A lot of things have been said about the way Ben and I ended our time together. I broke up with him, he broke up with me, I broke up with him to go out with that bloke who wears jodhpurs. The truth is, it was none of these; I stormed out in a simmering heap after I discovered him locked in the broom shelter wearing a Stegosaurus costume, while making out with Tiffany Marks.
I'd love to be able tell you that story, of what came to be known as the Golden Snitch Snog-out, but it would really take up too much of my precious time. And time is, unfortunately, of the essence.
I would have never spoken to Ben again, but now and again a situation requires a little social improvisation, (and some sacrifice of pride), and that's how I found myself waiting by the Griffindor dorm on an oppressively cloudy Monday morning.
I myself am a Ravenclaw, so the fact that I even had to be there was something of an embarresment to me. And from the twinkle in her eye and the sly smile upon her face, the Fat Lady knew all about how I felt. We both knew that she wouldn't lift a finger to help me though; house loyalty runs deep, and in this particular situation I had no misconseptions about whose side she was on. But one must keep up pretenses, of course, so she leaned towards me with that infuriating smile.
"Can I help you, dear?"
Well, I thought, I might as well try.
"Actually, yes please. I need to see Benjamin Steen, so do you think that you could maybe…"
"Speak up. I've no time for mutterers." Now she had a dainty little frown, too.
"Well, let me in?"
"Oooooooh" She sighed. "Well, let me think… NO."
I hadn't really expected any differently. Even though the battle of Hogwarts had ended over twenty years ago, scars still ran deep through the castle and the people who resided within it. And no wonder too – a traumatic event, as my mother tells me, can resonate far beyond it's original perceived damage. These scars came out in little ways – the irreparable scratches on the house hourglasses in the entrance hall, the wary-eyed glances the older teachers sometimes shared, and the perennial crabbiness and mistrust of the portraits that line the halls where I now stood. My mother would say that these are typical reactions, that nothing more should be expected from those who lived through a war. And yes, my mother is a psychologist who specialises in magical distress.
It was totally understandable, and at that moment, totally annoying.
"Look," I pleaded "I just need to stick my head in. I can leave the rest of my body right here on the landing, promise. I just really, really need to talk to him right now."
"And what, pray tell, is so important at six o'clock on a Monday morning? Why can it not wait for breakfast?"
Right then on the landing, clad only in my orange pajamas and fluffy monster slippers, I almost told her. But everyone knows who the castle gossip is, and I didn't need my classmates, teachers, and somebody's aunt Prudence to know just how much trouble I was in. Whatever else could be said about Ben, he could at least keep his mouth shut, or at least, I hoped so.
When I didn't reply, the Fat Lady just pursed her lips and pretended to go back to sleep. Obviously she would never let me through, so drastic measures needed to be taken. I strode off down the hall in an accordingly dramatic fashion, or as dramatically as one can be in those aforementioned monster slippers.
My destination was one place I knew would be bustling at this time of day; that very same broom shelter that ended mine and Ben's relationship. All the jocks would be there, readying themselves for some upcoming game or another. I would just have to wait until they'd all zoomed out onto the pitch in a rush of competitive, endorphinated team spirit. Disgusting.
As you can probably guess, I'm not the greatest fan of the game that has the whole of Britain enthralled. Back in Melbourne, where I come from, the most you'd ever hear of it would be a "Greatest Cannon's Fails" compilation going viral on Wizard Net. Just like the AFL (for you foreigners, a game whereupon testosterone fuelled males fight over an egg shaped ball), or rugby and tennis for that matter, ball sports usually fail to excite me. And it's up to you to figure out how much of that was a metaphor for me being Bi.
However, I do love to fly. Since I was a little kid I've always had these dreams where I'm running so quickly that suddenly, inexplicably, my feet no longer need to touch the ground. I stretch out my legs, point my toes and lean forward, and I'm moving so fast that the grass beneath me is a green blur. Slowly I rise, objects becoming smaller beneath me like I'm in an aeroplane. It feels so tenuous and fragile, and at any moment I could lose this beautiful feeling and come plummeting back down to earth. But for the moment, it's incredible and I wouldn't change a thing.