I’ve been writing for a long time. A long time. Back in elementary school, I’d often lose myself in wild, fanciful daydreams, and in middle and high school, rather than take notes in class, I would often scribble out stories in my notebooks to keep me entertained, since I’d often be bored beyond tears and to the point of madness. During this time, I wrote an embarrassing amount of fan fiction regarding a number of properties. Harry Potter, being a series I was invested in to varying degrees at the time, and being at near the peak of its popularity, was one of them. Even before I ever put pen to paper, I had an entire cast of original characters that inhabited my own alternative version of Hogwarts, which was similar but not identical to that of the books, since I often took creative liberties with the curriculum that most witches and wizards there would study, as well as the various professors in the school’s employ. It wasn’t until eighth grade that I actually began to form a coherent narrative around them rather than just imagine them in various situations and scenarios that tickled my fancy.
As a bit of an addendum to my series exploring the Harry Potter franchise, I thought it would be fun to revisit one of the stories I wrote about them, the first of which was called Forrest Carmichael and the Lion of Gryffindor. I dredged up the old Word file I had it saved on and picked this chapter to rewrite as a bit of an exercise to see how I might tackle the story today.
The plot itself is a little all over the place in terms of content, wildly swinging between long stretches of rather mundane, slice-of-life scenes with characters bumming around and talking and scenes of high action, but, do keep in mind that I was, like, thirteen or fourteen when I started on it. And, if these characters don’t really talk like thirteen and fourteen year olds themselves… well, keep in mind, I’m editing this as an adult, and, even then, I didn’t exactly talk like a normal thirteen year old myself at that age.
For context, eponymous Forrest Carmichael is, in the story, a fourth-year student at Hogwarts, the son of an American muggle father and an English witch, who’s ordinary American upbringing in the Washington D.C. area is upended by a sudden invitation to attend Hogwarts. If that sounds like wish-fulfillment, it’s because it absolutely is. Or was, I suppose.
Sorted into Ravenclaw, he makes friends with Hufflepuff students Ferris Cartwright - who serves as something of a more brash and outgoing foil, right down to having a very similar name - and the sheepish, furtive Heather Huxborough, who was something of a conglomeration of several girls I was friends with at the time. There’s also another very crucial character that will be more or less self-explanatory when they appear. I’m pretty sure you’ll see what I mean.
The events of the story were intended to be contemporaneous with Harry Potter’s first year, which, at the time, I did not know was intended to be 1991, and in my own internal timeline, took place a full decade later in 2003 or 2004, so keep in mind that’s the time period this is supposed to be taking place in, erroneous as it may be. Harry Potter doesn’t even appear in person throughout the narrative, though, being something of a celebrity, he is mentioned in passing several times, as are the events of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.
And, for the record, all of the chapter names were taken from songs on my iPod at the time, which was mostly filled with the expansive library of oldies, classic rock, and hair metal my father had on the computer, which results in the Table of Contents reading like a soundtrack from one of the Guardians of the Galaxy films.
Either way, this was a fun exercise, and it was nice to go back and revisit for the sake of nostalgia, and, if you choose to give it a read, I hope you get a small kick out of it as I did.
And…
Forrest Carmichael stared down at the single word. It seemed to stare back at him. It was the only word present on the parchment before him, and it had been for some time, seemingly the last one that his brain was willing to produce before promptly shutting off and refusing to work even further. He feverishly tapped the tip of his quill against the paper, as if somehow, if he did it enough times, it might produce some sort of thought, or even just another word, that he could use to follow up the odious and. It almost seemed to taunt him, daring him to come up with something else to say.
Forrest heaved a long, heavy sighed. He didn’t put down his quill so much as just let it fall against the paper. Resting his elbows on the table with a heavy thunk, he placed his face in his hands and let his neck go slack.
