Title: the ones you forget
Summary: What happens to those in the majority? The ones at Hogwarts who don't stand out? The ones who fade into the background when no one is looking?
Genre: none
Characters: none
Word count: 1,666
Triggers/warnings: none
FOR ILVERMORNY SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
House: Wampus
Class/Task Number: Charms/Task #1 Household/Everyday charms
Bonus prompts: none
What happens to those in the majority? The ones at Hogwarts who don't stand out? The ones who aren't a Harry, a Ron, a Hermione? A Tom, a Lucius, a Draco? The ones who fade into the background when no one is looking? The ones who won't save the world or destroy it?
Let's explore, shall we? On one of those days where the Wizarding World is not on the brink of collapse, where being at Hogwarts isn't threatening to one's life, where it's just a school like any other, just with a little touch of magic.
Watch as the castle begins to rise. In their dorms, children of all ages slowly leave their dream worlds to face reality; awoken by the sun rising, or the smell of breakfast, or the gloom of the dungeons. Some of them are children, so young and fresh. Hopeful, you might say. They've still got that look of innocence and wonder on their faces. Others aren't even children anymore, but more young adults, or even adults by wizarding standards. They've already got that serious etched onto their faces, the worry of what will come later, or the confidence of knowing exactly how everything is going. In either case, all of them are faceless, nameless. Just the way it is being in the majority.
"Oh, that reminds me of the time some first year burst into the seventh year boys' dormitory!" "Oh yes, they were so angry!" "What was that girl's name already?" "Oh, I couldn't possibly recall."
See, all of them are starting to get dressed. They begin to leave the category of 'Hogwarts student' and fit into a colour. Red, yellow, blue, green. But, truly, they're still wearing the exact same clothing. A couple of them stand out, if only because of a bit of shiny metal pinned carefully to their robes. Prefects, Head Boy, Head Girl. They stand out, but only so ephemerally. Soon, they'll fade away into a school registry, where their name had once been so carefully inked in.
"Do you remember when Thomas McSully…" "Who?" "You know, the head boy." "Oh, right! He was a real laugh wasn't he?" "Exactly! So, as I was saying-"
Look at the Great Hall beginning to fill. There are so many of them. No one can really see them. As the benches ply under the weight of rows of students, the tables groan under the weight of breakfast. They're only lines of colour, from up above. All the same. They might stick out because of a crazy new hair colour, or a peculiar hat, but really, if you're not looking for your friend, everyone looks the same. Or maybe you'll notice them when the owls flood the hall. The one with the brand new enormous owl will feel the need to brag a bit, but that might be the only thing they'll be remembered for.
"Look! Over there!" "What?" "That owl, it's amazing. HAve you ever seen one like that?" "Actually, yes! Someone at school had an owl like that." "Who?" "Some Slytherin pureblood, I think." "Oh, probably."
Every day, the letters are hundreds. Extracts of life so few care about. All of them carefully scratched on parchment with a quill and ink, or quickly scrawled on a piece of paper with a biro. Either way, they're all part of a correspondence which probably won't threaten the whole of the Hogwarts population, and that no one will ever remember. They'll end up scrunched into balls and thrown across the Great Hall, or perhaps they'll slip out of bags in the flurry to get to classes, or maybe they'll be placed as a bookmark in a library book and forgotten about.
Dear Timmy,
I'm so happy to hear all of that. You will have to show me all of that when you get home for Easter. Aunt Agatha is asking what you'd like for your birthday, and I know you want a new broomstick but Aunt Agatha couldn't possibly know what that is because she's a-
Arabella,
Your mother and I have heard the most offensive news from your Head of House. How dare you fail Potions? Your mother and I have told you so many times how important OWLs are and yet you spend all of your time with that boyfriend of yours (yes I'm aware of that) instead of-
Mr Gallaw,
The office here at Animals, Menagerie and Other Critters inc. have been considering your candidature. Please be aware, however, that we only take interns who have gotten at least Exceeds Expectations in Care of Magical Creatures and-
Here, the bell has rung for a couple of minutes now. All the students are in class. Charms are still just as noisy and Potions still just as lugubre. There are still the know-it-alls, the jokesters, the silent ones, and the far too noisy ones. But really, they're all learning the same things. None of them are spying on their teachers because they think it might save their lives, none of them are thinking about how some of these charms could save someone else one day, none of them are worrying about what will happen to their mother if they don't kill a faculty member. Truly, most of them are bored, passing notes or trying to decipher the messages etched by unknown people into the wood of the desk, while a couple of them dutifully copy the lesson which they will pass to those who weren't paying attention.
