I first got my Hogwarts letter on a Sunday morning in San Francisco. I had come home from seeing a movie with my friend, and there it was, sitting on kitchen counter, waiting to be opened. At first I thought it was a prank, I'm sure most muggle-borns did (Yes, my parents are muggles, calm yourself.), but eventually I began to realise that maybe, just maybe, there was something magical about me. I think I was the first, and only muggle kid to ever be disappointed about receiving my invitation. Don't get me wrong, I was grateful and all, but my passion has always been acting. I had been all set up and enrolled in an acting school for the new year, but now I had to go and learn magic. Bummer, I know. Don't judge me, okay, I was only eleven, and didn't realise I could take summer camps.
Flash forward a few weeks, and there I was, standing in between Platform Nine, and Platform Ten, wondering how the hell I was supposed to get to my new school. My parents had hugged, kissed me and dropped me off at Kings Cross Station, driving away to hurry to the airport, as they were about to miss their flight. Anyway, I tried to focus on the problem at hand. How was I going to get through a brick wall? I had no doubt Platform Nine-And-Three-Pizza-Slices-Or-Whatever-Its-Called was there, these people were wizards for goodness sake, so I decided to solve this problem the way I always do. Charge at it head on. Literally. So I ran at it, went straight through the wall, and straight into a pale blonde boy who looked about my age, with what I like to call, a serious case of resting bitch face. "Watch where you're going, mudblood." He sneered, about to turn back to another, pale blonde man with a resting bitch face, who I assumed was his father, assuming he'd sufficiently chided me. He had no idea who he was dealing with. I laughed in his face, causing him to look incredibly shocked, as if no one had ever stood up to him before. I shook my head and said,
"You're going to have to think up better insults than that, if you want to make me mad, weirdo." I flipped him off, and flounced to the train, with my suitcase. Side note and disclaimer: that year was the only one in which I didn't bring a trunk, and only because I didn't know any better. Don't hate.
Where was I? Oh yes, the train. So I get on, and who do I bump into, but the legend himself? Ron Weasley, my future guy best friend (Apart from Harry. Duh.), struggling to put his trunk on a rack. Since I had already slammed my suitcase down on my rack, I decided to help him, pushing the trunk into place.
"Thanks mate- oh, sorry, you're a girl." He went as red as his bright orange hair.
"And what, I can't be your mate because of that?" I teased
"No- I mean- What I was trying to say is-"
"It's cool." I smiled, and invited myself to sit down in his compartment. When we got there, I realised a), I hadn't introduced myself, and b), there was someone else already there.
"Hi, by the way. I'm Caia." I grind and plopped down next to they boy already sitting down, with messy black hair and green eyes..
"Harry Potter." he said
"Ron Weasley." replied the other
And bam. Instant best friends. Hermione came later, when we were both in the bathroom by chance, and a troll attacked. Harry and Ron burst in, and we ended up defeating it together. A few weeks into the first school year, my squad was completed.
But I'm skipping ahead. Let's get to my least favourite Hogwarts memory. The sorting. I was last in my year, and after having got over the shock that my strange old Great Aunt Minerva was actually the Deputy Head of Hogwarts, I was ready to get sorted into Gryffindor. I mean, Harry, Ron, and Hermione (even though I didn't know her yet.) had all been sorted into it, and the other houses looked depressing to be honest. The yellow one literally had no new girls, and the blue one was full of nerds. Not that I have anything against nerds but when someone pulls out an A-Level text book and starts reading it, for fun, you know that you aren't going to get along. The green house was the one which that blonde boy was sorted into. He made a joke about slithering in with me or something, which I retaliated quickly. Slytherin, that was it! Ron had told us that's where all of the dark wizards came from. The definite worst house.
"Burns, Caia!" My Aunt Minerva called, shooting me a small smile. Hey, I had thought. If my Aunt was the head of my favourite house, how hard could it be. I sat down on the chair, took a deep breath, and was about to close my eyes when-
"SLYTHERIN!"
I blinked, and stood up, heading over to the Slytherin table, sitting right next to that blonde guy. The silence deafened me. I looked over to the Gryffindor area longingly, silently pleading with my two new friends to stay just that. Thank god it's got better than that.
And now we get to the sad bit. Cover your ears (or eyes, I don't even know!) if you don't like the violence for my tragic sob-story.
Ok, so picture this. Tired and sad little eleven year old starts crying in dungeon common room, sash doesn't fit in and blah, blah, blah. Looking back now, I was scared and all, but more pathetic to be honest, but no one ever deserves what I had coming.
Tears were steaming silently down my face, as I huddled on the corner of one of the black leather chaise lounges, trying to hide my face behind a book.
That was when he walked in, shorter than me sure, but his stupid blonde hair and smug smirk was enough to make me sniffle. How could he fit in so well?
"Who was that?" He sneered, leading a pack of other kids in, obviously top of the hierachy, "Oh. It was the filthy little mudblood."
I just stayed silent, too tired and cold to argue. The Slytherin Common Room is cold. And Freezing. Did I mention cold?
"Too scared to fight back? Don't have Mummy and Daddy around to protect you?"
I scowled, and tried to focus on my book, realising he wanted a fight, and deciding not to give it to him.
"No spirit left in you? Wouldn't be surprised, filthy little bitch."
"DO NOT CALL ME THA-"
BAM. His fist connected to my face, leaving my lip bleeding, my eye swollen, and me crumpled on the floor.
I did nothing but stare up at him with a face of absolute loathing and went:
"Fuck off."
I never told anyone outside of that room about it, and I never will.
That night was the first time I ever swore.
It was also the last time anyone ever made fun of me. I made sure of that.