He couldn’t focus. And it wasn’t just because the Great Hall was, as it always was, abuzz with activity. He’d drifted from one end of Hogwarts to the other, listlessly dragging himself through the halls from one quite room to another, only to find himself staring at the paper and that accursed word, and, just as he had in all those he had visited previously. He’d hoped that perhaps the energy of all the students in the Great Hall would prove infectious and zap some life back into him. Unfortunately, however, that thesis was rapidly being disproven. With prejudice.
For the better part of the day, he’d been attempting to finish the essay for his history of magic class. It was already half done, with his last stab at it coming from the night that it was assigned, but, since then, he hadn’t touched it, and had almost forgotten that it was coming due on Monday. But, whatever inspiration he’d had that night to begin writing a short biography of Christopher Preakley, professional wandmaker and the first individual to ever use unicorn hair in a wand, had all but vanished over the days since.
With another sigh, Forrest let one arm fall back to the table and kept the other one propped as he massaged the bridge of his nose. Perhaps he should just give up the ghost. Abandon the project for tomorrow. He’d be more crunched for time, but maybe that would be the motivation he needed to actually start putting words on paper again. Maybe a little rest would do his mind well. A nap - just a brief one.
He only hoped that Henry and his gaggle of buddies weren’t currently using their dormitory as their personal gaming den. That, it seemed, should be an activity that fell under the purview of uses for the Ravenclaw Common Room, but, apparently, no one had ever told Henry that.
Maybe he’d just catch a few winks on one of the common room sofas, then. Forrest rolled up the unfinished essay around his quill, corked the inkwell, and began to pack them into his bag, already dreaming of which couch in the common room would be the most ideal for napping on, when -
“Oi! Forrest!”
Or not.
Forrest tried to disguise his sour mood as he lifted his head. Judging from the face that Ferris made, he reckoned that he wasn’t doing a very good job.
“Bloody hell,” Ferris muttered. “You alright, there?”
Forrest made a croaking noise in the back of his throat and nodded. Behind Ferris, he could see Heather Huxborough hurrying to catch up, oversized robes dragging on the ground behind her. She looked to be smiling, though that quickly dropped from her face as she saw Forrest’s pitiful condition.
“Oh, my arse1, you’re fine,” said Ferris. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at Forrest with equal parts skepticism and irritation, with the latter hopefully due to being boldly lied to rather than just being annoyed that Forrest didn’t feel good. “You look right terrible, you do.”
Heather stepped a bit closer and brushed an unruly lock of ashen black hair out of her face, revealing an expression of concern. “Is everything alright with you, Forrest?”
“Yeah,” Forrest mumbled. “Just - it’s schoolwork. That’s all.”
“Ah,” Ferris hummed with a sage nod. “That makes sense.”
“Anything we can do to help?” Heather asked.
Ferris shot her a cock-eyed glare. “We?”
“Yes, Ferris,” Heather said in a chiding tone. “We.”
Ferris huffed and uncrossed his arms, planting his hands on his hips. “I think the best thing we could do to help,” he countered. “Is do something that isn’t schoolwork, then.” He flashed Forrest a broad, toothy grin, and added, “A little bit of good old fashioned fun’ll get your head back on straight.”
Ferris’s usually definition of fun sounded about as appealing as a dip in the frigid waters of the Black Lake at the moment. Really, the only place that Forrest wanted to be was sprawled out in the deep, plush, and blue cushions of that one sofa pressed up against the back wall of the dimly lit, well-shaded, and quiet Ravenclaw Common Room.
“As nice as that sounds,” Forrest lied. “I think I’m gonna just g-”
“Play dominoes with us?”2 Ferris interjected. It wasn’t a suggestion so much as it was a firm request that verged on the border of a command. He arched a brow, his smile taking on a coy bend. “You did say you’d join us yesterday.”
Forrest tried to remember whether or not that was true. If it was, he couldn’t recall. “I, uh - I did?”
