COMPLETE DESCRIPTION:
Darcy Smith is everything you'd expect for an ordinary girl: pigtails, teddy bears, and a smile caught somewhere between ugly glee and poised prettiness. She's got her whole life mapped out from start to finish. Now that she's hit the double digits (eleven!) she can safely presume that some great something is coming to sweep her away from such a mundane livelihood. Whether it be a knight in shining armor or a friendly dragon, Darcy is prepared. There's no doubt in her mind that wherever life leads her she's going to be special. As summer draws to a close and her parents fret over how to pay for her private schooling, a mysterious letter arrives in the post...
Hogwarts has become somewhat of a stagnant purgatory for thirteen year old Darcy Smith. First and second year passed in a blur, as she waved goodbye to her muggle life and opened her eyes to the world of magic. At first, it was exciting and oh so tantalizingly sweet. Then, it turned sour when she realized how easily she was forgotten. It was hard to accept the fact she was some set-piece in the backdrop of a grander play led by such people as Harry Potter. The most attention she received was harsh harassment from within her own house, others not even bothering to acknowledge the small, meek Slytherin girl. She didn't fit in and she didn't stand out, so what did it matter really? Darcy soon finds out that to be known isn't always better and perhaps the shadows were her only true friends.
[Draco Malfoy x OC, Harry Potter x OC, Ron Weasley x OC]
Frankly, Darcy doesn't think it right to have a hat, of all things, dictate who she is and she leans over to tell Hermione as much since the girl seems relatively level-headed. The bushy haired girl opens her mouth to respond but is interrupted by Darcy letting out a mousy squeak. A quick, sharp pain erupts against the back of her ankle. She spins around and to her disappoint finds her pretty white stockings dirtied with mud.
A pout purses her lips as she searches for the culprit behind the kick. Her eyes land on a girl with a short, messy mop of auburn hair. There's a smug look on her cherub face, lips upturned and pulled back to reveal a crooked front tooth. She stands only a few feet away from Darcy with her hands on her hips. "You shouldn't mock tradition. It's important or else why'd we bother?" A strong Scottish lilt punctuates the anger in her tone.
Darcy blinks, eyes owlishly wide, and shuffles her feet, tapping her loafers together. Her response comes out soft and punctured, like a wounded doe, "I-I didn't know. Just thought it odd."
"Trust me, you're the only odd thing here, missy," says the girl, erupting into a hearty chuckle. She turns to her giggling companions and mock-whispers, "Now, that one's bound for Hufflepuff."
She flushes in humiliation, biting down on her lip as salty tears well up in her eyes, hot and thick. A hand wraps around her shoulders, a slight tremble making them curl in on themselves. Darcy glances over to see Hermione with a gentle smile on her face.
"Hufflepuff's not bad at all. They're kind and loyal. Don't you think those are worthwhile traits?" Darcy nods. "Plus, there are far worse houses to end up in," Hermione says good-naturedly, but her eyes dart over to the Slytherin table with unease written clearly into the way her body tenses and her brow furrows. Darcy ponders what that reaction could possibly mean. This whole house thing is flying over her head.
"Granger, Hermione!"
"Wish me luck?" she asks, her voice tingling with sunlight and gold. Darcy forces herself to smile. It drops from her face as soon as Hermione's head is covered by the Sorting Hat. There's a minute of deliberation before the rasp of a booming voice calls out, "Gryffindor!"
A stab of jealousy pierces the soft meadow of dandelions that grow in her chest. The bright red and gold that greets her acquaintance roars with a sense of glory. Wind whistles through the busy fields of her heart as she watches an eager ocean of robed children embrace Hermione as she takes a seat at one of the long tables. Darcy goes cold at the thought of being left to the sidelines after all the wild fantasies she had conjured upon the arrival of her Hogwarts letter.
There had been an entourage of adoring friends, in these fantasies, who would gape in awe as she proved herself to be a powerful witch, ages ahead of most of her classmates. She would soar high and above, teachers deeming her the best witch they'd had the honor to teach. But as she watches Hermione, even with her stiff demeanor and rather droll looks, get welcomed with such fervor she knows that nothing would ever be as she wished.
