A Little Witch Writes Home
Part 2
A Mansfield Park & Harry Potter crossover fanfiction
Two-Shot ficlet
My dearest William,
I write to you again – only the once more until the Holidays are ended – from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Although I can scarcely account for it, as I'm only a first year, I am to attend the Yule Ball!
Tom Bertram has asked me, and Mr. Dumbledore, that's our headmaster (isn't it such a break-teeth name?), says any year really may go if they are invited as a guest by an older student.
Edmund was afraid Tom meant me some mischief when he asked me to go with him (I confess so was I – truly, I could not make him any answer, not at first, my mouth was so dry and I was so very frightened), and he told his brother didn't he think he would look very silly indeed walking into the ball with an eleven year old on his arm, and Tom said for him to mind his own business and stop trying to boss him around.
Edmund looked so dreadful severe then, and so I said to Tom I was sorry, but I couldn't go with him – that it would be absolutely impossible for me.
And wasn't he angry!
Mary Crawford – who is to go to the ball with Edmund, of course – said I wasn't to mind Tom. She said it was a cross afternoon and she tried very hard to make me feel better.
I admit I did not love her for it, though probably I should – William, you will say I should, of course, and you are right – but I find it so hard to forgive her for some of the nasty things she said about Aurors, when she knows perfectly well Edmund is to be one. She said them right in front of him, too! And her brother is as wicked as ever. Except she only ever laughs when he does something unkind. If she were not so pretty and such pleasant company when she wants to be, I should wonder that Edmund likes her half as well as he does.
And then to remember she was so cross with him because he didn't put his name in the Goblet of Fire – she wanted him to compete in the Triwizard Tournament just so they could open the ball together.
She threatened she wouldn't dance with him at all if he didn't do it – of course he didn't – we shall see if she sticks to her word as well as he does to his.
I doubt it very much.
Anyhow, Edmund told Tom to stop urging me to go with him, and then, when he didn't, demanded to know if he was planning to do something dreadful to me as a sort of prank, like in the movie Carrie – which I thought only the students from muggle households knew about – and Tom solemnly promised the vial of pig's blood he borrowed from Charles Maddox was for a spell – for homework – and wouldn't be nearly enough to dump on my head, even if he wanted to use it for such a purpose.
But it turns out Tom was not being mean at all – only a little thoughtless – when he asked me and, very near begged, because he was afraid of being made to go with Augusta Sneyd.
You see, William, he'd meant to ask her sister, who is a sixth year like Edmund, but he accidentally invited Augusta instead, who is a fifth year, and the sister – who positively insists Tom is her boyfriend, despite Tom's great insistence to the contrary – almost clawed her eyes out for it. Then they both turned on him, and everyone said Augusta was crying like anything in the lavatory on the second floor.
Only no one noticed at first, because they thought it was just Myrtle howling like usual – she is a sad little ghost who cries nearly all the time, even more than me, if you can believe it; the others call her Moaning Myrtle, but I think that's rather unkind and only call her Myrtle for myself – I should like it very ill indeed if I was to die and became a ghost and everyone called me Flailing Fanny, or something like that.
Oh, so everybody said, too, if Tom didn't have another date already, he had better honour his word and take her after all.
Tom told me I may be as creepmouse as I like, but he must have a date to be looked at, to get him off going with Augusta.
Finally, I said, yes, if Edmund thought it was all right, I would go with him – and Edmund sighed and said if it wasn't very disagreeable to me, perhaps I ought to.
I've been thinking it over, and even though I can't feel much gratitude – I struggle to see any difference, the way he certainly does, between other peoples' selfishness and his – it is still a great honour to be asked by him.
There likely will not be many first years at the ball, and of those that have got invited, I can well imagine myself the only one asked by a seventh year.
I haven't told anyone, not even Edmund, but I very much hope I will be asked to dance by Tom just once – since I am his guest – it must happen, surely – he cannot sit out the whole ball – but I fear I am very unreasonable in expecting it.
Love,
Fanny
P.S. William, please tell me, how is our sister Mary? I haven't heard anything of her in your letters for weeks now and am grown v. worried.
The little fair-haired first-year looked more than a little silly in her borrowed dress robes – old fashioned and on loan from an older, stouter student – all that was wanting was the addition of a little of the crowsfoot at the corner of her eyes and she would have appeared more like a bent old woman than a girl at her first ball – but as she sat in her chair, sipping her butterbeer and enjoying the music, admiring the breathtaking beauty of the room, all done up in magical lights and designs of snowflakes and holly bushes, she couldn't help but be very glad.
(It was something, also, to watch the other couples, many of which were very handsome pairs. Fanny's favourite of these couples, they she got the most pleasure from looking at, was Viktor Krum and the pretty witch with the sleek hair in the periwinkle robes.)
Mary Crawford had danced with Edmund, after all, and so far, Tom hadn't asked her except to wearily, offhandedly suggest – barely looking at her as he did so – if she really wanted to dance, he could make himself stand up with her – and under such endearing terms as these, Fanny couldn't bear to say she wished it more than anything else.
"Good – I'm dead tired," was his response, and he did not offer again.
Only then there had been a terse meow near his foot, and he, starting, leaped up from his chair at the sight of Filch's cat, her eyes glowing red and staring directly up into his own.
Although he professed to dislike the cat as much as any of the other students, Tom seemed to always – somehow – understand everything Mrs. Norris meant to tell him, despite the fact she wasn't a talking cat.
What followed was not, in fact, anything like the first time Fanny had heard a one-sided argument between Argus Filch's cat and Tom, but his instantaneous change of expression as Mrs. Norris yowled up at him, shaking her whiskers for emphasis, was so funny, she couldn't help laughing.
"Oh, well, I should be happy to, Mrs. Norris, it would give me great pleasure – only, I'm just about to dance." And he grabbed little Fanny around the waist – causing her to stop laughing almost mid-giggle, not even giving her half a moment to wipe the butterbeer moustache off her upper lip – and fairly dragged her from her seat.
The cat looked after them with a swishing tail – bushed up and bristled – and an extremely peevish expression.
"Phew!" cried Tom, spinning Fanny under his arm. "How lucky it is I thought of standing up with you – would you believe Mrs. Norris wanted me to play cards with that mean old Squib Filch and Hagrid? A pretty modest request, don't you think? To be made to sit with them for the next two hours and have to explain the rules to Hagrid – who doesn't understand poker any better than he does potions! Upon my word, I wish that dratted cat would be a little less busy!"
A/N: Reviews welcome, replies could be delayed.
