I've never been much for fitting in. One of the side effects of being a Metamorphmagus is realizing that since it is physically possible to blend in perfectly with every gender, race, and ethnicity; there really is no overwhelming benefit to doing so. Another side effect is knocking more things over than you leave standing when you walk down the hall, since you're never entirely sure how long your legs and arms are at the moment, but that is beside any semblance of a point.
My mother- who is known to me as 'Andromeda', 'No, really, she's just my older sister', or 'Fine! I wanted to sleep outside on the lawn chair anyway! That's right! Close the blinds!' depending on my current mood and the social situation- has always preached to me that I should try harder to belong, but considering she had the unbelievable thick gall to name me Nymphadora- a name that couldn't sound more like a cross between a sex addict and a spider if it tried- I have long since decided to take her advice as foolish suggestions at best.
This didn't stop her, of course, from shoving me headlong into every possible social group stereotype that could permeate her soap opera addled mind (let's be honest with each other, you and I, is there any lower form of entertainment than 'The Wands We Wave?' Ugh!). The last, and very worst, of these was the occasion when she insisted I 'for the love of Merlin, *try*' to get along with a group of barely evolved prats who had fashioned themselves as a group of cheerleaders for the local Quidditch team, the Vespield Vykries.
I really think she was unfair in how angry she got at the particular look I chose to wear to *that* farce of a meeting of minds. To this day I'm not sure which arm encircling tattoo upset her the most, the left one which read 'Beaters do it HARDER!', and had a rather exaggerated image to support that fact; or the one on the right, which bore the cheery expression 'I'm seeking *your* Snitch,' with two such golden devices lying side by side, wings tucked calmly away, with a Bludger bat protruding proudly out from between them. I tried to explain I was just attempting to identify with that bunch of giggling groupie sluts as she had told me to, but I think that just made her angrier...
My 'gift' has been getting me into trouble of that sort for so long that I almost laugh to call it that. Several such occurrences come to mind, such as the rather bleak memory of being eight years old and deciding that enough was enough with this whole wiggle, pull and pain business that comes along with losing teeth, and growing myself a set of serrated werecat fangs that scared that miserable old bat I call my gran so badly that she hit me with her cane until I'd returned my smile to a less carnivorous form.
And, of course, you can imagine how things turned out when I returned to Hogwarts for my second year, only to find that prattling twit Beatrice Buxom brandishing an all new set of boobs that had every boy on the train hypnotized. The embarrassment of having to explain to my potions teacher why I came into class the next day with what appeared to be two quaffles under my robes was nothing compared to the damage the whole ordeal ended up doing to my lower back.
Let's not forget this fateful summer past either, where I picked a new look for the Jinx'd rock concert- at random, I swear- and I just *happened* to stumble into the dressing room of the band after the show was done when I got lost on the way to the bathroom, and the look I had chosen had just *happened* to be that of a six foot blonde with longer legs than a Stiltzasaur but just about the same amount of clothing on. I swear, my mother was madder that I looked better than she ever did at that age than she was at anything else...
And *honestly*, you think that someone would have let me know in advance that the Department of Tobacco, Alcohol and Fire Drakes insisted that all licensed wizarding bar tenders take a class in spotting a Metamorphmagus! I'd gotten most of the way through my story about how I'd left my ID on my other broomstick, 'but don't you think all these wrinkles and this bushy gray hair are proof enough I'm over age?' when the ministry agents had arrived to escort me home.
Of course, there is my most recent misunderstanding, which has landed me here after school hours writing this scroll. I swear, Ernie Westwick is a liar, and there is no way that even someone of my natural born abilities could have fooled the Slytherin house guardian mural into believing I was you, even for the second it took to hurl an entire bag full of Thunder Bees into the middle of their Common Room. Whoever it was, I'm sure it was purely coincidence that they dropped my rainbow quill during their hasty retreat.
But you know what? Either way, I don't think you are that angry. You sit there, petting a bird whose coloring puts even my newest hair cut to shame, and you smile at me from beneath those half moon spectacles of yours. You've just asked me what I intend to do with my life, what purpose I see in myself, but you won't let me tell you that I don't have the slightest clue. Instead, you tell me just to write something down...
