Disclaimer: Many of the characters in this fic are made-up, but the Harry Potter universe completely belongs to JKR.
Author's Note: I know original character stories aren't popular, but I decided to put this up because I wanted to show what a 'normal' person's life was like at Hogwarts. I eat Mary Sue's for breakfast, so if you think any of my characters are Mary Sue's, feel free to cast me into the fiery flames of Sparklypoo hell! Rated T for language, my crude sense of humor, and the possibility of minor violence/sexual situations.
Chapter One: Sally the Puffskein
What do you enjoy waking up to in the morning? Do you enjoy waking up to the warmth of another body sleeping next to you, or the smell of breakfast downstairs? Do you enjoy the feeling of the sun glazing over your closed eyelids, or the sound of chirping birds outside your window? Or perhaps you enjoy waking up on your own terms to nothing at all? Whatever the case, no one enjoys waking up to the wetness of a puffskein's tongue swirling around their nostrils.
But whether she enjoyed the feeling or not, that was exactly how Tatum Waverly woke up every summer. Tatum would be in the midst of a dream about snogging various shirtless, muscular Quidditch players, when suddenly they'd stick their tongue up her nose. Before Tatum knew it, her eyes flung open and instead of a sexually adventurous shirtless Quidditch god, the tongue belonged to her 11 year old sister Jemma's pet puffskein, Sally.
Tatum abruptly sat up and wrenched the ball of blinking breathing fluff away from her nostrils. "UUUUUGH!" She let out a moan pitiful enough to earn Moaning Myrtle's sympathy and, flinging Sally carelessly aside, pulled herself out of bed. She poised herself against her drawer and lifted her head, blearily staring at her less than pleasing reflection in the mirror situated above the drawer. Her eyes were big and bloodshot, and her hair looked like a puffskein s nest. There were white crusty patches around her eyes and mouth and her lips were cracked and dry. "Ew." She wrinkled her nose and picked at some of the material on her pajamas. "How did that stain get there?"
"It's all right, dearie," her mirror said, a light, encouraging tone in its voice. "Not everyone's a morning person."
"You don't even look like a person at all."
Tatum jerked her head away from the mirror, eyes raking over the figure of her little sister standing by the doorframe of her room. Jemma was already dressed in her Hogwarts robes, with everything all nice and pressed, even though they didn't have to arrive at Platform 9 3/4's for at least three hours. "You're right," Tatum said, voice heavy with sarcasm. "I look like a goddess." Before Jemma could open her mouth to say anything smart back, Tatum kicked Sally forward with her foot. Jemma gasped and lunged at the puffskein, scooping it up in her arms and kissing it with an affection that should've been reserved for newly married couples.
"Oh! Oh! My poor, precious wittle baby!" She cradled Sally lovingly beneath her chin. "What did that great ugly bint do to you!?" She continued planting a row of kisses, and peered up at Tatum, a hint of sly satisfaction reflected in her stare. "I'm telling Mum!"
Tatum grated her teeth. "Do you think I'm stupid, or something? I know for a fact you've been sneaking in my room at the arsecrack of dawn and putting that slobbering cotton ball on my face. You're lucky I just kicked the thing." After hearing Jemma snort doubtfully, Tatum pulled a desk drawer open, briefly leafed through it and drew out her smooth maple wand. Tatum twirled it idly between her fingers, then suddenly pointed her wand at Jemma's sweat-glistened forehead. "I've been reading up on the Transmogrifian Torture, Jemma. Interesting stuff. I've never cast it before, myself, because it's illegal, but I'm sure there wouldn't be much, if any, consequence if I just tried it out on a wittle puffskein. All in good fun, of course." Tatum cackled dangerously and lowered her wand from Jemma's forehead to the creature nestled comfortably in her arms. "Transmo-"
"TATUM BEATRICE DAMARA WAVERLY, WHAT IN MERLIN S NAME DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?"
Tatum winced, lowered her wand, and turned her head meekly toward the livid red face of her mother. Jemma was sobbing in the background, but Tatum knew the brat was laughing on the inside. Instead of waking up to the feeling of the sun glazing over her eyelids or the sound of birds chirping outside her window, Tatum woke up to the feeling of a puffskein's tongue up her nose and the shrill sound of another lecture from her mother.
And it wasn't even light outside yet.