Darcy brings her attention to the front of the hall where yet another child has situated themselves upon the wobbly stool. While the hat sorts one child after another, she dusts her thoughts like a maid, rearranging the sprawling mansion of her conscience into something orderly. Still, she imagines her if her body were to work akin to a mood ring she'd be green with envy.
"Katherine Jones!"
A body jostles her as their shoulder bumps with her own and she turns to find the sharp eyes of the girl who had mocked her minutes earlier. The same smug smile still lounges lazily across her rosy face. There's a fire there that makes Darcy flinch back and huddle into herself. The girl is a inch or two shorter than her but holds herself as if she were tall enough to hold the sun within her palms. With such confident strides and sure footing, it is hard to believe she's eleven like the rest of them. Especially with the way she talks, it sounds whimsical with an air of superiority.
When she sits on the stool and the hat crowns her head, swallowing up most of her forehead and stopping just above her brow bone. She meets the hundreds of eyes that bore into her with an easy grin. Her back is as straight as a pole and her hands sit confidently upon her knees. An eagerness consumes the rich chocolate of her irises, making it seem like a fire has encircled her pupils.
"Hufflepuff!"
Every bit of mettle that had fortified her assuredness collapses like a forest being timbered. Her jaw unhinges in sync with her widening eyes. Professor McGonagall, as she had introduced herself, tries to take the hot off Katherine's head but her hands fly up and grip it tight to her head. Desperately, she begins to mouth, "You got it wrong you bas—"
With a firm yank the older witch retakes possession of the Sorting Hat. She swears that she sees the folds of ratty brown fabric frown. McGonagall softly shoves Katherine in the direction of the Hufflepuff table. Many students try to give her a warm welcome but she rejects their hugs and cheers and crosses her arms. The two kids that she sits between inch away.
It takes great restraint for Darcy to not giggle behind her hand. The procession continues with expedience, until a great hush settles upon the hall when Harry Potter walks up to be sorted. For such a famed figure (the gossip on the train had been non-stop) there is a timidness that makes him lurch into the stool. The hat ruminates for what seems like an eternity in the tense air. With finality it shouts, almost proudly, like a satisfied parent, "Gryffindor!"
The crimson and gold table erupts with enough clamor and applause that the ground shakes a bit. Hardy drunkenly beams, a glazed look in his pretty green eyes as he stumbles into the embrace and applause of his new housemates.
Darcy knows that Harry's parents had been murdered and that he shouldered the world sized weight of hope, but her heart yearns to be him. Damn the tragedy, she'd do anything for the glory.
Finally, her own name is called. Darcy Smith. She cringes hearing it said aloud, she may as well be Jane Doe. With shaky legs she climbs the stairs to the stool which suddenly seems titanic in magnitude. Upon the carpeted stairs she slips but catches herself before she completely careens to the ground. With her senses acute from the edge that anxiety burrows into her, she hears the muffled sound of snickering. Light-headed and shaking enough that her body feels as if it's phasing from solid to gas, she practically sinks into the stool.
A tickle of her scalp, hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, indicated the presence of the hat nesting upon her head. The voice of an old man who had seen the world and then some and decided to spend his time smoking holed into a dingy bar enters her mind. You wish to be the hero of a storybook, little one?
More than anything, her internal self replies.
You want to make them look and never forget, don't you? Ha, you remind me of a boy years ago. I hope it's hero you truly want to be, child, not just a legend.
Darcy brow furrows in confusion and she startles when the hat calls out, "Slytherin!"
Her heart drops and she walks towards the sleek green and silver of her house just barely tethered to her body. Any moment her conscience could drift away like a ballon that a child lost. There is no fanfare when she slides into an empty spot. Her housemates leave an ocean between them and her. She's almost sure a kid spits on the ground at the sight of her. Murmurs of mudblood ripple through them like waves disrupting a calm sea. Darcy doesn't know what it means but based on the hate that sharpens their tongues she understands it is an ugly word.
It remains like that for much time, just her and herself, stuck in the purgatory of existentialism, while the world around her only notices her to kick as she lays bleeding out.
UNEDITED