Ferris nodded. Heather did, too. “You did,” she confirmed. “But, ah - well, if you’d rather s-”
“Oh, come on, now,” Ferris interrupted, speaking as if Heather hadn’t even had her mouth open. “Don’t go shut yourself up in your room all day again. That’s not gonna do you any favors. We don’t even have to play dominoes, if it’s not to your fancy. We can play cards. We can, ah… well, we can just sit around and chat, too.”
Ferris meant well. Forrest knew that he did, and the only reason he was pressing the issue was because he was concerned for him in his own, eclectic way. That didn’t make it any less easy to feel annoyed, but it did make him feel guilty for being annoyed. Truth be told, Forrest didn’t want to play dominoes, card, or even just sit and talk, but, if he was going to do anything, idle chatting seemed the least taxing.
Forrest pushed away from the table and, with a sigh, slung his canvas bag over his shoulder3. “I’ll level with you,” he said. “If you want to sit and talk… I’d be alright with that.”
Ferris’s smile perked at the corners as he leaned forward and clapped a hand on Forrest’s shoulder. “That’s the spirit,” he said. With little resistance, he scooped Forrest up against him, coaxing him along and guiding him out of the hall with slow, shuffling steps, Heather scurrying behind them in their wake.
“You just need to relax a little,” said Ferris. “Unwind a bit. That’ll cure what ails you, I’m sure of it.” He chattered as they walked, though the words were largely lost on Forrest. Most just rolled off him, filtering in one ear and out the other as his mind wandered other places. It wasn’t until Ferris stopped walking, bringing Forrest’s own steps to a halt, that he realized Ferris had gone silent. Forrest looked up from his own feet and, before he could ask why Ferris had gone still, saw why.
“There you are, Carmichael.”
Down the main aisle between the two center most tables of the Great Hall, Lenore Lockeslee strode with long, confident steps. The underclassmen she passed went silent as she passed, like candle-flames snuffed out by a winding breeze. Honey-gold curls bounced with every step she took, and her hips rocked from one side to the other with a noticeable sway. She came to a stop before the trio of fourth-years, towering above them with her natural height, the golden stripes on her scarlet tie glinting in the sunlight filtering through the windows.
“I’ve been running all over the bloody castle, looking for you,” said Lenore, more bemused than angry. Like an owner summoning a well-heeled dog, she snapped her fingers. “Come. We’ve got business, you and I.”
The Great Hall fell uncharacteristically silent. Forrest could feel the eyes of the other students fix upon him and those around him. The air grew tense and taut - palpably so. Before he could respond, Ferris took a step forward, effectively shielding him from the upperclassman.
“Well… not to disappoint you, or anything, but whatever that business is… it’s going to have to wait.”
Lenore arched a fine but dark brow, one that stood out starkly against her fair skin.
“And why might that be?”
The arm Ferris had wrapped around Forrest fell away as he took a step forward, abandoning Forrest and placing him between him and Lenore.
“He’s busy.”
“Strange,” said Lenore. “He doesn’t look all that preoccupied.”
“He’s got plans,” Ferris replied coolly.
“Is there any particular reason that you’re speaking for him?” Lenore asked. “You aren’t his father.”
“And you aren’t his mother,” Ferris shot back. “He doesn’t come running when you snap your fingers.”
Lenore folded her arms over her chest. She leaned to the side, just enough to be able to make eye contact with Forrest without Ferris obstructing her view.
“Are you hearing this, Carmichael?”
“Hey!” Ferris barked. He took another step forward, closing the distance between himself and Lenore. “I’m talking to you right now.”
Lenore feigned ignorance. “Carmichael,” she said. “Would you stop standing there and tell your lapdog to stop yapping?”
“I’ve had about enough of you.”
All at once, the oxygen seemed to leave the room. Forrest thought he heard several gasps of surprise go off like firecrackers. The atmosphere in the Great Hall went from tense to taut, pulled by the sudden contraction of all Lenore’s muscles at once. Her expression changed. She looked as if she had been amused by Ferris before, but, now, she looked at him as if he’d slapped her across the face. Forrest glanced back to see that Heather had retracted in on herself, attempting to look as small as she could.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
The two bristled with tangible acrimony that filled the space around them like static.