...you know, I reckon I'd rather fancy becoming an Auror.
My mother- who is known to me as 'Andromeda', 'No, really, she's just my older sister', or 'Fine! I wanted to sleep outside on the lawn chair anyway! That's right! Close the blinds!' depending on my current mood and the social situation- has always preached to me that I should try harder to belong, but considering she had the unbelievable thick gall to name me Nymphadora- a name that couldn't sound more like a cross between a sex addict and a spider if it tried- I have long since decided to take her advice as foolish suggestions at best.
This didn't stop her, of course, from shoving me headlong into every possible social group stereotype that could permeate her soap opera addled mind (let's be honest with each other, you and I, is there any lower form of entertainment than 'The Wands We Wave?' Ugh!). The last, and very worst, of these was the occasion when she insisted I 'for the love of Merlin, *try*' to get along with a group of barely evolved prats who had fashioned themselves as a group of cheerleaders for the local Quidditch team, the Vespield Vykries.
I really think she was unfair in how angry she got at the particular look I chose to wear to *that* farce of a meeting of minds. To this day I'm not sure which arm encircling tattoo upset her the most, the left one which read 'Beaters do it HARDER!', and had a rather exaggerated image to support that fact; or the one on the right, which bore the cheery expression 'I'm seeking *your* Snitch,' with two such golden devices lying side by side, wings tucked calmly away, with a Bludger bat protruding proudly out from between them. I tried to explain I was just attempting to identify with that bunch of giggling groupie sluts as she had told me to, but I think that just made her angrier...
My 'gift' has been getting me into trouble of that sort for so long that I almost laugh to call it that. Several such occurrences come to mind, such as the rather bleak memory of being eight years old and deciding that enough was enough with this whole wiggle, pull and pain business that comes along with losing teeth, and growing myself a set of serrated werecat fangs that scared that miserable old bat I call my gran so badly that she hit me with her cane until I'd returned my smile to a less carnivorous form.
And, of course, you can imagine how things turned out when I returned to Hogwarts for my second year, only to find that prattling twit Beatrice Buxom brandishing an all new set of boobs that had every boy on the train hypnotized. The embarrassment of having to explain to my potions teacher why I came into class the next day with what appeared to be two quaffles under my robes was nothing compared to the damage the whole ordeal ended up doing to my lower back.
Let's not forget this fateful summer past either, where I picked a new look for the Jinx'd rock concert- at random, I swear- and I just *happened* to stumble into the dressing room of the band after the show was done when I got lost on the way to the bathroom, and the look I had chosen had just *happened* to be that of a six foot blonde with longer legs than a Stiltzasaur but just about the same amount of clothing on. I swear, my mother was madder that I looked better than she ever did at that age than she was at anything else...
And *honestly*, you think that someone would have let me know in advance that the Department of Tobacco, Alcohol and Fire Drakes insisted that all licensed wizarding bar tenders take a class in spotting a Metamorphmagus! I'd gotten most of the way through my story about how I'd left my ID on my other broomstick, 'but don't you think all these wrinkles and this bushy gray hair are proof enough I'm over age?' when the ministry agents had arrived to escort me home.
Of course, there is my most recent misunderstanding, which has landed me here after school hours writing this scroll. I swear, Ernie Westwick is a liar, and there is no way that even someone of my natural born abilities could have fooled the Slytherin house guardian mural into believing I was you, even for the second it took to hurl an entire bag full of Thunder Bees into the middle of their Common Room. Whoever it was, I'm sure it was purely coincidence that they dropped my rainbow quill during their hasty retreat.
But you know what? Either way, I don't think you are that angry. You sit there, petting a bird whose coloring puts even my newest hair cut to shame, and you smile at me from beneath those half moon spectacles of yours. You've just asked me what I intend to do with my life, what purpose I see in myself, but you won't let me tell you that I don't have the slightest clue. Instead, you tell me just to write something down...
...you know, I reckon I'd rather fancy becoming an Auror.