Wands and Fireguns

01. House of Misfits

Tap.

Tap.

The metallic bed made a long and high-pierced screetch as I turned my body. I always tried to ignore the sound, but no matter how hard I tried , it would always just be... there.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

For christ' sake! With a long sigh, I drew the single blanket of my posessions of off me. In the darkness I tried to squint my eyes to adjust, however that wouldn't help as my only source of light was a dark window, consumed by the night. My oh so lovely quarters consisted of nothing but a scrawny wooden chair, an angular table to match it's glamorous ambience, the old newspaper I've found in a bin last summer that I've sticked to the blank, greying walls, some neighbours in the walls and airventing system, nasty little beasts! Who too, destroyed my nightrest. And believe me, sleeping in this house of misfits, is a hard job in the first place!

Every single day there's the same routine over and over again. Little Mary get's picked on by either Edmund or Joffrey. Big snouted Emilie always, and I mean literally every chance she gets in this unfortunate life, tells on the other children. Then there'll either be a fight between Rick and Jane, who seem to keep arguing about the amount of books they're allowed to read, or Thomas and Rikkard, those two bubboons miscommunicate, a lot, which either ends in fights about the most mundane topics. I have to give it to Rikkard, I too, would get irritated if someone tries to eat soup with a fork! There's not a single excuse I could come up with for that to mishappen. Even if the amount of spoons is rather scrawny, you could just wait your turn patiently and clean the damn spoon from another child! Sometimes I wonder if Thomas even owns a set of brains or if the bookeyman scooped out those organs while he slept. Would be a fantastic new adventure to find out, wouldn't it?

Tap.

Tap.

But that was about it. Wool's Orphanage wasn't exactly the hot new place everyone longed to be, it's where everyone despised to be. From the looks they give you on the streets, to the sound of hurrying leather shoes on the pavement, trying to get as far away from the...oh no the horror...orphans! They might carry contagious diseases, or infiltrate your mind with their parentless upbringing. Your life was simply already chosen for you, I didn't even have any say in this!

Tap.

But to be ungrateful was simply time-wasting. I've done it, pouting for days; even the matron Mrs Cole couldn't get me out of my little shoe-box room. To me, she was just a narcisstic middle-aged woman who lived off the money she got from the government for taking us little ol' orphans in. So yes, as in the books that I've read about guardian angels and the holy spirit, Mrs Cole truly, served as an angel from another planet... perhaps Mars? What if, Mrs Cole was an alien? Would she just wait till we're all ripe and ready to abduct like cattle in a ranch? Believe it or not, she did act simply strange around suppertime- every evening she would lock herself up in that place she calls her office, not coming out for hours, but when she did, she couldn't even stand properly. That should give suspicious behaviour about being a foreign alien, doesn't it? One time, when Mrs Cole was too absorbed in herself, I took a little peak in that nest of hers. Come to think of it, it's a weird habit to collect empty bottles. But literally, dozens of empty bottles, just standing for show? I refuse to believe so! Who knows. Perhaps Mrs Cole has a weird collectors fetish but for now, I'm still cautious.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

And then there's next-door Eric. Grows a interesting hunchback, sleepless through nights; I remember the hours of tantrums when he was around the age of five. For the love of god.. some people need to sort out their priorities. I mean, I get it! You're an abandoned little boy whoms parents decided to throw you away like a pack of Boston Baked Beans... and everyday you keep wondering, if that 'chicken pox free' family will take you into their home. But Eric, he was as I would like to call it: a HOC. Hopeless Orphan Case. HOC's were children that either wanted it too badly, weren't able to praise the expectations; for some cases, that meant they weren't a pleasing sight to look at. HOC's were the type of children that seemed invisible to the couples eyes, they were the kids that would be stuck in this building, as they've been their whole life! Until we turn eighteen of course... then they just throw us out.

Tap.

Tap.

Coming to a descision, I decided that sulking on my rock-hard bed wouldn't grant me a ticket to that place 'up there'. Turning the cold door-knob of my elite quarters, I grabbed the cloth we were allowed to use as towels with me. Oh! The privileges a girl, eleven years of age was given. The door slammed loudly behind me. Starteld from the echoing sound through the cold and angular corridor, I felt stupid only doing it. Calm down, pat, I told myself. You're just going to walk to the lavatory. This didn't exactly make me feel better, since I made up silly theories about the bookeyman that visits orphanages in the middle of the night! There was a total of fifty percent chance I'd die tonight:

1. My theories about the lost brains of Thomas Squire actually turning out to be true, and there's a monster, hungry for more intelligent, developed brains pursuing me.

2. Mrs Cole could've started abducting children from their rooms. In search for her precious empty bottles! We don't know what we're dealing with...

3. The factory workers from down the alley forming an angry horde, breaking into houses, in search for pearls and silver!

4. I might even just trip down the staircase whilst travelling to the only, single bathroom permitted to use in this building. It is bloody dark out here!

But since I could survive for eleven years straight, I, Patsy Walters, should be able to make it down the staircase, into the ice-cold shower, and not die. With that thought I crossed my arms, trying to create a pool of warmth in the brisky, cold march air. Being soaked up in my thoughts prevented me from clothing myself properly... Rats!

*~*~**~*~*

Flickering. Every single lamp seemed to flicker in this building. I rolled my eyes as I left the switch off, walking over the cold-tiled and now, dark bathroom floor. There was a solitary small window at the height of a showerhead, so at least, I could watch as I bumped my head into something, rather than do it blindly. The lavatories were spacious, only quite blank and contrasting nicely with the whole exterior of the orphanage. Cold. Hard. Looks more like an asylum than orphanage kind-off-thing. Well... that sums it up adequately.

Pling!

I froze. For one, I hadn't thought to be intruded by anyone around four am! Did you ever hear the saying 'Be careful what you wish for, you might just get it?' I perfectly understood the wisdom of this saying one second later. I whirled- clutching the cloth I brought with me, desperately trying to cover my body. Turns out my fears were disappointed...

There, in the darkness of the night I couldn't make much out of the black figure. But the eyes, dark pools of depth, where you could easily be hypnotized from, were as familliar as Eric Whalley's hunchback was. Hard. That's what he looked like, erect as a rod of iron. I wanted to scream bloody murder, chase him away with the high-pierced vocals of my throat, only my mouth experienced a sudden, inexplicable lack of saliva.

I felt like screaming 'I am not going to die! I am going to live! Take that you bookeyman!' But those thoughts were remedied as the piercing, ice cold glare of Tom Riddle brought me back to reality.

He stared at me. And stared. And stared.

Half a minute.

An entire minute.

After two minutes, I was getting fidgety. Perhaps I am going to die tonight.

My dear wizards, witches and HOC's,

Well, how did you like this introduction of our OC, Patsy Walters?

If you enjoyed reading this chapter, I'll be sure to continue this fanfic, that's a promise!

And a Lannister always pays his debts.

I haven't decided on a day yet for my weekly updates, perhaps you guys have any ideas?

Yours Truly,

Lady Dominique. (Chieftain of the HOC's clan)