“I think,” Lenore hissed. “You’d best change your tone of voice when addressing me, Cartwright.”
“Or what?” asked Ferris. “You’ll turn me into a weasel like you did Emilia Derry?” He breathed in deep, filling his lungs and broadening his shoulders as much as he could. “Go ahead,” he dared the older Gryffindor. “Try it. They’ll snatch your wand before the day is over.”
Lenore flexed and, suddenly, her long, slender, white-wood wand was in her hand. “I wouldn’t give you the dignity, you little puke. I have other ideas of how to teach you some respect.”
In one motion, Ferris reached into the folds of his robe and drew his own wand, holding it by his side and gripping the handle with white knuckles. “Let’s see it, then, b-”
“No!”
The sliver of space between Lenore and Ferris was expanded as Forrest wedged himself into it, forcing the two to step back, disarming them with surprise. He felt his chest rise and fall with labored breaths. He looked to Ferris. He looked to Lenore. Both still appeared fit to strangle one another where the other stood.
“Ferris,” he heaved. “Don’t. Just - just don’t.”
“Don’t what?” Forrest growled. “Teach this bint that she can’t shove us all around like she owns the school?”
Lenore inhaled sharply. “What was that, you p-”
“Quiet!”
Forrest wheeled around with a finger already leveled up at Lenore’s face. She drew loud, audible breaths, her face pale but eyes wide, the whites visible on all sides around her brown irises, pupils small and focused.
“Y-you,” Forrest sputtered, keeping his finger finger and fixed on Lenore. “Just - let me handle this. Please.” He turned back to Ferris. His expression had changed. Anger was still writ on his features, but… there was something else present. What, exactly, Forrest couldn’t tell, but whatever it was, it didn’t feel good.
“You’re taking her side on this?” Ferris asked. His voice was low and breathy. Hurt, in a way.
Forrest shook his head. “I’m - I’m not taking anyone’s side, here. But -” He swallowed hard, his throat tight, his saliva thick and sticky. “We don’t need any fighting. We're on thin ice with Professor Starkey4 as it is.”
Ferris was silent for a moment. A long, uncomfortable moment, before he said one word. “Seriously?”
“You’d best listen to your master, you miserable mutt.”
Forrest cringed at the sound of Lenore’s voice at his back.
As Ferris met Forrest’s eyes again, the latter recognized that elusive emotion tinting his expression; it was disgust. “He’s no master of me,” Ferris muttered.
He stepped back, putting space between himself and Forrest, before storming off, his steps heavy and deliberate. For a moment, Heather didn’t seem to know who to to pay more attention to - Ferris and Forrest - but, with one last apologetic glance in the latter’s direction, hustled after the former, leaving Forrest alone with Lenora amidst a silent and watchful room of anxious onlookers. A sheep left alone with a lion. And one he’d been unwise enough to defend, at that.
No - he hadn’t defended Lenore. Just stopped Ferris, impulsive as he was, from picking a fight that he wasn’t going to a win, at their mutual expense.
Lenore, for her part, looked unmoved. Her expression was inscrutable, her eyes betraying nothing of what was going on behind them. Forrest wasn’t sure what to say. Did he apologize? Drop to his knees and grovel? Play it off as if nothing of any real importance had happened?
The answer was provided when he noticed the vaguest trace of a smirk tugging at the corner of Lenore’s mouth. That, he knew, wasn’t an inherently good sign.
“Come with me.”
That was all she said, before turning and striding away, leaving nothing but a cold rush of displaced air in her wake. Again - it wasn’t a request. Dutifully, Forrest followed, keenly aware of all the eyes watching him do so, and the many mouths that would be reporting the news of what had happened to their peers in the near future.
