A collection of not so short, short stories featuring your favourite characters and some characters you might not know much about.
Slow updates in progress.
REQUESTS ARE CLOSED
As the title suggests, this is volume 1 and volume 2 should soon be un...
I have no idea why I decided on this title, but it is what it is ...
This was requested by dnrystrgaryen so I hope you like it, especially since I've made you wait so long for it.
Now, there's one more one shot to post until requests are open but be sure to read the notice posted at the end of this one shot!
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One day I would learn to stop volunteering for things because I almost always wound up regretting it. If only McGonagall hadn't approached me about tutoring one of the students in the year below me, then I wouldn't be sitting here waiting for the bloody Gryffindor to turn up. Finnigan was already in his fifth year, he had five years at Hogwarts to come to terms with having to be at places at the right time. He had turned up ten minutes late and as if that wasn't bad enough, he hadn't even looked over the pages that I'd assigned him during our last meeting.
"I'm really sorry," he said with a smile, as if that would sweeten the disappointment, I felt. If that was his intention, then it had without a shadow of a doubt failed. "I've just been really busy."
"Other people are busy as well," I shot back, dropping my head into my hands. "And they all still manage to get their work done on time, Finnigan."
"I'll make it up now," he promised, prompting me to look at him from between my fingers. "I'll do everything you want from now on, Bell."
"That's not the first time you've said that." Fisting my hair into my hands, I complained, "It's as if you want me to be tutoring you until I leave Hogwarts."
Forcing my head up, I glanced across the library table towards the Gryffindor who only sighed in response. Gaining my composure, I straightened up and narrowed my eyes at him. Why was I the one that was getting so worked up over this? This was going to affect his grade, not mine.
"Do you have any idea how stressed out tutoring you makes me?" He answered my question with a seemingly innocent smile and I rolled my eyes. No matter how often I tried to get him to understand where I was coming from, he never took it seriously. Holding my hand out towards him, I ordered, "Let me read over the essay you submitted last week. McGonagall said she would be giving them back to you today."
Finnigan, realising that whatever attempts he had been making to charm me weren't going to work, frowned and reached into his bag. He refiled through it, retrieving a crumpled-up piece of parchment that had obviously been shoved into his bag with no care whatsoever. Pressing it flat against the table and smoothing out the creases, he finally passed his essay over towards me with a smile.
Leaning back in my chair and getting comfortable, I started to read through his essay. In the beginning, it took me a good while to make sense of the chicken scrawl that he called handwriting. But, after having tutored him for a few months, I gained the ability to read his writing. Thankfully McGonagall had only requested a short essay and so it didn't take me long to reach the end of it.
