My eyes screamed as the large oak door devoured my hair, unwilling to let go. The rest of my body began to pull itself to the opposite direction, trying its best to break free of the grasp it had, knowing fully the consequences of my actions if this failed.

I gave it one hard pull.

It did not budge.

I gave it another try.

I could feel strands of my hair forced out of my head.

"Damn it!" I fumed, fumbling for the doorknob, seeing if it was not locked as I supposed in the first place. It didn't turn. I swore under my breath. I was angry, hot, and limp and exhausted, the same manner I was in the hour I arrived in this – this stupid castle.

September in Hogwarts. Oh, you know how it goes. First day of term. Stupid little First Years on their stupid little first day jitters. Gossipy Ghosts. Sorting Hats. Wands. Trolls. Magic.

I gave the door a hard kick with my heel.

I, Georgia Louise Eiffel, hated this place.

But note; it wasn't the endless, confusing corridors diseased with talking portraits who—after asking the way to the Great Hall for the past six minutes proved futile—had a sense of direction as much as I did, or the idea that I lost my favorite book during my arguably comfortable train ride to Hogwarts, or even the fact that I was staying here for a whole entire year with my Great Aunt whom I barely even know that made me want to kick someone in the shins and sob hysterically.

It's the mere fact this hellhole exists, really.

Please note that I am a full-fledged Squib and it might occur to everyone with half a brain that Squibs and magic-infested schools such as Hogwarts were never made for each other (Note: Argus Filch). Never.

And if this highly illogical circumstance does happen however, it often induces Squibs into clinical Muggle depression, which can result in an overdose of Cheering Charms prescribed by Healers which can then cause lack of self-esteem, social ineptness and a higher percentage of constipation if left untreated.

So now, I come back to the reason why I got my hair stuck to a door and why I'm illustrating my trifles for you in the first place, and the reason – oddly enough – has a name.

Poppy Pomfrey.

Aunt Poppy is my Great Aunt. I hardly know her, quite honestly – which, my Mum says, makes me a horrible niece! But I have heard lots about her. Note the fact that she has a short temper and a long tongue to go with it. Also note that there was a time when she won at a caber tossing competition at Aberdeenshire (Although I would have to confirm this yet again with Uncle Casimir, I think he was drinking too much firewhisky when he was telling me about it). Finally, please note (if this was real, your bedroom wall would probably be riddled with Post-Its by now) she makes men cry on dates.

Really, when you think about it, all Aunt Poppy needs is a beard. That is, if she already has one.

But despite all that, it didn't scare me.

…Well, all right, she completely had me at caber tossing, b—but know that I am confident with her! I think she must have some benevolence in her heart, for she did agree to keep me under her wing for a year. So that must add to something. How I wish that it would add to a lot.

I sighed. I blinked back whatever it was that made my eyes blurry and tried not to think of Mum or Dad. What was I even saying? They put all their money to get me here – to keep me happy and secure – and all I do is complain my backside off, first thing I get here?

I paused.

"Great, now I have a guilty-slash-overemotional conscience to keep me company for the rest of the year," I said to myself, slapping my left cheek hard. I closed my eyes, trying to calm myself down. "Try and be a man for once, Eiffel."

"…Excuse me?"

My eyes snapped open at once.

A boy of the same height and possibly of the same age if you see how he held himself up so awkwardly and how his shoulders slump lower and lower with every step he took, had eyes as dark as the look he was giving me. Or possibly as dark as a black hole, because when I met his gaze, it almost felt like I was getting sucked into one. Like getting yourself in a wormhole and you get that whooshy feeling—like gliding across Saturn's rings or something—

Am I even capable of describing people without sounding like getting into an acid trip?

"O—Oh." This was apparently, the only syllable I could muster that night. I could've said a hundred million things that could have intimidated him (Note the things I could've possibly say to intimidate him: 'I know where your mother lives,', 'Squibs can magically sue you like any old Wizard can and have your backside in Wizengamot before you can say 'magical lawyers?' or quite possibly, call on Mrs. Norris for help so it wasn't at all of any help should I even have said anything else) and wiped that look off his face! But oh no, I didn't and look where it got me.

"What are you doing here?" He clicked his tongue, looking very much annoyed as I was."Are you a student? Why aren't you in your school robes?"

"N—No, that's not it—I'm a niece o-of Poppy P—Pomfrey—I—" My voice dropped in a whisper, my gaze dropping to the marbled floor.

"…"

"What?"

"I—I'm… Stuck. My hair," I craned my head forty-five degrees to the right to show him. "See?"

He gave me another one of his stupid little stares. "You're joking."

I smiled a very nervous—you have a wand, do something, idiot—smile at him.

The boy looked at me for a few more seconds when: "You're really stuck?" He asked, the expression on his face softening. I didn't answer. "How long have you been here?"

"Long enough." I said, too exhausted to say anything else. "Can you please help me out?"

He sighed, drew his wand out and gave it a little flick. The door swung open like magic (okay, it was), dark hair dropping limply with much relief. I beamed at him. He tried not to look flattered, and he did so, vainly.

"Thank you so much," I glowed, seizing his free hand, shaking vigorously. The corners of his mouth twitched uncomfortably.

"It's no problem," he mumbled, trying to catch the frown he was wearing moments ago. "You could use a haircut, though."

I looked at him as though he was asking me to cut off my own leg.

"I—I—mean, you know—t—tie it or something—" He stammered, the picture of embarrassment.

I laughed, parting my hair in two and tying it into pigtails. I grabbed the small suitcase next to me. "That sounds more reasonable," I smiled at him, reaching once more for his hand. He now took it, and well, shook back. "Well, thanks again, uh—"

"Severus," he supplied.

"Severus." I repeated. "Right. Thanks, Severus. I owe you one."

My lips cracked a small smile, my already-aching head trying to register the fact that not all Wizards are condescending air-headed prats as I made them out to be.

Author's Note: Review please! Constructive criticism is most welcomed. Let me know what you think! Thanks.