A/N: Thank you everyone who left their suggestions in their review, much appreciated. See, I was trying to decide which ones to use when a brilliant (alright, not really, but don't disillusion me) idea struck me: I'd use all of them. ALL! The ones from AND Fiction Alley! As some sort of...challenge, or something... blinks

(Well, I'm not really sure if the one about the character that's half-beast was a suggestion, because...well, y'know, didn't really fit in with the plot and such. Just seemed...a bit out of place. So, just to be on the safe side, I decided not to. Also, I decided not to pair her with either Fred or George, because...well, for one, I couldn't see it, and another, I couldn't choose which one. And I didn't use the suggestion about her getting between the Potter/Malfoy fight and her being "devious" because...she's not devious. She's frank and in-your-face. She's not devious at all. She's still a Hufflepuff, remember? And as for her joining DA/OotP, well, this takes place in Harry's third year. DA/OotP aren't around yet.) But, yeah, I used all the others. And I think I'm gonna shut up now.

On with the story!

Dear Diary,

Oh, look. An owl. Looks like someone's trying to talk to me. Now who would want to go and do a stupid thing like that?

Miss Abbot,

The incident during your last Potions lesson has yet to be dealt with. Please come see me after lessons.

-Professor Snape

Oh. That's who.

Oh boy, oh boy. This is gonna be so much fun. Define fun. Torture. Oh. That explains it, then.

Dear Diary,

Five minutes later, another owl.

Agent 57351Rabbit394001

Meet people in the Astronomy Tower at 11:32 and 45 milliseconds tonight. There are great plans for you.

Memorize and eat this message.

Then spin around three times, turn your head to the left, shout "OOGA BOOGA BOOGA," and go convert the Slytherins to Christianity.

God Speed, lass.

Sounds...interesting, to say the very least. I must admit I was smiling as I finished the letter. I wonder who wrote this? They sound funny.

I examined the handwriting. The writer was decidedly male, or female with a major identity crisis. The handwriting itself was sloppy, loopy, hastily scrawled. I didn't recognize it.

Dear Diary,

So I walked into the dungeon and entered Snape's office. He was there, waiting for me.

"Do sit down, Miss Abbot," he said, his voice icily calm.

I tried to think of a smart response to that, but I couldn't really come put with anything. I sat.

"Ah, becoming one of the conforming rabble already, Abbot?" he sneered.

I bristled angrily and opened my mouth to snap back, but he held up a hand to silence me.

He then proceeded to tell me that he understood exactly where I was coming from, because he, too, had been a rebel in his youth, and he began to tell me of his past. I began to see the sensitive, caring, loving man that was inside and that the bitterness was just a way of hiding from his emotional scars. We turned out to be kindred spirits, and from that day on there were no better friends than Angela Abbot and Severus Snape.

Ha! Gotcha! This is Snape we're talking about, remember? Why, did'ja fall for that? The hell've you been smoking? And, more importantly yet, where can I get some?

Right. Back to reality, however unpleasant that concept is.

I bristled angrily and opened my mouth to snap back, but he help up a hand to silence me.

He stared at me. I stared at him.

I waited.

For forty minutes.

I was beginning to get nervous. I knew perfectly well that Snape was trying to psych me out, but, even so, it was working.

I felt beads of sweat form on my forehead, my palms growing clammy with sweat. What was he going to do? The man can stare, though. And I mean Stare. Like, he stares at you, and you're afraid. No matter how brave you are, no matter if Dumbledore's right there and you know that nothing's going to happen at you. He just Stares.

What is he going to do? I wondered apprehensively. I'd heard the stories about Snape—who hadn't?—and I had always wondered if they were true. Guess I'm about to find out, I thought grimly.

Finally, he smiled. A crafty, evil smile. He opened a drawer, found a vial, and tossed it at me. "Liquefied marijuana," he said curtly. He stood, walked to a small side door, opened it, stepped in, and slammed it.

I sat there in shock.

The door opened again. "Oh, and, Miss Abbot?" His voice was soft and dangerous.

I looked up.

"Don't ever talk back to me again."

Slam.

Dear Diary,

I decided to humor the mysterious letter writer(s) and walked into the Astronomy Tower at exactly 11:32 and 45 seconds.