"Do you think the heart we scratched into the desk is still there?" "You mean the one where you wrote our initials?" "Yes." "God, was that lesson boring! It would be really sweet if it still was."
Come, we'll join them in the afternoon lessons. Colours mix. The Purebloods will ignore the Muggle-borns, as usual, not paying attention to who they are, never bothering to learn their names, and the Muggle-borns will watch the Purebloods, they'll bother to learn their names, but they won't mean anything to them. For both of them, the other one is just part of a group, and they'll probably never talk to one another. The teachers file in. They'll stumble on a couple of names, confuse two people in the class, call one sibling by the other one's name. But soon, a couple of years after they've left, the name will disappear anyway, buried under the name of the next generation of students. They haven't done anything special, so the name doesn't stick. It's neither parties fault, truly.
"Professor!" "Um, hello!" "You remember me, right? Sophie Jenns!" "Of… Of course." "You taught me so much, professor." "That's wonderful, and what do you do now?"
We're not quite finished yet, the evening is not over. Students trickle into the library, into their common rooms, into the Great Hall, arms heavy with books and parchment, ready to complete the latest essays. Oh, and those essays are just an infinite number of hundreds, all about the exact same thing, written in so many different ways, but none of them really shine out of the lot. The tutors will find their tutees and create bonds. For the older student, the younger one will stick out from the lot of annoying littlies. For the younger student, the older one will shine brightly in a sea of imposing tall seventh years. But for all the others, the age gap will never be crossed.
"Andrew Fawley, you say?" "Yes." "I was at school with you when you were in seventh year." "And you in first?" "Yes. I think you tutored my sister for some time;" "Sybil?" "Yes, that's her." "And you?" "Josephine." "I'm terribly sorry I couldn't remember you." "No it's fine."
Oh, we're in for a treat. One of the Quidditch teams is practicing. They zoom around on their brooms. They're a team. They know each other so well. Maybe they are the ones who stick out the most, the ones their house will cheer on when they win the cup, and promise they will be remembered forever. They'll have their names etched into the cup, and then it will be carefully stored in the Cup room, collecting dust, being forgotten for the majority apart for the one who managed to go professional.
"Ugh. I hate detention." "Shhh. Look at this cup! It's the Quidditch cup from the year my mum was a fourth year." "Let's see." "Huh." "Do you know any of these people?" "No, I'll have to ask her."
Come now, don't make a noise. It's after curfew, all are getting into bed. All of them slipping out of their coloured robes into pyjamas, most of them the same, all identical. The castle sure can't tell them apart, that's for sure. It's walls have seen generations and generations and generations of these students who all seem to blur together. Truly, if you ask the portraits or the ghosts, they'll only be able to remember the names who'll go down into the history books, and even then, maybe they too will be confused with others.
"What do you mean you don't know who my father is? He said he talked to you all the time!" "Child, a lot of people have spoken to me." "Yes, but-" "I can't help you, I'm sorry." "How come you don't remember?"
And now they're all asleep, see. And tomorrow will be exactly the same, and the day after that, and the day after that. The days will blurr for them, and they will blurr for the days.
They might be part of the majority, of those who don't stand out, but they're happy, they're content. They feel safe, at peace. They don't think at night how the fate of the world rests on their shoulders, and frankly, they're probably better off. No one will ever remember them, but maybe that's better, right? They don't know how lucky they are in that moment, when the dreams slip into their souls, dreams of stepping out of the majority.