Outside the Great Hall, Lenore turned off into a side hallway, devoid any other students. She never stopped. She never turned around, curious to see if Forrest was actually following her; she was confident that she was. And he did. She came to an abrupt stop at the junction of the hall and another corridor, prompting Forrest to stop behind her. She stepped into the corridor, where anyone looking down the main hall wouldn’t have been able to see her standing just out of sight. She turned around, looking down her nose at Forrest. Several minutes had elapsed, and Forrest still wasn’t sure what to say, or, more importantly, what she wanted to hear. She emoted nothing more than she had been before, either, which made reading her expression impossible. She had, however, put away her wand. That was a promising sign.
Maybe.
“L-Lenore,” Forrest said, the word practically jumping from his mouth. He opened and shut his mouth once or twice, no words coming out, and, before he could say another -
“I’m impressed.”
Lenore folded her arms over her chest. She angled her nose up as she looked down on him, her expression still ambiguous.
“Standing up to your friend like that for me,” she said. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”
Forrest didn’t know what to feel. Relief? Shame? Pride? None of them? Something else entirely? He wrestled with the conflicting emotions, trying to parse which, if any, were correct for the situation, but, before an answer could present itself, Lenore spoke.
“But…”
She raised a hand with one finger leveled at him. She curled it towards herself, beckoning him, a nakedly malicious grin playing on her lips. Forrest knew it presented with him two options - obey, and suffer whatever indignity she most likely had in mind upfront, or resist, and suffer whatever indignity she most likely had in mind, and more. He hesitated long enough that Lenore felt compelled to repeat this gesture. She tilted her head at an angle, her grin growing wider, what little warmth there had been to it waning as it did.
Forrest steeled himself. He approached Lenore. She shook her head. She beckoned him closer. Despite his instincts of self-preservation protesting, he obliged. He was close to Lenore. Close enough to smell the sharp, crisp scent of bergamot, lavender, and mint, masking all but the thinnest trace of tobacco smoke stuck to her clothes. She stared down at him. He stared up at her. She was still smiling. Waiting. Drawing out the suspense, the way a cat might toy with a mouse before delivering the fatal blow.
He shifted uncomfortably on his feet, and before he finished, both flaps of his robe were clenched between Lenore’s fists, and what little space had separated them was gone. His nose struck her chest, brushing against the woolen vest and silk tie that bore the Gryffindor colors. A thorough shake dislodged his face from where it had landed, forcing him to look at her face. She wasn’t scowling. She wasn’t smiling, either.
“You did well today, Carmichael,” Lenore said in a low voice. “So, I’ll tell you this once.” He felt her fingers curl tighter around his robes. “Once.” She reiterated.
“Never,” she said. “Ne-ver. Point your finger in my face again. Or it’ll be the last thing you ever point at anyone here at Hogwarts.” She let the words hang in the air and soak into his skin. “Do you understand?”
Forrest nodded.
“I said. Do you. Understand?”
“Y-yes, Lenore. I understand.”
Another moment elapsed before the hands gripping his robes slackened. Lenore’s hands slipped back by her side. Forrest let his shoulders ease. Lenore didn’t look satisfied. She didn’t look angry, either. She sighed, some of the tension in her body language loosening as she did.
“I hope so,” she said as she straightened the flaps of her own robe. “For both our sakes. You’re finally beginning to shape up. I'd hate to have to see you go right as you start coming around.” She took a second to brush a blonde curl back over her shoulder. Satisfied that her appearance was in order, she turned back to Forrest.
“Well,” she sighed. “Now that we have that established, we can get to the heart of the matter.”
That’s right - she did say that they had business. This wasn’t some random shakedown. Forrest had almost forgotten.
Lenore adopted the cordial mask of a pleasant smile, masking her disdain for the underclassman.
“We’re going to Hogsmeade, you and I.”
Forrest glanced back over his shoulder. Thankfully, no one had appeared in the hallway behind them. “W-we are?”
Lenore snorted. “Don’t sound too excited, now.”