"Ahh, Angela," said one Weasley twin, stepping out of the shadows. "We see you have come."

"Really, then, aren't you a bright one?" I muttered, though grinning. Of course, I had suspected it would be the Twins. It seemed like the crazy sort of thing they'd do, and there was the fact that they were currently the only people who'd talk to me.

"Yes. Yes we are," said the other one, grinning back, as he stepped out of the shadows.

"We have great plans for you," intoned the first one, trying his hardest to be mystical and mysterious, while I could tell he was trying very, very hard not to crack up.

There was a long pause.

"Which are...?" I prompted.

Another silence.

"We're...er, not exactly sure what they are yet," the second one confessed.

"Of course we are!" the first one said, glaring at the second one. "We're just...er...we don't want to reveal them yet?"

He looked so pitiful that I had to laugh.

(I was beginning to build a list in my head of characteristics so that I could tell the two apart. Twin one was obviously the leader, had a thing for dramatics, probably came up with most of the crazier ideas. Twin two was gentler, more laidback, grinned a lot (had a nice sheepish grin that was really really cute, actually).)

"Anyway," Twin one interrupted. "We have a plan. Do you want in or not, eh?"

"Which one of you is which?" I blurted out.

"Oh, I'm Fred," said Twin one.

"George." said twin two. He grinned.

"So do you want in?"

I thought about it. Eh, what the hell, I have nothing better to do anyway. "Sure."

"Right. We'll get back to you."

Dear Diary,

Stared at the vial for a long time. Don't drink it, that's insane, Snape gave it to you, a voice inside my head reasoned logically. Therefore, anything that comes of it can't possibly be good.

Well, yeah, said the other voice craftily, But you know you wanna try it. C'mon. You know eventually the curiosity is gonna drive you crazy.

But don't'cha think that drinking something Snape gave you is, kinda, y'know...STUPID?!? the first voice hinted not-so-gently.

I don't know what to do. As I'm writing this in my diary, I'm lying on my bed, the vial on my nightstand. I keep staring at it...it IS taunting me. Argh...I'm going insane with curiosity. This is probably exactly what Snape planned, the evil bastard...now I can't blame him because he'll say that drinking the vial was entirely up to me or something like that. He KNEW I'd go insane with curiosity, he KNEW I'd eventually drink it.

Argh...I'm still staring at it...

Okay, I'm going to drink it. Here goes.

Dear Diary,

Writing this in Infirmary. Make this short cause hurts to write. Nough said.

Dear Diary,

I could rant and just write page upon page of curses, but I already did that mentally when I was lying in the Infirmary. Suffice to say:

SNAPE IS AN EVIL BASTARD.

I'm done.

Oh, yeah, and, one last thing:

I WILL get back at Snape for this. Mark my words, I will.

Dear Diary,

Seriously (or Siriusly, ha ha, Black's still on the loose and Hannah, my little sister, is so freaked out), my life SUCKS. Toady was day one of my fifty detentions. I'm guessing I'm setting some sort of record for "Most Detentions in One Go." Already checked records, though, and disappointed to know that I'm not in the top three for Most Detentions ever.

Tied for third place are Fred and George Weasley, of course, with 800 detentions apiece.

Then, I realized in shock, second place is occupied with one James Potter—funny, I didn't picture the father or the Boy Who Lived as much of a troublemaker, wasn't he, like, Head Boy or something?—with 2579.

And then, interestingly enough, in first place, with 3642 detentions, is Sirius Black. I wonder how he got them? Murdering people, most likely. I guess he always was an evil one.

Dear Diary,

I was walking to Herbology alone (as usual) when who do I run into? The Slytherin Quidditch Team.

I guess they're a "group of friends," held together by the "eternal bond of teamship," and there they all were, strutting towards me as if they owned the world. Well, minus Malfoy, of course. I mean, he got them their brooms and everything, but I can tell the rest of the team thinks he's a little tagalong. Besides, he's always with his two "friends"... (coughcoughMINIONScoughcough) Grabbe and Coyle, or whatever their names are.

