Confessions

I wanted the screening session to feel as natural as possible. Therefore, once in the Room of Requirement, I had the test subject—er, interviewee – sit in a chair, alone, in a booth facing the camera, exactly as the Muggles do on Big Brother. All the while, I was sitting there just on the outside like a Catholic priest at confessional, listening to it all, an innocent observer as their faces flashed across the screen.

As planned, they came in, they said their piece, while I, speaking through a microphone, jumped in where I saw fit to pose questions.

Things hadn't turned out quite as I expected.

It was 4 pm when I finished with them, and I was left as empty-handed as when I had started. Well, fortunately I had managed to store my memories within a Memory Jar, a budget-friendly, commonplace equivalent of a Pensieve. Now I could revisit this trainwreck.

So there I was, sticking my head in a jar, for better or worse, reliving it all...

The first to enter the chamber was Harry Potter. What a keen boy he was. He didn't know where to begin. Well, a few key questions got him waffling and jabbering like a bewildered parrot. It went well. Up until he started talking about Rubeus Hagrid:

'From the first day he came to me with those words…"You're a wizard, Harry"…I knew there was something between us. Something magical.

Oh, that came out weird.

Literally. Magic. That's what I actually meant.

Don't take this the wrong way or anything. I obviously don't mean anything dirty.'

Of course not. Why would I think that?

Then I puzzled over whether he was trying to tell me something.

I felt an unrelenting pang of unease as Potter continued to prattle on.

'I really despise that pale, skinny bastard. I don't need to name you. You know who you are.

What's he doing right now? Probably off somewhere riding Snape's—'

'Broom?' I interjected.

Harry pursed his lip like an affronted nobleman. He stared for a minute, his expression most unreadable. I knitted my brows as he pulled his mouth into a crooked smile.

'Right. Broom. That's… what I was going to say.'

Potter's bit was indeed quite disturbing. Particularly the way he kept talking into the camera as though Draco were sitting there watching.

I decided to call the girl, Hermione Granger, in next. She couldn't be as bad, I reasoned.

The bushy-haired brunette sat studiously, arms folded across her lap. She fidgeted awkwardly, like a cavity-ridden child at a Muggle dentist wait room.

'My parents are dentists,' she informed me.

Ah. Explains everything.

Once she looked into the camera (as I instructed) with its dark, gleaming eye on her, her demeanor shifted. She calmed and the words spilled out:

'There's a lot people don't know about me. They think I'm just a know-at-all. Well, I may not be all posh and fancy like other girls. Maybe it takes me an hour or so to brush my hair. Maybe my greatest fear is failing all my courses. So what? I have needs. I have desires too. Just like everyone else.

I know people want to believe I have a thing for Harry. Well, sure he's famous and all. But that's not enough of a reason for me.

What I really like? Hairy legs. That's what gets me. And not just the usual hair…but that long, coarse, thick kind…

I guess it's why I've always loved Crookshanks.

I love hair.

I really do.

Especially hair…on legs.

That's when I remember… Hagrid. Yes. He has some of the hairiest legs I've ever seen on a man. So manly…'

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. 'You're referring to the Gamekeeper?' I asked.

'Well, he's also our Care of Magical Creatures professor. So…'

'Right. Well, I was just checking,' I said, clearing my throat.

'Well, you need to keep your facts straight,' she replied, again with that matter-of-fact tone and that deadly serious look. Frightening.

I adjusted my spectacles and quickly looked downwards, nervousness catching me off guard as I rustled through my sheets of parchment. 'Um. Sure. I will do that.'

The girl was worse than I expected. And weirder. All I kept asking myself was when she had gotten a chance to actually see Hagrid's legs.

Well, I decided I would take a break from the Potty Pair. I stepped into the hall, and called in Draco Malfoy next.

The boy reminded me much of a lizard.

I don't know what it was.

Not that he was a bad looking chap, actually.

Just that something about those pale, grey eyes and that snaky grin...

I shuddered.

Just like his father. No. Worse, maybe.

No matter. I had a show to produce and this boy wanted a part in it. The question was whether I wanted him. He sat in the chair, his back straight and arms folded across his chest. He stared into the camera with complete poise. It was as though, truly, he had waited his entire life for such a moment. I supposed I'd learn more about this boy and whether or not I was willing to give him the attention he so craved.

I didn't need to press him to talk. The lure of the camera was enough to get him started:

'The truth is Hogwart's can kiss my pale, bony arse.

This place? Ha!
Pure rubbish.

All of it.

Every time I pass through these corridors I feel sickened. Father would've had me at Durmstrang…but no—this bloody place is where I end up out of "tradition". Bless my mother's heart, but seriously, I want the fuck out. Oh, can I say the "f" word? Ah, whatever. Already happened.

Now, onto other things.

