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Hufflepuff common room, you've come to find in the following weeks during your stay, feels more like a den rather than an actual room. With its walls decorated heavily with vines and pots planted of herbs that move autonomously; the constant smell of honey, lemon, and petrichor, the little framed pictures, and small, round windows that display verdant grass and various flowers just above the fireplace.
What amazes you the most wasn't the friendly flora or the cozy vibes, however– it was the small portrait that hung simply over the wooden mantelpiece, one hand raised graciously to a toast.
A portrait of Helga Hufflepuff herself.
The said portrait who, for some reason, took an instant liking towards you and liked calling you over whenever she didn't have anyone over to chitchat.
( An upperclassman told you once, that she did this every year to first-year students– and when you asked why you specifically, he had commented, "prolly 'cause you look small and scared, Firstie," ruffling hair over your eyes with his rough hand.
You didn't know how to feel about that. )
Your year-mates were fine. Too fine, that sometimes you felt out of place– they were too bright. Too young– they didn't have the decaying edge of life and death and even the cynical humour of one Severus Snape.
Even Dorcas Meadowes, the girl you got along with the best felt entirely on a different planet sometimes. ( Teeth too white eyes too glazed– the naive innocence she carries, and the pure joy she emits–
what is she thinking? You don't know. You don't want to know. )
You don't hate Hogwarts. At least, you don't think you do– what you feel, the persistent detachment is a feeling only born out of helplessness. Some part of you, the one who is scared and tired and worn out, screams at you to spill everything to Dumbledore– but also, what of Harry Potter, the cursed child he escorted to his death? Of Sirius Black whom he didn't help, who rotted alone in a prison of his nightmares?
And what of you? The mother, the lover, the friend.
( A pawn that would only serve when its time has come to an end. )
You– well, you were never the Gryffindor. Even before you were stuck here, when you were still you, you always accepted whatever was thrown your way. ( Never like your father, who fought nail and tooth and shed blood to be happy. Never like your mother who danced, beat to beat, place to place, sung and sung around the words 'till it became meaningless to all but her.