That stupid oaf Marcus Flint was in the front, of course. Next to him was his "best friend" Warrington, the sloth-boy. Both of them had sneers upon their faces almost equal to Malfoy's and Snape's (almost, but not quite—you need to go to Special Sneer School for a sneer like that). Boyle and Derrik were next, with no expressions on their faces as usual, with Bletchy tagging along behind, wiping his nose on his sleeve and moping about. Montague was at the back, walking casually, close enough to be in the "group" but at least a few feet away.

They passed me. "Oops," Flint said sarcastically, knocking my six books out of my arms. They spilled onto the floor. Warrington's smirk widened, Boyle and Derrik chuckled without any hint of a smile on their faces, and Bletchy faked a laugh (he's always trying to get on Flint's good side). Montague was just leaning against the wall. He had a slightly disapproving look on his face, but that was probably because Flint hadn't done anything worse.

"Oops?" I snapped. "God, if you accidentally suddenly jumped three feet in my direction and just so happened to swing your arm for absolutely no reason, your brain control must be worse than I thought." I hate them, I thought. Hate hate hate.

I was probably imagining it, but I thought I saw a hint of a smile on Montague's face, which vanished instantly.

"Yeah? Well, takes one to know one!" Bletchy spluttered.

There was a few moments confusion as everyone tried to work that one out.

"That was a stupid comeback, stupid!" said Warrington, hitting Bletchy.

"I'm not stupid! Takes one to know one!"

This time I could have sword that Montague grinned, but, of course, that vanished also.

I rolled my eyes and began to pick up my books. Both Boyle's and Derrik's arms blocked my way.

"Eh, what d'ye think yer doin'?" Boyle asked.

"Uh..." Derrik said until Boyle nudged him. "Uh...we want ter know what yer doin'."

"Yeah!" Boyle added on a sudden burst of inspiration.

"It's called 'picking up my books,'" I said, slowly and patiently. I stooped to pick them up again.

"You're so stupid you think babysitters sit on babies!" Warrington said meanly.

"Hey! Takes one to know one!"

"I wasn't talking to you!"

"Oh." And then, after a moment's reflection: "Takes one to know one!"

Montague bit his lip, smiling. He lifted his face, but when his eyes met mine, all traces of the smile disappeared. His behavior was beginning to become quite predictable.

I sighed impatiently. "Will you please get out of my way and let me pick my books up so that I can pass." It was a command, not a request.

Flint opened his mouth to object, but then Montague said ever so quietly, "Guys, let her pass."

They all looked at him with some surprise, and then Flint raised his eyebrows and said, "If you say so."

I didn't look at Montague. I suppose I should've been grateful, but I didn't know what to say. I picked up my books. As I passed Bletchy, I sopped, and decided to experiment. "You," I said politely, "Are an extremely intelligent human being."

"Takes one to know one!"

And Montague laughed.

Dear Diary,

"Wait, Angela," Professor Sprout called as we filed out of Herbology. "I need to talk to you."

Uh-oh. But I wasn't all that alarmed—Sprout's pretty cool. Actually, she's my favorite teacher: no-nonsense like McGonagall, plus a kindly Hufflepuff heart, and don't forget the fact that she calls all Hufflepuffs by their first names. Other teachers laugh at this, but it does work: we regard her as a mother, almost. If we're sad, if we have a problem, if we have a secret crush, we come to her. (I doubt it's the same with McGonagall or Snape.)

Anyway:

Sprout waited patiently until the last of the other students were gone, and then she smiled at me. "Sit."

I sat.

"Now, Angela, I'm not going to lecture you--"

I groaned. Sprout laughed, realizing that she had sounded exactly like a teacher that was about to lecture me.

"I'm sorry," she chuckled. "But, really, I'm not going to lecture you. You're not in trouble. I'm not here because I want to 'talk.' I'm just curious."

"This is about the whole Rebel Hufflepuff thing, isn't it?"

She nodded.

And then—I wouldn't've done this for any other teacher—I thought about it. Really. Not to give her some quick bullshit answer so that I could get away quickly, but to think about her question fairly and give her an honest answer.

Like a Hufflepuff.

"I'm...bored." I began. "And...frustrated."

She nodded. That encouraged me to go on.

"Frustrated...with the way Hufflepuff's don't get recognition for doing all the hard work. Annoyed at the stereotypes that dictate that Hufflepuff's the House for people who "don't fit in anywhere else."