Potter.

Oh where do I even begin? That four-eyed try-hard….why doesn't he just DIE already? Honestly. Dead. I want him dead. For real. Like gone out of this world, dead. Everyday—it's Potter this, Potter that. DIE, YOU STUPID PRAT! DIE!'

My mouth parched. A tickle formed in my throat, suddenly, and so I coughed. I flicked my wand. A glass of water. Yes, that's what I needed.

'And Weasley. Ah, well, fuck him too. Stupid ginger twat. How does he not just implode into himself from shame, I don't know. How does he even get up in the morning? How does he look that freckled-arsed face in the mirror just once and still not dissuade himself from leaving the confines of his dung-hole? Or zoo. Whatever it is he calls his "home".

And how does that entire family fit in that house, anyway?

Please, don't even get me started on the Mudblood. Oh—days. I could go on for LITERAL DAYS.'

I was speechless at first. I pressed my mouth to the mic.

'You seem to have a lot of pent-up rage. I wonder if something like this show might be too much for you?' And I really meant it. This boy had issues with a capital 'I'.

Draco smirked. 'No. I play the villain role perfectly, you see.'

'Ah. Very well, then,' I conceded.

'Right. Without me you have no show. Believe that,' he sniffed.

'Well, You-Know-Who is on standby for an interview later …'

I might have been fibbing just a bit.

'No way! He's still alive?' Draco's eyes rounded like boulders.

'Well…somewhat. I don't believe he can…die…really.'

'Well after him, I'm number two, right?' Draco asked hopefully.

'Er, well. Fourth actually. Right after Riddle's diary…' I admitted.

'You're joking? I'm right after a bloody book?'

'Well, this Kreacher character is right after you. If that makes you feel—'

'A LOWLY HOUSE ELF?! What a load of tosh! You know what? To hell with the Dark Lord, to hell with Riddle, to hell with YOU—'

'I'll overlook the anger directed at me, but isn't your father somewhat indebted to You-Know-Who?'

Draco looked suddenly apprehensive. 'Oh, well, you can delete the last part, right?'

I stared dully. 'No.'

Draco didn't speak as he reached under his cloak.

'Are ... you pulling out your wand right now?'

'No! I was pulling out my —!'

It was at that point I decided to cut the microphone and video feed. I figured I'd get back to Mr. Draco on another, more peaceful day.

There was still one interviewee left: Ronald Weasley. He slouched into the room, looking about curiously.

'Interesting little place you've got,' he noted.

'Yes. Well, I try,' I said, adding a chuckle for false humility.

Ronald didn't say anything for a while, looking as though he was thinking hard about his words. He stared into the camera, sullen and stiff-faced. He opened his mouth, and kept it short and simple:

'Draco Malfoy is a bloody wanker. That's it. I've nothing left to say.'

'Really?' I could feel the creases on my forehead accentuate with my fully raised eyebrows.

He answered curtly. 'Really.'

'Only that one line about, er, Mr. Malfoy, then?' I clarified.

Ron folded his arms as he braced back against the chair. 'Well it's true isn't it? He pulled it out for you didn't he?'

How the blazes…?

'His wand, actually,' I said.

'Well, if that's what the older folks call it these days. Suit yourself.' Ron then covered his mouth as he let out a yawn.

This cheeky little bastard.

'Nothing? Nothing even about your friends, er…Mr Potter? Or Miss Granger?' I persisted.

Surely he must have had more to say?

Ron looked thoughtful for a moment, as he stroked his chin. 'Oh, well now that you mention it—NO.'

I let out a sigh. I was finally reminded of why I hated teenagers, and never went into teaching.

'Right on. Well, if you change your mind, I'll be back tomorrow to do more interviews. I'll be happy to sit with you again,' I said, preparing to pack up and leave.

'Just tell me one thing. Did she mention the thing about hair?' Ron asked out of the blue.

I gave Ron a curious look. 'Miss Granger?'

How the on Earth did he suspect…?

'Yes,' he said.

'Well, she might have…' I admitted, unsure if this was too much to disclose.

Just then, Ron ripped off the mic clipped to his jersey with a passion, and flounced through the door.

I was left to stand and stare after him, feeling foolish.

I pulled my head from out of the jar.

An interview with this four did not go as I anticipated. Potter, in spite of the hype, was surprisingly dull and weird. The girl who was his friend was weird too but also prone to odd fetishes. The Malfoy son's behaviour was wonky at best, utterly ghastly, in truth. And lastly, this Ron character was oddly evasive and uncooperative. Altogether, they were a dodgy lot.

Perhaps this would make good television.

But not the kind of television I was going for…

It didn't take a Wizarding Master like Merlin to figure out I had a bit of a problem on my hands. These kids had deep-seated issues. And secrets. Dirty Secrets.