Spilt Nectar

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My thumbnail digs into the fleshy exterior of an orange. The sweet juice filters out, seeking a messy trail down my wrist. I suck absent-mindedly at the spilt nectar, lost in the droning of breakfast chatter. My gaze stumbles around the Great Hall until it trips up on him. He's not commanding attention. In fact, he's shrinking from it. Friends who are being irritatingly rowdy for a Monday morning surround Sirius. He sits calmly amidst the boisterous laughter. I feel safe inspecting him. Nothing could pull him out of the deep trance.

I can understand why Sirius Black always seems so bored. Everything comes too easily for him. He's doomed to be wealthy, even when his parents disown him a respectable sum lands on his lap courtesy of a deceased uncle. He naturally excels at magic and he was built to be an outstanding athlete. Anything he wants, he gets. Nothing's a challenge. His mind must be crawling from the inescapable tedium. Some strands of his feathered fringe are so long they seem to be creeping down to the tip of his nose. He blows them up, sending his fringe into further disarray.

"Florence?" A muffled voice tries to shake me from my bubble of distraction.

"Florence?" A large hand waves impatiently in my face.

"What?" I snap at the bulky frame of Amos Diggory, angry at being brought back to my disappointingly Hufflepuff surroundings.

"Have you got the you-know-what?" He whispers through unmoving lips. I shove my hand into my pocket and slam the wizard card in front of him. He hastily scoops it up, his eyes swiveling shiftily.

"Nice doing business with you, Penniworth." He slides a couple of galleons my way, hidden under his dirty napkin. I flick it off irritably as he scurries out of the hall. He always acts as if a squad of Aurors are going to ambush him in the act, no matter how many times I tell him that wizard cards are not a contraband item. His idiocy makes me scowl purely to myself, but somebody else rudely takes notice.

I'm startled to find that Sirius has emerged sharply from his daze; he seemed so firmly lost in it. His broad shoulders are swelling with laughter that has nothing to do with his lively friends. He's clearly amused by my amateur transaction with Amos. Maybe he'd take me more seriously if he knew I stole the card from Peter Pettigrew's treasured collection. It's all about maximizing profit, after all.

It irks me to be laughed at. It's not that I don't have a sense of humour, it's just strictly directed at the shortcoming of other people. Frowning, I grasp my punctured orange and hurry out of the Great Hall, avoiding his mocking gaze. If I'm going to avoid his intimidation, I guess I'll have to take meals in the dungeon bathroom from now on.