(A/N: No, seriously, that doesn't make sense. Think about it, isn't Gryffindor the house for people who don't fit in anywhere else? Lesse, you're not evil, so not Slytherin; you're not that bright, so Ravenclaw's a definite no; you're not loyal and fair or a hard worker, so Hufflepuff's out...guess we'll put you in Gryffindor! Look at Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil. Not evil, not smart, not hard-working. Look at Neville. Seems to me Gryffindor's for misfits.)

"And..." I continued, "I want...recognition. For once, I want to be in the spotlight."

Sprout's face hardened for a moment.

"What?"

Her face became gentler immediately. ""Oh, nothing. You'll figure it out eventually, but I just want to tell you that there's a sort of paradox in there."

I thought about it for a moment. Paradox? I couldn't see what. Hufflepuff-style, I stubbornly refused to let it go.

"Forget it," Professor Sprout said.

A Hufflepuff? Give up? Not likely. But...wait, aren't I supposed to fight stereotypes? I'm not a typical Hufflepuff, I reminded myself, and quickly forced myself to let it go.

Sprout smiled at me again, kind as ever. "You can go now."

I got up, said goodbye, and walked to the door.

"Angela?"

I turned.

"If you ever need to talk, come to me, alright?"

I thought a minute. And even though I was supposed to be as un-Hufflepuff-like as I could manage, it was against my Hufflepuff soul to make a promise that I didn't intend to keep. And I thought, and I thought. And then, finally, I decided.

"Alright."

Dear Diary,

For some strange reason, I can't stop thinking about Montague. I'm not really sure why. I mean, it's not like I fancy him or anything—I'm just thinking about him because he was being nice.

Nice. Slytherin. Nice. Slytherin. Slytherin. NICE?!?

It's not...I mean, it can't...I...how can...?

And then it suddenly struck me. Of course! Could I BE anymore hypocritical?!? I was a Rebel Hufflepuff, why can't he be a Nice Slytherin?

And then I saw the flaw. The obvious, huge, fatal flaw in the design of Hogwarts: The houses actually divide the student body. The "characteristics" encourage stereotypes and make you judge people by their houses instead of their actual personalities.

And, as I fall asleep, this last thought echoes throughout my mind:

Something has to be done...

Dear Diary,

But who would listen to me? How do you convince the age-old stereotypes to free the people's minds?

Okay.

I started with myself. I was a Rebel Hufflepuff. Were there any more in my house?

I looked around, and then firmly decided no. Nobody in this house has ANY backbone—or, at least, maybe they don't just because they think they're not supposed to.

I took another look around, more carefully this time. My gaze landed on a few people in particular. Ecter was pretty smart—rumors are that she scored better than most Ravenclaws on her OWLs. Arminia had potential, definitely. And Diggory...

Diggory gets on my nerves a bit, though. I mean, he is nice. And sweet. And smart. And athletic. And brave. And cute. And—

Well, the point is, even though he is likeable, I don't like him because he's likeable. I mean... He's too perfect. I like people with faults, like...like the Weasley twins. And, yeah, Diggory is good-looking, but in a somewhat girly way. He's...pretty. I guess I'm being extraordinarily superficial here, but, hey, gimme a break.

My gaze goes now to my little sister, Hannah. She's talking to her friends. Hannah definitely has potential. She's very brave, I know that. See, I'm daring. I take risks. Hannah's not daring at all, but she is brave; whereas I'm daring but not brave at all. See, daring is not being afraid, but brave is doing something DESPITE your fear.

All right, that's it for the Hufflepuffs.

I don't really know how I'm gonna do this. But I think I have the inklings of an idea...

A/N: "Correcting Criticisms," or, "In which the Authoress tries to BS her way out of plot holes."

- "...and your teachers are stunned into silence remarkably quickly, considering they've devoted their lives to teaching moody teenagers…"

Yeah, but this is the G-rated world of Harry Potter, and I doubt McGonagall is used to being called a mother fing goddamn son of a bitch. I mean, maybe some of the other teachers, but not McGonagall.

- "oh just one side not electronics will go on the fritts in hogwards"

...Quiet. These are…magical electronics. Hehe. Actually...wait, that is possible, right? I mean, how else would they listen to the WWN? Yes! I am SO good!

Oh, and keep the suggestions coming!