting a piece of paper with their pen pal's name on it, and maybe instructions. But there was no paper on the professor's desk. Instead, there was cage upon cage of owls resting on the carpet behind her desk, stacked three high.
"You will be sending your letters via the owl you are given here-no, you may not use your own. No, you will not know your pen pal."
The students immediately began protesting. Loudly. The owls cringed in their cages, hooting indignantly, disturbed by the sudden burst of noise.
It took several minutes for McGonagall to regain the attention of her pupils.
"Yes, there is a reason that you will not know your pen pals. The school has decided that main reason for the rivalry is lack of communication, and so they actually want you to communicate. This, believe it or not, is not likely to happen when you hate the person you are supposed to be communicating with. If you don't know who you are speaking to, you are more likely to be civil. Also, you are not allowed to tell them who you are, or what house you are in. Your owls will be trained to go to the person you are writing when they are alone. You will get your letters from your partner's owl."
The way she said "the school" made it clear that she was one of the growing number of teachers who had long ago come to terms with the fact that they were wasting their time trying to force the houses together. She delivered this message with a bit of a sigh, and a bit of a 'can you believe what they've came up with now?' tone to her voice.
Still grumbling (this is so dumb, I can't believe their acting like this, why can't we know who we're writing to?), the students shuffled forward to the front of the room to receive their owls. Hermione's was a beautiful barn owl. It had a distinctive heart-shaped face, a snow-white belly, and wings of mottled gold, golden-brown, white, and blue-black. Hermione decided to call her Syra.
That night, Hermione penned her first letter by candle light. She was using a fountain pen with light green ink. She could use her quill, but for letters she preferred this pen. She had had it since her first day of first grade.
She began to write out dear, only to remember that she had no idea who she was addressing. She quickly caught herself, and changed her beginning.
Hello.
Do you think this will be one of those exercises that we have to keep up for more than a week? I hope not.
It was a rather negative opening, but she didn't know how else to begin. She couldn't ask how he or she was feeling-she didn't even know their name. Besides, whoever it was, they most likely agreed with her.
Now for the questions. Maybe, with enough of these, she could find out who her partner in this exercise was.
What is your favorite color? What is your favorite flower? What season is your favorite? What is your favorite book? Who is your favorite author? What did you name your owl?
Hermione frowned a little. These were rather generic questions. She needed to put more thought into these questions.
What is your favorite poem? Why?
I can't decide on one favorite poem, but I like 'Macbeth', by Shakespeare. It's not technically poetry, but it is written like poetry.
What is your favorite thing to do in the snow?
I like to build forts, complete with snowball weaponry, a wall, and as many other details as possible. I make snowmen soldiers to go with it. I also love to make unique snowmen. There is this series of comic books called 'Calvin and Hobbs' (Muggle) that I got the idea from- one of the main characters never makes a normal snowman. I always loved looking at his misshapen creations.
Hermione's hand halted on the page. What else could she write to someone she didn't know?
Do you have any siblings? If so, do they have any annoying habits? I have a little sister who, after a shower, always wrings out her hair on the floor. Sometimes water gets on the wood floor at the top of the stairs.
Do you like kiwi?
Hermione tapped her pen against her paper. She didn't know what else to say.
Bye!
Your pen pal or what ever it is you want to call me.
She hurriedly shoved the letter into an envelope, and tied it to her assigned owl's leg, and sent it off to whomever it was to be sent to.
Her owl flew off into the night, and disappeared behind one of the towers.
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