Forrest wasn’t sure how she expected him to be excited to do anything she asked of him. After all, she’d only ever used him as the equivalent of a trained monkey to do her homework, or assist in her schemes. Whenever Lenore came snapping at him, no good ever followed.
“We are going to go shopping,” Lenore continued, her tone condescending and demeaning, as it so often was.
“And you want me to go with you?” Forrest asked, bewildered. “So I can… what? Carry your bags?” He couldn’t imagine that Lenore was going to be asking for his input on what new outfits she should buy, or how she looked in them.
Lenore rolled her eyes with a throaty sigh. “Honestly, Carmichael. You were doing so well. Don’t get mouthy with me, now. Especially when I’m about to take you into town to get some proper clothes.”
Forrest bit back his inclination to meet her hostility with that of his own. It was easy, since confusion rapidly clouded his thought. “And why do you care about my clothes?” He was careful to limit the venom in his voice, and keep his tone even and deferent.
Lenore lapsed into a display of indifference, sighing softly as she examined her nails.
“There’s going to be a, er…” Her lips scrunched from one side of her mouth to the other. “There’s going to be a function, of sorts. A little party, I suppose you could say. For the prefects of each house. It’s a formal get-together. Something along those lines.” She glanced up from her hand just long enough to meet Forrest’s curious stare.
“You’ll be going with me.”
“To… a party?”
Lenore nodded.
Nothing Lenore was saying made any sense.
“Let me get this straight. You’re… inviting me. To a party. For prefects.” Forrest asked, still trying to parse what he had heard.
“Inviting?” Lenore giggled darkly. “Oh, no. No. I'm not inviting you, Carmichael. Inviting implies that you can decline to attend, if you wish. I’m telling you. You’re going with me.”
That part made perfect sense. Of course, any time Lenore had a request, all she was really presenting was the illusion of choice. But it still didn’t quite add up as to why she’d be making this demand of him.
“You see, Carmichael,” Lenore continued. “Every prefect is allowed a plus one to bring along, and, since Aurelian5 is going to be there, I just need someone to stand there, be quiet, and look good beside me.” She arched a brow and smirked. “Consider this another chance to show me what a well-heeled dog you are. Impress me again…” She shrugged. “Well. I don’t like to make promises I might not keep, but… who knows what might happen.”
Her smile was one that suggested that what might happen was as equally likely to be some sort of sadistic torment for her entertainment as it would be a legitimate reward for his compliance. Knowing Lenore, she’d find something to wrong with his conduct, regardless of how he behaved - especially when it came to making her look good in front of the other prefects. That task in particular smacked of difficulty.
“So,” Lenore continued, crossing her arms over her chest. “I'm taking you to Hogsmeade. I'm certain we can scrounge up a half-way decent suit for you at one of the stores, there.”
“I don't have the money for a suit,” Forrest protested.
“Leave that matter to me, Carmichael,” said Lenore. “Believe me, I'll make sure you're presentable. I wouldn't dare show my face with just any scruffy, shabby, ill-dressed underclassman. No. I'll fix you up right, Carmichael. You can be certain of that.”
Forrest wasn't sure what Lenore had in mind when she said she'd fix him up right. He wasn't sure he wanted to find out, either. But, knowing Lenore, he had a sickening feeling that answer was going to be provided, whether he wanted it to or not. He was certain of that, if nothing else.
“When is this… thing?”
“Not this Friday, but the next,” replied Lenore. “Plenty of time to get you ready. There won't be any weaseling your way out of it, so, don't bother trying.”
Friday. Why did that word give him pause? There, in the back of his mind, was this nagging suspicion that not this Friday, but the next, there was some other obligation that he was forgetting about. One that, unlike the promise to play dominoes, was more important, but one that was still evading him all the same. He shut his eyes and breathed deep, trying to recall the memory, when Heather's face appeared in his mind's eye.
