Scorpius Malfoy approves this message: I am not JK Rowling. True dat.
This school is unfit for the soles of my glorious feet. I charmed shrunken cymbals to stick to the bottom of my shoes, purposefully so that they would click-clack. And now what do mine ears hear? There is no click-clacking at all. These odious carpets are rejecting my talent, and I shun them with my cold shoulder of icy menace as I walk by. I consider asking someone to levitate me, so that I won’t have to touch it. My father will surely be hearing about this madness.
There is a boy in my seat when I enter Transfiguration. How very rude of him. You, there! You shall move! I shall point at you mercilessly with my hands on my perfectly shaped hips. You will be intimidated. I am crushing your willpower to death under the fury of my mighty scorn. There. You are being crushed. It is happening.
I slide into my seat with the wind in my sunset-on-gold locks. I have hired that skinny girl in the back, Frieda Jordan, to follow me around and put wind in my hair with her wand. Do not ask me how she does it. The information is not appropriate for my brain, where memories are stored in a brain organ called a conundrum (Do not ask me how I know this, as I know many things. In fact, I know several things).
There are magical miracles happening in there, and the space is not infant-int, even though my charm might be. I chuckle to myself. I inherited my cleverness from my second cousin, who is very wise and knows how to use puns in conversation. I do not remember when I stole his genes. I could have been quite young. I have been doing clever things all of my life, so I do not keep track of details such as DNA (The long version of this three letter word is in Latin and I do not speak Latinese yet) and fingerprints and homo-goblins.
I wrap my lavender scarf three times around my neck, because it makes my shoulders look amazing. The lavender brings out a witty sparkle in my eyes. I clear my throat and practice the song I wrote (all on my own) in my leather-bound journal. The leather makes everything inside it more elegant. I am extremely elegant already, but I allow myself to be complimented by the skin of a dead cow. I am now feeling quite pleased with myself for knowing where leather comes from. Out of nowhere, an epiphany travels to the core of my existence – it is not leather at all! It is dragon hide! I remember it on the label when I bought it and Mother said, “That is dragon hide,” and I said, “I want it,” and Father said, “What a surprise.” Now I am wondering how they put the skin on the notebook if the dragon is hiding. It is a mysterious process.
Suddenly, it has come to my attention that I have an audience (although this happens often and I should not be at all shocked)! Holly Egram is staring at me! I wink at her. Now I notice that her boyfriend Michael is staring at me. I wink at him, too. Two chairs behind him, that scary Dominique Weasley is also watching my every movement. I shield my eyes from her in horror. You cannot view this face for free!
I continue to sing in my soothing baritone pitch. I can also sing soprano. Sometimes I suck on helium to help my voice rise to its highest potential. An image of a hamster somehow enters my head as I ponder about what ingredient must be inside of helium that makes my voice so marvelous. I did not invite you there, hamster! How dare you! I shall smite thee with my razor-sharp dialogue. Ah, but now I see that it is an adorable little hamster. He is sitting on a merry-go-round and spinning happily, his little paws up in the air. I smile to myself. I very much want to put him in a box and name him Cocoa, and then someday we can frolic together in Hogsmeade.
I am imagining myself at the counter in Magical Menagerie, showing off Cocoa. He is wearing a tiny knitted sweater and mittens.
Professor Lambert is looking at me, distracted from his notes that he was reading aloud from. He flares his nostrils (I admire this) and returns to his notes. I am now crestfallen, having gotten my hopes up with the flare of his nostrils that we would engage in some witty repartee. My crest has fallen completely down and I fear that it will not get back up again, even if I were to sing one of my ballads and offer it horse food.
I shake my head at Professor Lambert. He is woe. “Your presentation is all wrong!” I stand up and waltz over to him, taking care to angle my face toward the window so that the sunlight will hit my cheekbones. My sunglasses and crocheted hat are up in my dormitory, but no matter. I must get on without them. The fate of this lesson depends on my export-tease.
I take Professor Lambert’s notes and rip them up at once, liberating him of their confinement and disease. I smile brightly at my professor, who is staring at the pieces that fall to the floor like bits of orange peel that are not orange (because they are white instead). I am impressing him with my spontaneity. “Trust yourself!” I advise him. “The artist’s heart never lies.” I prod his chest with my finger. “Everything you need to know is right in here.”
Professor Lambert’s face is slowly turning red. I begin to question whether or not he has a fever. I offer to take his place and for him to go to the Hospital Wing while I teach the class. My throat is constricting with emotion as he considers my preposition. I can feel the power of the sensei and the young grasshopper. It feels startlingly similar to how I have always envisioned the moon’s oxygen to be like.