* * * *
Although Tatum's mother knew the Transmogrifian Torture curse wasn't even real, she punished Tatum like it was as dangerous as the Cruciatus Curse any way. On one hand, Tatum understood why her mother was so paranoid about her even mentioning black magic; her mother lived through Voldemort's brief but terrible reign and was still a little shocked from her haunting experiences. On the other hand, Tatum's mother must have known about the whole puffskein shenanigan Jemma had been pulling. Regardless, Tatum was the one watering her mother s Fanged Geranium garden in the backyard and Jemma was the one in the kitchen nibbling on cauldron cakes and reading the comics section of The Daily Prophet.
Tatum sprang backward, spilling a little of the water in the pitcher she held onto the ground. "BLOODY HELL!" She yanked off one of her gloves and examined the bloody gash a Geranium left, right on the soft part of her wrist. Even through the thick dragonhide material of her gloves, the Geraniums fangs sank into her skin with ease. Thoroughly pissed off, Tatum doused the rest of the water in her pitcher onto the Geranium. It was way too much water and the Fanged Geranium's bright purple petals wilted more than they should've, but Tatum hadn't noticed. She snapped off her other glove and threw everything she'd been holding onto the ground. The blood dripped from her wound onto her pajamas, and although it still grossed Tatum out, the sight of her own blood on her clothes was kind of cool. She felt like the dying heroine in a trashy romance novel.
"Oh, Raoul," Tatum whispered, holding her sides like she was gushing out blood from every pore, when the blood was really only coming out of her wrist. "How did things end up this way? We used to be so in love... But now look what you've done, baby! You've killed me. You've killed me and I'm pregnant with your son, Raoul!" Tatum choked out a sob and stumbled over the discarded pitcher. "It's okay, though, Raoul. I'll always love you, because even if you've killed me you've taken me to heaven, to the angels..."
"Tatum, sweetheart, why are you bleeding?"
Tatum's eyes widened slightly. It was her mother. DAMNIT! Why was she always popping up at the worst moments possible?
"And who is this Raoul?"
Tatum swiveled around, facing her mother. Her mother crossed her arms over her chest and her eyebrows furrowed suspiciously. The end of her mouth twitched, but not into a smile. Her mouth instinctively trembled when she was annoyed and that was when Tatum knew to back off and give the woman space.
"Oh, I don't know, Mum. Things have been pretty rough lately, and on account of me getting pregnant and everything, I feel like the only way I can express myself is through cutting my own wrists." Tatum's mother's lips were twitching up a storm, now. "Just kidding, Mum!" she said quickly. "One of your delicate little flowers had a craving for girl flesh and bit me. And I don't know anyone named Raoul, thus I'm not baring his love child."
Mrs. Waverly frowned crossly. "What did I tell you about teasing the Geraniums, Tatum!? They bi-"
"I know they bite. Anything with the word 'fanged' in its name obviously bites." Tatum leaned over and scooped the empty bucket and pair of gloves off the ground. She gave them to her mother. "If you're so worried about me teasing them, make Jemma water them next time. She should've been the one watering them today, anyway. Or you could just get rid of the things completely. Why are they even here?"
Mrs. Waverly lifted one of the dragonhide gloves Tatum handed her. Tatum predicted the blow before it even happened, but didn't have enough reaction time to dodge her mother's advances, because before she knew it, her mother smacked her roughly on the top of her head with the glove. "Don't you ever interrupt me when I'm talking, young lady, or use such a sarcastic tone when doing so. I don't care if you're fifteen or fifty, I'm your mother and I will be treated with nothing but the upmost respect."
God damn that hurt! Along with bleeding her guts out, her head felt like it'd been split in two. The glove hadn't done much to prevent Tatum from being gnawed at by a legion of demonic flowers, but it certainly did its job knocking her out. "Oi, Mum, why'd you do that!? Violence is never the answer!"
Her mother lowered the glove, satisfaction flushing in red over her oval-shaped face. "If violence isn't the answer, then why'd you threaten your sister with a made-up hex?" She lifted her eyebrows, in an 'AHA! GOTCHA!' way, and placed her hands on the curves her wide hips. "I know your sister hasn't been the nicest person to you, sweetie, but she's eleven and you're fifteen. She doesn't know any better, but you do. You're such a smart girl, Tatum, but you have no common sense when it comes to dealing with other people."
Tatum narrowed her eyes. "Well, my professors seem to think I'm good enough to be a prefect, and that involves a lot of human interaction, doesn't it?"
Mrs. Waverly placed the gloves inside the empty bucket and rubbed her left temple with her free hand. "Go get washed, Tatum. You're a mess and we have to be at Kings Cross in an hour."
"You still didn't answer my question as to why the Geraniums are here."
"THEY PREVENT GNOME INFESTATION, TATUM. NOW HAUL YOUR SMARTARSE INTO THE SHOWER BEFORE I THROW YOU IN THERE MYSELF!"
