Hufflepuff
Seventh Year
Drabble
Additional Requirement: 1st person
Prompt: [Event] Getting fired
Word Count: 613
Growing up, my mother always told me, "Gilderoy, you will be the smartest, most beautiful, and most talented boy who would ever grace the halls of Hogwarts," and I wholeheartedly believed this. I showed up for my first day in school robes that were significantly nicer than everyone else's and my wavy blond hair was perfectly coiffed. When I was sorted into Ravenclaw, it only proved that I was smart enough to achieve anything I put my mind to.
Ah, my school days were blissful as I had everyone eating out of the palm of my hand. They listened to my every word and many told me I would go on to do great things. Why, I could be Captain of England's finest Quidditch team and be the youngest Minister for Magic.
There were just so many things I could do so, upon graduation, I had tried so many things. Hair stylist, hair potion creator, makeup artist, model, anything I did I was absolutely amazing at and saw no reason why I shouldn't tell others how they could be more like me. For some reason I could only work for about a month and rather than a promotion I would receive a pink slip. And not the fun kind.
All my employers used unflattering words such as lazy, entitled, lackadaisy, sass-mouthed, all things that clearly do not define me!
Well, those jobs didn't suit me anyway. My true talents lay in the form of a pen.
My job as an article writer for Witch Weekly was the longest held job I ever had which boded well. Why, certainly I'd make Head Editor one day!
"LOCKHART!" my boss kindly bellowed one day I must be favored as she only used that voice with me.
"Yes?" I said, leaning into the office. Perhaps I was getting that promotion that was wrongly given to Rita Skeeter.
"I've got an assignment for you," said Pamela Pringle, Editor for Witch Weekly.
"Ah, wonderful!" I said. "Who will I be interviewing? A famous actress? Quidditch team? Oh! Will I finally be able to make that do's and don't list for hair care?"
"Shut up for two seconds," said Pamela swooning under my charming smile. "There's word of a werewolf problem in Armenia. I need you to go and report on it."
"M-me?" I certainly did not stammer. "W-werewolves? Why?"
"Because the Prophet won't do it," she said, batting her eyelashes. "Don't complain and just do it. You're a halfway decent writer and I would prefer not to fire you."
"Very well," I said. "Er—when do I leave?"
"As soon as you pack. I expect daily reports. If you mess this up, I will fire you."
Well, being an extremely talented reporter, I was up for the challenge of reporting on the werewolf problem. I started on interviews upon my immediate arrival. To my relief—er—amazing reporter's skills, I found a wizard who took care of the werewolf problem right away and he told me in great detail how he achieved it.
"Extraordinary," I said making special note that the wizard's puce robes were tacky and smelled like mothballs.
"I will be made famous for this," said the wizard proudly. "There will not be man, woman, or child who will not know my name. Eternal glory."
This gave me pause. Eternal glory for turning a werewolf human with a simple transfiguration. A brilliant thought popped into my brilliant mind. My most brilliant thought yet. After all, I was a phenomenal writer and ever-so-smart. As the Armenian wizard whose name I already forgot rambled on about how he couldn't wait for everyone to hear about his accomplishment, I raised my wand.
"Obliviate!"