My birthday. It's two weeks from now, on a Friday. I know it's getting close to the holidays, but, you'll be around, won't you?
“I can't.”
Lenore's expression soured. “I'm sorry?”
“I - I can't go,” said Forrest.
“You bloody well can,” Lenore spat. “And you will. I told you, Carmichael, it wasn't an invitation. You don't have the luxury of declining.”
“No,” Forrest said, careful to keep his voice stiff with conviction, difficult as it was. “No, I… I already have plans.”
“You do have plans,” Lenore agreed. “With me.”
Forrest shook his head. “I… look. Lenore. It's my friend's birthday.”
Lenore quickly scanned her surroundings, as if she expected to see said friend standing nearby. Turning back to Forrest, she arched a brow.
“And?”
“And,” Forrest said. “I promised I'd be there for it.”
“Who? Who is it?”
Forrest hesitated. He wasn't sure that Lenore even knew who Heather was - or, at least, he didn't know if she could attach her face to a name. If she couldn't, he didn't want her to. And he'd feel bad if he did, and ended up putting a target on Heather's back.
“Who?” Lenore asked again. “Go on. Out with it.”
“No one you know.”
“I'll be the judge of that,” Lenore snapped. “Give me a name, Carmichael. Don't make me ask again.”
Forrest hesitated again. Despite everything impulse in his body imploring him to do otherwise, he knew he wasn't getting off the hook without giving a name.
“Heather. Heather Huxborough.”
“Heather Huxborough,” Lenore said. She hummed and, with her arms still crossed, tapped a finger against her elbow as she thought. “Can’t say I know a Heather Huxborough.”
Before Forrest could feel any relief, Lenore’s eyes glimmered with an epiphany.
“Wait.” Lenore's eyes narrowed. “She… is she that mousy little thing that's always skulking around behind Cartwright?”
Carmichael sighed. He nodded. Lenore giggled again.
“Oh.” She shook her head. “Well, if I didn't care before, I certainly don't now. Unfortunately, you'll have to tell this Huxborough girl that you have another engagement. And, if she has a problem with that, you can tell her that it's much more important than a trifling birthday for an utterly unremarkable little girl like her. She'll get over it.” Lenore shrugged. “Or she won't. Either way, it isn't my problem, and, frankly, it shouldn't be yours, either. There's only one person you need to concern yourself with, and her name isn't Heather Huxborough, now is it?”
Forrest declined to answer. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Lenore’s eyes, either. Out of his peripheral vision, he could see her lean forward, both hands on her hips and an expectant, impatient bend to the grin on her face.
“Is it?”
Forrest shook his head. “No, Lenore.”
He heard Lenore click her tongue with disapproval. “Honestly,” she tutted and stepped forward. Forrest rocked as a painless but firm slap passed across his back. “Chin up, Carmichael,” said Lenore. “You should be flattered I’d even consider taking you, let alone spending money on you. There’s plenty of boys who’d be fighting for the privilege of spending their money on me.”
With a confident smile, she strode past him, making a point to brush her shoulder against his. With a loud, crisp snap of her fingers, she summoned him to follow, certain enough that he was following not to bother looking back.
“You’re a lucky, lucky boy, Carmichael. Wipe that glower off your face and act like it.”
You know it has to be fanfiction because these Hogwarts students swear.
My family played dominoes a lot growing up, hence the inclusion of the story. Strange as it may seem for a group of thirteen year olds to be playing a game that’s infamous for being a past-time of geriatrics in retirement homes… what else are they going to do at Hogwarts? It isn’t as if they have access to a GameCube or Playstation 2.
I assume a canvas messenger bag would be acceptable at Hogwarts, given it was old enough and didn’t have, like, some anime bullshit printed on the side.
My very own original the character (do not steal) professor of magizoology. And, no - I did not know at the time that Ringo Starr’s real name is Richard Starkey, and has nothing to do with him.
Lenore’s love interest who’s oblivious to the fact that she has the hots for him.