"Yes ma'am!" Tatum whirled around and ran back inside as fast as her stick legs could carry her.
* * * *
After participating in various hygienic related activities, Tatum flounced into her bedroom and dressed. She added the final touches to her Hogwarts uniform, carefully knotting her yellow and black striped Hufflepuff tie. She pinned her glinting, silver prefect badge on the gray sweater vest adorning her chest and took a dramatic step back. She examined every visible inch of herself reflected in her enchanted vanity mirror.
At a whopping 5'10," Tatum towered over most of the girls and even a good deal of the boys her age. She had a lanky, boyish build, long legs intact with a pair of knobby knees and large hands and feet. While Tatum had no complaints about her weight, she wished her body had a distinctive curve or two, but there was only a slight roundness to her hips. Those curves didn't count, however, because they weren't visible when she wore clothes. Her breasts, or lack thereof, were so small they looked like two doxy bites. Tatum hated her chest, but not as much as other girls hated their own. Martha Hopkins, a 6th year in her house, went so far as to using the engorgement charm on her chest and that ended in disaster. One breast grew as large as a quaffle and the other stayed the size it had been before. Tatum couldn't fathom how embarrassing Martha's trip to the hospital wing had been, but at least she had a small claim to fame when Witch Weekly interviewed her about her troubling experience. Bosom aside, Tatum's face was plain, not breathtaking or horribly disfigured. She had high cheekbones, a soft jaw line and a long, beaky nose. Freckles sprinkled across her pale skin and her thin droopy mouth was always chapped because her mother refused to let her wear lip gloss. Tatum's dark brown hair tumbled to her shoulders in thick, course waves, and an almond, heavily lidded shape framed her dull gray eyes. She was a clumsy sort of beauty; pretty, but not soft.
Tatum thought seeing herself with the prefect badge intact would somehow glorify her image, but the pin beneath it only pricked her skin. She straightened her slumped position and puffed her chest out. "You, there!" she said, pointing at herself in the mirror. "What are you doing out? It's after curfew." She pretended to scribble something onto a pad of parchment, ripped what she wrote off the pad and handed it to her reflection. "Filch will see you in detention 9:00 at night next Tuesday. Don't be late. Now return to your common room immediately." Tatum lifted her eyebrows, looking at her mirror for support. "What'd you honestly think?"
"Oooh, well done," her mirror said, impressed. "The authority in your voice and expression made me feel intimidated! And you look dashing wearing that badge. It compliments your eyes."
"Really?" Tatum didn't have time to sink gloatingly into her mirror's compliments, because a more authoritative voice blasted through her bedroom door:
"TATUM, WE'RE GOING TO BE LATE!"
"Coming, Mum!" Tatum drew her trolley off the ground by its handle. She flashed a smile at her mirror. "Goodbye!"
"Have a wonderful year, dearie!"
Tatum slipped out of the door, yanking her trolley behind her. Her mirror always told her to have a wonderful year; maybe this time round she actually would.
... yeah right.
* * *
Tatum's trip to Kings Cross station was fairly uneventful. Like the years before, Mrs. Waverly took her children to the station using a portkey. Tatum was proud of herself, because this time she finally landed on her feet instead of her arse. Jemma did the same, but her mother, even through all of her experience using portkeys, wasn't quite as graceful. She fell onto an elderly muggle man and attempted helping him stand, stuttering apologies as she did so. The poor man stumbled to his feet, pushed her aside and ran away without his luggage. Tatum and Jemma burst into fits of laughter, because there'd been a damp streak of what obviously must've been urine running along his pants leg. Mrs. Waverly didn't share their sense of humor.
"Honestly!" she said, adjusting her glasses and brushing invisible dust off her purple robes. She pocketed the portkey in her breast pocket. "The nerve of some muggles, just running away like that without giving me a second glance." Mrs. Waverly grabbed Jemma's hand, signaled Tatum to follow and pushed through the crowd. The crowd mostly consisted of muggles, but Tatum saw a teenager pushing a trolley with an owl cage in tow here and there.
Bite your tongue, Tatum thought, but her mouth opened before she could stop herself from saying the sarcastic comment oh so desperately pleading to be voiced. "Well, Mum, you don't exactly have to be a scholar in Muggle Studies to know muggles aren't accustomed to seeing random robe-clad women magically descend out of the heavens. And as if that sight isn't enough to make a 90 year old muggle man wet himself, the feeling of one of those random robe-clad women landing squarely on his face is bound to trigger some sort of reaction in his urinary tract. I'm surprised he didn't die from shock."
