Hogwarts Houses

Houses As Nostalgic Things

Gryffindor: That song on the radio that you can trace like the lines on your hands. The familiar rise and fall of the singer's voice. The hum of some instrument in the background that you've never been able to name and the long notes that you used to echo in the shower and the back of your car. Somewhere, a memory tickles of a time you listened to this song with someone you loved, but you can't quite remember who, or why, or where, you just know that the song is special for a reason. There's a pull in your chest as you realize that you don't know all the words, for you were too young to memorize them when you last heard the song. And yet, you know the song, and it's a song that brings tears to your eyes even though it isn't sad, it's a song that has you leaning your head against the window and wishing that it will both end and play on repeat forever.

Ravenclaw: The fading design on a t-shirt that's been washed too many times. There's paint along the shirt's bottom hem and holes in the sleeves. You think that it might have had color once, but it's a muted gray now, the same color as the stones you used to skip across lakes. Between your fingers, the fabric is soft, and every wash has you fearing that it will tear to shreds for good. You remember when the shirt was too big for you. You remember how you used to wear it anyway, proudly displaying the design across the front that you loved more than anything in the world. It's a bit too short now, hiking over your hips when you raise your arms, but you can't bring yourself to give it away. It's the only thing, no matter where you go, that will always feel like home.

Hufflepuff: The folder full of old drawings that's collected dust on the shelf since you were eleven. The papers curl at the edges, like all things do with time and a bit of water damage. Some pages hold thick marker lines, harsh pinks and vivid greens that try so very hard to imitate dogs and people. Some have words, but you find that you don't know your younger self as well as you hoped you might, and are unable to understand their handwriting. A few of the drawings have titles and dates, written in the corner by a parent or sibling's careful hand. A mar of thin blue ink against the purple bubble people and their stick-legged cats. You remember the pride that you used to have when you used to finish these drawings, the magnets that would pin them to the refrigerator, only to slide down inevitably as you piled up more and more weight. Like most art, you can't quite understand what the drawings mean anymore, but one glance at your name in the corner has you smiling. One thing, at least, will always remain the same.

Slytherin: Photographs from when you were young. The fuzzy thumbprint in the corner and the blurred snapshots where you were moving too quick for the camera to capture you. A candid of yourself, hair free in that childlike way that you wish you were brave enough to exhibit now. Your front tooth is missing in one of those pictures, and you're wearing that old jacket that you loved so very much. The jacket isn't your favorite color (though maybe second, maybe third), but it was still the first thing you wore on any adventure. You remember wearing that jacket, you remember the feel of the old candy wrappers in the pockets. Now that you think, you realize that you can't remember what happened to it, can't remember when, exactly, you stopped wearing it. All you know is that it exists solely now in memory and those old, blurry photographs.