I will not ask the Room of Requirement for blackmail materials.
I will not tell Moaning Myrtle that Tom Riddle might have loved to share her toilet if only any of the shards of his soul had been large enough to become a ghost.
I will not use a thestral to convince first years that I have the power to float without casting spells.
I will not put tracking charms on the owls of people who write me nasty letters.
I will not chat with Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington about the odd coincidence of his and my parents' Death Day nearly four hundred years apart in the middle of the Great Hall.
I will not tell unSorted first years where all of the House common rooms are.
I will not transfigure the marbles we are meant to be turning into dogs into the most terrifying, slavering beast I can imagine.
I will not try to fashion wands out of sticks from the Whomping Willow and my own hair.
I will not whimper dramatically every time I have to go past Madame Puddifoot's.