Mrs. Waverly's lips twitched in places Tatum hadn't seen them twitch before. "And I'm surprised I haven't put you up for adoption." Her hand snaked around Tatum's back and she yanked roughly on Tatum's hair.
Tatum gasped. "MERCY! MERCY! MERCY!" When tears of pain brimmed on the outskirts of Tatum's eyes, her mother let go. Tatum wiped her eyes off with her sleeves. Upon lifting her head from the comfort of her arm, she saw Jemma smirking devillishly at her. Tatum couldn't believe people thought she and Jemma looked alike. Sure, they had the same freckles and dark hair, but Jemma was short and squat, like their mother, and had a double chin Tatum enjoyed jiggling with her hand whenever they participated in physical warfare. Jemma also had a huge gap between her teeth, which Mrs. Waverly found absolutely adorable and Tatum found absolutely repulsive.
When Mrs. Waverly wasn't looking, Tatum flashed Jemma the one finger salute and ran ahead. After a couple seconds of tiring cardiovascular activity, her gray eyes widened at the vision she beheld.
There, in all its cemented glory, stood the barrier between platforms nine and ten.
Tatum felt a mixture of happiness and apprehension, looking at that wall. She poised herself against the pull-up handle of her trolley and waited for her mother and sister to catch up. Tatum thought it was amusing, watching them walk through the oncoming crowd, because they looked like a pair of waddling, sweat-glistened penguins. When they finally arrived in front of Tatum and the wall, Tatum stepped aside. She bent into a low, overdramatic bow, and indicated the wall by waving her hands. "After you, Jemma, dearest," Tatum said, sarcasm pouring out of every word and movement.
Since the time Mrs. Waverly brought Jemma along to Kings Cross station to drop Tatum off for school, Jemma was deathly afraid of going through the wall. Tatum had to make her passage into Platform 9 3/4 alone, as Mrs. Waverly and a shaking Jemma stood behind waving. Now it was Jemma's first year at Hogwarts and she had to go through the wall herself. Jemma stood whimpering and clutched the handle of her trolly with her small, clammy hands. Mrs. Waverly rubbed Jemma's shoulders comfortingly and cooed in her ear. "It's all right, sweetie, just take it nice and slow. Nothing's going to happen to you." Mrs. Waverly loosened her grip on Jemma and carefully inched away.
Before Jemma or Mrs. Waverly could blink, Tatum whipped around Jemma and pushed her, shrieking, through the wall.
Mrs. Waverly's eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. "TATUM BEATRICE DA-"
"Damara Waverly blah blah blah blah BLAH." Jemma dropped her suitcase in the midst of Tatum pushing her, so along with pulling her own trolley, Tatum held onto her sisters. "She had to learn somehow, but we didn't have enough time to baby step through the whole painful process. You better come too, if you want to bid your daughters a final farewell." Tatum charged forward herself and melted through the wall.
Mrs. Waverly's lips twitched and she followed suit.
The platform was filled to the brim with chatty students, disgruntled parents and runaway pets. Mrs. Waverly waved for her children to come with her off to the side, where there weren't many people. Tatum and Jemma gathered around their mother and Tatum realized tears were streaming down the woman's puffy face. Bollocks, she thought, resisting the urge to roll her eyes, here we go again.
"My babies are all grown up," Mrs. Waverly managed saying between sobs. "Look at you in one of these things already!" She yanked Jemma forward by her sleeve and busied herself by smoothing the crinkles on Jemma's robes with her hands. Jemma was still flustered after being thrust through a wall, so twitched all over the place as Mrs. Waverly touched her. She vainly attempted pushing the woman away. "Stop it, Jemma!" Mrs Waverly hissed. "You've got wrinkles everywhere. First impressions are everything and you don't want to look like a pig, now, do you?"
Tatum barked with laughter. "If she wants to stop looking like a pig, Mum, she should avoid cauldron cakes, not wrinkles."
Mrs. Waverly stopped messing with Jemma's clothing and whirled around. She reached her hand forward to pull Tatum's ear, but this time Tatum managed dodging her mother's advances. "And you," she huffed, almost out of breath, "you better mind your own business and stay out of trouble this year, young lady. If I get one-"
"Well, that'll be rather difficult, considering I've always lived my life on the edge. But I'll try."
Mrs. Waverly leaned forward, but this time, she didn't do so for threatening purposes. She simply wound her arms around Tatum and squeezed her into a hug. "Please do your best this year, Tatum, especially with OWLs and everything. I'm so proud of you for making prefectship. Wouldn't it be something if we had a future Head Girl in the family?" She released her hold on Tatum, beamed, and playfully slapped Tatum's cheek. Tears swelled in her mother's eyes again. "Look after your sister for me!"