“If you ever need more of my knowledgibility,” I inform him in a solemn voice that is sure to bring millions to their feet in awe, “I keep it all here.” I tapped my skull. “Right in my pancreatitis.” Also, in my thorax. But I do not tell him this because he is a Transfiguration teacher and is probably ignorant of the mammalian autonomy. Impromptu coaching! I am surely a god! I go back to my seat. I am now sitting in my seat again like a prince who is very educated and Holly Egram is stealing secret glances at my dimpled face. I flash my dazzling teeth at her. She is wooed.
I am now scrubbing dinner plates in detention!
I sniff one of them and there is still roast chicken stuck to the edge of the plate. It does not taste two hours old, so it is fine to ingest. I am singing to the elves, who will not help me with my strenuous task. My father shall be hearing about this. But for now I shall brood with my eyebrows knit together, pouting my lips, just in case one of the elves decides to take a picture.
There are overhead lights in this gloomy kitchen room! I imagine that the walls are curtains. I leap across the floor, creating a flawless pirouette. I am as graceful as ever. If my mother were here, she would hand me a bouquet of roses. I must remember to write her a letter and tell her about my pirouette, so that she can have the honor of sending me roses. Everyone will gasp when they see them. I do not blame these inferior mortals for their wonder and devotion. I would be awestruck as well if I were not me. But I am me. Because I was born from my mother. I know this because there are pictures of the whole thing happening when it happened. I saw them when I was five and that is your proof.
I am very glad that I am me, because I would be sad if I were not me. If I had to spend all day looking on at myself, somberous and longing, jealous of the curls that brush against my rosy cheeks and the back of my neck, I might condemn-plate many dark things that would sound extraordinary if they were written down in poetry form. I inquisite to myself whether or not one can ever detach from one’s self. If it were so, it would be an experiment. I am also a scientist. I am a john of all trades.
Lights! Photograph machine! Action! Encore! They always want an encore. I am not astonished, of course. I am a master of my art, a creator of what has already been created. I am like Polaris during a solar eclipse, or those little rainbows in the sky somewhere over Antarctica. I am not an oncologist. I do not know the specifics of astronautomy.
I stare off into the sunset, or where the sunset would be if there was a sunset. I face east with my jaw lifted regally, my right fist curled despairingly in my mouth and my left one stretched out at my side. I am a man of emotion. Right now I am conveying the emotion of depress. I have seen many people who are the plural of this noun, which is ‘depressed’. They are usually looking at me when this particular emotion overtakes them.
An elf pops up from underfoot (that is just a saying – he was not actually under my foot, or I would have surely felt him wiggling around there due to my powers of persniption) and tries to pry the spoon from my hand, which I had been using as a michaelphone. I knock the elf away with a dramatic flourish. I am the director here, minion! Find me some lemon to put in my glass of water! And then fetch me a glass! Also, I would like water in it! I snap my fingers. This elf knows what’s up.
I decide that I have outgrown detention. I dash away immediately, my lavender scarf flapping. I pass several students in the corridors. “Run!” I tell them. They begin to run. They do not know why. They will thank me later when they believe they have been a part of an exciting calamity. That word reminds me of humidity and I make a mental note to jot it down in my Notebook of Secrets and Important Things. I make another mental note to ask someone what humidity means. I make an additional mental note to not ask that prefect with red hair – the Weasley in my year – as she gives me looks that I do not understand and then walks away when I ask such questions. I make a second mental note to remember all of these mental notes, as they are all of the upmost importance.
A seventh-year girl passes me and I know that she will tell her friends about this later. I am quite memorable; my grandmother tells me so every Easter holiday, and then she gives me sweets. She would not give me sweets if I was not memorable, I am certain of this. I know it for an assuration! The girl has pretty hair but it is not as beautiful as mine. My hair is lustrous. It is like icing on cake if icing was not icing and was hair instead. The girl hurries away and I am positive that she is in love with me.
A sixth-year boy walks by and I know that he will brag about our chance encounter. I bestow him with a cheeky grin and he is immediately seduced. I will inform the owls that they may begin to deliver my love letters to me again. They stopped after the one from my mother, probably because the Headmistress told them that everyone was becoming green with envy. I saw many people with green faces when I read the letter aloud. One girl vomited and it smelled like cucumbers. I have never eaten cucumbers and I have not seen them at mealtimes. But if I were ever to view one, I would shun the cucumber immediately. I cannot grant these memories parmesan to be inside of my head. I wonder what it would be like to not have shoes.
This is all most irrelevantive, as I am on a mission to see the Headmistress directly! I shall quarrel with thee for the rights to put on a production. A play! I shall be both the star and the director! It will be unheard of and a masterpiece. It will be like thirty pieces of masters, that’s how big it will be.
I am the Hogwarts Legend.
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