Chapter Six.
...Gryffindor?
Gryffindor?
How the FUCK do you fit in Gryffindor? That's practically the exact opposite of what you are!
That hat will burn. You don't exactly know how you will ever manage it, but it will burn, and you will laugh.
You may not know any fire spells yet, but you will.
That's first on the list.
You look at your new table and see a couple of the stupid gingers laughing and clapping about their newest member: you.
Those redheads sure look like… Oh god. The crazy fan-boy is going to be sorted here too! Seven years in a dorm with that moron? That sounds so epically painful; there is no way that you will let him live that long!
What will Draco think? He's the only person you know that has access to the dark arts! Will he resent your obviously false sorting?
Fuck!
How the hell are you ever going to learn the dark arts now?
You sit and wait.
The bucktooth is sitting next to you, and she keeps trying to strike up a conversation.
Not now.
Fuck! You can't even protest the sorting!
What do you say, 'I want to be in Slytherin!'
'Why?'
'Because otherwise Draco won't teach me the dark arts!'
Yeah, that won't work out very well.
You look up to the staff table and see the elderly man from earlier looking down at you again; a small smile on his face.
Is this Dumbledore - the most powerful Light wizard in the past century?
He looks more likely to stroke out than to win in a duel.
With the way he's looking at you, perhaps the pedophile magician club wasn't that far off a term?
You're brought out of your thoughts by a weight shift on the bench and a hard slap on your back.
"We made it! We're both Gryffindors! This is so great!"
It's really, really, not.
"Yeah, great."
In opposite land.
"We're going to have so much fun! Me and the boy-who-lived as best mates!"
Wait, what?
"Boy-who–?"
"For years I've dreamt of us getting sorted together! We're going to have so many adventures!"
Huh...?
"I just knew the second I walked into your compartment and saw your scar that we were going to be spending the next seven years together!"
...Scar? What has your scar got to do with anything?
Before you could ask what the hell he was talking about, the old man started talking and everyone hushed down.
First he welcomed all the students with open arms, then…
"Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"
What the fuck…?
Why do they let someone in a late stage of dementia… wait, it that food?
God, you love food. Well, if you knew what love was, you might love it. You very much enjoy food; you'll leave it at that.
If you had to choose between killing an annoying person who was talking with his mouth full and some damn good grub, you would likely have to do a mental list and weigh the pros and cons before killing the bloke.
Then you'd eat your food. Maybe his too. If it's good that is.
Did you mention you like food?
No need to steal the moron's food though. Plenty of that to go around.
Your still fifty/fifty on if you should kill him though.
He eats like a pig. No, that's insulting to pigs. He eats like himself, and that's pretty bad.
Did his mother never smack him upside the head for eating like this?
Shit, he's turning to talk to you. Cover the face!
He prattles on about how evil Slytherins are, and tries to talk about some silly sport on brooms, but your concentration is more centered on keeping the pieces of food spewing from the boy's mouth from hitting you.
When he grows tired of your non-responses, he turns to the guy on his other side, and you wipe your now dirty hands off on his robes. He doesn't seem to notice or mind.
Bucktooth does though.
She fits you with an irritated look, and you shrug your shoulders. That normally gets people off your back.
Deciding that your current plate is contaminated by spit, you carefully swap with a neighbor when he's not looking and grab a scoop of potatoes and ladle on a generous helping of gravy.
People say that British food is bad, but you whole-heartedly disagree.
Who doesn't like gravy? Communists. That's who.
That's what the whole cold war boiled down to in your book. If the soviets had their way, everyone would be eating borscht!
It's a shame really; aside the love for Russian food, you and Stalin could have been the best of friends. The whole 'I killed twenty million people' thing is great trait for a friend yours to have…
Whereas, Gorbachev may claim to like gravy more than most, but he still liked borscht, and that makes him a communist in your book.
Ah, metaphors.
The awesome food did nothing however to get thoughts of a hat burning out of your head.
How often do they bring the hat out? Where is it stored when not in use? Is it fireproof? Will it scream as it burns?
God you hope so.
So many thinks to learn, and such little time.
You were so lost in your thoughts, that you didn't notice your food disappearing until after you brought an empty spoon to your mouth.
You look up and see that all the food in the hall was gone.
Motherfuckers!
The old fart was standing again, and you wondered how he could. A strong enough breeze could knock him over.
Where is the wind when you need it? Sure you're indoors, but they have magic, it could be done!
The forbidden forest is forbidden. No shit Sherlock.
Now, where's your food!
Oh, for fuck's sake… Okay no magic in the halls. Okay. Bring the food back now.
What is with wizards and this quiddich shit? The game is just a bunch of sissies flying around on broomsticks.
It's like handball, but far more homoerotic. Which is quite a feat given that handball has the words hand and ball in its name.
Sure, sure… out of bounds… painful death… wait, what?
A painful death for going in a room? Now we're talking. That would probably peak your interest if you weren't fucking starving!
Well, now that that's over, let's get back to the food…
A song? They expect you to sing? In what tune?
Okay... well that pretty much explains why he didn't specify a tune. Everyone chooses their own! This is one of the worst things you've ever heard!
Most people say, 'that sounded like a cat dying!' - or something to that effect - when a song sucks, but to you that kind of sound is soothing. No, this sounds like nails on a chalkboard while old people have sex. Loudly.
Not a good sound, and you are very relieved when it stops.
Why learn a torture curse when you can make that kind a noise at will? Your respect for the old guy in the bathrobe goes up a notch.
So, what's negative one thousand plus one?
He orders you all off to bed, and in that moment, he lost all the points in the world.
No more food?
Minus one bagillion-gazillion points to Dumbledore.
That's a lot of catching up to do. Only way he can make it back to positive numbers is if he resorts you into Slytherin, shows you to the kitchen…
…And teaches you the dark arts.
That, and someone needs to tell you what this whole Boy-Who-Lived thing is...