Tatum sighed and instinctively lifted a hand to rub her cheek, even if the slap hadn't hurt. That woman had more mood swings than Gringotts did vaults.
Mrs. Waverly turned on Jemma, now. After a few seconds of fussing with Jemma's robes and giving her a pep talk similar to Tatum's, Mrs. Waverly motioned for her children to finally board the train. Tatum gave Jemma her dropped suitcase and the two of them walked in the direction of the steaming Hogwarts Express. Although they were now a ways off from where Mrs. Waverly had been standing, they could hear their mothers loud blubbering in the background. Tatum felt her face flush red, because a couple cute older boys standing nearby were laughing at their mother, who looked and sounded a bit like a mooing purple cow. She pretended she didn't notice the boy's laughter or her mother's sobs by casually striking up conversation with Jemma. She was supposed to 'look after' her, after all.
"We can sit together, if you'd like, when I'm done with my prefect meeting." Tatum attempted a caring smile, although it was obviously forced. "I know the ride there is scary your first time, especially when you don't know anyone yet."
Jemma stared at Tatum like she suddenly grew a unicorn horn on her forehead. "Are you bonkers?" Jemma asked. "I don't want to be seen sitting with a Hufflepuff. Mum says first impressions are everything."
Tatum's eyes flashed dangerously. "Why you damned br-" She stopped herself and unclenched the fist balling in her free hand. Maybe her mother was right, maybe she had no common sense when it came to dealing with other people, but Tatum hated the negative reputation her house had. She was ashamed to admit she nearly had a nervous breakdown after the sorting hat placed her in Hufflepuff. Two weeks into attendance at Hogwarts, however, Tatum realized Hufflepuff was an honorable house to be a member of. Helga Hufflepuff was the only thing keeping Hogwarts together during her time. While the other three founders bickered and never got anything done, Helga taught and cared after every student, no matter what house or bloodline they belonged to. She was the voice of reason, the listening ear and the comforting touch. Hufflepuffs were expected to follow her example by being the caregivers of Hogwarts, and if that made them 'stupid duffers,' then so be it, because they were doing what they did in the name of a great woman.
But, rather than explain the extent to which her house loyalty ran, Tatum instead opted for scaring the stuffing out of her sister. If she wanted to know how to properly deal with other people, she'd read a self-help book, there were plenty of them around.
"Better a Hufflepuff than a Squibador," Tatum said off-handedly. They were near the brief landing of stairs leading to the inside of the Hogwarts Express. Tatum made a move to ascend the stairs, but Jemma rested a restraining hand on Tatum's shoulder, like she was hoping the gullible little bint would do.
"Wait," Jemma said, a cautious tone laced into her demand, "I've never heard of 'Squibador' before."
Tatum retracted her foot from the step it fell onto. "Really?"Tatum asked, feigning surprise. She moved out of the way when she saw a couple other students progressing toward the landing and Jemma mirrored her. "Well, you know what squibs are, right?" Jemma nodded, her pale oval face gradually turning whiter. "The Headmasters sometimes make mistakes when they send letters to people who haven't got magical powers at all. If the sorting hat realizes the person it's sorting is magicless, it puts them in Squibador."
Jemma waited for Tatum to elaborate on her statement. When her sister didn't, she sucked her teeth exasperatedly and leaned forward. "Then what happens?"
"The Hogwarts Express leaves by the time the sorting ceremony is over, so it's usually too late to send the poor squibs back to their homes. Squibadors don't have a common room or dormitories to sleep in like other people in other houses, so the caretaker usually ushers them into a cave somewhere in the Forbidden Forest. Most of the time the Squibadors are safe, but there's been a couple instances where trolls were sleeping in those caves."
"Have the trolls ever killed anyone?"
Tatum nodded solemnly. Her lips pinched into a thin frown, but she really felt like dropping to her knees and laughing her arse off. "Yeah. Unfortunately, there've never been survivors whenever that happens. And each time someone discovers the murders, there's nothing left of the squibs but their heads."
Jemma's beady little eyes were now the size of dinner plates.
"So start considering what house you'd prefer being in; Hufflepuff, or Squibador?" Tatum swept her gaze dramatically over Jemma's face. "Have a nice ride." Tatum felt like adding, 'while you still can,' but even that was too cheesy by her standards of what made a dramatic exit really dramatic. She slowly turned and went up the train's steps with equal exaggeration.